“There’s another matter,” Randall said in a quieter voice. “But I suppose you already know.”
Randolph straightened in the chair, about to agree. About to blurt out his frustration at his father over what he had witnessed from his apartment at The Jack of Spades the day before. And then, because the brandy had loosed his tongue as much as it had Lady Dunsworth’s, he said, “Would it have anything to do with why you were at The Queen of Hearts yesterday afternoon?”
Randall gave a start. “Were you following me?”
“My room at The Jack of Spades looks out on Stafford Street.”
Allowing a nod, Randall’s eyes darted sideways before he sighed and said, “I have been in search of your sister for years—”
“Sister?” Randolph repeated, his voice loud even in his own ears. “How... how long have I had a sister?”
“Shhh,” the marquess replied, holding a finger to his lips. “Although I don’t mind all of Curzon Street knowing, I rather doubt they wish to learn of it at eleven o’clock at night.”
Eleven? Randolph almost countered. He was sure he had been at Bradley House for only an hour. Pulling his chronometer from his waistcoat pocket, he frowned when he realized it exactly matched the clock on the fireplace mantle. He had obviously been with the widow far longer than an hour!
Randall’s brows furrowed. “I was sure Xenobia Dunsworth would have mentioned her when she learned who you were.”
Wondering if he’d had more than two glasses of brandy, Randolph stared at his father. “Why would she know I have a sister?”
Lifting a shoulder, Randall said, “Because Lady X befriended her. They attended the same finishing school together, but then I lost track of my daughter when her mother left London for a time.”
His father’s reference to Xenobia as ‘Lady X’ had Randolph wincing. “Did you find her?” Although he had a dozen other questions, such as why Lady Dunsworth hadn’t mentioned her, he knew his father wouldn’t know the answer.
Randall angled his head first to one side and then the other. “I’ve been given an address by her mother.”
Dumbfounded, mostly because of the brandy, Randolph finally asked, “Do I know her?” The mention of the mother then had him wondering if she was a prostitute at The Queen of Hearts. “Or her mother?”
Furrowing his bushy brows, Randall said, “I should hope not in the biblical sense. Her mother is the queen at The Queen of Hearts. Violet Higgins.”
Randolph blinked. Several times. “The one with the wig large enough to accommodate a colony of mice?”
His brows furrowing until they made up a long caterpillar, Randall sighed and said, “When I knew Violet, she was but twenty and a brunette. I assure you, there were no vermin.”
Trying to imagine what the woman might have looked like two decades ago had Randolph’s brain serving up images that were entirely inappropriate. Violet Higgins was blessed with remarkable charms that were nearly always on full display given how tight her corset was tied and how low cut her modiste made her gowns. “And my sister? Would I know her?” Randolph hadn’t availed himself of a prostitute in an age, but the mere thought that he—or any of his fellow students—might have bedded the young woman had him glancing about in search of a chamber pot.
“Doubtful. She’s actually Richard’s twin sister,” Randall replied, referring to his third bastard son. “She has a few months left at finishing school before her come-out,” Randall stated. “I met with Violet yesterday—”
“The queen?”
“Yes. To ensure all was well. Although she was a good mother, she is more than willing to relinquish her claim to Rachel in the hopes—”
“Rachel?”
Randall rolled his eyes. “I had nothing to do with naming her or Richard,” he said in his own defense. At the rate the given names beginning with the letter R were being used in the family, there would be duplicates occurring soon enough.
“You think she can make a good match? Despite having a... a madam as a mother?” Randolph asked.
“I do,” his father replied. “Like Richard, she has my name. She also has a generous dowry. Which I expect you to see to if I’m not around to settle it upon the man she marries.”
An ache had begun to develop behind his temples, and Randolph couldn’t decide if it was due to the brandy or his father’s news. “Really Father, this obsession you have with your mortality is—”
“A sign of responsibility. A trait I did not adopt until I met your stepmother. A trait I made sure you had in spades.”
Sobering at hearing his father’s statement, Randolph considered what he was being asked to do—simply act in his younger brother’s stead until such time as the boy was old enough to take on the marquessate.
“I’ll see to it, of course,” he finally acquiesced.
Randall regarded his son for a moment. “In the meantime, will you be taking on the training of a timid filly?”
An image of the look on Xenobia Dunsworth’s face just after they had kissed came to mind. He had tried to erase it from his memory during his walk from her house.
The look of wonder. The look of awe. As if he had introduced her to a pleasure she had never before experienced.
He was quite sure she would have done whatever he had asked of her just then. That’s the moment when he had almost—almost—asked if she would accompany him to a bedchamber so that he might do for her what her late husband had never done.
Pleasure her until her toes curled. Until her breaths caught and her mewls turned to cries of delight. Until she begged for him to take his own pleasure inside her.
The mere thought of Xenobia begging for him had him holding his breath.
Barbara had never begged for him.
The thought brought him out of his reverie in an instant, but reminded him they were speaking of responsibility. Of promises.
Furrowing a brow, Randolph stared at his father a moment before he said, “I will see to her, yes,” he murmured. “But I will not need to break her.” Between married life with a best friend who sought his carnal pleasures elsewhere and societal expectations, the breaking of Xenobia Dunsworth had already been done.
Randolph had every intention of undoing the damage.
“Oh?” Randall replied, his brows rising in question.
“Just the opposite. It’s high time she enjoy a more exciting life.”
His father blinked. “Are you speaking of the filly? Or of Lady Dunsworth?”
“Both,” Randolph replied, realizing that brandy no longer had his brain buzzing.
He was stone cold sober.
Reflecting on a Kiss
Meanwhile, back at Bradley House
Xenobia stood in her parlor for several minutes after Sir Randolph Roderick took his leave, one hand raised to her lips.
The man’s kiss had been so heated—so passionate—she was sure he had left a mark in the form of a brand on her tender flesh. Her insides seemed to tumble about, in a way that had frissons dancing beneath her skin.
She could not recall a single time where she had been kissed like that. All of her husband’s kisses had been chaste. Pecks on the cheek or her forehead. Quick smacks on the lips that hadn’t held the passion that could be found in a pinky finger.
Surrounded as they had been by the scents of roses and lilies, of the hints of the coming Christmas holiday in the red ribbons that decorated the mantle and the bows and bells on the door handles, that moment of kissing had been truly magical.
If it were the only gift she received this season, that kiss would still make for a Happy Christmas.
Her long moments of reflection might have continued deep into the night but for the appearance of her butler.
“My lady?” her butler asked as he regarded her from the threshold, a look of concern etched on his face.
“I’m going to bed now, Chesterfield. Sir Randolph will return tomorrow at half-past three,” she stated, emphasizing the man’s title. “Please be sure to allo
w him entry.”
The butler lowered his head. “As you wish, my lady.” He bowed and disappeared beyond the door.
Xenobia didn’t take her leave of the parlor just then. She made her way to the sideboard and poured a finger’s worth of brandy into a crystal glass. Holding it up to the gaslight from the room’s only chandelier, she stared through the fortified wine for a moment before she drank it down in just a few gulps.
She enjoyed every last drop.
The very last thing she wanted to feel was guilt on this night.
A Stepmother’s Advice
The following morning at the Reading townhouse
After a few minutes in the nursery in the company of his son—the babe was awake and already garbed in a new nappy when he arrived—Randolph made his way to the breakfast parlor. He expected he would be alone this early, so he came to a halt on the threshold when he saw that Constance was already seated. A selection of foods were set before her, and she held a cup of steaming tea in one hand as she gripped a quill in the other.
“Oh, pardon me,” he said.
“Whatever for?” Constance asked, when she finally lifted her eyes to meet his.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he replied.
“You are not. In fact, you might be saving me from finishing this insipid list,” the marchioness replied with a grin. “I’m never sure what to include on the menus. How are you this morning?”
Despite the brandies he had imbibed the night before, he felt surprisingly good, and he said so.
“Can any of your good cheer be due to your meeting with Lady Dunsworth? Did she... hire you?”
Randolph winced, fairly sure his stepmother knew there was no timid filly in the Dunsworth stable. “She did not, but I’m quite sure I will be hired should she ever actually own a timid filly.”
Constance blinked. “Oh, dear. Was there a... a mix up of some kind?”
Randolph regarded her with a suspicious glance. “You knew she didn’t have a filly,” he accused.
Her eyes darting to one side, Constance said, “I wasn’t completely sure, but... oh, was it terribly uncomfortable for her?”
“Her?” Randolph repeated as he gave her a quelling glance. He filled a plate at the sideboard and gave his drink order to a footman. “More for me, I should think. Lady Comber set me up.”
Constance very nearly beamed in delight. “And?” she encouraged.
Randolph pulled out the chair across from hers and sat down. Hard. “I’ll be taking her for a ride in the park this afternoon.”
Looking every bit as if she had been the one to arrange the dalliance, Constance set down her tea and leaned forward. “Thank you. I do hope this isn’t a hardship for you. Xenobia needs this.”
“This?” he repeated, wondering if she thought he was going to be doing more than just taking the baroness for a ride in the park.
He could imagine other rides that might happen. Her riding him, for example. Astride whilst naked, her honey blonde hair flowing in waves past her shoulders.
Randolph closed his eyes, at first wishing the image hadn’t formed in his mind’s eye and then deciding he rather enjoyed it.
So did his manhood, which had decided to rise to the occasion and take up every bit of available space in his already form-fitting breeches.
He shifted in his chair and grimaced. “What do you mean by... this?”
“A reminder of what life can be like when it’s lived,” she replied. “She’s been in mourning for more than a year, and you’ve been working far too much.”
“I don’t consider my time at the stables as work, really,” he replied before he tucked into his meal.
He wondered if Lady Dunsworth was awake yet. If she was eating breakfast. And if she was enjoying her morning meal, was she doing so in her bed or in the breakfast parlor?
Perhaps she ate in her salon whilst she wrote her correspondence. He imagined she was probably diligent about writing to her late husband’s mother. To her own mother.
Which had him wondering who that might be. He had no idea what family she had been born into. Who she was before she married Baron Dunsworth, not that it mattered too much.
He remembered the dinner gown she’d been wearing. How it matched her eyes. How those eyes had stared up at him when he had finally finished their kiss.
Having left her without making mention of the kiss would only mean that his arrival for this afternoon’s ride would be awkward. Lady Dunsworth was probably mortified. In fact, he half expected to receive a note claiming she had a megrim and would be unable to join him for the ride.
That was probably the subject of the correspondence she was writing in her salon.
“I was referring to your other position,” Lady Reading said in a quiet voice, as if she feared being overheard.
Randolph blinked. “How...?”
“Don’t be angry with him,” she pleaded. “He wasn’t going to tell me, but I threatened to...” She gave her head a shake. “Well, never mind. Your father would never survive a torture of any kind.”
“Long tongued, is he?” When Randolph saw her brighten, he feared she had found humor in his possible double entendre. “Don’t answer that.”
“If it helps, I don’t know any details other than which department you report to.”
Randolph winced. “And if you didn’t know which department?”
She considered the query a moment. “I might have thought you were a Bow Street Runner or a... an investigator of some sort. Working for one of those agencies that people employ when they wish to learn things about someone, or when they’ve lost something of value and want it to be found.”
Well, even if she hadn’t learned he worked for the Foreign Office, his stepmother certainly had guessed the manner of his position.
“I find the work diverting,” he finally said, just as the footman returned with his coffee. He took a long drink, reveling in how much better it tasted than the dreck that was served at most of the corner coffee houses in London. “And it has allowed me to perfect my billiards game.”
“Which has your father quite vexed,” Constance complained. “You might have let him win a game last night.”
Randolph jerked his head up, surprised at her words. His father hadn’t seemed too terribly upset at having lost the night before.
He had seemed more annoyed that he barely had a chance to play.
Randolph finally allowed a grin. “I had no idea. But if he for one moment thought I was letting him win, he would put voice to a scold the likes to which I have never been subjected,” he added with an arched brow.
“You know me too well, son,” Randall said as he appeared on the threshold. He gave his wife a deep bow and then rushed to her side to kiss her on the cheek at the same moment Randolph quickly got to his feet. “As do you,” Randall whispered in his wife’s ear.
“Darling, not at the breakfast table,” she admonished him. “We have a guest.”
Despite appearing as if his attention was on his plate, Randolph used his skills at observation and watched their interplay through his lowered lashes for signs of artifice. He found none. The two seemed genuinely in love.
Randall sighed and turned to regard his son. “Please, be seated, son. You needn’t come to attention just because I’ve arrived for a meal.”
“Yes, sir,” Randolph replied as he retook his seat.
“I suppose you’ve already been up to the nursery?” Randall asked as he settled himself into a chair next to his wife. From the way one of his arms moved, Randolph was sure he had a hand on his marchioness’ thigh.
“I have,” both Randolph and Constance said in unison. She tittered. “Our son is trying very hard to talk, but I cannot for the life of me understand a single word he blabbers. Well, other than ‘mum’ and ‘dada’.”
“Nonsense. He can say ‘horse’ and ‘pony’,” Randall countered.
“Which is all he’ll ever need to know,” Randolph offered. His grin was wide enough
so a dimple appeared in his right cheek, and Constance blinked.
“You have a dimple,” she murmured in awe. “Just like your son.”
Randolph quickly sobered. “I believe he inherited his from me.”
“And your father,” she added as she turned her attention on her husband, beaming in delight.
A footman set a plate filled with eggs and several rashers of bacon in front of Randall before he shoo’d the servant away and turned to grin at his wife. “He inherited his from me,” he said before he lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed the back of it.
Constance blushed as she dipped her head. “Eat your breakfast, darling,” she whispered.
“I will, once I learn from my son how his meeting with Lady Dunsworth went last night. I might have won a game had he stayed another quarter-hour.” He turned his attention to Randolph. “Is her filly a Thoroughbred?”
Randolph straightened in his chair, his gaze briefly darting to Constance. His father’s query was obviously meant to cover the fact that they had already had this discussion in the study the night before.
Constance was suddenly intent on her list, though. “No,” he replied. “Just a... a timid filly in need of... some attention,” he stammered. “I’m taking her out this afternoon. To the park. With one of ours. See if some company will help.”
Randall arched a bushy brow. “That’s capital,” he claimed. “And I must say, it’s a relief to know she doesn’t have a contender for the Derby.”
“Indeed,” Randolph replied, noting how Constance had a hard time keeping a straight face. Once he left the parlor, he was sure she would tell his father that it was Lady Dunsworth he would be taking for a ride in the park rather than her filly.
Or perhaps his stepmother would keep that little secret to herself.
Apparently she was good at keeping secrets.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 18
