“So they do. For piquet, however, we only use thirty-two.”
As Mr. Whitworth dealt the cards three at a time, Hudson was loath to admit he hadn’t any idea what the other man was doing or why. Pride wasn’t going to help him if he found himself at a table with Lord Gliddon or any of the other men he’d met who were simply waiting for him to show himself a fool.
Hudson looked at the series of piles in front of him. “Am I to assume this is a two-player game?”
Mr. Whitworth nodded. “And a complicated one to learn. Playing it is simple, though, so if two gentlemen want to make a deal without meeting in private, this is as good as it gets.”
“It sounds like a useful game to know, then.” Hudson adjusted his seat to more fully face the table.
Twenty minutes later, when Hudson’s grasp of the game shifted from nonexistent to adequate, Mr. Whitworth rose and crossed to the desk. “I believe you’re ready to keep score now. Have you paper and pencil, Lord Stildon? Or have you not had time to find that yet either?”
Hudson winced at the name and at the friendly jab. Stildon was his title—his name now, really—and had been for a year, and thus far it hadn’t brought him anything particularly good. But since Mr. Whitworth had arrived, he’d forgotten, at least a little, that he was miserable. “Call me Hudson. If you’re going to be party to my most embarrassing moments, you might as well have the liberty.” He glanced over to the tall man, who stood frozen, partially bent over the writing table. “Oh, and paper and pencil are in the left-hand drawer. I saw them when I was looking for the cards.”
Mr. Whitworth didn’t move.
Hudson resettled his lap blanket and looked up to see the only movement the other man had made was to turn his head and stare at Hudson.
The unblinking consideration was somewhat unnerving.
“You know which side is left, don’t you?” Hudson asked. “It’s the one you mount a horse from.”
The stable manager blinked and looked down at the table he’d braced his hands on. Finally, he opened the drawer and extracted the writing implements. His return to the game table was equally slow and pondering.
Hudson thought back through the past five minutes, at a loss as to why the man was suddenly different. Nothing stood out, so he studied Mr. Whitworth, seeking a clue from the other man.
After Mr. Whitworth had taken his time easing back into his chair and set the paper and pencil on the table, his pale eyes stared hard at Hudson. “You wish me to use your Christian name?”
A suspicious heat crawled through Hudson, making him unsure whether he still needed the lap blanket. Adjusting it gave him a reason to drop his own gaze and shift his position in his chair. Hopefully the heat wasn’t showing on his face, thanks to his now lack of any sort of tan.
“You don’t have to, of course. I’ve no wish to make you uncomfortable.” Even though Hudson was far from any sort of ease at the moment. “I only assumed that calling each other by name was a custom in England.”
Mr. Whitworth set about shuffling the cards and dealing them out once more. “The only men of rank who have asked me to use their name are the ones with whom I went to school. We started as boys and never saw need to change it.”
Hudson scooped up his cards and began to sort them. “You consider these men friends?”
“Of the highest order.”
Hudson moved a king to the end of his hand and then a jack to the beginning, with no rhyme or reason to the movement. Too many ideas were shuffling through his mind.
The men Hudson had encountered at the training grounds had been clear that associating with Mr. Whitworth was not in Hudson’s best social interest. However, the man had willingly danced with a groom for Hudson’s benefit.
What was Hudson to do? He could take the offer back, reset the ordinary order of things. But that would only leave Hudson to spend the rest of his evening brooding about how low the fire was.
Or he could try something unexpected.
Instead of taking anything back, Hudson chose to be deliberately obtuse. If nothing else, it would make Mr. Whitworth the uncomfortable party for once.
Hudson stacked his cards together and tapped them on the table, even though they still resembled utter chaos. “It is quite understandable that you would hold those men in higher esteem than you hold me. For now, we can simply settle for Stildon. Perhaps one day you’ll feel I’ve earned being addressed as Hudson.”
A sense of satisfaction melded with Hudson’s considerations as Mr. Whitworth’s face went slack and his cheeks flushed. Hudson had to lift his cards and fan them out in front of his face to hide his small smirk at finally flustering the unflappable stable manager.
There was a surprising truth in what he had said, though. He certainly counted Mr. Whitworth among the men whom he wanted to earn respect from and knew the stable manager’s frank attitude would make that regard mean all the more when he finally earned it.
“I’m not . . . that is . . . I don’t think . . .” Mr. Whitworth cleared his throat and quickly regained his confident equilibrium, at least in appearance. “I believe this might be another area in which you are unaware of the customary English traditions.”
Hudson tilted his head and pretended to think. “I don’t believe so. Father tended to be rather formal at times in India, particularly among the local aristocratic class.” He exaggerated his thoughtful expression, in part to keep the smile from his face. “He was always very passionate about teaching me about the title that would one day be mine. Of course, I think he intended to have it himself first, but life rarely goes as we expect. Still, he taught me that the use of a man’s name is a particular honor that shouldn’t be granted to simply anyone. I understand your withholding that honor.”
Mr. Whitworth shuffled his cards about in his hand, and two of them fell to the floor. He took far longer than necessary to retrieve them. When he rose, he sat back in his chair with a smile that Hudson didn’t quite know how to read. In the brief moment the man had been beneath the table, though, he’d come to some form of decision, because he suddenly looked far more comfortable than he ever had before.
“Are you going to exchange any cards?” Mr. Whitworth nodded to the small stack still sitting in the middle of the table.
“Oh, er, um, yes.” Hudson fanned his cards once more and actually looked at them before pulling out three and replacing them with cards from the center.
Mr. Whitworth exchanged two. “You would get on well with Graham and Oliver, I think. ’Tis a shame neither are in the district right now, though one never knows when they’ll make an appearance.”
“I would be honored to make their acquaintance.” Hudson frowned at his cards, hoping Mr. Whitworth thought it was because he was thinking and not out of frustration that the conversation wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. He gave his concentration to his cards for a moment, trying to remember in what order he made his declarations. “Point of five.”
“Equal.” Mr. Whitworth shifted in his seat before mumbling under his breath, “In the cards, anyway.”
That was better. The man wasn’t as comfortable as he was attempting to appear. “I believe I’ve”—Hudson paused—“forty-six points.”
A slight smile formed on Mr. Whitworth’s face. “No good.”
They finished the opening declarations and point adjustments without interruption, and Mr. Whitworth noted them on his paper. Hudson led the first trick with his ace of diamonds and waited.
When another card didn’t hit the center of the table, he looked up at his opponent.
“My name is Aaron. It’s probably best if we use Stildon and Whitworth in public, though.” Then he tossed down a five.
Hudson scooped up the trick with a great deal of satisfaction. “I’d hoped you’d come around. Now, let us also hope Lord Gliddon is as easily won over.”
“And his daughter as well?” Aaron lifted a brow in inquiry.
“Yes.” Hudson laid down the queen of diamonds. “And his daughte
r as well.”
Thirteen
There had never been any question as to whether Mrs. Snowley was smart. Her manners, integrity, and overall morality could certainly be questioned, but not her brain, which was why it didn’t surprise Bianca that she was nowhere to be found the moment the door shut behind last evening’s dinner guests.
More surprising was that Marianne also wasn’t available. She either managed to slip away soon after the meal was finished or went to bed in her dinner gown, but she was fast asleep when Bianca stopped by her room.
Which meant Bianca had spent the night staring at the ceiling, pondering options and considering possibilities, and now she wanted answers. Neither woman usually emerged from her room until midmorning, and Bianca wasn’t about to miss her morning ride over this, so she was delighted to see Dorothy moving toward Marianne’s room after finishing with Bianca. Her younger sister’s early evening must have caused her to rise earlier than normal.
Bianca slid into the room behind Dorothy. “You’re awake early.”
A wide smile split Marianne’s face. It was difficult to tell if her extra blinks were due to having just awoken or if she was trying to avoid Bianca’s gaze. “I think I wore myself out with excitement last night. All I could think about was the coming week.”
Bianca moved to perch on the side of the bed, leaning back against one of the tall, carved corner posts. “You’ve plans for the week, then?”
More hazy blinks. “Don’t you? Mother said it’s time I marry because I’ll never have as much opportunity as I’ll have with all the men following Lady Rebecca here.”
From coloring to temperament, there weren’t many similarities between the sisters, but did Mrs. Snowley truly intend for them to compete for the same men? “Are you ready to marry?”
A small shrug shifted the end of Marianne’s tight, neat braid. “It does seem the next thing, doesn’t it? I had last year to become acclimated to being out of the schoolroom. What else is there but for me to marry?”
What indeed? There were women who didn’t have to rely on others to support themselves. Bianca wasn’t so fortunate. While she knew her father and half brother would never leave her to starve, she didn’t particularly want to be the crazy spinster aunt living in the attic.
Nor could she see Marianne embracing such a fate. Bianca smiled and patted her sister’s hand. “I wish you great success, then.”
Marianne’s pale blue eyes widened. “Thank you. My success isn’t as assured as yours, of course, but I hope to soon follow in your footsteps.”
Bianca choked on air. “My footsteps?”
“Of course.” Marianne picked at the bedcover. “When Father asked Mother what her plans were for us, she had much more detailed ones for you than for me.”
Confusion left Bianca speechless. There were many times she didn’t understand what Marianne said, but this might be the most boggling. Mrs. Snowley would care much more about whom Marianne married than whom Bianca settled down with. “Did she share those plans?”
“Oh yes. She said it would look bad if I made an excellent match before you, so she was going to give you her best efforts first. She even selected candidates with good horses, since she knew that mattered to you.”
Bianca almost laughed at the idea of Mrs. Snowley knowing anything about what Bianca would want in a husband, but Marianne wasn’t finished relating her mother’s thoughts. “She’s given it a great deal of thought because she doesn’t want you to discover that no man truly wants a wife with callused fingers or a strong seat. That was why she invited Mr. Mead to dinner last evening. She said the family connection would increase your appeal.”
Increase her appeal indeed. Bianca was absolutely certain that Mrs. Snowley knew how little Bianca cared for Mr. Theophilus Mead. She was also aware of how often the elder Mr. Mead and Father had joked about marrying their children off to each other. It was the perfect revenge. Mrs. Snowley would make her husband happy and her stepdaughter miserable with one single act.
“Father refuses to take me for a Season in London because we have such likely society here, so Mother has made it her goal to get you engaged within the month so she can focus on me.”
Marianne reached over to pat Bianca’s hand. “I don’t mind going second. I know if Lady Rebecca makes her choice quickly most of the quality men will be gone, but many will be back for the races.” She smiled widely. “And there’s always next year. I’m only twenty, whereas you, well . . . Mother worries.”
Bianca’s thoughts swirled until all she could hear was “within the month,” and the phrase induced something akin to panic. How far was Mrs. Snowley willing to go to get Bianca out of the way in a manner Father found suitable? Would she damage Bianca’s reputation and force her into a match? Would she lie to Father about how Bianca felt about Mr. Mead?
She nearly groaned at the thought of trying to explain to her father that she despised his closest friend’s son. She adored her father, truly she did, but it wasn’t as if she snuck into his study and confided in him. He was her father.
No, she had to find a way to solve this herself. The easiest way, of course, was to find a husband other than Mr. Mead. Mrs. Snowley wasn’t foolish enough to ruin Bianca’s chances with another man if that match still accomplished the main goal of removing Bianca from consideration.
It would appear waiting for Lord Stildon’s courtship of Lady Rebecca to falter was not going to be an option after all. She needed a new plan, and the best place to think was on the back of a horse.
She managed a few more minutes of conversation with Marianne before she could excuse herself without raising suspicion, then hurried toward Hawksworth. It didn’t matter if Mr. Knight put her on the back of a plow pony this morning. Bianca just wanted to ride.
The biggest problem, as she saw it, was that although she knew the ins and outs of society’s rules enough to teach Lord Stildon how not to embarrass himself, she hadn’t the first idea how to indicate to a man that she would like his attentions. She could hardly do the proposing herself. She couldn’t even ask a man to dance with her.
Determination was all well and good, but it didn’t take a girl very far if she didn’t know where she was going.
Her conversation with Marianne had delayed her, and most of the riders had already departed from the stable. Owen was waiting for her, though, with Odysseus saddled and ready.
The black-and-white Spanish Jennet was the fastest of the horses she was allowed to ride, and Bianca sent a thankful glance heavenward that God had nudged the grooms toward readying this particular horse.
As she approached, Owen pushed away from the side of the stable where he’d been leaning and then helped her mount with a silent nod.
After thanking him, Bianca set off before Owen had a chance to mount Hestia. He wouldn’t have any problem catching up with her. The horse might not have won many races, but she could still best Odysseus any day of the week.
Once clear of the fenced areas, Bianca gave Odysseus plenty of rein and let him stretch out into a run. Wind pulled at her hair and tested the security of her hatpins, but it also seemed to clear her muddled thoughts. As the hoofbeats pounded beneath her, one thought slid through her head over and over.
She needed help.
But whom would she ask? Yes, she was friendly with many of the other women in Newmarket, but none of those friendships extended beyond social pleasantries. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had come to visit her or she’d made the effort to visit someone else in particular. She saw people when she saw them, and their interactions were always enjoyable enough.
There was also the question of how they would respond when they learned Bianca was actively competing with them for the attentions of the eligible men.
Not to mention, if the conversations in the retiring rooms were anything to go by, none of the other girls knew how to get a man to offer for them either.
What Bianca needed was a man to tell her how to find a man.
; The irony was not lost on her.
She directed Odysseus to slow and the horse trotted along, his sides heaving from the run. A few feet to Bianca’s right, the strong lines and smooth movements of Hestia’s gait drew her attention.
“You took a mighty quick line on that ride, Miss Snowley.” Owen gave her a respectful nod. The wind had mussed his long brown hair until his queue looked more like a fuzzy halo. His disheveled appearance didn’t at all match the beauty of the horse he rode, but he handled the animal well. That skill was likely what kept him employed despite his less-than-professional attitude and appearance.
The horses slowed to a walk as they turned back toward Hawksworth. Other horses raced across the Heath, some draped in heavy blankets, others lining up for mock races, and some running a line like Bianca had just done.
The colorful chaos was a beautiful sight that normally calmed Bianca’s nerves. Today, it was merely the background to her thoughts. Determining what she needed didn’t mean she knew how to get it.
Owen was unaware of Bianca’s wish for silent introspection. “Imagine if you were on Hestia here. You could show those riders a thing or two.”
Bianca ducked her head a bit to hide her chuckle. Owen was sweet, if a bit clueless. She was positive he meant his statement as a compliment, even if, in reality, he was tempting her with a carrot she could never have. “Thank you, Owen. Have you had a good morning?”
Owen frowned. “Busier than normal. Mr. Whitworth’s horse was still stabled there this morning, so Mr. Knight insisted we do some of our regular chores before we exercised the horses instead of after.”
Mr. Whitworth’s horse had been in Hawksworth stable and Bianca had missed it? Yes, she’d been preoccupied, but when had a male dilemma ever drawn her notice away from the horses?
Why Mr. Whitworth had stayed overnight at Hawksworth when he lived only a few miles away was also an intriguing question, though for Bianca’s purposes, the more important one might be, would Mr. Whitworth still be there when she returned to the stable?
Vying for the Viscount Page 11
