A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  His father had raised him better than to keep a mistress. The Earl of Camforth’s first marriage was said to have been a love match, a faithful one until Percy’s mother died of consumption before Percy was out of nappies. Now, his father was blissfully married to his second wife and equally as devoted to her, physically, emotionally, metaphysically, metaphorically, and every other -ly Percy could name. The man was besotted. It set a precedent for all his sons. And yet Percy had been too much a coward to send Clarice notice, at least not until he made the official proposal.

  Clearly the Merriweathers had found out. It was not uncommon for a gentleman to keep a mistress, but he could see the many reasons it would rankle Mr. Merriweather. Percy was humbled by the mere thought of the man and his family knowing about Clarice. Mortified and humbled.

  Mr. Merriweather turned to face Percy, his hands curling into fists as he leaned his knuckles against the desk. “If I were a younger man, I would call you out, sirrah.”

  “Oh! Oh, I say!” Percy took a step back. “She’s only a trifle, nothing serious. I had intended on taking care of things sooner rather than later. I promise to take care of things before Miss Merriweather hears a word of it.”

  “She knows,” said Mr. Merriweather. “Your words pang me more than the facts. How can you be so indifferent to a young lady? Do you think of my daughter in such terms? Is this how you refer to all your intended brides—trifles? You disgust me. You are no longer welcome in my home nor near my daughter. If I catch your gaze so much as drift in her direction, I will meet you on the field. Now get out.”

  Before Percy could defend himself, the butler and a burly footman appeared to either side of him.

  Right.

  Interview terminated.

  In some ways, it was a relief, but why the man should be so bent out of shape about a mistress Percy had not called on in weeks was beyond his understanding. All the same, it was a bullet dodged. The man had even mentioned intended brides, referring to his daughter, of course. The thought gave Percy chills.

  How was he ever to go through with his promise to his father? Would it be so bad to be homeless? Between a wife and homelessness, he was beginning to think being booted out of his father’s townhouse on his thirtieth birthday was not quite as bad as it had first sounded. Should the worst occur, his elder brother Freddie, Baron Monkworth, might allow Percy to stay at his estate in East Hagbourne, although his wife might feel otherwise given there were three boys to raise. Freddie would deny it, but Percy knew Lady Monkworth thought him a bad influence.

  With the Merriweathers’ front door firmly sealed, Percy decided it time to pay a call to Clarice. Her bills were paid, and the gifts continued to arrive regularly so she would not be cross with him for avoiding her, and right now, he would give his left foot for some tension relief. Meeting angry fathers was strenuous work.

  In short time, Percival stopped the curricle at the modest townhouse he let for Clarice.

  That was part of the problem, of course. His father disapproved of how Percy spent the earl’s money. Money in his pocket and a roof over his head—a luxurious roof at that given it was the earl’s London townhouse in which Percy lived—and this was how he thanked his father. A listless life with good money wasted on a wanton whore. His father’s words, not his.

  Too wild for the church. Too restless for the military. Too whimsical for law. Too irrational for medicine. What was a second son to do? It was the London life for old Percy!

  The townhouse being let in his name, rather than knock, Percy slipped his key into the lock to push open the door. Or he tried. The door did not budge. He wiggled the key and pushed again. Nothing.

  Staring quizzically at lock and key, he used the knocker. Within seconds, the butler opened the door.

  “Ah, good to see you, Williams,” Percy said as he made to push past the man.

  As with the door, the man did not budge. Feet parted, arms crossed, he stared down Percy. Williams was not an ordinary butler. Given Clarice’s profession as one of the most talented and sought-after opera singers in London, she needed extra protection, and so Percy had employed Williams as the butler, a stalwart employee to be sure. At the moment, however, Percy questioned having him on the payroll.

  “Good heavens, Williams, let me pass.” Percy laughed, a forced sound even to his ears.

  “One moment, sir,” Williams said with a grunt.

  The second door of the day to slam in his face came close to flattening his nose. As at the Merriweathers, this was not the greeting he had expected. A sultry embrace, arms about his neck, lips to his cheek—any of these would have sufficed.

  Just when he thought it impossible to wait longer still than he had at the Merriweathers’ home, the door opened. Percy smiled at Clarice standing boldly in the doorway wearing nothing more than one of his old banyans, her hair spilling about her shoulders in seductive waves.

  “Good afternoon, love,” he said.

  He heard the thwack of her hand slapping his cheek before he felt the sting. The sting, in fact, did not occur until after the door closed. Not the endearing greeting he expected.

  What the devil was going on today?

  He rubbed his smarting skin as he climbed onto the curricle. He needed a drink. And company. Flicking his wrist, he headed for White’s, making a mental note to send Clarice and her staff their notice of dismissal.

  Since most members of White’s were in residence at their country estates this time of year, the rooms were quiet, only a handful of gentlemen taking their drink alone with their newspaper, talking in hushed tones with a friend over coffee, or losing at the tables. Through each room Percy searched until he spotted an acquaintance. Company would take his mind off the strange day. For the life of him, he could not fathom what he had done to anger both the Merriweathers and Clarice.

  “Well met, Donaldson,” Percy said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Here’s the luckiest man in town come to torment me.” Donaldson’s words slurred ever so slightly.

  It was not yet two in the afternoon.

  Percy took a seat next to his old Oxford mate and signaled to a footman for a drink. “And what have I done to deserve this charge, both as lucky and a tormentor?”

  “You’re a lifelong bachelor. What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes.” The words blended as Donaldson sloshed his drink to the table.

  “Ah. I see. Lady Donaldson on a rampage again?”

  “When is she not? Take my word for it—don’t marry.” The once carefree Donaldson, now titled, married, and father of four, was not looking his best.

  Percy winced to think how close he had come to a similar fate. There must be a way around his father’s ultimatum. He did not want to end up like Donaldson, drinking away his afternoon at the club.

  A voice from behind them interrupted.

  “If it isn’t the infamous Mr. Randall.”

  They both turned to see the bane of White’s, Mr. Plumb. If there was gossip to be had, he spread it. If there was a bet in the books, he wagered. The man practically lived at the club.

  Percy took his drink from the footman and raised it to Mr. Plumb. “You’ve caught me.”

  “Might as well join us.” Donaldson waved at the empty chair across from them. “I was telling Randall how fortunate he is to avoid the leg shackle.”

  “Were you indeed? Then you’ve not heard the news.” Mr. Plumb raised his quizzing glass to study Percy. “You may now wish him felicitations for Mr. Randall is engaged.”

  Percy sputtered, dribbling brandy on his chin. “I beg your pardon. I am very much not engaged.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Mr. Plumb said with a wink.

  Setting aside his glass, Percy leaned forward. “What are you—”

  “It’s more romantic than I would have given you credit for, a clandestine betrothal and all. The curious part is n
ot how you managed to keep the secret for so long, but why. Is she hideous? Still in the schoolroom? A postulant doubting her vocation?”

  “I say, Plumb, you do have a sense of humor,” Percy replied with a hollow, nervous laugh. “Now, enough of this or Donaldson will have an apoplexy thinking I’m doomed to follow in his footsteps.”

  Plumb twirled his quizzing glass with its ribbon. “As I said, your secret is safe with me.”

  Midnight had long since passed by the time Percy stepped through the front door of the Camforth townhouse. Ignoring the letters in the tray, he tugged off his coat and dropped it on the vestibule floor. In his cups, he sidestepped his own shadow, falling against a wall.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he slurred, pointing an accusing finger at the wall.

  By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he had shrugged out of his waistcoat and lost his shirt to the wall sconce—thankfully devoid of candle. Stumbling to his bedchamber, he stripped off his breeches—stockings and shoes still snug on his person—and only just tipped onto the bed before he faceplanted on the pillow with a snore.

  Too few hours later, morning light streaked across his face in rude intrusion. He had been dreaming of opera singers playing drums. Unfortunately, he could still feel the beat of the drums, or more to the point, the pounding of his brainpan. Groaning, Percy traversed through his morning ritual until he made it to the breakfast table, the world ever so hazy.

  Beside the hearty breakfast, two delights awaited his pleasure: Cook’s personal concoction to cure morning melancholy—buttermilk and corn flour—and a cup of black coffee. Ah, Cook loved him. With a smile that made his skull hurt, he took his seat and devoured the fare, only noticing the two letters next to his plate after his double vision merged to one reality. A peek at the letters revealed one with the earl’s signet emblazoned in the wax and one with a crest he did not immediately recognize.

  Ignoring his father’s letter, which would inevitably be an inquiry into the bride search, Percy broke the seal on the mystery letter. His eyes first flicked to the signature.

  Dunley

  Pressing a finger to his temple, Percy tried to recall a Dunley of his acquaintance. A fuzzy image involving blonde hair and close-set eyes came to mind. Dunley, Dunley, Dunley. With a shrug, Percy read the salutatory lines.

  Dear Mr. Percival Randall,

  After much searching, I believe I have found the right man. My quest has taken more letters than I dare admit, which has soured my mood and depleted my paper, for which I hold you accountable.

  Percy paused his reading to laugh aloud.

  Ah, yes, he recalled Dunley now: a man of great self-importance, frequenter of the local molly-house, and a risky gambler. Percy failed to remember much more since they did not run in the same circles, though they had both attended Eton and Oxford together, Dunley being a year ahead of Percy.

  It was not with ease that I discovered you to be Miss Walsley’s betrothed. Hazel eyes, brown hair, charming, a brother in East Hagbourne, and knightly, although it has now come to my attention that you are not, in fact, a knight, yet a man with a knight’s name—Sir Percival of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. A clever deception on the part of Miss Walsley. This betrothal must come to an end. I am under strict orders to marry the vicar’s daughter for the sake of my mother’s happiness, and you, sir, are the impediment. I will not have this. I demand word from you that you will ensure an end to the engagement within a fortnight. Make it a sennight and I will excuse the debt of the paper and offer a banknote of £100. I await your word. Your most venerable,

  Dunley

  Percy read the letter close to a dozen times trying to make sense of it. The man was dicked in the nob. Never had Percy met a Miss Walsley. He certainly would not be involved with a vicar’s daughter. And he was, emphatically, not betrothed.

  A nod to a hovering footman produced a fresh cup of coffee to clear his head. So, Dunley’s mother wished him to marry, did she? She must not know—or not care—that he preferred the sterner sex. This had naught to do with Percy, however. Dunley had the wrong fellow, poor chap. Although…the banknote sounded tempting.

  He sipped the coffee, thinking.

  No. No matter how Percy thought of the situation, nothing would earn him the banknote without lying or misrepresenting. Even if he wrote Dunley to assure him the engagement was off, there would be the real betrothed somewhere very much still affianced to Miss Walsley.

  Damn. The money was tempting. And whose fault was it that Dunley was a dunce to blame the wrong man? Not Percy’s, to be sure. Alas. Dunley would have to sort out his own problems.

  Taking another sip of his coffee, Percy turned to his father’s letter. He knew without a shadow of doubt what his father would say.

  “Find a bride now or risk being cut off,” Percy said in mimicry of his father. With a harrumph, he unfolded the letter.

  The first line sent the coffee cup shattering against the floor.

  Felicitations on your engagement to Miss Abigail Walsley.

  Chapter 4

  “What do you mean the private parlor is occupied?” Percival asked the innkeeper of The Tangled Fleece.

  Mr. Everitt Bradley shrugged. “Like I said. It’s occupied.”

  “Yes, but you knew I would arrive around this time. I can’t very well take my tea in the public room, now can I?” Percy laughed as if sharing a joke with the man.

  Rather than laugh, the innkeeper looked him up and down. “From one until three, the Ladies Literary Society meets. From three to four we open the circulating library. Then from four until six is the Gentleman’s Coffeehouse. You can have the room after six if you like.”

  “The Ladies Literary Society?” Percy echoed. “That’s more important than an earl’s son?”

  Mr. Bradley nodded his head to the private parlor door. “They live here, don’t they? You can take your tea in the public room like everyone else or go elsewhere.”

  “I say.” Affronted but aware there was nowhere else to go for drink, food, or rooms in or near the speck of the village that was Sidvale, Percy sighed and took a seat.

  Ladies Literary Society, indeed. As tiny as the inn was, not even space for an assembly that he could see, it seemed quite the enterprising location. Society meetings, circulating library, coffeehouse—ambitious!

  Mr. Bradley came to the table with a tray and a village newspaper. Tapping the paper, he said, “Better than any you’ll find in London.”

  Percy doubted that but flashed a grin.

  The public room was empty save Percy and the innkeeper. Just as well. Percy needed to think. He needed to plan. As of yet, strategy failed him. This was not familiar territory.

  It had taken two days, three more visits to White’s, and a dozen more times reading the letters to convince Percival to travel five days west to Sidvale, the middle-of-nowhere village in Devonshire wherein Lord Dunley’s country estate resided, and more to the point, the home of one Miss Abigail Walsley.

  The need to confront the issue head on was his father’s fault. Had it simply been the letter from Dunley, Percy would have ignored the situation or written a brief letter to set the man straight. As it happened, the choice had been stolen from him. He groaned at the recollection of his father’s letter.

  My dearest son,

  Felicitations on your engagement to Miss Abigail Walsley. You have made me the proudest of fathers. It is my understanding that you wished to surprise me with the news, but I have heard it from Lord Grover who heard it from Lady Plummer who received a missive from Lord Dunley inquiring of your whereabouts, no doubt to send his felicitations, as well, since he hails from the same parish as your betrothed. I apologize if I’ve now spoiled your surprise, but I could not wait a moment longer to write to you of my happiness. Do bring her to the estate before long. Your proud papa,

  Camforth

&nbs
p; At this point, most of London would have heard the news. Certainly, the Merriweathers had, as had his former mistress, a few fellows at the club, and most concerningly his father. Whatever letters Dunley had sent out had caused an irrevocable stir, plunging Percy’s life into potential scandal. If he did not deal with this now, it could ruin his marriage prospects. Somehow, he had to convince Miss Walsley to remedy the situation by admitting her deception to all and sundry. He could then happily return to his life of simple pleasures and search for a wife that suited him.

  It had not escaped his notice that the situation presented a ready bride, but he refused to be duped by a fortune huntress and played a fool.

  At first, Percy had assumed it was all a misunderstanding: Miss Walsley had a betrothed, and Dunley became confused and mistook Percy for that betrothed. But the more times he read the viscount’s letter, the more he realized that could not be the case. Miss Walsley was a mistress of deception. The Randall family was old, respected, and powerful. In short—a perfect target. After realizing Baron Monkworth of East Hagbourne was in line to inherit the earldom of Camforth, she must have set her cap at him, only to discover the man was married with children. Who better to select than one of the baron’s brothers? With the youngest sibling being too young and the second youngest being a girl, that left her with Mr. Percival Randall. Not having met him seemed no inconvenience.

  Yes, after much thought, Percy was positive she had decided to trap him, compromise his name, and force him into marriage. As a gentleman, he would be honor-bound to marry her now that all the world thought them betrothed, for he could not call her out as a liar or break a betrothal, fictitious or otherwise. To do either of those things would ruin his reputation beyond repair, sully any future hopes of matrimony, have him kicked out of the townhouse and rendered penniless, and destroy his relationship with his family. He needed a plan for dealing with her.