“Wilfred, Dominick, please,” his mother pleaded, stepping between them. “This is the first time in over a year that the entire family has been together. We don’t want to spoil Paul’s visit.”
The gravity of her words sent panic resounding through Nick’s mind. The look his parents exchanged was heavy with meaning, and it irritated him not to know what it meant. Rather than ask, he straightened and smoothed the mocking smile from his face.
“Of course. Forgive me.”
His father went on scowling, but Nick ignored him. He’d find out what was wrong soon enough—if not through Paul, then through his sister.
He did his best to enjoy dinner, pushing the mystery to the back of his mind. As always, he opted to sit far enough down the table that he needn’t suffer his father’s disapproving glares. He preferred to be surrounded by the children, who were excited about being allowed to join the adults. Paul was at his father’s right, too far away for Nick to engage him in conversation, though Charity sat across from him, her eyes lowered as she spooned soup into her mouth.
Every now and then, she would glance up at him, her mouth pinched at the corners. Nick raised his eyebrows at her in silent question, but she gave a slight shake of her head. He took the hint and let the matter rest through dinner. After several courses and many spoonfuls of peas flung amongst him and the boys—despite Charity’s admonishment—the family adjourned back to the receiving room, where games of cards were begun and Jane resumed her place at the pianoforte.
Nick had hoped to corner his uncle, but Paul had been coerced into a game of whist with his brothers. Besides, there were his promises to be fulfilled. He spent the next few hours entertaining the children, which seemed to suit the other adults in the room. Most of his family thought him a childish scapegrace, but none could deny that he was good with his nieces and nephews. He read to them from a book presented by Maurice, producing giggles and exclamations in reaction to his dramatic narration and funny voices for the characters. He applauded when Sarah sang, and made a fuss over Louisa’s drawings. He produced a deck of cards from his coat pocket and entertained them with an array of tricks he’d picked up while practically living in the hells.
He soaked up what little time he would have with them, for in a matter of a few weeks they would leave London with their parents and Nick wouldn’t see them again until Christmas. When, at last, the ladies ushered the children from the room to take them off to bed, Nick found his opening.
His father and brothers had stepped out onto the terrace to indulge in cigars, leaving him alone with Paul. The man stood to approach Nick, who still sat on the floor near a basket of tin soldiers he and the boys had been playing with.
Sinking into an armchair near him, Paul studied Nick with a wistful expression. For a moment, he was transported back to the days of his youth—sitting in similar rooms with toys scattered about him, and his uncle looking at him the way he’d always wished his father would. When he had hurt himself after some reckless stunt or other, it was Paul he had run to in a fit of tears. It was Paul who had praised his high marks in school and reminded him that being born last did not mean he could not aspire to make something of his life.
He didn’t usually feel shame over the choices that had led to him becoming a courtesan, chiefly because he didn’t believe in putting on airs or pretending to be anything other than what he was. He was a third son who had the liberty of not taking himself too seriously—a man who loved to laugh, enjoy himself, and bed beautiful women. A man who enjoyed the thrill of the turn of a pair of dice, or flip of a card.
But, just now, he found himself wishing he could look Paul in the eye and offer proof that his life wasn’t being wasted. He wanted, just one more time, for his uncle to say he was proud of him for some reason. Any reason.
“Now that we’re alone,” Paul said, “you can regale me with the stories of your latest exploits.”