Page 55 of A Sense of Fate
‘Latimer, I take it you mean.’ Pawson’s head appeared over the newspaper. ‘Perhaps he worries how it will look if he’s unable to control two of his daughters.’
Archie waved the suggestion aside. ‘We both know there’s more to it than that. The man’s running scared.’
‘Will has been told to keep a careful watch over the girls. He’s tough enough to protect them, and knows where to send for reinforcements if needed. Stop worrying, guv’nor. You’ll be more use to them in London getting answers than you would be if you remained at Felsham Hall getting yourself into a stew.’
‘Very delicately put,’ Archie replied, sending his man a scathing look.
‘I aim to give good service.’
Archie inclined his head towards the woman encumbered with all the luggage when she took a seat unnecessarily close to his own. He didn’t recognise her and wasn’t about to be drawn into a dreary conversation. It happened frequently; he was unsure why. Perhaps there was something about his bearing that implied wealth and consequence. Archie hadn’t needed to try and attract female attention when he had been a younger man, sound in mind and limb. He had stopped trying to make any sort of impression since his accident, but the attention still prevailed. This particular woman carried a small dog in her arms that constantly yapped, making Archie’s head ache.
‘Now, Benji,’ the woman admonished. ‘Be quiet. You are disturbing the gentleman.’ She fluttered her lashes at Archie, who turned his head away without responding.
Pawson chortled. ‘Still got what it takes then, guv’nor,’ he remarkedsotto voce.
Archie rolled his eyes and fell to contemplating for the rest of the journey.
Paddington railway terminus was in its customary state of organised chaos. Archie remained on the train until the other passengers, including the woman and all of her luggage, had left it. Crowds were difficult for him to negotiate since they increased the possibility of his being barged into and knocked from his feet.
Once it was safe for Archie to disembark, Pawson helped him down and then hailed a cab. Archie climbed into it, already feeling the cloying atmosphere of a crowded city that no longer held any appeal. His father had been a frequent visitor to the family’s town house in Grosvenor Square. He enjoyed London society and, Archie knew, often entertained his lady friends in the palatial mansion.
Archie had little time for London now that he was incapacitated, so the house was mostly empty and he kept just a reliable skeleton staff to maintain it. He often wondered about selling, but something held him back. It was part of his inheritance, which meant that it was his duty to pass it—as well as the thorny question of heavy property taxes—on to his heir.
Always supposing he had one.
Now there was an enticing prospect, he thought, as the hackney made its way through clogged streets, finally depositing Archie and Pawson in Grosvenor Square. Archie hadn’t given much thought to procreation, having been more occupied with regaining his health over the past decade. It was simply a duty that would be required of him; the downside of which required him to fix his interest upon a potential wife. Now that he’d found a female whom he would be happy to make that commitment with, a whole plethora of obstacles barred his way.
He glanced down at his broken body and cursed Magda Simpson for her selfish determination to get her revenge in such a brutal fashion when she’d worried about his interest in her waning. He cursed his own stupidity in being strung along by her when he sensed that she required more than a dalliance.
Archie hadn’t warned his staff to expect him but found nothing to complain about in the running of his household, and was greeted deferentially. Tired after the journey, he rested for a short while before keeping his appointment with his lawyer, which lasted for over an hour.
It was six in the evening when he made his way to White’s, where he had agreed to meet Marcus Conrad. Despite it being over a year since he had last been at the club, the porter who opened the door recognised him and addressed him by name. Archie would have been surprised if he had not. Porters’ positions at gentlemen’s clubs were highly sought after and given only to those with retentive memories who also possessed the correct degree of deference.
Archie’s leg ached after the tiresome railway journey and he inwardly cringed at the thought of ascending the wide staircase in order to reach the body of the club. He did so slowly, leaning one hand on the balustrade and the other on his stick.
It gave him a small measure of satisfaction to think that the long day and equally long staircase was in no danger of defeating him, as would have been the case before Flora took it upon herself to improve his mobility. This fresh reminder of just how much she had done for him reinforced his determination to return the favour in some small measure. He would have done so anyway, since he had never been one to ignore a female in distress. But then again, had he not been injured there was a possibility that his life might have taken a very different path. He would probably have married a suitable woman without thought of affection or compatibility long before now, simply to do his duty by his father.
He paused halfway up the stairs and allowed himself the suggestion of a smile. For the first time ever, he had reason to feel if not grateful then at least accepting of his incapacity. Without it, his path and Flora’s might well have crossed only in passing.
He might never have found his soulmate.
That was what she had become, he realised as he continued his slow ascent. And yesterday, for the first time, he had dared to allow himself to hope that she returned his regard. She was angry with him for his clumsy attempts to protect her, yet reasonable enough to see the need for that protection. Even so, it would be a grave miscalculation to become complacent—to assume. Flora was an annoyingly independent law unto herself. She was a challenge, which is partly why Archie had lost his heart to her. The marriage of convenience he had considered would no longer serve—but asking Flora to commit to a cripple, the sight of whose scars was abhorrent to Archie himself, was altogether another matter.
‘One bridge at a time,’ he muttered as he reached the euphemistically named coffee room, only slightly out of breath. Very little coffee, as far as he was aware, was consumed by the gentlemen members of the exclusive White’s club.
The place was crowded at that time of day and Archie scanned the sea of faces, wondering if Marcus Conrad had yet arrived and whether Archie would recognise him if he had. They had only met once on a social occasion and that was before Archie’s life had changed so dramatically and he had been shipped off, more dead than alive, to France.
A man raised a hand and Archie saw at once the similarities between Marcus and his brother, even if his girth was wider and his hair was in full retreat. He still cut an imposing figure and approached Archie with hand outstretched—the genial politician who was never off duty.
‘Glad to see you, Felsham,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘It has been a very long time since I have seen many of the people I once knew,’ Archie replied, taking Marcus’s hand in a firm grasp and deciding to get past the embarrassing situation of his resurrection by mentioning it himself.
‘Ah, the mischief we get up to as younger men,’ Marcus replied affably, leading the way to a quiet table and motioning to a steward for wine. ‘We had the world at our feet and considered ourselves invincible, but few of us paid such a heavy price for our youthful indiscretions as you.’
Archie lowered himself into a comfortable leather chair, trying not to show how much he appreciated taking the weight off his feet. ‘Ah well, I am at least still alive and making the best of things.’
‘That’s the spirit!’
