Chapter 5 #2
Phinn sighed heavily. He was irritated no end that he was usually noticed for all the wrong reasons and then just as quickly dismissed.
“Be that as it m-may, the size of m-me bollocks won’t c-count for much if no one is willin’ to take me serious-seriously.
” He snorted. “I can’t … I can’t even t-t-tell the difference be-between a toasting f-fork and a f-f-fish fork.
I have an army of servants, yet I’m al-always openin’ the feckin’ door for meself instead of lettin’ the footmen do it.
I swear me val-valet, well-meanin’ though he is, thinks I’m an eejit because I care little about me war-wardrobe.
I’ve n-n-never even been taught to ride a blood-bloody horse.
Not prop-properly. Not like a gen-gentleman.
I’ve g-g-got a whole goddamn stable full of Thoroughbred horses at Kin-Kinsale Castle and there are umpteen horses stabled in the mews behind Kin-Kinsale House here in London.
But me grooms n-need to exer-exercise them because me horse-horsemanship skills are w-w-woeful.
I can’t even trot without bruisin’ me arse. ”
Marcus waved a hand. “All that sort of thing can be learned. And I can certainly help on the horse-riding front. If I’d known, I would have been dragging you along to Hyde Park at the crack of dawn every morning.”
Phinn released a hearty laugh that drew annoyed glances and a raised eyebrow or two (one of which was Albemarle’s).
“Even if you’ve been carousin’ all night?
” Lord Hartwell did have quite the reputation for frequenting clubs, gaming hells, and the beds of women of all persuasions until the wee small hours.
The viscount grinned sheepishly. “Touché. We’ll go riding on the days I’m not hungover or sleep deprived.”
Phinn grinned. “So once per m-m-month then?”
Marcus laughed. “That sounds about right. Although”—he took a swig of his brandy then grimaced—“that might all be about to change soon.” A shadow crossed the viscount’s aristocratically handsome face.
“I’ve heard the Queen is growing tired of my antics and has requested my presence at Buckingham Palace in the not-too-distant future.
I believe she’s going to ask me to”—he tugged at his collar and black cravat as though they suddenly felt too tight—“get leg-shackled.”
“Leg … leg-shackled?” repeated Phinn. “I d-don’t take your meanin’. B-b-but whatever it is, it sounds feckin’ aw-awful.”
“Oh, it is,” agreed Marcus. “I’m certain Her Majesty is going to command me to get married.”
Phinn’s mouth fell open. “The Queen can-can do that?”
“Oh, yes indeed,” said Marcus, waving over a footman so their brandy could be replenished. “It seems too many scandalous rumors about my wild behavior have reached her ears, so my punishment is to be matrimony.”
Phinn chuckled. “You poor sod.” While Phinn had no immediate plans to wed, he’d never viewed marriage as a form of punishment.
A few months ago, the Duke of St Lawrence had married a vivacious redhead—a lovely young woman who’d served as a nanny for the duke’s three young wards—and he certainly seemed happy with the arrangement.
If Phinn’s memory served him correctly, the duke’s new wife had been a graduate from some much-esteemed college or academy for nannies and governesses.
The Parasol Academy? He believed it might have been.
Phinn stared into his amber-hued brandy and it immediately reminded him of the Kinsale Cloud’s fair stowaway and her fine hazel eyes.
It had been five days since he’d farewelled the lovely young woman.
Five days, in which at odd moments, his thoughts kept returning to the few hours they’d spent together.
In all honesty, he’d been completely captivated by Mrs. Hermina Davenport.
He still suspected that she’d been hiding the real reason that she’d ended up on the Kinsale Cloud—his ship’s crew had had no idea at all.
And he still couldn’t fathom how she and her son had magically materialized in his wardrobe, as if from nowhere.
But after all was said and done, no harm had come to anyone.
He just hoped that Mrs. Davenport and her son were faring well.
“Penny for your thoughts, Lord Kinsale?” said Marcus. Then he grinned. “I know that look. You’re thinking about a woman, aren’t you?” He gave Phinn’s patent leather shoe a nudge with his own. “Come on, man. Out with it.”
Good Lord. Phinn’s cheeks suddenly felt rather hot and he only just resisted the urge to run a finger around his suddenly too-tight collar.
“Ac-actually, I was thinkin’ about somethin’ you said before.
About how the things I d-don’t know about or can-cannot do can b-b-be learned.
My m-most pressin’ concern is me in-inability to speak with-without stammering.
I want to b-be able to con-confidently deliver a sp-sp-speech in the House of Lords.
N-not sound like an in-inarticulate clodpole. ”
Marcus gave a sympathetic wince. “I wish I could help you, my friend. But I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Phinn sighed and examined his brandy glass again. “It’s a pit-pity I cannot hire someone from the ac-academy that Xavier’s w-w-wife attended. Some-someone who could t-t-teach me about etiquette and provide el-elocution lessons.”
Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “Well, why don’t you? Seems like a capital idea to me.”
Phinn gave a snort of laughter. “You really think that this ac-academy w-w-would let me employ a gov-governess wh-when I don’t have a child? At least Xavier had three w-w-wards.”
“Mmmm. On second thought, you do make a good point,” conceded Marcus. “It would look rather odd, all things considered.”
“Just a wee bit.” And then of course, Phinn probably wouldn’t be satisfied if he employed anyone else other than Hermina Davenport.
He’d liked her forthright yet gentle manner.
How she hadn’t looked down at him when he’d stammered.
But all of that is beside the point, Phineas O’Connell, he reminded himself, when you don’t have a wee ’un.
Besides, she might have secured another position already.
Two hours later, after Phinn and Marcus had repaired to Boodle’s dining room and feasted on foie gras and pheasant, then pears poached in red wine with crème anglaise for pudding—Marcus ordered, as Phinn had no idea about anything—Marcus had bundled him into a hansom cab.
Not to take them home to Belgravia, but to ferry them to another sort of “gentlemen’s club” in Covent Garden where an evening of bawdier entertainment than what was on offer at Boodle’s could be had.
Except when they climbed out of the cab, Phinn had decided he was not really in the mood for that sort of thing.
He wasn’t a prude by any means, but tonight, the idea of fraternizing with women who were paid to pay attention to him, didn’t sit well with him.
Or perhaps it was the foie gras and French red wine.
It certainly couldn’t have anything to do with a chestnut-haired governess with large hazel eyes.
In any event, he told Marcus that he’d changed his mind.
“I feel the need to w-w-walk off all that rich f-food,” he explained as Marcus cocked an eyebrow, his expression laden with skepticism. “So I’ll stroll home to Ea-Eaton Square. The fresh air will d-do me g-good too.”
Marcus laughed at that. “You won’t find much fresh air in London. I’d say take care, but anyone who tried to take you on would deserve whatever you dished out.” He rubbed his bruised jaw. “Hopefully this won’t put off the ladies.”
“I’m sure it w-won’t,” said Phinn. Lord Hartwell received admiring female glances wherever he went.
Phinn received his fair share as well. But interest in him—unless he was paying a woman for her company—often waned whenever he spoke.
While he was used to that happening, it didn’t mean the rejection didn’t sting.
Marcus farewelled him, then Phinn, gloved hands buried in the pockets of his greatcoat, strode along Garrick Street, heading in the direction of Leicester Square. It was only two miles to Belgravia and he’d be home in less than an hour.
A thick pea-souper had begun to roll in and the sickly yellow light of the streetlamps barely penetrated the roiling fog that enveloped the thoroughfares and obscured the surrounding buildings.
Whenever he crossed a street, Phinn had to pick his way carefully, not only looking out for carriages and hansom cabs and carts, but piles of manure.
He’d been walking for only five minutes when he thought he detected the footsteps of someone who seemed far too close.
Unless it was a trick of the fog? But then, heavy fog tended to muffle sound, which meant that whoever was behind Phinn must be almost breathing-down-the-back-of-his-neck close.
Well, feck that. Phinn pulled his hands from his pockets and cracked his knuckles before balling them into fists. It would be a brave man indeed—or a colossal eejit—who tried to take on Cutthroat O’Connell.
Muscles tense, all senses on high alert, Phinn swung around to face his stalker, but in the shifting gray miasma, he could see no one. He couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore either.
Had he been imagining things?
An omnibus rumbled past and then the clatter of an approaching hansom cab came from a different direction. A dog barked and something scuttled past his feet. A rat no doubt.
Phinn waited a moment or two more, but the only pedestrians who passed by were a well-to-do couple.
With a sigh, Phinn turned away. Just to make sure he wouldn’t be followed, he ducked down a narrow side street. If he took a circuitous route home, he’d lose any sort of foolish footpad in the fog.
He’d only been walking for another few minutes when the sounds of merrymaking—a chorus of wild drunken whoops, disembodied laughter, and a lively air played on a fiddle—echoed down the laneway. A public house lay ahead.