Chapter 97

By the time Simon arrived at the establishment that evening, he had already begun to doubt whether coming had been worth the humiliation.

The doubt had not been strong enough to turn him around, however. Desperation had a way of overpowering pride, and Simon had been forced to discover this fact in recent weeks.

The establishment itself was familiar territory. Simon had been coming there for years, long enough that the staff recognized him on sight and the doormen hadn’t needed to ask his name in a very long time.

It was an exclusive house for men with a taste for wilder things, men who preferred to enjoy their pleasures away from the scrutiny of polite society.

There were card rooms where fortunes could change hands in an evening, rooms where men drank late into the night, and quieter chambers for patrons who liked discretion. Other amusements could be found there as well, provided one knew whom to ask and which doors to open.

Simon knew the place well enough.

He also knew Vincent Caldwell, the proprietor. There had been a time when Simon might have called Vincent a friend, but whatever goodwill the man had once held for him had likely shriveled up and died by now.

Simon could hardly blame him. The past few months had been particularly trying, though if he were being entirely honest with himself, he had been wearing away at Vincent’s patience for years.

For years, Simon’s life had been in a steady decline. He had fallen into one vice after another, alcoholism and gambling among them, and before long he had begun accumulating debts faster than he could pay them.

In the beginning, it had been manageable. His father had still been alive then, and there had been family around him willing to conceal the worst of his mistakes, settle what could be settled, and quietly clean up the messes he left behind.

Then everything had taken a turn for the worse.

It was not merely his finances that had deteriorated. His friendships had suffered just as badly. Simon had turned against the people who cared for him, pushed away those who had tried to help, and made himself an unpleasant man to have around.

There were times when he was ashamed of the way he had behaved, when he could look back on the things he had said and done and recognize how far he had fallen.

Yet shame had never been enough to make him change. Some part of him remained stubbornly trapped in that place, clinging to the habits and bitterness that had brought him there in the first place.

And it was that ashamed part of him that spoke in the dead of night.

When the house was silent and there was nothing left to distract him, it whispered the thought he dreaded most: that he had more in common with his father than he cared to admit. That, little by little, he was becoming him.

It was one of Simon’s deepest fears. That one morning he would wake, stumble to the mirror, and find not himself staring back at him, but the loathsome wretch who had been his father.

He had not been deliberately cruel to Caldwell, but he had been careless, which could sometimes be worse. He had disappeared when Caldwell’s friendship no longer served a purpose and returned whenever he needed something.

There had been promises to repay favours and occasions when he had treated Vincent’s patience as though it were a resource that could never be exhausted.

Eventually, it had been. Simon had known that for some time.

He had simply hoped that Vincent might be kind enough to look past it when he knew the severity of the situation.

Upon arriving, he had informed the majordomo that he wished to see the proprietor. But the answer had been that Mr. Caldwell was unavailable.

Simon anticipated that type of answer, so he took a seat at one of the card tables and ordered a drink.

An hour later, he sent another message.

The answer was unchanged. Caldwell was still unavailable.

Simon remained.

He told himself that there was no reason to hurry, not like he had any other option but to wait.

He watched men play cards and resisted the urge to join in. The last thing he needed was to bury himself with even more debt.

Another hour passed. Then another.

By the fifth hour, Simon’s patience had become little more than stubbornness.

He knew Caldwell was avoiding him. There was no longer any point pretending otherwise.

The last three times Simon had visited, Caldwell had somehow managed not to be present when he arrived, despite Simon knowing perfectly well that the man spent most evenings overseeing the establishment himself.

On one occasion, Simon had been told that Caldwell had gone home shortly before his arrival. On another, he had apparently been called away on urgent business. The third time, no explanation was offered at all.

They must have realized that he had already seen through their lie.

Simon finally rose from his chair, feeling the familiar sting of humiliation and dejection beneath his ribs.

He had come prepared to humble himself but this... He felt stuck, trapped.

Still, he was not prepared to leave.

If Caldwell intended to avoid him by remaining out of sight, Simon would simply have to find another way.

He knew the establishment had a rear entrance. Servants used it, deliveries came through it, and gentlemen who preferred not to be seen entering through the main doors occasionally made use of it as well.

Caldwell himself often used it. Simon knew because he had seen him do it before.

So, rather than leave, he made his way outside and waited near the rear entrance.

The night had become colder while he had been inside. The narrow passage behind the establishment was poorly lit, with only a few lamps casting weak pools of light against the surrounding walls. The sounds from inside reached him only faintly, muffled by thick walls and distance.

Simon drew his coat more tightly around himself.

This was absurd.

He was standing in an alley at night, waiting like some desperate fool.

His pride protested against the indignity but it didn’t change the truth because he was exactly that. A desperate fool.

The minutes stretched into nearly another hour before the sound of wheels finally reached him.

Simon straightened.

A carriage approached and slowed nearby. The coachman climbed down, opened the door and waited as Vincent Caldwell stepped onto the street.

Caldwell adjusted his coat and glanced toward the entrance.

He did not see Simon who remained ensconced in shadow, watching him approach.

There was still time to leave, Simon told himself weakly.

He could retreat now and spare himself another rejection. He could return home and pretend that he had never come. He could find some other way to deal with the problem that had been hanging around his neck like a noose.

But he knew there was no other way.