Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 63 - Sixty Three

The morning was, by all accounts, beautiful. Sunlight, clear and bright, streamed through the tall windows of the Hamilton townhouse foyer.

Carcel came down the main staircase, his steps light. He was, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. He had, after his... session... with Ines, slept. He had slept deeply, dreamlessly, and had woken with a strange, new, and unsettling sense of... peace.

He was quite impressed. And his student was, he had to admit, the most dedicated, curious, and utterly fascinating pupil he had ever encountered. He was, he realized with a small, private smile, looking forward to their next lesson.

He entered the drawing room, adjusting his cravat, his mind already on how he midnight will turn out, on how he might explain, in pure, practical, simple terms, the next question on her... list.

He had come downstairs looking for Rowan. They had business to attend to and the shipping ledgers were waiting.

He stopped, his hand still on his cravat. The room was pitch black.

It was not just dim. It was as dark as a tomb. The heavy, velvet curtains, which were normally drawn back by eight o’clock, were still firmly, stubbornly, closed. The air was thick, and stale, and it smelled, he noted with a frown, of stale wine and... cigar smoke.

That’s odd, he thought. Rowan hates smoking in the house. He hasn’t had a lit cigar on his lip since the war.

He walked further into the room, his eyes slowly adjusting. He reached the window. He gripped the heavy, gold-tasseled cord.

"By the way, the weather is nice," he said, his voice a normal, conversational tone, mostly to himself. He pulled the heavy pull cord of the main curtain. "It seems a shame to..."

A flood of brilliant, merciless, morning light poured into the room, illuminating every dust mote, every empty glass, every sign of the night’s decay.

"Gah!"

"Carcel!!! Please," a voice, a low, wretched, agonized groan, came from the depths of a nearby armchair. "Close the curtains again. My eyes. It burns."

Carcel flinched. He was not alone.

He let the cord go, the small click of the rings on the rod sounding like a gunshot in the silent room, allowing only small amount of light. He turned.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw him.

It was Rowan. Or, at least, it was the ruins of Rowan.

His friend was not just sitting in the armchair. He was melted into it. He was a rumpled, disheveled heap of misery. His cravat, usually a masterpiece of white linen, was gone. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair, his usually perfect styled hair, looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backward. And he was, Carcel noted, still in last night’s clothes.

Carcel crossed the room and sat, with a quiet, concerned grace, in the armchair opposite him.

"Good God, Rowan," Carcel said, his voice low. "Did you spend another night playing poker? When did you come in?"

Rowan rubbed his temples, a slow, painful, circular motion. He did not open his eyes. "I got in," he grated, his voice a dry, hoarse rasp, "just before sunrise."

Carcel’s brow furrowed. He looked at his friend, truly looked at him, and he felt a sharp, sudden, and very real pang of concern. This was not the first time. He has been going out a lot lately, Carcel thought.

Ever since they had returned from the Clifford hunt, Rowan had been... different. He had been restless. He had been out, almost every night, to his club. He came back late, or, as it seemed, early. He looked... he looked as terrible as Carcel himself had, the morning after the first lesson.

"What is so fun about it?" Carcel asked, his voice gentle. He was genuinely curious. Rowan hated poker. He found it a waste of time, a game of chance for men who had nothing better to do. "Don’t you get tired of it? You always said you hated cards."

Rowan finally moved. He groaned, a sound of pure, physical misery, and he reached, with a shaking hand, for the glass of water on the table beside him.

"I am not going for fun," Rowan replied, his voice muffled. "The clubs around...White’s, Brook’s, they are nothing but boring. The same faces. The same dull, stupid, conversations that held no meaning."

He took a sip of water, his hand trembling so much that the glass rattled against his teeth.

Carcel watched him, his mind racing. This was not a man enjoying the bachelor life. This was a man on a mission. A man who was, quite clearly, destroying himself.

"If it’s not fun," Carcel pressed, his voice still quiet, "why do you go there? Every day, Rowan. You look... you look like hell."

Rowan lowered the cup. It hit the porcelain saucer with a loud, sharp, clatter.

He opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed, exhausted, and full of a deep, profound, and weary sadness that Carcel had not seen since the war.

"It’s about Ines," he said, his voice flat.

Carcel went still.

It was not a gradual tensing. It was a complete, and total, and instant cessation of all movement. He did not breathe. He did not blink. His blood, which had been moving, warm and sluggish, through his veins, turned to ice. His heart, which had been beating with a calm, brotherly concern, gave a single, hard, violent lurch.

Ines.

His mind, his guilty, wonderful, secret mind, exploded.

He... he... how? Did she... did she say something? Did Edith? Did he... did he find us?

Oh, God...

He knows about the library. He knows about the lessons. He knows about the what we do. He knows about last night. He knows I have been... I have been... ’teaching’ his sister. He has been out, not playing poker, but... investigating? Is he... is he going to call me out? Right now?

Carcel’s entire body went rigid. He did not breathe. He did not move. He was a statue, waiting for the blade to fall.