Dawn in My Heart (15 page)

By then, Tertius's stomach was beginning to revolt. He got up and looked for the exit, feeling the need for some air. He found a back entrance that led out into an alley. Empty kegs were standing there. He wove around them, a part of his mind wondering why he subjected himself to this.

He turned into another alley, needing only to gulp fresh air. Unfortunately, what he breathed in was fetid and putrid, the combined stench of rotten vegetables and human and animal waste.

He groped in the dark, knowing he should just get to the
main street and find his coach and return home. But the thought of its closed, dark interior and the bumpy ride home only filled him with a greater nausea.

If only he could find some relief.

It was then he heard the footsteps behind him. Before he could unsheathe the sword from his cane, he was attacked from behind.

“What've we got here, 'enry?” asked one man.

“A swell,” answered the other, the greed evident in his voice.

As the two men spoke, they were busy, one holding Sky by the arms, the other landing his fist in his gut. As Sky doubled over with the pain, his arms pinioned behind him, the second one began feeling for his purse.

“It's empty!” The man swore and threw the wallet away into the darkness. Next he found Sky's watch and ripped it off his waistcoat.

“See if he's got any jewels.”

“He's got nothin' on,” the man said in disgust. “What kinda dandy is 'e?”

“See if he's got a ring.”

Sky clenched his hands, regretting that he'd worn his family crest.

The man soon found it and pulled it roughly off his finger.

Before they left him, the man gave him a good swing at the jaw and another in the stomach. “That's to show you not to be wastin' our time.” With that they were off, disappearing down the alley as Sky collapsed onto the slimy ground.

Loathing filled him as he struggled to his feet. There was a time when he had been able to defend himself against
common street thieves. How many times in the Indies had he gone about on his own at night, his lightning reflexes ready to spring upon anyone foolish enough to think they could rob him?

These days he couldn't even hold his liquor.

Slowly, he found his way back out onto the street and located his coach. The coachman was nowhere to be seen, still inside the tavern drinking, waiting for Sky to summon him. Well, he hadn't the energy or inclination to reenter the pub.

With fingers that scarcely obeyed him, Tertius struggled to open the door of the carriage and heaved himself inside, where he collapsed against the squabs.

 

When he awoke, he was being lowered into his own bed by Nigel.

“Where…wha—” he mumbled groggily.

“It's all right,” murmured Nigel. “Jenkins called me down to help bring you up. He found you asleep in de coach. It looks like you been set upon by thieves. You took a beating to your face.”

Tertius touched his jaw gingerly and winced, the details of the evening falling into place. “Yes, there were two as I recall.” He let his head fall back onto his pillow. “Foolish of me not to hear them. Too far gone, I suppose.”

“You shouldn't a gone out alone.”

Tertius closed his eyes wearily, the pounding in his temples beginning afresh. “I must be getting old, not to be able to fight off a couple of ruffians. Need to go to Jackson's Saloon and train…”

“It's her,” Nigel's voice cut through his meanderings.

He opened his eyes. “Her?”

“I told you she wouldn't like your leaving.”

He snorted. “So, we're back to that again. Now she's sending some cutpurses to attack me.”

“It's part of de curse.”

“Stuff and nonsense. That's for you superstitious Africans.”

“There be power in those curses.”

“I wonder how my face will look tomorrow,” mused Tertius. “Will I have to cancel my engagements at the gambling halls?”

“I know a man who left his woman and a week later he was dead,” continued Nigel as if Tertius hadn't spoken. “He was killed by a machete swung at him in de cane field.”

Tertius listened, fascinated despite his skepticism.

“Another was cheating on his woman and she had a curse put on him. He got a slow, wasting disease.”

Tertius grinned weakly. “So, everyone must be falling left and right on the islands if all it takes is speaking some incantation over someone. A wonder anyone is left….”

“Some are strong enough to resist de black magic if de curse not powerful enough. But most people find protection.”

Sky quirked an eyebrow and was immediately sorry as he felt the pain.

Nigel approached him with a cold, wet cloth, which he laid along his bruised jaw.

“What about you, Nigel? Aren't you scared you've looked at someone the wrong way and you might drop dead tomorrow?”

Nigel eyed him solemnly. “You laugh about something deadly. I be protected.” He dug inside his collar and pulled
out a little pouch on a leather thong. “It be made up special for me. It wards off de evil and sends it back. Whatever was wished on me will strike the one who sent it…or one of his loved ones.”

Despite Tertius's desire to laugh at the absurdity of what he was hearing, he felt a shiver of fear course through him.

“I know a man who put a curse on another. His witch discovered it and had it returned to de sender. De first man's only son be eaten by a shark.”

Tertius felt sickened by the tale. He closed his eyes and turned away from his valet. “Leave me. I must get some sleep.”

Afterward, once he was alone and the room was still, Tertius opened his eyes. He had known he wouldn't sleep.

Every night it was similar. He would awake from a bad dream and the terror would begin. His mouth dry, his body in a sweat, his heart palpitating, he would feel powerless to fight the onslaught of pure, blind panic. And his valet's words would begin to have a semblance of truth.

Either that or he was going mad.

He didn't understand it. Even in the wild days of his youth, he had never experienced these kinds of effects from drinking. He'd never been a fearful man. He'd done a multitude of wild stunts in his youth, and faced down plenty of dangers in the Indies both from man and beast.

Why this sense of absolute fear?

And always that sense of oppression. He had already begun to have a vague sense of it in the Indies, but since he'd returned it had grown stronger, pushing him down, making him feel that none of his efforts would avail.

His mind was playing tricks on him, he kept insisting to
himself. But in the still darkness of his room, it was difficult to retain his rationality.

The only help these days came in the form of his laudanum.

With a groan, his body aching where he had been punched, he sat up on the side of his bed and reached for the bottle.

 

A few days later, as soon as the swelling along his jaw was down, Sky was back at the gaming tables. One of his acquaintances from his pre-Indies days lounged back in his chair.

“I heard they're trying a new treatment on old Farmer George.”

Another fellow across the table grinned. “Indeed? Are they still hoping to bring our sovereign back? I shouldn't think the Regent would be too keen on that.”

“To think the old king had his first spell when he was only twenty. I believe it started as a stomach disorder.”

Tertius glanced sharply at the speaker, a man he'd known in his London days. The man, a youth then, had grown paunchy, his hair thinning.

“They say his spells are always preceded by a dream. And now it seems he'll never get out of his last one.”

The first speaker fingered a rouleau in the little wooden dish at his side. “They say his physicians have ordered a new cure.” He gave a wicked grin. “They call it the ‘salutory fear' regimen. They keep him tied in sheets, a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.”

“A straitjacket, I believe they call it,” another speaker added.

“I know a few people I'd like to prescribe that treatment to.”

“In my immediate family.” They all chuckled.

“What's the matter, Sky? You don't look so good.”

“Nothing a shot of brandy can't fix,” he said, signaling to the passing waiter.

As he took a sip of the liquid, trying to forget the conversation he'd heard, he saw his father enter the card room. He hadn't seen him since his wedding, a day he'd prefer to obliterate from his memory.

His father glanced his way and stopped in midsentence with the gentleman he was walking with. Sky almost laughed at the stupefaction on his face. Instead, he merely lifted his tumbler a fraction and saluted his sire.

Lord Caulfield recovered quickly, Sky had to admit. He walked calmly over to his son.

“Good evening, Sky. Back in town?”

“Yes, for the time being.”

 

Later that night, when Sky finally returned home, he found his father waiting for him. He signaled him into the library and turned to pour himself a drink.

“I walk into Brooks's this evening and whom do I see? My newly married son, who is presumably on his honeymoon somewhere in Cornwall or Kent by now.

“Instead of hearing tidings of the news I'm expecting, I hear stories of his drinking and gaming.” His father faced him. “I've heard you've taken up with Miss Spencer, otherwise known as the Little Lad, for her fame in boy's togs. Rumor has it you've set her up magnificently in our own neighborhood. Soon she'll be seen at the best parties.” His father looked at him in absolute displeasure. “By heavens, Sky, have you no shame? Not even I treated your mother this way.”

A pulse began to beat in his temple at the mention of his mother, but he managed to say evenly, “I wouldn't bring Mother into this if I were you.”

His father had the grace to look away. “Whatever I did away from your mother, I did with the utmost discretion. I never flaunted my affairs.”

Sky snorted and reached for the decanter. “Yes, I suppose bringing the evidence of one of your affairs to live under our roof was being discreet to the utmost.”

“The poor girl had nowhere to go. Her parents were killed in the Terror. She would have starved to death in France if I hadn't taken Althea in.”

Sky had stopped listening.

“Anyway, this is not about me, it's about you. You're not a young lad of twenty anymore, Tertius. You're a grown man. I expected you to come home mature, ready to take over from me. I'm getting tired. I need you fit for visiting all the estates. Look at you. You're nothing but a self-indulgent, dissipated profligate just like you were when I sent you off to the Indies.”

Tertius hardly heard his father's drone. It was too familiar from over a decade ago. He thought he'd forgotten what it was like in all that time, but the cadence was the same. It was funny how all the years in between seemed to count for nothing with his father. The fact of turning a profit on a plantation every year, despite hurricanes, slave unrest and a variety of other issues had gone unnoticed by his father. It shouldn't have surprised Sky.

“…I thought those years in the Indies would be the making of you. You had me fooled for a while there. But I see how wrong I was. You're a wastrel, Sky. You're not half the man Edmund was—”

Sky took another sip of the liquid, glad of the warmth it gave him. He didn't care how much he cast up his accounts later; it was worth it for its numbing effect now.

“What have you done to that lovely young wife of yours? I chose the best I could find, the cream of the crop.”

Tertius smiled thinly. “We didn't suit.”

“What kind of nonsense is that—‘didn't suit'? Marriages are arranged every day between families, and the parties don't go around after a few days saying ‘they didn't suit.'” His father stood in front of him, his eyes demanding an answer.

“Since you insist on an explanation, let us say your lilywhite maiden of the ton lacked one vital article.”

Father and son looked long at each other until Tertius knew his father understood. He saw him age visibly before his eyes. It wasn't that anything changed; it was that Tertius noticed for the first time the sagging cheeks beneath the powder and rouge. At least his father had finally stopped wearing a wig, but he hadn't discontinued to powder his thinning locks. Sky realized how soon he himself would begin to look like that—not that he resembled his father physically in any way, but soon the skin would begin to lose its firmness and the hair its fullness.

“I'm sorry,” his father said at last, his voice sad and weary. “I thought I'd chosen well. Diamond of the first water…all that. I've known the duchess for years and the girl's father before that. How could it be? I can't believe it.”

Sky turned away, his anger toward his father evaporated. “Well, believe it or not, as you will. It means nothing to me.” He set his glass down and left the library.

Instead of heading up to his room, he headed back out.
It was a warm night, and he decided to walk to a hack stand, his own coachman already having put the coach away.

He felt relief that he'd evaded Nigel, who'd taken to accompanying him on his nightly rounds.

He would be more careful this night, Sky told himself, gripping his walking stick. He could go and visit Laurette. He was certainly paying her enough. But somehow he wasn't in the mood. Instead he told the jarvey to let him off in Covent Garden. He knew a couple of good taverns in that neighborhood.

 

A few hours later he exited a pub, his legs unsteady. He was good and thoroughly drunk, as he'd intended. All cautions forgotten, he staggered in the streets, trying to get his bearings. As he turned down one street, he saw a light at one end, and a crowd gathered. He headed that way. Light, that was what he needed. He'd be safe from cutthroats in the light.