Page 23 of Once a Gentleman
Kit mulled that over for a moment. “And after that?”
“And after that, sir, I will give further thought to the matter.”
With a nod, Kit dismissed him. For now, he would leave it in Samuel’s hands, and hope that no murders resulted.
Or at the very least, that Samuel would be clever enough to leave no trace of it. Kit wasn’t terribly bloodthirsty, nor criminally inclined, but the pouring of soup in a hat really was enough to make any law-abiding man abandon his civilized principles.
The hall clock struck half-past six. Andrew paced the length of the drawing room for perhaps the fiftieth time since it had chimed for the quarter-hour, and then by an immense exertion of will, forced himself to stop and take a seat on one of the two settees placed opposite one another with a low table between.
Within half a minute he began to fidget; by the time the minute was up, he was too, pacing from the fireplace to the window that looked out on the street and then back again.
These nerves were the height of absurdity. The guests comprised only Harrison and his wife, Lieutenant Pope, with whom Andrew had briefly served while they were both midshipmen and whom he had indeed found limping disconsolately near the Naval Office, and his lady, and Hewlett.
And Hewlett.
That was the source of Andrew’s mood, though he wished he could deny it. Andrew’s last attempt at bringing Hewlett into society had ended in disaster. Unlikely as it was that Mrs. Harrison, for example, might mistake Hewlett for a molly whore, Andrew couldn’t rid himself of the sinking certainty that something dreadful would go amiss. That he himself would be the cause of the disaster was quite certain, although whom he might offend, and in what way, remained a matter of suspense.
Light footsteps in the hall broke him out of his musing, and he struck a pose by the fireplace, gazing down into it as if lost in far more philosophical and interesting thoughts.
Hewlett opened the door, and Andrew counted to three before he allowed himself to look up—and then wished he hadn’t looked at all. Hewlett was ravishing. Undeniably, even objectively ravishing. Evening wear made most men a plain, duochrome backdrop to brighter, more eye-catching ladies.
But it made Hewlett himself as bright and eye-catching as if he’d been decked out in Indian silks. The white of his cravat didn’t wash him out; it set off the rose of his lips, the fresh, spring-green of his eyes, the delicacy of his flushed cheeks, making him appear a multifaceted jewel in the plainest of settings. He was more appealing than any man had a right to be—more appealing by far than was healthy for Andrew’s peace of mind. And the longer Andrew stood there, gaping like a mooncalf, the more danger he ran of spilling those absurd thoughts aloud.
“I was beginning to despair of you.” Andrew meant it to leave his lips lightly, floating somewhere between teasing and a gentle reproach for leaving him alone to wait for their guests.
Or no, damn it all,Andrew’sguests, not theirs, no matter how pleasant the thought of he and Hewlett presiding over their own table together might be.
But instead, it came out almost plaintive. As if Andrew had been truly counting the moments until Hewlett made his appearance.
Which he had not, in the slightest.
Hewlett’s shy, sweet smile and downcast eyes nearly proved Andrew’s undoing. The man was not the least bit shrinking or bashful as a rule. Why was it that Andrew could not simply cross the room in two strides, take Hewlett in his arms, and do unspeakable things to him?
“I thought I had dressed rather early,” Hewlett said. “And that you might laugh at me for the simplicity of my toilette.”
“Mine is much the same,” Andrew said, waving a hand to encompass his own nearly identical evening clothes. “Although I think Bisset may have outdone himself with your coat, my dear fellow.”
There, that had achieved the right tone: mildly sardonic, with only the faintest hint of admiration. Bisset had indeed outdone himself, although Hewlett’s neat, slender figure was really to blame for the effect of the blasted coat.
That smile turned into a frown, and Andrew cursed himself. “It is far more…fashionable than I expected,” Hewlett said. “I am rather afraid your fellow officers will think me a fop.”
“A mere five minutes of your conversation, on topics far too substantial for any fop, or indeed any naval officer, to comprehend, and they will quickly be disabused of any such notion.” Andrew said it gently, realizing too late that Hewlett would hardly notice if Andrew ogled him openly. He was so very nervous about going into any company at all that he’d hardly notice if Andrew chose to dance a hornpipe on one of the settees. “They’re really very pleasant fellows, Hewlett, I assure you.”
Whatever Hewlett might have said was lost in the sound of a carriage rattling to a stop in front of the house and the bustle of the servants opening the door.
Voices in the hall confirmed the first arrivals as Harrison and his wife, and the stirrings of anxiety brewing in Andrew’s belly burst into full-fledged panic. He knew nothing of entertaining respectable people. Mattson was a catastrophe wrapped in ill-fitting and grease-spattered livery. Mrs. Felton was often in a bad temper, and might spoil the roast in a fit of pique—or might spoil it in any case.
Why had he not checked the arrangements for the evening himself? He had rather forgotten to do so, since he never bothered on any other occasion. And he would hardly have known what to ask of the servants or instruct them to do, in any case. Too late now.
Bloody hell and damnation. His palms prickled with sweat, and more broke out along his hairline.
And then Samuel—not Mattson after all, where had the man gone to?—was announcing his guests, and he had lost his opportunity to dive out the window and run. “My wife, Mrs. Harrison,” Harrison was saying, as he presented a plump and pretty blonde lady with rather too many feathers in her hair, and Andrew was bowing over her hand, hoping his own didn’t shake too much. He had no idea whatsoever what he was doing.
He stepped back, a rictus smile pasted to his face, and—Hewlett. Good God, Hewlett. Before Andrew could blink, Hewlett had taken charge of the situation, utterly and without the slightest hesitation, introducing himself with an easy smile, as if Andrew’s failure to do so signified pleasant informality rather than an utter failure of manners.
“Mrs. Harrison, may I offer you a glass of Madeira?” Madeira? The house contained Madeira? “Or ratafia, if you prefer it.” Bloodyratafia? Andrew had rather be keel-hauled than drink the stuff, and wouldn’t have known how to procure it if his life depended upon it.
But Mrs. Harrison had accepted a glass of the Madeira, which had indeed materialized on the sideboard somehow, and Andrew found himself pouring two more glasses for Harrison and for himself. Mrs. Harrison’s delighted laughter floated across the room as Hewlett guided her to one of the settees, and the sound of it had Andrew’s nerves calming a little, enabling him to smile genuinely at Harrison as he asked after the health of his children.
The other guests arrived moments later, Lieutenant Pope awkwardly leaning on his cane, his shabby best coat beginning to fray at the seams, though it had clearly been pressed within an inch of its rapidly declining life. Mrs. Pope was as tall and thin and dark as Mrs. Harrison was short and rounded and blonde, and her gown had obviously been made some years before, by the cut of it.
But Hewlett charmed them with the same well-bred bonhomie he’d bestowed upon the Harrisons, all ease and friendly kindness. Andrew helped the conversation along, bringing up anecdotes of his service side-by-side with Pope, but it was really Hewlett who did the duties of host.
It humbled him, and it struck a hard blow to Andrew’s pride—but gratitude, more than anything, grew in his breast over the course of the evening.
Gratitude, and something disconcertingly like affection.
