Free The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series by Emmanuelle de Maupassant Page A

common name
of ‘Rotten Row’. In fine weather, the broad avenue attracted all ladies and
gentlemen of fashion, wealth, celebrity and beauty. It ran to his right,
leading off into the darkness. His own path stretched similarly before him. He
rarely thought of the future, or the inevitable changes brought by age, but
they pre-occupied him now; he imagined growing older, dissatisfied, without
hope of a great amour, passionless and withered.

 
    In the summer months, the
bridleway would have been crowded with hundreds of equestrians, creating a
scene of brilliance, pomp and splendour ; now, it
appeared only dank and gloomy. When winter’s frost brought its bite, the Park
would glitter once more, skaters taking to the frozen Serpentine, illuminated
by torchlight. Many a love affair had been nursed in its acres, fair young men
seeking out a certain rosy cheek, approaching nervously, to be greeted by
blushes and downcast lashes. A lady might drop a glove and bestow a smile.
Often, such assignations were obliged to remain furtive, ultimately foiled by a match-making mamma, caring not for the secret wishes
of youthful hearts.

 
    He had thought to make
Mademoiselle Noire his sometime mistress, but he realized now that it would
never be sufficient. He must possess her completely. She would be his torch in
the darkness: no other existed for him.   His amour would not be thwarted.

 
    A ginger tom shot past: the
domestic quadruped clearly no more eager to remain in the damp than he. MacCaulay clutched his coat more tightly and made towards
the elaborate iron gates of the Park. He hurried past Apsley House: one time residence of the ‘hero of a hundred fights’ – the Duke of
Wellington. His monument to his own great deeds stood yet in front of the drawing-room
windows. If he had, in modesty, forgotten his own greatness, he might have
looked upon it, and been reminded.

 
    MacCaulay passed out onto Grosvenor Place and through
Belgravia. As he entered Eaton Square, fog was rolling in from the direction of
the Thames. The interior of his residence appeared darker than usual, although
the fires and lamps had been lit some hour previously. He made towards his
room, to dress for dinner, but stopped rather at his sister’s door, knocking
gently.

 
    She called for him to enter,
and he found her at her dressing table, her maid placing the finishing touches
to her hair.   Cecile would never
think to question him, but he felt compelled to explain his hasty removal from
the carriage earlier.   Sensing that
he had something heartfelt to impart, she dismissed Alice from the room and
turned to give him her full attention.
     
    “What would you say sister
were I to tell you that I may have fallen in love?”

 
    Seeing the earnest look upon
his face – a combination of anxiety and incomprehension - her reaction
was to succumb to amusement. Then, clapping her hands in delight, she exclaimed
her joy, proclaiming that nothing would bring her greater satisfaction than to
see her darling brother happily settled. She had doubted that the day would
ever come, since he had already courted several of the most beautiful and
eligible debutants of past seasons, without any inclination to formalize a
union. That he had taken his time to choose wisely was only to his credit, and
she yearned with all her heart to meet the object of his affections, that she
might call her sister.

 
    Her words were as he
expected, she being so generous of nature. He doubted not that she would
receive any bride he brought into the house with all deference, treating her at
once as her closest friend and confidante.

 
    “And what if the woman I
chose were not born into a notable family Cecile?” he asked.

 
    She raised her eyebrows but
gave him the simplest of answers. “Regardless of her birth dearest, if she is
the other half of your soul then she will be a lady indeed. Your good taste and
discernment could only bring about your preference for a woman