Page 16 of Playing the Scoundrel

“And what if I should cut you off?” The threat in his gray eyes did nothing to instill fear in Henry like the old man probably hoped. “Disinherit you completely? Never see you again?”

“You’ve threatened to do that for years, Father, and little good it has done to motivate me.” Henry took another sip of tea, but it continued to leave a bad taste in his mouth. “Not that it matters, for I’ve already inherited my mother’s fortune independent of you. So you might as well go through with it, that way we can give up the pretense of these little tea visits.”

“You’re a damn fool,” the old man muttered. “Edgar would have done so much more with his life by now and with more dignity. Instead, he had to die for King and Country, and you’re the one left behind to torment me with your laziness and humiliation. You’re nothing more than a reminder of constant disappointment.”

There it was. Father was getting to it faster and faster every time.

Henry looked up at him and wondered if he should feel pity. Eventually, the old man would die, if his wrinkled skin and balding head were any indication. Henry wondered if he would feel the sorrow and loss that comes when losing a parent, like he felt at the death of his mother, or the death of his brother. He wanted to summon the emotion of familial love, the thing that should have bound him to his father, but Henry was certain all he would feel was relief and freedom from his father’s beratement where there should have been love.

“What could I possibly do, Father?”

“Marry. Produce an heir.” Father’s voice was dark and bitter, worse than the tea in Henry’s cup. “Do the one thing I have asked you to do, since you can’t seem to do anything else right.”

Henry’s entire body clenched. “And what then? Say I marry a girl of quality, as you say, settle down, sire an heir to inherit your fortune. What then? Will I finally earn your love, your respect, your approval?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say a word.

“No, I won’t.” Henry gently set his teacup to the side, leaning forward to stare him down. “Because in that withered heart of yours, you don’t love me. You only loved Edgar. To you, I’ll always be second best, no matter how hard I try to please you. Isn’t that right?”

Father stared into the fire, melancholy shining in his eyes. “Edgar should be here to inherit, to have a family. It should have been you to die in the war.”

Henry should have grown accustomed to the thoughtless words of an old man, but they still managed to puncture the thick walls around his heart. The barbs still found a way to wound him, hurting him down to his soul.

Pulling out his pocket watch again, Henry found they had not made it ten minutes, but it was clearly enough time to get the point across.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Father, as always. But I’m afraid I must return to ready for the theatre. Until next time.”

Henry didn’t bother to wait for the butler to open the door, and fairly ripped his hat and coat from Baxter’s hands. With pounding heart, Henry stormed out the front door. It was a good thing he had walked the distance from his townhouse because he needed the exercise in the outdoors to clear his mind.

Damn fool.Henry knew of all things, he was that. To go in expecting anything different was a sign of insanity to be sure. He had learned long ago it did no good to rile his father, for Henry only ended up injuring himself.

He had tried for years to live up to the impossible standard, but after a while, he just couldn’t do it anymore. Henry would never be Edgar, and his father would never be able to see that. So all he could do was prove the old man right. Live the life of a rake, forever incapable of being what his father wanted.

Upon returning to his apartment at Albany, Henry stormed into his study and poured himself a glass of brandy. Now this tasted much better than the bitter tea. The sweet, intoxicating liquor poured down his throat. How he longed to lose himself to it, but no. The duke’s voice had been lurking in his head for days;your perception of holding your liquor is debatable. For now, he would savor the one, and dress for the theatre in hopes of losing himself in the arms of a woman instead.

Henry didn’t allow himself to linger in the pain. Much of his relationship with his father was pushed from his mind out of sheer survival. Aside from James and Thomas, Henry had little few he trusted, let alone felt love for. It had been years since he’d been able to feel truly appreciated in a world that valued money over trust, and title over quality of character. He longed to have a discussion with his brother or feel the loving touch of his mother again. Despite the hatred long spouted from his father, Henry never resented Edgar. Their relationship was one that he’d treasured, which was why the death hurt so deep. Henry wanted to believe his mother had loved him, but looking back, it was hard to remember if the look in her eyes had been love or simply pity.

Downing the last of the drink in his glass, Henry changed clothes for the theatre and headed back out into the streets. The setting sun made for a cold evening, but he was certain to be headed for a warm room, filled with people. Hopefully including someone who might take his mind off his current pain.

He arrived at the theatre, which was lush and crowded. He was seated next to an older couple who greeted him politely but kept the conversation to themselves, which was just as well. Henry wasn’t in a social mood anyway. He glanced around the dimly lit room, looking for familiar faces, and didn’t see many. He found people he knew by name but also knew to avoid. He saw a few men in red uniforms, which only made the ache in his chest worse, as it prompted him to think about his brother. Then he saw Lady Hangley, a beautiful widow with a large fortune, which meant she had no need to remarry. Which also meant she might be lonely and in need of company.

Before he could move to join her, Henry caught a glimpse of Mrs. Dunn, and that piqued his interest. That meant the feisty Miss Follett was likely present, as well.

Mrs. Dunn vanished into the crowd, only to appear once again at the stairwell, which she slowly ascended until she arrived at a box seat, where Miss Follett was seated with another elderly woman and a fop of a man Henry did not know. It added to the disquiet in his chest, but he had no right to feel such things, so he dismissed the feelings and turned his sights to the stage as the lights dimmed further and the show began.

But Henry could not pay attention.

He continued to glance up at the box seats, finding himself infatuated with Miss Follett. She watched the show intently, occasionally blessing the man next to her with her smiles and clapping when there was a break in the entertainment. She captivated him, leaving Henry certain it was this kind of woman his father intended for him. A beautiful, graceful young woman, without flaw, without taint. Completely opposite of Henry himself, who was full of taint and flaws. Perhaps she continued to reject him because she could see that stark difference so clearly. But the more she put him off, the more intrigued he became. The more he sought for her company and her presence. Did he perhaps wish that some of her goodness would influence him, lure him back to the light?

The show soon closed, bringing the guests to their feet in applause. Miss Follett stood and looked across the crowd below, her gaze eventually falling to Henry’s face. She seemed surprised to find him staring at her, but she recovered quickly and continued clapping for the actors. Miss Follett, Mrs. Dunn, the gentleman and who he could only assume was the gentleman’s mother, made their way down the staircase, urging Henry to his feet. He was determined to catch her for a moment, if he could only push through the crowds.

Once in the theatre corridor, he found the other three were much farther ahead than Mrs. Dunn’s slow steps, allowing Henry a chance to catch her by the shoulder.

“Lovely show, wasn’t it?” he asked as she turned to look at him.

“Good evening, Mr. Godwin. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Well, I enjoy the theatre as much as any other,” Henry said with a shrug. “Tell me, who is that with Miss Follett?”

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