Page 40 of A Secret Consequence for the Viscount
Chapter Eight
The town house was cloying. Nick thought that as he wandered the environs of his library later that same day, picking up this and that as he went.
A racing broadsheet. A book on sexual positions from the East. A lewd statue of the female form made of ebony. He truly could not remember buying this even with the return of his memory. Had he actually paid money for such a thing and liked it?
His servants had emptied the rooms of his uncle’s possessions and taken out all the objects that Aaron Bartlett had brought into the house.
What was left was surprisingly meagre. There were barely any books to read and the numerous gambling dices, cards and tokens lying on various shelves reminded him exactly where his interest in life had mostly lain.
And he had been so bad at it, too. To put all that effort into something that he had so little aptitude for amazed him.
A small bracelet plaited of coloured thread inside a box on the mantel held his attention because it was so out of place. Why would this be here? He measured the strands against his own wrist and worked out it must have been the possession of a female he had known. This puzzled him more than anything.
His taste in women had been eclectic and varied, but he had usually escorted well-connected young ladies of thetonor the high-flying courtesans from Vitium et Virtus. All these ladies he knew preferred diamonds.
Lifting the small circle to his nose, he took in breath. A faint smell of violets. A wave of heat hit him forcibly. Lady Eleanor Huntingdon?
Nothing made sense and yet everything did. He could feel her here through the fog, laughing at him, egging him on, sitting with him before the fire, her hands firmly entwined in his own.
Was this a hope or a reality? He could not grasp the essence of it and his damned headache was worsening just as it always seemed to when he tried to force memory.
Voices outside had him turning, the small plaited bracelet tucked carefully into his trousers pocket.
‘Mr Gregory, sir.’
Oliver came in, a broad smile on his face.
‘I missed you at Fred’s the other night, Nick, and thought perhaps we could catch up now for a drink. I also brought back a book you’d leant me just before you disappeared.’
Defoe’sRobinson Crusoewas in his hands, the burgundy-leather cover familiar.
‘At least I had one tome in my possession that was worth reading. I remember this.’
‘So the whole of your memory is back?’
‘Not quite all of it.’
‘Jake said you are certain it was not your uncle who had followed you to America and that you had been out looking for clues as to who else held a motive. Is that where you got the bruise on your cheek?’
Oliver had always been the one to notice if things were not quite as they should be. ‘Bartlett didn’t send anyone overseas. I know that much, though he did mean to drown me in the Thames. He is a man of small vision like his son. I doubt if he could have come up with a plan that encompassed searching for me across years and oceans. If I can remember the last week before I disappeared, then perhaps I might remember other men...’
‘I saw you on one of those days with Jacob’s sister outside Fortnum and Mason’s in Piccadilly. She might have some ideas to help you.’
‘She is already.’
‘Is what?’
‘Helping me retrace the moments.’
‘Does Jake know of this?’
‘I’m not hiding anything.’
Oliver frowned. ‘Eleanor was broken completely when she returned from the Highlands.’
‘I thought she had resided in Edinburgh.’
‘No. Her husband was some sort of a northern laird up by the western coast. He was drowned apparently in a boating accident in the autumn a year or so after you left and Eleanor returned home to Millbrook House. She has a young daughter so we do not see her much in London now, which is a shame. There was also some talk that she never married the fellow at all though Jacob soon put paid to such gossip.’
