My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  “I am quite sure he saw me,” Julia countered, her hand moving from her mouth down to her chest. She felt the pounding of her heart beneath the sprigged muslin gown she wore.

  Had the groom really spied her spying on him? One moment he had Thunderbolt’s hoof in one hand, his attention on the shoe, and the next, he was standing with his back to the horse and his attention directed toward her bedchamber window. And her! Did the man have especially sensitive hearing? Despite the unusual warmth of the afternoon, her window was closed. What had compelled him to look up?

  Julia finally glanced over at Samantha, her look of surprise still in place. Samantha’s face was a mirror of her own. As if on cue, the two began to giggle, their embarrassment at having been discovered causing their cheeks to redden. “I do not know what has come over me,” Julia said as she dared another glance out the window. “But I am quite convinced that groom is much too handsome to be a groom.”

  Samantha settled herself on the edge of Julia’s bed, her arms crossing in front of her. “What would you have him be?” she wondered as she watched Julia’s careful observation of the stables below.

  “Well, not a groom, certainly,” Julia replied after a moment. The groom’s attention was back on Thunderbolt, one of his hands gripping the bridle as he led the beast into the stable. When he disappeared from sight, Julia turned around to face her friend. “Not a servant of any sort, in fact.”

  From where she sat on the bed, Samantha regarded Julia with a raised eyebrow. “What then?” she countered. “A shopkeeper? A solicitor? A vicar?” She lifted her head as she considered her friend’s implication. “Or a gentleman?” she added to her list. Her eyes widened. “You think he should be a gentleman just because he is … handsome?” she spoke with a hint of disbelief. “Julia!”

  But Julia was shaking her head. “Not just because he is handsome, Sam,” she replied, glancing out the window from a safe distance away. “He holds himself as if he is a gentleman, as if he were born to it,” she reasoned.

  “However can you tell from this far away?” Samantha countered, her eyebrows raising in disbelief.

  Julia gave a shrug and turned back toward the window. “I just can,” she replied. “In fact, if I were to have my brother’s valet dress him, I would wager he could walk down Bond Street, and everyone would think him a gentleman.”

  Samantha’s mouth dropped open. “Wager?” she repeated in shock. “Julia,” she spoke in a scolding voice. “Be careful what you say, or I shall be tempted to dare you to do such a thing.” She paused, thinking of how those from the country sometimes sounded when they spoke. What if the man was from Wales? Or Scotland? Or any of the northern counties? “I rather think as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, anyone who hears him will know he is not a gentleman.”

  A smile appeared on Julia’s face. “Indeed?” she replied, a mischievous expression appearing. “Then, I shall go one better. I believe he can be taught to speak like a gentleman,” she boasted, suddenly wondering from where the groom hailed. She could only hope he wasn’t from Wales or Scotland. Or any of the northern counties.

  Rolling her eyes, Samantha grinned. “And perform a perfect bow?” She rather liked having fun at her friend’s expense. “He cannot be a true gentleman unless he can dance at a ball,” she teased.

  Julia straightened when she realized what her best friend was doing. She was daring her to make a gentleman out of the groom! “He can be taught how to bow. And how to dance. I am sure of it,” she claimed, the color in her face turning to a pinkish blush as she made her case.

  Samantha uncrossed her arms and stood up. “Alright, then. I dare you to do it,” she stated, the edges of her mouth curled up to indicate she wasn’t completely serious. How could Julia make such a claim? “I dare you to make a gentleman out of your groom.”

  Crossing her arms and angling her head to one side, Julia regarded her friend for perhaps a few seconds too long. For just as she was about to admit she was perhaps a bit too boastful and concede defeat, Samantha said the only words that could make Julia change her mind again.

  “I don’t just dare you,” Samantha whispered, her eyes closing to almost slits. “I double dog dare you.”

  Chapter 3

  Being Watched

  The hair on the back of Alistair Comber’s neck did something it hadn’t done since his return to England over a month ago – it lifted from its resting place. The sensation was familiar, one he’d learned to trust during his time on the battlefields in Europe while fighting Napoleon’s forces.

  Something – or someone – was watching him.

  Had he still been in Belgium, he might have ducked down or taken cover, but given his crouched position next to a horse at least sixteen hands tall, one hoof cradled in his hands, he merely stilled his body and considered his options.

  He knew the head groom of Harrington House would be returning soon from driving Lady Mayfield’s carriage through Hyde Park. The fashionable hour on Rotten Row was nearly over by now. A kitchen maid was busy in the herb garden, but he would have noticed if her head had popped above the level of the rock wall that bordered the back of the garden. Lord Stanley Mayfield was presumedly in his study enjoying a brandy, or whatever the man drank after his early afternoon ride on the very horse Alistair was brushing at the moment. Their son, William, was away at Cambridge for his second year of school. Besides any other servants that might have cast a glance his way, that left Lord Mayfield’s daughter – he found he couldn’t remember her name, but he could be excused since he hadn’t actually met the chit – the only Harrington in residence.

  Before he had a chance to consider the repercussions of his action, he angled his head and dared a glance in the general direction of the windows of the mansion’s second story. A face – no, make that two faces – were staring down at either him or the horse he was brushing. Given the realization the faces were of a feminine nature, his ego decided they were staring at him.

  At least, they were before they both suddenly disappeared.

  He blinked, wondering if he had imagined the two young women who he’d caught staring. But no, he decided they were very real. Young, but no longer in the schoolroom, he guessed. Old enough to be out in Society? Perhaps. Pretty? Very. They had probably made their come-outs during the past Season or would at this one and would spend their summers at their family estates in the country.

  Thank the gods the position at the Harrington House stables included working during the summer months. Year-round employment was necessary if he had any hope of funding the widow and her children beyond the first few years of her widowhood.

  Shrugging, Alistair returned his attentions to Thunderbolt’s hooves. He took a moment to trace the edge of the horseshoe with one fingernail, marveling at the workmanship of the blacksmith that had forged it.

  “Best you’ve seen, I bet,” a deep voice intoned from the other side of the horse.

  Alistair managed to keep from visibly starting at the sound of the head groom’s comment. How had the man managed to sneak up on him? Especially when he’d just been so aware of two chits watching him from above? The head groom must have just returned from escorting Lady Mayfield, he realized.

  “Indeed,” Alistair responded as he lowered the horse’s leg. He moved to look at the shoe on the front hoof. The workmanship was atypical of a London smithy, the iron smooth along the edges and the nail holes perfectly spaced, as if the shoe had been molded rather than pounded into shape on an anvil and drilled on a pritchell. Looking closely, he noted small initials pounded into the arch. MI. “I wasn’t aware London could boast such a good blacksmith,” he added as he noted the same perfect shape and finish on the hoof he now held. Thunderbolt lifted his head as if he was about to protest, but Alistair leaned his shoulder against the horse’s before lowering the hoof. “Steady, boy,” he whispered before giving his complete attention to Mr. Grimes.

  “Doubt it could,” the groomsman responded. “Lord Mayfield has a smithy over in Ger
many who makes them special.”

  Nodding, Alistair afforded the man a smile. “Isenhour, no doubt,” he replied, resting his forearms on Thunderbolt’s back. Grimes gave him a raised eyebrow in reply, as if he was impressed that Alistair knew of the best blacksmith in Europe.

  Perhaps gaining the trust of the head groomsman wouldn’t be as difficult as Alistair supposed when he first approached the man, hat in hand and in need of a source of income.

  The argument he’d had with his father played back in his mind for at least the fourth time that day. How could he have allowed the blasted earl to get to him so? As the second son, he’d dutifully done three years in the British Army as an officer, the commission purchased on his behalf by his father.

  After the debacle of Quatre Bas and the costly victory at Waterloo, though, he could not stomach the thought of remaining in the army. He’d promised one of his enlisted men, Michael Regan, he would see to his widow and children if he should come to his death on the battlefield. Regan did, meaning Alistair had an obligation to fulfill, perhaps for the rest of his life. Widows and children of enlisted men received nothing in the way of pensions; if not for the fifteen pounds he would deliver to that family each month, they would be at the mercy of a relative or its parish to cover living expenses. Certainly his father would agree to help with the obligation.

  That was where he had been mistaken.

  For when he explained his promise to the Earl of Aimsley, the man had shaken his head, crossed his arms, and denied his request. When Alistair threatened to sell his commission to cover the obligation, his father had made his disapproval quite apparent in the choice of his words as well as their volume. Everyone in residence at their country estate, Aimsley Park in East Grinstead, was well aware of the earl’s displeasure that day, just a fortnight ago.

  No one besides the earl heard Alistair’s reply, however. His simple vow that he would be forced to leave his father’s house should the earldom fail to help in funding the small obligation was spoken in a voice not much louder than a whisper. His father’s response was much louder, ordering his son out of the house and denouncing his status as the second son.

  Stunned by the earl’s words – he’d never thought his father a tightwad when it came to the earldom’s funds – Alistair took his leave of his father’s study, packed what he could carry on horseback, and left the estate. He hadn’t even stopped for supper at the White Lion, the coaching inn in Warlingham, deciding instead to get to London and use the family townhouse for a few nights until he could line up a position.

  Selling his commission had been easy, and he’d been able to invest the eight hundred pounds in a five-percenter. But it wouldn’t be long before the principle and interest were spent.

  Having only been an army officer and not having had to earn a living during his five-and-twenty years, Alistair wondered at what he might be able to do in London. The idea of working indoors all day, such as clerking in an office or working for a shopkeeper, held little appeal. A few discrete queries made at Boodles on behalf of a fictitious friend and his talk with Wellingham had yielded the lead on an opening for a groom at Mayfield House.

  Horses, he knew. He’d spent enough afternoons at Tattersall’s reviewing horseflesh and enough time on horseback and driving various kinds of equipage to have the knowledge to work with them.

  Landing the job at Mayfield House had been much easier than he expected. The head groom took one look, nodded, and led him to Thunderbolt’s stall, saying if he could manage the beast for the rest of the day, he had a position and a small room above the stables in which to live.

  Alistair had proven himself with the large Thoroughbred, keeping it calm as he brushed it and seeing to his feed and stall. Now that he had cared for the horse and several others for nearly a week, he had to consider his future. He should get word to his mother to let her know he was in London and gainfully employed. And before long, he would be forced to show himself in public – not as a second son of an earl, but as a servant.

  Would someone recognize him? Did the chits who spied him from the window above know his true identity? Or was it as he suspected – people only saw what they expected to see?

  “Do you … know the smithy?” Mr. Grimes asked, interrupting Alistair’s reverie.

  Straightening, Alistair shook his head, just then remembering their conversation about the German blacksmith. “No. Never met the man. Just know him by reputation,” he replied, deciding not to mention that the blacksmith had distant relatives in Sussex.

  Mr. Grimes nodded and then seemed to remember why he had joined Alistair in the yard. “I have to get you some livery to wear tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be escorting Lady Julia to Hyde Park for the fashionable hour.”

  Alistair had to fight to keep his face impassive. “It would be my honor,” he answered, not quite sure what the proper response should be to such a statement.

  Lady Julia? She had to be the daughter. He resisted the urge to cast a glance at the window where he’d seen the two young ladies watching him.

  “She can be rather headstrong,” Mr. Grimes warned, his serious nature apparent in how his eyebrows seemed to come together. “You’ll have to keep her in your sights at all times. Can’t have the other riders thinking she’s without an escort.”

  “Of course not,” Alistair agreed with a nod. Headstrong, huh? Probably spoiled, too. Well, he would find out for himself the next day.

  And the ride in Hyde Park would be a true test of his theory. Would the members of the aristocracy that toured Rotten Row during the fashionable hour truly only see what they expected to see? Or would someone recognize him?

  The supposed groom was about to find out.

  Chapter 4

  Meeting a Sister for the First Time

  Sitting atop his favorite Thoroughbred, Gabriel Wellingham regarded the mansion in Park Lane for a long time before finally entering the half-circle pavement. He thought at first he should inquire at the servant’s entrance at the back of the house, but the butler opened the front door before he could change his mind. He tossed the reins around a post near the steps leading up to the front door of the Palladian mansion before taking them two at a time.

  “Gabriel Wellingham, Earl of Trenton,” he stated once he had reached the landing. He held out a calling card.

  The butler’s eyebrows disappeared into his periwig. “My lord,” he answered, obviously surprised. “Lord Chamberlain is not in residence today.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief at hearing Matthew Fitzsimmons was away, no doubt at the house party in Kent so many were attending that week, Gabriel gave the butler a nod. “I seek another. I am in search of a young girl by the name of Lily Harkins. Would she be in residence?”

  His eyes wide, the butler seemed to take a moment before finally saying, “She is, but …”

  “Is there a parlor we might be allowed to use?” Gabriel wondered, realizing there should be someone else present in the room. “And someone who could act as a … chaperone?” he added, remembering how some of the scandal of what had happened with Lady Elizabeth Carlington had been because he met with her in a parlor without so much as a footman present. With the door closed.

  “Right this way,” the butler said as he motioned for Gabriel to enter the home’s vestibule. Despite the outside of the home suggesting a modern residence, its columns and stone pediments Greek in design, the inside made the house look as if it was still mired in the pre-Georgian era.

  Leaving his hat with a footman, Gabriel followed the butler to a brightly-lit parlor near the front of the house.

  “I will summon Miss Harkins,” the butler said as he bowed and started to take his leave.

  “Could you see to some tea as well?” Gabriel wondered, realizing his request was probably gauche considering he wasn’t an invited guest.

  “Of course, my lord,” the butler said, his face reddening when he realized he should have probably offered the hospitality.

  Gabriel nodded and turn
ed his attention to the parlor. Typical in its furnishings and floral patterns, it was a bit different in that most of the woods were very dark and the fabrics were various shades of blue. He dared a glance in a mirror positioned above an escritoire, relieved to see his short curls weren’t too unruly but shocked that his cheekbones seemed more pronounced than usual. Finally losing the baby fat, he thought with a bit of satisfaction. He was about to lean in to check his teeth when he realized he was no longer alone in the room. Pretending to study the frame of the mirror, he reached out to touch the plaster and instead allowed his finger to drop to the desktop as he saw the reflection of the newcomer in the mirror.

  Turning slowly, he regarded Lily Harkins with an expression of wonder. There could be no doubt she was related to him. Her blond hair, cropped short in the current style favored by so many of the young matrons of the ton, framed a face that could have been painted by Gainesborough. Blue eyes were a perfect copy of his own, and her nose mirrored his. Cupid’s sister, Gabriel thought before he shook his head and bowed. “Miss Harkins?” he spoke finally.

  Lily Harkins regarded the young man for a moment before remembering her manners. “Yes, my lord,” she said in a breathy voice, curtsying as she did so. “At your service.”

  Gabriel shook his head as he approached her, saying, “It is I who is at your service, my lady.” He reached down and took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips. Her fingers were long and slender, but a bit chapped, indicating she was probably a maid or worked in the kitchen. And at her reflexive jerk to pull her hand away, Gabriel raised his eyes to hers. “Gabriel Wellingham,” he said as he straightened. “It’s very good to finally meet you.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened, a hint of fear appearing in their cornflower blue irises. “It is?” she whispered, swallowing as her gaze darted about the room, as if she were looking for a way to escape.

  A maid appeared at the parlor door, pausing and nearly gasping as she carried the tea tray. She hurried into the room, placing the tray on the low table in front of the settee before making a hasty curtsy and an even hastier retreat.