Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Arthur shook his head. “I do not. In fact, I find Lady Priscilla’s knowledge of the world to be quite refreshing in a member of your sex,” he said carefully. “She is educated. Open-minded. Perhaps a bit too ... uninhibited,” he added, one of his eyebrows arching up with his words despite the slight smile he allowed.
Her eyes widening at the simple description of Lady Priscilla, Eleanor shook her head slightly. “In what way do you mean?” she asked carefully.
Arthur settled back into his chair, his mannerisms suddenly a bit effeminate. “Why, despite knowing I have taken a lover, she is quite determined we be married. It was her suggestion we do so, you see,” he said, one of his fingers settling against his temple as his elbow rested on the arm of the chair.
Eleanor blinked. “Lover?” she repeated. “A ... a mistress?” But that couldn’t be. She was quite sure she would have read about it if The Tattler knew anything about the knight arranging for the services of a mistress. The gossip rag seemed to know about every arrangement made in that regard.
Shaking his head slowly, Arthur made a slight humming noise before he finally said, “Not exactly, although Robert does share my bed. We plan to live together, you see, but in order to do so, it was necessary to arrange for one of us to be married. When Lady Priscilla came to me with her ... proposal, we both readily agreed to it.”
Swallowing hard, Eleanor nodded. “How fortunate for you,” she offered. “May I ask what she proposed?” she wondered, trying as she might to imagine a man as handsome as Sir Arthur sharing a bed with a man and finding it impossible. Worse, she couldn’t abide the thought of Lady Priscilla with him, either.
It didn’t matter what she thought, though, she realized. The rumors were apparently true.
Sir Arthur is a molly!
“An arrangement,” Arthur said quietly. “We provide her pleasure in bed every so often and she allows us our nights, together” he explained, realizing he was scandalizing the poor girl who sat across from him. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to shock you, but I thought you should know,” he said lightly. “Seeing as how you’ll be my sister and will be expected to keep our secret. Now, tell me about your wedding plans.”
Eleanor impassive expression suddenly brightened. “Charles is seeing to a special license,” she answered. “I expect we’ll be married tomorrow. And you?”
Arthur felt relief when he realized Eleanor wouldn’t be fainting upon seeing him again. “I expect I’ll be married within a fortnight,” he said with a nod. “Charles has agreed to stand with me.”
Nodding, Eleanor leaned forward. “I would like to be present, as well, should you need another witness,” she offered, her heart beating far too fast.
Obviously surprised by her offer, Arthur gave her a nod. “I would like that very much,” he said.
She dared a glance at the clock above the fireplace. “Oh, dear. I expect Charles for dinner this evening, and I haven’t even dressed for it yet. You will excuse me, brother?”
Arthur got to his feet and gave her a bow. “Of course, El. Do have a good evening,” he said, wondering what she thought of him using a nickname for her.
“You as well,” Eleanor said as she curtsied. She took her leave of the study, apparently fine with him referring to her as ‘El’.
Arthur listened to the tapping of her slippered feet as Eleanor hurried up the steps to the mistress suite. He downed the rest of the brandy in his glass and stared into the dying embers in the fireplace, hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t jeopardized the arrangement he had made with Lady Priscilla and Robert, or traumatized his poor future sister-in-law with the news that he was what The Tattler claimed him to be.
At least she would no longer look at him with the doe-eyed expression of a chit in love. Perhaps she would turn that gaze onto his brother.
He would be a lucky man if she did, the rake.
Chapter 28
A Marquess Pays a Late Call
Seven o’clock in the evening
“How old is Mr. Wiggins?”
Constance Fitzwilliam straightened from where she had been tending to a series of rather messy flower beds. Since she was living in the Norwick townhouse without having to pay rent, she figured the least she could do was attempt to restore the garden to its former splendor, a task that hadn’t been done in at least a few years. Her pruning shears were suddenly in front of her, as if she intended to use them as a weapon.
Randall Roderick took a step back from where he had come through the back gate. Determined to see Constance again, he had decided to try the back door, thinking a servant would answer since no one had come to the front door. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, my lady,” he said with a shake of his head. “I tried knocking, but there was no answer. I grew ... concerned.”
Letting out the breath she had been holding and lowering the pruning shears to her side, Constance gave her visitor a slight curtsy. “Mr. Roderick,” she managed. She dared a glance down at what she wore, rather embarrassed he would see her in what had to be her oldest, most out-of-fashion gown. The apron she wore over it covered the worst of it, she supposed, but still. This wasn’t how she imagined meeting Mr. Roderick again, especially so soon after their afternoon walk.
Randall approached her then, taking her gloved hand in his and raising it to his lips.
“Oh, please don’t. It’s rather filthy,” she said as she pulled her hand from his.
Releasing her hand, Randall gave her a raised eyebrow. “The glove perhaps, but not you, my lady,” he said with a shake of his head. He glanced around, suddenly aware of what she had been doing in the garden given the cuttings that had been gathered into heaps along the garden paths. “Has your gardener quit you, my lady?” he asked then, his brows furrowing with concern. Goodness! Had she managed to do all this in just the few hours since he had left her at her door?
Constance had to suppress a grin. “I rather doubt there ever was a gardener, Mr. Roderick,” she replied with an arched eyebrow.
“Randall,” he replied. “I insist. We’re neighbors, Miss Fitzwilliam. I hardly think we should be so formal.”
“Randall,” the young woman repeated with a nod. “I thought I would try to put it to rights.” She waved to the area she had been working to restore. Despite the growing season nearing its end, there were still late summer flowers scattered throughout the garden, and a series of rose bushes displayed blooms in a number of colors.
“You’re doing a fine job of it,” Randall remarked. “Imagine the results if I were allowed to send my gardener from my Cavendish Square household. Why, you could instruct him on exactly what you want done, and it could be accomplished in a day. Maybe two,” he added.
Constance inhaled sharply. Finding her in the garden by having come in through the alley entrance was one thing, but to offer his personal gardener was quite another. “That won’t be necessary. Mr. Rod ... Randall,” she corrected herself. She remembered what he had said about knocking on her front door and wondered as to his reason for paying a visit. “What is it that brought you back to the Norwick townhouse today?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Randall wished the woman wasn’t so skittish. He was reminded of a newborn filly, curious but nervous in the presence of its owner. “I was wondering about your Mr. Wiggins,” he answered. “You mentioned him earlier. Does he share the same lineage as your Mr. Tuttlebaum?” he asked, his hands going to his back so that he could clasp them together. He was afraid he would be tempted to touch her if he didn’t keep them away from her.
Constance angled her head, wondering why he would be so interested in her colt. “And if he does?” she countered, deciding not to admit that the two horses were essentially brothers.
Randall took a breath. “Do you plan to race him?” he blurted. “Is he three years old?”
Eyeing the man for a moment, Constance finally gave him a nod. “He will be in time for next season’s races,” she admitted. “Why ... why do you ask?”
<
br /> Randall gave a nod. “Do you have someone lined up to see to it he’s delivered to the race meetings? To Doncaster? To Newmarket? Epsom Downs? Is he in the book at the Jockey Club?”
The young woman swallowed, a bit surprised by his query. “And if I do not? Are you offering your resources to see to it that he is? And, if so, how much will this cost me?” she wondered, her head angling up in a manner suggesting she was rather incensed by his questions.
Randal lowered his own head, realizing immediately that he had offended with his offer. “I apologize. I meant no offense, my lady. I just thought ... I only meant to offer my help. I can afford to do so without recompense, of course,” he added, hoping she wouldn’t think he was trying to take advantage. Realizing he needed to give her a reason, Randall allowed a shrug. “You see, I used to place one of my Thoroughbreds in the race meetings every year. But try as I might ... try as they might ... none were ever completely successful. Since your Mr. Tuttlebaum won all of his races, I have to believe Mr. Wiggins could do so, as well, provided he has a good trainer and a jockey.”
Constance clutched the front of her apron in one hand, rather surprised at hearing Randall describe what she had thought could be a way to stretch the funds for Fair Downs for a few years or more. But to have a horse entered in the various race meetings throughout the racing season meant employing a trainer, hiring a jockey, and paying for the travel necessary to get a horse from one track to the next. And there were no guarantees Mr. Wiggins would perform as well as Mr. Tuttlebaum. She might incur all the expenses of racing the Thoroughbred but never receive any prize monies to offset the costs.
“I cannot afford a trainer for Mr. Wiggins,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I do thank you for your interest,” she said as she stepped back and gave her visitor a curtsy. “Good day, Randall.”
“I have a trainer,” Randall blurted. “He is paid the same no matter the horse. Would you at least think about allowing me to see to it Mr. Wiggins is allowed to race next season?”
Constance regarded Randall for a moment and shook her head. “Why?”
Randall took a deep breath and held it a moment. Why, indeed? In the two hours since he had left her at her front door, he had plotted how he might ingratiate himself into her life. How he might provide some service she would find useful. Some reason that he might spend more time in her company.
Perhaps the rest of his life.
“I have the means to help, my lady, and I’ve no Thoroughbred of an age eligible to race next season. I would like to offer those means to you so that you might have the income you seek.”
Her eyes widening at his statement, Constance suddenly blinked. “In return for what, Mr. Roderick?” she asked again. “I cannot believe you would offer such expensive services and not expect some kind of recompense,” she argued.
Randall winced at her use of his formal name. He couldn’t blame her for being suspicious. She had only just met him that morning! “All right then. Ten percent of his winnings,” he stated. “You get the rest, of course.”
Constance blinked, realizing she probably should have accepted his offer of providing the services gratis. But what guarantee did she have he would actually do what he claimed? Perhaps he was only after her horse. Perhaps to use Mr. Wiggins as a stud. Or as a training partner, made to deliberately lose so that another horse could learn how to win races.
Randall realized the woman was considering all the reasons she shouldn’t agree to allow him to race the horse. After all, what assurances did she have that he wouldn’t just disappear with Mr. Wiggins, never to be seen or heard from again?
“I would insist you accompany me to all the race meetings, of course. And pay an occasional call at my home in Reading so that you might follow your colt’s progress whilst he’s in training,” he said, as if he expected her to bring up the most logical reasons for turning down his offer.
Constance’s eyes widened. “I hardly think that would be proper, Mr. Roderick,” she replied, wondering how he thought she could afford the travel, let alone the paid companion that would be required for the trip.
The marquess sighed. “I would, of course, see to a companion for you, my lady. As well as arrange travel on your behalf. I’ve a rather new coach-and-four available. Very comfortable, if I do say so. Tilbury certainly seemed to think so when he sent the bill.” He didn’t add that the cost of the coach was more than he had paid for Zeus’ sire.
Constance regarded her visitor with a wary eye, still wondering why he was being so generous with his offer. Ten percent hardly seemed enough of an incentive to offer such expensive services. Was the man really so enamored of the racing circuit that he would go to such extremes merely to have a competitive horse to race?
“It seems to me there must be some other racehorse available to you, Mr. Roderick,” she said with a sigh.
Randall shook his head. “But none of them would be championed by you, my lady,” he responded, his manner becoming rather sullen.
Stunned by his comment, Constance could feel a blush coloring her throat and face. “I hardly know what to say,” she said with a shake of her head. The offer was generous. The idea of traveling in a comfortable coach to visit a well-funded horse training facility wasn’t exactly a trip she had ever thought possible—indeed, had never dreamed of when she imagined Mr. Wiggins on the racing circuit.
Doncaster, Newmarket, Epsom Downs. Her father had been to all of them and more, several times, in fact. But she had never accompanied him. Next year, Poppet, he would say. When you’re older and out of the schoolroom. But that next year had been the year he died. The year she was forced to fend for herself and those who worked at Fair Downs. The year she discovered her mother had been squirreling away money in hidey-holes throughout the house. It had been that money that allowed her to keep the household running, to pay the bills and buy food and pay the salaries of the few servants left on the estate.
“Then say nothing right now,” Randall stated with a nod. “Think on it, and give me your answer when you’ve had a chance to mull it over.”
Constance angled her head to one side. “You don’t seem like a very patient man, Mr. Roderick.” She wondered how he might respond, and was rather surprised by his response.
“I am not,” he agreed with a shake of his head. “However, if you had given me an enthusiastic ’yes’, I might have thought you a bit fast,” he chided.
The pink blush reappeared on her cheeks. “I am not, I assure you,” she murmured.
Randall allowed a grin. “I’ll have the gardener sent over first thing tomorrow morning. Either tell him what you’d like to have done here, or let him know you trust his judgment. Either way, you shall at least have a decent garden, my lady.”
He glanced around, as if he suddenly realized the late hour. The summer sun would be setting in a couple of hours, and worse, someone in a neighboring townhouse might pay witness to his presence in the garden. Constance didn’t have a chaperone in sight. “Good evening, my lady,” he said, giving her a bow and placing his beaver back onto his head.
Constance curtsied and watched as her late afternoon visitor took his leave by the back gate and headed down the alley, all the while wondering if she was the reason for his unusual visit or if it was because of Mr. Wiggins. Perhaps she would never know for sure, but she couldn’t help but hope it was the former more than the latter.
Randall hurried down the alley, counting off the townhouses as he went to be sure his gardener would tend to the correct one in the morning. He rather hoped the man could do what he claimed. Truth be told, he really didn’t know the extent of the man’s skills with regard to landscaping. He hadn’t taken up residence in his Cavendish Square mansion in over a year, opting to remain in Reading for the summer last year and in the townhouse this summer. Otherwise, he was at his estate in Reading. He merely trusted the butler there to oversee the staff, house, and grounds.
In his missive to the man later that night, he included not on
ly the instructions for the gardener to see to Miss Fitzwilliam’s townhouse, but also to the creation of a salon decorated entirely in purple. Hire the decorator who can do it the quickest, he wrote. I am considering matrimony. He briefly thought of suggesting the color scheme also be applied to the mistress suite, but thought that might be a bit much. If Constance wanted a purple bedchamber, she could request it once she was his wife.
Satisfied with his missive, he rang for Giles and asked that a footman be dispatched immediately. “Time is of the essence,” he explained when Giles’ eyebrows lifted to new heights on his forehead.
When the man had taken leave of his study, Randall allowed a chuckle. He loved it when he was able to discombobulate the staid servant.
Chapter 29
An Earl and Countess in the Library
Seven-thirty in the evening
Clarinda met her husband in the library at exactly half past seven o’clock, intent on having a glass of claret before the dinner bell sounded. The butler had seen to the wine and a plate of walnuts just before the Earl of Norwick arrived. As he stood on the library’s threshold, daring a peek into the room in search of his wife, Clarinda smiled.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” she accused in a soft voice, reaching for Daniel’s hand to pull him farther into the room. She gave the door a shove so it closed behind the rather startled earl.
“I wouldn’t miss dinner with you for the world, and you know it,” Daniel replied, leaning over to give her a kiss on the corner of her mouth.
She returned the act of endearment and hooked her arm into his. “Is all well in the Norwick earldom?” she asked as they made their way to the settee in front of the fire.
Daniel gave a shrug as he took her glass from her so she could be seated. “As well as can be expected. Maybe better. Early reports say we will have a decent harvest this year.”
The Love of a Rake Page 19
