Page 3 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
Kit faced the row of houses on either side of the street as memories he had fiercely hidden in his heart, memories that had once been his only light, came back in wild flashes. He was a lad of fourteen, racing down the street, calling for his friends to catch him. At sixteen, he’d ridden his first fine gelding to the park with his father, his head held high. He’d climbed every tree in the garden behind his home and scaled every wall of his friends’ homes. A thousand sunny adventures whispered to him from behind a wall of pain, shame, and regret.
His dearest friends had once lived here... Did they still?
Lionel, Darius, Felix, Vincent, Warren.
Their names drifted back to him. They had been as thick as thieves, thought themselves to be handsome young devils who had only the world ahead of them. They’d run about London getting into good-natured mischief like all young bucks their age. Where were those boys now? They had defended him valiantly seven years ago; they’d cried out for justice and done what they could to help his father save him from the short drop and sudden stop of the noose.
Kit feared those boys who had been so loyal then would be changed now. Had any taken their titles? Were they living in the country with wives and children? He had a thousand questions, but he would have no answers tonight, save one. His father. He put aside all other concerns and focused on what he would say to his father when he saw him.
He moved silently down the street, avoiding the blossoms of light the oil lamps cast from the windows of the homes. At last, he was facing his father’s townhouse. Kit’s heart battered against his ribs as he rapped the knocker on the door. For a long moment, nothing happened. The hour was late, but surely someone would hear—
The door creaked open a few inches and a gray-haired butler peered at him from behind, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.
“Yes?” the butler asked suspiciously.
Kit squinted back as he slowly recognized the man. “Good God, is that you, Palmer?”
“Yes, I’m Mr. Palmer.”
Kit took an instinctive step toward the familiar man in relief, but Palmer drew back.
“Keep your distance, sir. I’ll have no funny business here,” the butler warned.
It was only then that Kit realized why Palmer didn’t seem to know him. He was no longer the boy Palmer would remember.
“Palmer... it’s me,” he said, his voice still rusty from lack of use.
Palmer squinted even more. “Name yourself or I shall call for the constable.”
Kit stepped slowly closer. “It’s Christopher. I’mhome.”
“Mas—Master Kit?” the butler gasped. “Good God—”
Palmer disappeared from view, and Kit heard the distinctive thudof a falling body as the butler fainted dead away behind the partially closed door.
“Bloody hell.” Kit pushed the door open and crouched over the fallen man. “Palmer, wake up.” He shook the man’s shoulders, and after a moment Palmer’s eyelids fluttered.
“Master Kit?” the butler moaned as Kit helped him sit up. “Is it truly you?”
“Afraid so,” Kit said dryly.
The butler stared at him in stunned silence.
“I know it’s late, but I must see my father.” He needed to see him, to see his father’s face now that he was finally home. He’d dreamed about this moment so many nights and had longed for it more than anything in the world.
“Master Kit... your father... he’s...” Palmer’s face was ashen, his eyes wide in pain.
He didn’t have to say more. Kit had been in the presence of death for so long that it had become an old friend whose presence he could sense easily.
“When did he die?” The words were bitter on Kit’s tongue, and his bluntness seemed to stun the older man. The tactful, polite boy he’d been was gone.
“He passed just after Christmas last year. I remember because it snowed so fiercely that day and he kept asking why he was so cold, no matter how many fires I lit in the house.”
His father was gone. Kit was too late. The strength he’d clung to for the last seven years, the hope as well, was all gone, along with his father. He’d hoped that the one and only letter he’d been able to send would have reached his father, telling him that he was coming home.
“Did he receive my letter?” Kit asked, his throat tight.
“No, Master Kit. We received nothing...”
