Chapter 1

1

My father had two sons—Garrick, who as the oldest, the heir, could do no wrong, and me, the barely acknowledged younger son who could do no right…

I sighed and endeavoured to push those thoughts from my mind, without much success. Why haven’t you accepted this by now, St John James Ashford? For whatever reason, your father cannot like you, never mind love you. I told myself this over and over, and over, but still I hoped one day to be proved wrong.

However, I was determined to make him notice me. I had tried being perfect, like my brother, taking O and A levels at school and never being expelled—but no matter how well my instructors thought of me, Father was not impressed.

I toyed with the idea of being disreputable like Uncle James, Mother’s brother, to whom I bore a strong physical resemblance. The problem was neither drugs nor girls appealed to me, and I loathed the way I had felt the morning after my sole attempt at drunken debauchery, as well as being dismayed to discover not only a ring piercing my left nipple, but a scandalous tattoo of a scantily dressed Betty Boop on my right buttock. I woke the next morning in a little hotel, my head throbbing, my nipple hurting, and my buttock sore, and abruptly I grew concerned the group of young men and women might have introduced me to the…delights…of the flesh without me recalling.

And oh God, I’d had to find a discreet clinic where I could be examined without word of it getting back to Father. Paradoxically, while I was quite willing to rub my whorishness in his face, I wasn’t ready for him to learn I had actually contracted a sexually transmitted disease.

I didn’t even bother going home. I found a clinic in the phone book that promised discretion, and I went there.

“You’re fine, young man,” the bristly-moustached doctor told me, and I sagged in confused relief. For whatever unknown reason, I’d been spared that, for which I would give unending thanks. “I’d suggest going easy on the alcohol next time you go out on the town. And perhaps finding a new group of friends you can trust more.”

“Yes, Doctor.” I didn’t tell him the likelihood of a “next time” with either alcohol or those particular “friends”—more Garrick’s than mine—was nil.

I entered the house, unseen by anyone. At that time of day, Father was most likely in his office with his solicitor, trying to track down a highborn bride for Garrick, while my brother was no doubt still in bed. I went to the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt when I spotted Boucher, Father’s French chef, seated in the small alcove. The man was reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee; the sight of the huge brunch beside his place almost turned my stomach. He glanced up, ran his gaze over my dishevelled appearance, then returned his attention to his newspaper.

I ignored him, poured myself a glass of orange juice, and took a packet of biscuits from the pantry. There was a bottle of aspirin in the butler’s pantry just off the kitchen, and I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

The house was quiet, but I didn’t want to run the risk of meeting Father just then, so I climbed the servants’ stairs up to the attic to my refuge in what used to be the playroom. I put down the juice and biscuits and reached for the bottle of aspirin. A crackly sound caught my attention, and I withdrew a square of paper I didn’t recognize. Was it a message from my brother, mocking me for being unable to hold my drink? I set it aside, shook out a couple of aspirin tablets, and washed them down with some sips of juice. I opened the packet of biscuits and had some before I removed my jacket and draped it over one of the small chairs no one had ever bothered to dispose of.

After another sip of juice, I picked up the paper, unfolded it, and scanned the neat writing.

Dear St John,

Oh. Not from Garrick. He wouldn’t address me so politely.

You’re okay, don’t worry, mate. I chased off those sons of bitches before they could hurt you—and believe me, they would have taken great delight in doing so

I’d come to that same conclusion, but it was kind of this person, whoever he was, to let me know. But what did he mean by chasing them off? I resumed reading.

I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Six. We met about ten years ago when I delivered a birthday gift from your Uncle James.

I did remember the man. He had been kind to me, not only presenting me the gift of marbles from Uncle James, but also teaching me how to play.