Chapter Twenty-Six
The benefit of the London Season having come to an end was the fact that almost all of the preening young bucks had left—either returned to their country seats to learn how to run their papas’ estates or, in the case of the youngest ones, to Oxford or Cambridge to subject themselves to an education that few of them deserved or would make use of in their charmed lives.
Stephen himself, to his shame, had spent little time with his books while at Oxford, despite the dean of Balliol College expressing hopes that he might be a distinguished scholar.
But the tradition in his family was that second sons joined the militia, for which they merely needed the ability to wield a sword, shoot straight, and order others about.
He’d have been more suited to the life of a scholar, but not even the third sons in his family had been permitted to decide their fate, destined as they were for the church, whether they were fit to do the Almighty’s work or not.
Another benefit of the Season having come to an end was that a man could find a quiet corner in the clubroom at Boodle’s without having to jostle other members for a place.
And there was little risk of encountering the worst members of the ton, who considered any club other than White’s beneath their dignity.
He relaxed into the button-backed leather chair and closed his eyes, relishing the quiet murmur of voices and gentle chink of glasses as the footmen milled about, distributing brandy, newspapers, and cigars.
While he often considered letting his membership of Boodle’s lapse, he had to agree with the general maxim that a gentlemen’s club was his haven from the rigors of the world outside brought about by female company.
Namely his sister and her chaperone. Angela had yet to forgive him for “chasing away Lady Portia,” as she put it, and whenever he was in her presence, she turned her soulful, judgmental gaze on him.
Mrs. Stowe, though she remained diplomatically neutral, refused to be drawn into their arguments, always seeming to display the sort of deadly dull good sense that reminded him of an overbearing parent.
He let out a sigh and admonished himself. Angela was not to be blamed for Lady Portia’s disappearance, and Mrs. Stowe was far more pleasant company than almost every woman in London.
Every woman except…her.
“I say, Reid!” a familiar voice said. “I thought it was you. We’ve not seen you here for some time. How goes things?”
Stephen opened his eyes and recognized his old university friend—one of those rare fellows who had made use of an Oxford education and earned his degree on merit, as opposed to by virtue of a generous donation to the dean of Balliol.
“Wormleighton!” he said. “I thought you’d be in the country this time of year.”
“I leave tomorrow.” Wormleighton gestured to a footman at the far end of the clubroom, then lowered himself into the chair next to Stephen, the leather creaking as he settled into the seat. “How about you?”
“We leave for my brother’s seat next week,” Stephen said. “Frederick is spending the winter in Italy with his family.”
“Is your sister going with them?”
Stephen shook his head. “Angela is staying with me, but she’ll be accompanied by her chaperone, so she will at least have some female company.”
The footman appeared with a glass of amber liquid, and Wormleighton plucked it from the tray and drained it.
“Excellent!” he said with a sigh. “The Armagnac at Boodle’s is always superior to anything a fellow could find at White’s.”
“The company, also,” Stephen said.
“Another, if you please,” Wormleighton said to the footman, “and whatever my friend’s having. Unless it’s not too early to take a bottle of champagne? Is there one you recommend?”
“We ordered a case of the Veuve Clicquot 1810 for the Duke of Wellington, of which we have two bottles left,” the footman said. “It’s easy on the palate, though a little on the sweet side. If you’re thinking of dining here, it would be an excellent accompaniment to the Dover sole.”
“I’m not dining, but celebrating,” Wormleighton said. “But I doubt His Grace would take kindly to just anyone taking one of his bottles.”
“Any civilian, perhaps, sir,” the footman said, gesturing to Stephen, “but a soldier, and fellow veteranus of Waterloo, could never be described as just anyone.”
“Very well, then,” Wormleighton said. “I’ll take advantage of being in the company of a hero and take a bottle. But I insist it’s put on my ledger.”
The footman bowed, then disappeared, and returned shortly after with two glasses filled with a pale liquid, within which a stream of bubbles ascended in a straight line from the bottom to the surface, where they dissipated around the rim.
Wormleighton plucked a glass eagerly from the tray and took a sip.
Stephen followed suit. “What are we celebrating, other than the fact that we’re both escaping London?”
Wormleighton’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Kitty is expecting our first child.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s long overdue,” Wormleighton said. “We’ve been married almost three years, and we despaired of having a child of our own.”
“And now you have an heir on the way.”
“Whether we have a son or daughter matters not to me,” Wormleighton said. “All I wish for is a healthy child.”
“And Katherine?”
“Kitty wants a son—I think because she felt her father’s resentment of her sex until her younger brother was born.
Lord Tate’s desperation for a male heir is not something I share.
” His eyes took on a faraway look, as if he could see, over the horizon, a state of ultimate bliss.
“To think,” he said, sighing, “I’ll soon be holding my child in my arms. I cannot think of anything a man could wish for more than that.
Save, of course, a loving wife—and I’ve already been blessed with my sweet Kitty. ”
“I envy you,” Stephen said before taking another mouthful of champagne.
“It’ll be your turn soon. Weren’t you courting that Hawke girl—Lady Portia? I’ll wager that before the year is out, you’ll be holding your child in your arms.”
The image swam before Stephen’s mind—a tiny child in his arms, with a head of thick, dark hair and wide, brilliant blue eyes, curling a fat pink fist around his forefinger.
Then he shook his head. “I think it’ll take a little longer than that.”
“Rejected you, has she?” Wormleighton shook his head. “Foxton always was one who set too much store on rank, but I thought Lady Portia had more sense. At least she’s sensible enough not to have been taken in by Sir Heath Moss’s charms.”
Stephen’s breath caught as he tightened the grip on his glass. Had Sir Heath broken his promise to remain silent about Angela?
I swear, Sir Heath, if you say one word about my sister, I’ll cut off your—
“Lady Cholmondeley-Walker is his latest conquest,” Wormleighton continued. “Almost cost him his life.”
“I beg pardon?”
Wormleighton’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward.
“You’ve not heard? It’s all over White’s.
” He glanced over his shoulder to the clubroom’s other occupants, then lowered his voice.
“Sir Heath’s sporting an injured leg—he’s been limping about Hyde Park to elicit sympathy from the fairer sex.
Apparently a woman unable to apply reason finds an injured man damnably attractive. ”
“No matter his character or honor?” Stephen said. “Is he badly injured?” he added, tempering the little voice in his head that issued a cheer.
“Most likely it’s just a scratch,” Wormleighton said. “Of course, if you ask him, he’ll say he was on the brink of death. But at least he fared better than his opponent. Cholmondeley-Walker is, by all accounts, preparing to meet his maker.”
Dear God!
A series of tuts and the rustling of newspapers told Stephen that he’d spoken aloud.
“I daresay he’ll survive—he’s a resilient chap.
But it wasn’t a certainty yesterday, by all accounts.
” Wormleighton shook his head. “That’s what happens when unskilled men engage in a duel.
A stray bullet can cause irreparable damage.
It’s a pity the Farthing seems to have disappeared.
Had he been present, I daresay the duel would have ended in one combatant sustaining a slight scratch and the other the loss of fifty pounds. ”
“Surely you’re not condoning the Farthing?” Stphen said.
“Why not?” came the reply. “He’s fought countless duels—at least ten, I’d reckon—all with the purpose of ensuring that nobody is hurt, at least no more than superficially.”
“You speak nonsense,” Stephen said, suppressing a shudder at the notion of Portia placing herself in danger on so many occasions.
Dear Lord—what if she’d been shot?
But she was shot—and left for dead.
“Haven’t you noticed the number of gentlemen wandering about Town this Season sporting scratches to the ear, or the hand?” Wormleighton said. “Think on it—each and every one of them could have been maimed or killed. But instead of losing their lives, they chose to lose fifty pounds instead.”
He sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair.
“I’d say that’s a fair bargain. A man as skilled as the Farthing could easily have sent his opponents to their graves, or employed his skills for more nefarious means.
Instead, he chose to ensure that only a little blood was spilled.
Don’t you recall what happened to Lord Green last summer?
Do you think he lost his leg in a riding accident?
Or Mr. Frankland, who lost his life? Granted, they were both unpleasant sorts of fellows, lacking in honor—but no man deserves to suffer or die for the sake of honor. ”
Stephen set his glass aside as nausea swelled in the pit of his stomach. “Y-you think the Farthing acted out of honor?”