The Clarendon Rose by Kathryn Anthony Read Free Book Online Page A

without wavering.   “Whenever I did come to England, the compassion in Father’s eyes made me sick with self-loathing.   What had I done to deserve it?   So I ran away again.”
    Silence.   Again, it was Bastian who broke it.   “So now what?”
    Clarendon didn’t miss the challenge in his friend’s tone.   “Now, I try to pick up the pieces.   I did figure it out eventually, Bastian.”
    “Figure what out?”
    “What you had been trying to tell me.   That in torturing myself and running away from my responsibilities, I was being selfish and self-indulgent.”   He tried for a casual sip of coffee, his grip tight on the cup’s handle.   “So, though I see their damned faces every damned night, I haven’t touched a drop of laudanum.   And, by God, I’m going to try to be the kind of man—and the kind of duke—my father hoped I would be.   I owe him that much at least.”
    Bastian continued to examine his face for a few moments, his gaze keen and impersonal.   Clarendon bore it without comment, knowing he still had a long way to go in proving himself to those who had cared about him.
    After a few moments, Bastian’s expression relaxed into a smile.   “Well at any rate, it’s good to have you back, Clare.”
    Clarendon acknowledged the double meaning with a nod, feeling something inside him relax very slightly.   So he had passed the first test, at least.
    They spoke further, exchanging a few random tidbits about old friends and acquaintances.   Then, Lord Sebastian stood.  
    “I suppose I should be moving on, old fellow.   I do have work to do, after all.”
    Clarendon grinned.   “Don’t try to fob me off with that tired excuse, you old fraud.”   But he also rose.
    Once Bastian had taken his leave, Clarendon glanced at his watch once again.   He had well over a half hour before his meeting with Miss Merriweather.   Perhaps he would follow her example and go for a ride through the extensive parklands that comprised a large portion of the manor’s grounds, before meeting with her at the stables.

    “There’s a man ‘ere to see ye, sir.   A Peter Grimes.”   The girl bobbed a brief curtsey.
    “Yes, yes, send him in.”  
    Lester Fitzwilliam considered London a dreadful bore.   It was just so inescapably banal, from the funk of its smells and the throng of its crowds to the filth of its streets.   He had arrived last night, taking rooms at this flea-bitten establishment so as to evade the risk of being recognized by any of his former acquaintances.   Another one of the tedious precautions he had to take whenever he came to the city.
    The man who entered had muscular shoulders, battered, brutal features and heavy brows.   His thinning, greasy hair was roughly combed across the top of his head in streaks and his clothes were filthy and ill-fitting— just this side of being rags, Fitzwilliam noted, his eyes narrowed.
    Fitzwilliam’s nostrils twitched at the stench that accompanied Grimes, taking up residence in the room like a third presence.   “Well, what have you to report?” he asked, his tone flat with disgust.
    “I left Stan watchin’ the place, guv’nor,” the fellow said, bobbing his head with an obsequiousness that Fitzwilliam found cloying, if not inappropriate to a man of his station.   “But the toff set out yeste’day on ‘orseback and ‘asn’t been back since.”
    “And for this you summoned me to the city.”   Fitzwilliam abandoned his idle posture for a moment to shoot the thug a lethal glare.   “I probably damn well passed the duke on my way here, for God’s sake.”
    He sat back, shaking his head as he gave the man a flat stare.   “Next time, just send a message, as I instructed.   And know this: if I missed the blossoming of my latest beauty, I will hold you directly responsible.”
    Grimes bobbed.
    “Here’s the rest of the payment.”   Fitzwilliam tossed him a small bag of coins.   “For now, you’re off the job.   I’ll