She made her way up to her bedchamber to change back into her riding clothes.
Chapter 6
Brandy with Cousins at White’s
The following night at White’s men’s club in St. James Street
Tom Grandby entered the venerable White’s at half-past nine o’clock and allowed the butler to take his hat and greatcoat. He glanced about the first room past the entry as he made his way to his usual chair. Although there was no sign of his friend and second cousin, James Burroughs, another gentleman he was expecting caught his eye.
Gabe Wellingham, the illegitimate son of the Earl of Trenton and his second cousin, hurried toward him and shook hands.
“Well, this is fortuitous,” Tom said with a grin. “I half expect Burroughs to join us. I invited him when I spoke with him this morning.”
Earlier that day, Tom had paid a call at Woodscastle, the Grandby family home. His youngest sister, Emily, continued to reside there while rest of the Grandbys were in Derbyshire for the holiday. They weren’t expected to return to Woodscastle until the end of February.
Meanwhile, Emily had insisted James stay in one of the guest bedchambers at Woodscastle until such time as he could find a living arrangement in town. He had moved in a week ago.
Until that morning, Tom had no idea James intended to marry Emily.
“Thank you for the invitation,” Gabe said, noting a footman was already seeing to his drink. “I take it all was well when you arrived at Woodscastle this morning?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “It was. I may have overreacted,” he said, referring to what he claimed he would do if he found his sister in a compromising position with the banker.
“What exactly did you expect to discover?”
“Emily, in bed with James.”
Gabe blinked and then allowed a shrug. “Although I do not know Mr. Burroughs well—I’ve only met him the one time—I do know Emily. Why, I think she would make a fine match for him.”
“You are right, of course,” Tom agreed. “And thank you for agreeing to meet here tonight.”
“I admit I am glad it was for tonight and not last night,” Gabe said with a chuckle. He had spent the night before in the company of Frances Longworth, an expert in pottery restoration at the British Museum. Their dinner at Trenton House had been interrupted when she insisted she had to be home by a certain time. Gabe accompanied her, only to discover the reason for her need to be home was her seven-month-old son. Once Gabe learned of her circumstances, and having developed a tendré for the young woman, Gabe insisted Frances reside at Trenton House where the nursemaid could see to her son while she spent her days at the museum.
Just that morning, he had proposed marriage to Frances.
“She did say yes, I hope?” Tom teased.
Gabe inhaled. “She did.”
At that moment, Gabe and Tom looked up in unison to find James regarding them with an expression that suggested he, too, had news.
“Did I hear the word wife?” he asked with a grin.
Gabe stood and shook hands with the older gentleman. “You did. Within a week, if I can secure a license.”
“Is this the same woman you said was prickly, I believe was the word you used?” James reminded him.
“She... had a reason to be, but I believe I have seen to it she will no longer be.” Gabe paused. “Prickly, that is. I still expect she will be particular. Which is a necessary trait in our line of work.”
James leaned forward. “What have you done?”
Gabe inhaled before he said, “I proposed. This morning. She accepted... finally, and we’re to be married. Soon, I hope.”
James looked to Tom. “Well, it seems you were telling the truth this morning.”
Tom gave him a look of chagrin. “Of course I was.”
They continued to tease Gabe about his circumstance. He explained he would be claiming the babe as his own and then shocked them both when he turned to Tom and said, “I was wondering if you might consider being his godfather?”
A laugh erupted from Tom before he sobered. “I am honored, of course,” he murmured. “But... I am not married—”
“Your cousin Milton was not, either,” Gabe reminded him, referring to the Earl of Torrington, “but he took on over twenty godsons and goddaughters before he took a wife.”
Dipping his head, Tom said, “True.” He gave the request a moment of thought. No one else had requested he be the godfather for their offspring. “Perhaps it’s time I consider such matters.”
Gabe straightened in his chair. “From the manner in which you just said that, I have to wonder if changes are in your future.”
Looking ever so uncomfortable, Tom finally shrugged. “Possibly,” he hedged.
James cleared his throat, which had both Tom and Gabe turning to regard him. “I probably should mention that I, too, have proposed marriage on this day.”
Having already learned what had happened at Woodscastle earlier that morning, Gabe allowed a huge grin. “Emily?” His gaze quickly turned to find Tom displaying a blank expression on his face.
“I, uh, thought to speak with you about it this morning—before I proposed,” James said to Tom in his own defense, “but then Emily interrupted us, and I didn’t get the chance.”
Tom dipped his head. “Emily has certainly learned how to keep a secret,” he murmured. At no point had she said anything to him about her intent to marry.
“What other secrets do you suppose these women are keeping from us?” James asked as he settled back in his chair.
Gabe finished off his brandy and allowed a wan grin. “I cannot imagine Frances having any more secrets, but I shall endeavor to learn them. Starting tonight,” he said as he stood up. “Gentleman. I am going home, and tomorrow, I’m paying a call in Doctors’ Commons for a marriage license.”
James straightened in his chair. “If you’d like, I will join you on the morrow.” He drained his brandy and dared a glance at Tom. “I think I, too, will be taking my leave so that I may learn all of Emily’s secrets,” he said as he stood.
Tom rose and straightened to his full six-foot, two-inch height and said, “And I will come learn with you. About time I spent a night at Woodscastle,” he said, one eyebrow arched.
Giving him a quelling glance, James said, “I am not going to like you as a brother, am I?”
Tom shook his head. “Probably not.”
With that, James took his leave of White’s.
Tom stared after his second cousin, an odd sensation having gripped him just then. With two of his best friends due to marry within the week, Tom was left wondering if he, too, should consider matrimony.
He quickly put aside the thought. With the snow falling as it was, he needed to leave now if he truly intended to spend the night at Woodscastle.
Chapter 7
A Demonstration of Skill
Monday, January 7, 1839 at Angelo’s Fencing Academy, 32 St. James Street, London
The crowd around the piste was three deep by the time George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, took his place at one end. At the other stood his equal in terms of skill. At least, the earl had been his equal prior to his disappearance from London three weeks prior.
“You’re late,” Christopher Carlington, Earl of Haddon, called out, annoyed with his brother-in-law of over two decades.
“I came as soon as I received your missive,” George replied. “No word for nearly a month, Haddon, and suddenly you want a match. What’s this about?”
“A demonstration.”
From the gleam in Christopher’s eyes, George knew the honorary earl was up to something. The note George had received only the hour before was brief but demanding.
Bostwick,
I am back in town and ready for a rematch. Angelo’s today at two o’clock. Bring your best foil.
Haddon
Demanding had become Christopher’s way of late. He had also adopted a pompous manner that he hadn’t possessed a few years ago.
George wondered now if Christopher’s recent entry into his forties had been responsible for changing his wife’s younger brother into someone with whom he no longer wished to spend time.
Nearly one-and-fifty, George hoped he wouldn’t suffer the same change. He was a good-natured man who enjoyed an active life, traveling when he was in his twenties and learning how to run the viscountcy in his thirties. This was the year his oldest son, David, would finish university before embarking on a Grand Tour of Europe. His daughter, Christina, would make her come-out this spring. His younger son, Daniel, was safely ensconced at home, challenging a tutor he had probably exceeded in knowledge. He was also frustrating a dance master whom George had overheard referring to Daniel as the genius with two left feet.
And then there was Adeline, ten going on twenty. Too smart for her own good, too cute to discipline, and too much like her mother for the two of them to get along.
As for Christopher, he was nearly nine years younger and hadn’t said a word about marriage or siring heirs and spares. It was as if the earl was intent on pretending he was still in his twenties.
“Gentlemen! Watch and learn,” Christopher shouted as he raised his foil in a salute.
Rolling his eyes, George followed suit with a salute and then frowned as he watched Christopher begin an attack before George could even make his way to the middle of the piste. “You are just warming up, I hope,” George said as he was forced to step back.
But it was apparent from his opponent’s moves that Christopher was not just warming up. Cursing under his breath, George studied the placement of Christopher’s feet, his odd stance, and his unexpected movements. His weight seemed equal on both feet as he quickly moved forward, whereas George always held his head back to protect it from an errant swing, which meant his weight was usually on his back leg.
Christopher’s attacks didn’t follow the usual pattern, either. Of the eight parries he had learned while at Cambridge, Christopher now only employed four. He followed each with an immediate riposte, which kept George on the defensive.
George parried when he could, but mostly he retired until he was finally forced off the piste.
“Have a care,” he cried out when the tiny knob at the end of Christoper’s foil nearly took the sleeve off one of those who stood watching. Those nearest the unfortunate man allowed a round of startled gasps, and two of them caught George and righted him before he could go down on his back side.
One of the fencing masters stepped onto the piste and whispered something to Christopher. George saw defiance in his brother-in-law’s eyes, and for a moment, he wondered if Christopher would aim the tip of his foil at the master.
Aware of quiet bets being made between those who watched, George lifted his foil and made to attack before Christopher had a chance to lift his own.
The clash of metal had the crowd shouting as George completed his attack and a series of thrusts that had Christopher backing up to the opposite end of the piste.
The entire time, George was aware of how his opponent balanced his body. How he positioned his feet. How he began his own attack run.
Halfway through it, George ducked and stepped off the piste completely. “I’ve an appointment,” he announced to no one in particular. Annoyed by his relative’s behavior and determined not to make a fool of himself in front of the growing crowd, he stalked off to the changing room. A murmur of disappointment sounded from the onlookers.
Left in the middle of the piste, Christopher was about to make a chiding comment, but he noted heads were shaking—and not from George’s sudden departure. Another moment and the crowd’s attention was turning to a match on the next piste.
Christopher hurried off to the changing room, nearly colliding with George as the older man made his way back out. He stumbled and aimed a look of annoyance at George. Remembering what George had said on the piste, Christopher said, “Have a care.”
“Was that Messier Bertrand’s style, perhaps?” George asked, once Christopher had regained his footing.
“You recognized it?” Christopher’s surprise was evident. “How?”
“You are not the only fop who has gone to Paris for lessons on how to impale someone,” George ground out before he headed toward the front door.
“Fop?” Christopher repeated. He quickly grabbed his greatcoat and topcoat from a bench in the changing room, not bothering to stop and pull them on before he stepped out the front door and into a flurry of snowflakes.
“Where are you going?” he called out, discovering his brother-in-law was already well down the street. Cursing, his foil in one hand as he attempted to pull on his topcoat with the other, Christopher whirled around. A blast of cold air hit his sweat-soaked face.
The blade of the foil rounded with him, arcing through the air until it suddenly wasn’t.
The rectangle of metal, stopped by the thick wool of a bright blue redingote, was jerked from Christopher’s hold and clattered to the pavement below.
He was left staring into the bright blue eyes of a rather startled young lady. Eyes that were positively mesmerizing. Eyes that blazed with sudden fury.
“How dare you?”
The lips that said those three little words caught his attention next. Red from the cold, they begged to be kissed. He didn’t think their owner was of the same mind, but he could dream, couldn’t he?
The voice that went with those blazing blue eyes and beautiful full lips was just as captivating. Just as bewitching. Christopher was suddenly reminded of the Sirens in Homer’s epic poem. He understood perfectly how it was a man would do whatever a voice would tell him to do.
He was awaiting instructions when another blast of cold air stung his cheeks and chilled his arms. He remembered where he was. On St. James Street. Blocking the way of a rather fashionably dressed young woman whose arm was interlocked with another young woman’s arm.
Her companion, no doubt. Or perhaps a lady’s maid, given the simplicity of her coat and hat.
His topcoat only half-pulled on, his greatcoat draped haphazardly over an arm, Christopher stared at his victim for a moment before habit had him bowing. “Apologies, my lady,” he managed to say, his gaze tearing from the blue eyes to where one of her kid gloved hands was pressed into her side. “Oh, my God. Are you hurt?”
Although reason would have reminded him that his foil had a rectangular blade that wouldn’t necessarily slice through several layers of fabric and then into skin, he wasn’t possessed of reason at that point. He was imagining a wound. Creamy white skin sliced with a sharp blade. A deep wound, with blood just beginning to pour from it.
And at the thought of bright red blood, Christopher’s vision wavered until stars appeared to replace the image of the lovely young woman who stood before him, and he fell to the pavement in a dead faint.
Chapter 8
A Punch in the Gut
Meanwhile, in front of Angelo’s in St. James Street
Rooted to the pavement, Juliet Comber stared down at the man whose fencing foil had whipped—hard—against the side of her waist at the very moment her arm was raised to hail a hackney. She turned to her maid and said a delayed, “Ouch,” in a low voice.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Beeker asked with worry. The lady’s maid was only a few years older than Juliet, but she appeared far more shaken than her mistress.
Juliet nodded. “I am, although I’m quite sure I’ll have a bruise for a few days,” she complained.
“I’ll apply some arnica just as soon as we’re back at the house,” Beeker said before turning her attention back to the prone man, realizing just then that the reason she couldn’t move was because her booted feet were pinned beneath one of his legs.
She was about to mention it when a gentleman rushed up and regarded them a
quick moment before he bowed and tipped his hat.
“Apologies, my ladies, but... what happened?” His brows furrowed and then his eyes rounded at seeing Juliet. “Miss Comber?”
Juliet dipped a curtsy the moment she recognized the gentleman. “Lord Bostwick. How do?”
“Better than him, I should think. What happened?”
Juliet exchanged a quick glance with Beeker before she said, “He attacked me with his blade and then fell down. Do you know this man?”
George rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately. This is Haddon.”
Juliet recoiled. “As in, the Earl of?”
He nodded as he used his cane to nudge the prone man. “He’s my brother-in-law,” he added. When Christopher didn’t move, George crouched and shook his shoulder. “Wake up, you fool. You’re blocking the pavement.”
Christopher groaned and attempted to lift himself up before he simply bent his body and then settled onto his bum with a curse. His coats, in various states of entanglement, took him a moment to sort before he slowly finished pulling on the top coat. “What the hell...?”
He clamped his mouth shut upon seeing the bottom half of two women. The front half of one pair of booted feet were trapped beneath one of his legs while a bright blue redingote grazed the side of his face.
“Get up, you fool,” George hissed, the hand that wasn’t holding the cane reaching beneath Christopher’s armpit to assist. “Miss Comber, are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine, my lord. Thank you for asking.”
Christopher managed to stand, mostly of his own volition, and then moved to tip a hat that wasn’t on his head. He absently glanced around for it and then remembered he had neglected to grab it when he was gathering his coats in the changing room.
George stood off to one side, trying to decide if he should simply bow and take his leave or wait to be sure the earl apologized. One thing he knew for certain—Christopher Carlington, Earl of Haddon, was no longer in possession of shoulders and a neck large or strong enough to support his enormous head.
The Choice of a Cavalier (The Heirs of the Aristocracy Book 3) Page 5
