Page 44 of To Tame the Wild Rake
Aldridge leaned on the balustrade of Westminster Bridge and stared down into the river. Even now, several hours after midnight, the Thames was busy. Watermen rowed party-goers home in skiffs and entire parties continued in brightly lit barges as they travelled down the river. Or up, for it was that magical hour when the tide was turning and only the river current fought or assisted passages. Lighters, too, were already on the water, collecting or delivering goods to ships at anchor or from bank to bank.
He had been there for three hours, choosing a spot equidistant between two of the gas lamps that had been so revolutionary a couple of years before. The carriages that intermittently crossed the bridge ignored him, as did most of the pedestrians. Gentlemen heading to further entertainment gave way to those heading home. The night watch averted their eyes from those scurrying with nefarious intent either from trouble or to it.
Early in his vigil, he’d been accosted several times by enterprising women seeking to provide a little short-term pleasure in return for lightening his wallet, but his polite refusals must have merited a place on the gossip circuit, for he’d been left alone this last hour.
Or perhaps the news that passed around was his response to an attempted assault and robbery. The explosion of violence had been a temporary respite from his own thoughts. The brief joy of sending three armed men fleeing in disarray had swiftly dissipated, however, as had the hope that others of their ilk might dare his mood.
The risk kept him alert whenever anyone passed, which amused him, since he’d come here to toy with the idea that his life was not worth living. Clearly his body disagreed. His mind, too, which had rapidly concluded that he had a certain value to his mother and sisters. Yes, and to his brother, who would be seriously disgruntled if Aldridge died before one of Jonathan’s younger sons was old enough to take charge of the duchy.
His heart was outvoted, then.
A man passed him, then stopped and leaned against the stone to look down into the river a few yards along. “Busy night,” the man observed. He was clothed as a gentleman, at least regarding the shoes, overcoat, and hat, which was all Aldridge could see. The cultured voice, too, marked his status. There was something familiar about it. Aldridge searched his memory for a match.
“Been here long?” the man asked.
A name clicked into place. “Basingstoke,” Aldridge said.
The vicar of one of the inner-city parishes turned to face Aldridge, and enough light reached his face to confirm Aldridge’s identification. “Aldridge,” he replied, moving closer. He and his wife had founded the Theodora Foundation, which offered a refuge and a training school to women who chose to leave the sex trade. Unlike many of their ilk, they treated those they rescued and those still in the game like human beings of worth. There was the word again. Worth. Perhaps if a whore could find enough worth in herself to start again a tired rake ought to make the effort.
Aldridge turned back to face the water, noting that the tide must be on the move, since the bargemen in the boat currently approaching were making heavy weather of it. “I suppose one of your soiled doves told you Westminster Bridge had attracted another jumper. If you’re here to talk me out of it, you may save your breath. I do not intend to kill myself.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. And yes, I was told about a fine gentleman in a melancholy mood who appeared unduly interested in the water.”
“It is an interesting river,” Aldridge commented. “I have never before noticed how much traffic flows by night.”
Basingstoke propped himself on his own elbows and watched in silence for a while. Aldridge made a small bet with himself that it would not last above five minutes. He started counting, and had reached two hundred and seventeen when Basingstoke said, “If you need someone to help—even just a listening ear? I know we are barely acquaintances, but that can be helpful sometimes, and anything you might say to me would go no further. A matter of professional ethics, if you will.”
Aldridge lifted an eyebrow. “The seal of the confessional?”
“If you wish to look at it like that.”
“I do not, but I appreciate the offer.” He was surprised at the strength of the temptation. He had always envied those with intimate friends, closer than brothers; people who knew one’s character, all one’s weaknesses, and liked one anyway. Those closest to Aldridge were dependants or servants. He had outgrown most of his associates in his wild youth, and they had never been confidants, in any case.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons that Cherry’s rejection hurt so much. He had thought they were friends; had longed for a wife who looked at him and saw Anthony, and not his title, his social position, his wealth, his family connections, his political power, or any of his other surface attractions.
He must not even think of her. As well decide not to think of the Thames as it flowed beneath him, or of the bleeding hole she had made of his heart. At the very least, he must not speak of her. Shakespeare, as in so many things, had the words, and he murmured them aloud.
“…and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.”
Hah! And there he was, speaking of her. “The sky is beginning to lighten. Dawn is more than an hour away, but the promise of it is here already.” And if that wasn’t a metaphor, he’d never heard one. But not one he believed. There’d be no dawn for him and Cherry. She was like everyone else. She only wanted him for what he could do for her. And now that she’d had him, she didn’t want him anymore.
“Would you care for breakfast?” Basingstoke asked. “Cook always prepares more than we could possibly eat.” He hesitated. “Do not feel obliged. I imagine you have many calls on your time.”
Aldridge exhaled on a short laugh. “As it happens, I have no plans.” Not for the next seven days. Even the couple who looked after the cottage to which he’d planned to take Cherry had been told to leave all prepared and not come back for a week. “Do you have work I could do? I am looking for something to do for the next week, and I am not used to being idle. I can drive carriages, carry water, chop wood. I can groom horses and muck out their stalls. I daresay I could learn other tasks.”
Basingstoke raised his brows, but made no comment beyond, “All help is welcome. Would you be open to travelling to Hounswood? The handyman-gardener at the training school there has just broken his leg falling off a ladder, so they are short-staffed. I would normally go myself, but I promised my wife I’d attend her sister’s wedding with her.”
That could be made to work. He could send a note to his secretary with his change of address. Otherwise, the instructions he’d already left would cover it. He’d given Edmund the address of the cottage and his date of return. Then he’d said:“Tell no one where I am gone. Not my mother. Not the Prime Minister. No one. Do not contact me unless something comes up that urgently requires my personal attention: my father dies, someone assassinates the Prince Regent, Napoleon invades Britain.”
He nodded his agreement. “I’m willing, but I don’t know much about gardening.”
Basingstoke grinned. “We need a strong back and someone who is willing to follow orders.”
