Chapter 27
“It would really be the most thrilling thing in London this year,” Clemency said earnestly. “Please say you’ll consider it.”
Richard made a face, accepting some biscuits from the plate his sister offered. “I have no objection to attending a ball. I have no desire to give a speech there.”
“But your adventures are so interesting!” she protested. “They all told me so, when you spoke of them years ago.”
“Yes, I already spoke of them. Today no one cares that I have climbed mountains,” he told her. “It was years ago, and I am no longer interesting to society.”
“You are,” she protested. “You could be!”
Richard made a face.
“You know she may be correct,” said Gerhard mildly. “The English are wild for travel again, and you have been places few of them have seen.”
“That’s true,” chimed in Clemency at once. “And no one remembers your speeches from years ago. Why won’t you do just one, to see how it is received?”
Richard stirred his tea to avoid answering. They were in Clemency’s drawing room, with a warm breeze drifting through the sunlit windows opposite him. It was a splendid day out today, and he wished his nephew would hurry home so he could be out in that sunlight.
He’d found himself at loose ends more than usual, in Evangeline’s absence, and had ended up at his sister’s more frequently.
Her sons were home from school on holiday: Rafael from Cambridge and Gabriel from his last year at Harrow.
Rafael had asked him for shooting lessons, and Clemency had finally agreed.
But the boy was not home yet, and Richard had been lured into having tea.
“Lady Brentwood would be delighted if you agreed to speak at her upcoming ball,” Clemency pressed on, more cautiously but also more hopefully. “Sir Paul was always a supporter of your travels. He would be well pleased to have you.”
Richard raised his eyes to his sister’s.
Her face was flushed pink. “Clemency. You cannot invite me to someone else’s ball.
” Her blush deepened, and she flicked a glance at Gerhard, who gave a tiny nod in encouragement.
Richard sighed as understanding dawned. “Unless Sir Paul or Lady Brentwood has enlisted you to persuade me.”
“Well, Lady Brentwood did mention that Sir Paul would like it very much,” his sister defended herself. “And Gerhard thought you might agree, since it’s been so long, and—and—”
“And?” he snapped.
“And because Lady Courtenay has also been invited, with Miss Bennet.” Clemency’s chin came up as she played her trump card.
Richard stared at her. He and Evangeline did not attend society events together.
Mostly because Evangeline didn’t attend many, and Richard didn’t care for them anyway.
They went to the opera and the museums together.
They dined with friends and rode out and swam in the pond and took long, leisurely walks together.
But the balls and routs and soirées and breakfasts that made up social London . . . They never went to those. By unspoken agreement they were almost never in each other’s company in public situations.
And as a result, he had only ever danced with Evangeline on the night they met.
She had not mentioned this ball to him. Of course he knew she was taking her niece out into society, as Miss Bennet was an unmarried young lady and was accustomed to parties and balls.
It shouldn’t surprise him that she would attend such an event, particularly if Viscount Burke continued to pay Miss Bennet attention.
He hadn’t seen her in what felt like an eternity.
They had exchanged letters, but paper and ink were a poor substitute for her warm laugh, her exasperated smiles, the arousing little gasp she made when she kissed him.
When she’d told him that she meant to chaperone her niece for several weeks, he hadn’t realized how hard her absence would hit him.
It was now obvious that his entire life revolved around her.
“How do you know that?” he finally asked.
Clemency’s expression lit with triumph. “Lady Brentwood mentioned it. She is dear friends with Lady Bennet and has every expectation they will accept.”
Every expectation. Meaning Evangeline would be welcomed as she should be, not whispered about as she feared. This time Richard glanced at Gerhard. “Are you in favor of this public exhibition of our narrow escapes from death and dismemberment?”
Gerhard, who had been watching Clemency with a tinge of worship, glanced at him. “Why would I object?”
Richard ate a biscuit and thought. Clemency wanted him to go, therefore Gerhard wanted him to go.
Saying a few words about their travels would be no hardship; he did it often enough at dinner parties when people asked him about traveling the Nile or the Ganges.
And if he agreed to speak, he would be considered a guest of honor, which meant he would be expected to dance with ladies in attendance.
That, Richard knew, would be akin to a public announcement. But also, one that his hosts would have no choice but to approve, which meant other guests would also not disapprove.
“Very well,” he said abruptly. “Yes, I will attend and give a speech, if it pleases you.”
Clemency gave a little exclamation of joy and Gerhard gave him an approving nod. Outside in the hall, the front door opened, and Rafael charged in.
“Apologies, Mama, Uncle, Mr. Rieger,” said the boy breathlessly. He gave a quick bow. “I didn’t mean to be so late.”
Richard, who thought Rafe’s timing was excellent, was already on his feet. “We had better be off. Clemency.” He nodded to his sister, ignored Gerhard, and waved Rafe out the door ahead of him.
“I really am dreadfully sorry.” Rafael was flushed and a bit windblown, as if he’d run home from wherever. “I was with some fellows from university, and we quite forgot the time . . .”
“Apology accepted. Your mother had something to tell me, and the time was not wasted.” They went out into the street, where the groom walking his team and curricle appeared in a few minutes.
“I want to thank you for taking me out,” said Rafe almost shyly as Richard started the horses.
In the last two years he’d shot up to Richard’s own height, but was still slender and rangy, with Clemency’s dark hair and eyes, his father’s diplomatic sensibility, and a wit that was all his own.
He had just finished his first year at Cambridge.
Richard smiled. “Of course. I was honored to be asked. It is not every day we old men are invited to spend time with young bucks like you.”
Rafe laughed. “You’ve confused me with Gabe! Not that you’re old, Uncle.”
Richard glanced at him. “The fact that I can look you in the eye now, when you used to sit upon my shoulders and pull my ears, proves that I am indeed getting old.”
His nephew grinned. “You don’t seem it.”
“Praise indeed,” said Richard gravely.
“I mean, all the blokes at school have heard of you, and they’re in awe,” went on Rafael with enthusiasm. “They want to know if you’re planning to take me and Gabe to China or Africa.”
“Your mother would have me drawn and quartered. No—she would do it herself.” Richard was sure of this. It had taken several days of careful argument on Rafael’s part for Clemency to allow this outing.
His nephew fell quiet. Richard glanced at him, noting the young man’s pensive expression, and they drove the rest of the way to Humberton Hall in silence.
They left the curricle at the stables and walked down the rolling lawn.
It was away from the pond at the far edge of the property, the ground cleared ahead of where the trees grew thickest and the brambles wildest. For further protection, an earthen berm had been heaped behind the primary target area, and beyond it was more woodland.
Over the years he had owned the property, he’d got it just the way he liked it, and this was where he took his nephew for his first shooting lesson.
One of the servants had set out a table with shot and powder. The sky was cloudy, but there was little wind and no threat of rain. Richard opened the polished wooden case set on the table, and removed one pistol from the felt-lined interior.
His pistols were magnificent pieces, ten inches of blued steel with rifled bores and walnut stocks, made by one of the finest gunsmiths in London, a Swiss fellow by the name of Durs Egg. Richard was inordinately fond of them. He handed one to Rafe, who nearly dropped it.
“It’s heavy,” he exclaimed.
“Yes. Weight dampens the recoil.” He showed Rafe how to load the pistol, then had him load the second.
The young man bent his head over the task, his face set in concentration.
Richard talked him through the steps, then directed him how to stand and hold his arm.
A tree some ten or twelve yards distant had a large blue patch painted on its trunk, with a red circle in the center, right at the height of a man’s chest. Rafael raised the pistol, squinted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.
“A good first effort,” said Richard.
“I missed it entirely,” muttered his nephew.
“But your form was good for a first attempt.” Richard handed him the powder. “Reload.”
After half an hour, during which Rafe managed to hit some part of the tree once, Richard told him to put down the pistol. “Rest your arm,” he said, taking up the powder and his own pistol.
“Do you get used to the weight?” Rafael flexed his hand after laying down his pistol.
Richard smiled. “Yes, although I would consider it a very bad sign were I ever required to take more than two shots in short order.”
“In a duel, you only shoot once.”
Richard gave him a sharp look. “In a duel, you only shoot at all if you are hot-tempered and impatient.”
Rafe gave a huff of laughter. “You sound like Mama.”
“Well,” said Richard, tamping the ball into place, “unlike your mother, I have actually engaged in a duel.”
“Three, wasn’t it?” asked Rafe eagerly.