Chapter 15
Wherein the Upper Crust, Cod-Liver Oil, Corinthians, Cucumbers, and Pickles Are Mentioned …
The rain had cleared overnight, but that didn’t stop Phinn getting soaked the next morning when he went riding with Marcus, Lord Hartwell, in Hyde Park.
“Feck,” he muttered as Marcus hauled him out of an enormous mud puddle on Rotten Row. “I mean, b-b-bloody blazing hell,” he amended when the viscount cocked an eyebrow as if to say, Really, old chap? ‘Feck’ is just not the done thing around London.
“That’s better,” said Marcus, confirming Phinn’s thoughts. “Curse like you’ve been to Eton and Oxford or Cambridge and half of the beau monde won’t even bat an eyelid at your accent.”
“The b-b-beau what?” asked Phinn, looking down at his wet and filthy riding clothes.
This had been the third time he’d been unseated this morning and he was freezing cold and his arse and inner thighs were sore and he’d really had enough.
He felt like he’d been smashed to bits by an opponent twice his size in a bare-knuckle boxing match.
Feckin’ horse-riding was not his cup of tea, or tankard of ale, or whole bottle of whisky, or anything at all.
He’d rather drink a bottle of cod-liver oil than hop on Marcus’s stinking horse again.
“The beau monde. The upper ten thousand. The upper crust. The toffs.” Marcus grinned. “Like I said, replace ‘feck’ with a few other choice words like ‘deuced’ and ‘damned’ and ‘dash it all’ and everyone will be calling you ‘chum’ and giving you slaps on the back before you know it.”
If only it were that simple. Phinn sighed heavily as Marcus clicked his fingers and the mount that had thrown Phinn—a fine gray gelding—trotted over, as docile as you please. “It w-w-would be a feckin’—I mean, a dashed sight easier bein’ accepted if I didn’t have this d-d-deuced stammer.”
Marcus cast him a sympathetic look. “It sounds like your new governess might be able to make a difference though.”
Phinn gave a wry smile. “Aye. I mean, yes. I hope … I hope so.”
He’d told his friend as they’d set out from the mews behind Hartwell House that he’d hired Miss Davenport to give him etiquette and elocution lessons.
What he hadn’t told Marcus was that he was also fighting a damned inconvenient attraction to the young woman.
That last night, after he’d gone to bed, he’d stayed awake half the night, tossing and turning while wild fantasies involving Hermina Davenport had cavorted through his head.
At this rate, he’d have to take matters into his own hands—or more precisely, one hand—in order to get any peace.
It meant that when he encountered Miss Davenport again, he wouldn’t be thinking about her in inappropriate ways that did him no credit as her employer.
It wasn’t fair on the woman that she’d become the object of his salacious desires.
When he got home he’d definitely need a scalding hot bath. The sooner he rid himself of this infernal ache in his loins, the better.
But misbegotten lust wasn’t the only reason Phinn’s nether regions were aching. As soon as he climbed back onto his borrowed mount, he couldn’t hold back an agonized whimper as he lowered his bruised arse into the saddle. Sweet Jaysus.
Marcus threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, my friend. I’m so, so sorry.”
Phinn clenched his teeth. “This is pay-payback, isn’t it?” he gritted out. “For that p-p-punch I landed on your … on your jaw.”
Marcus’s shoulders shook with mirth. “It’s not. Truly it’s not. But I’m thinking that next time I give you a riding lesson, we keep to walking and avoid trotting altogether. It’s not the easiest gait to master for a beginner. I fear we were being overly ambitious.”
“What makes you think there’ll be a n-n-next time?
” grumbled Phinn beneath his breath as they headed in the direction of Hyde Park Gate.
Even though it was early, the park was packed with other riders.
In only a few hours, Phinn imagined the park would be full of sightseers visiting the Great Exhibition at the Crystal Palace.
He suddenly wondered if Tom and Christopher would like to go.
He could show them the Duke of St Lawrence’s Queen of Clocks, which had won a prestigious Council Medal in June.
And afterwards, perhaps they could drive past the Houses of Parliament where the duke’s King of Clocks would grace the very top of St Stephen’s Tower one day.
When they reached Belgravia and Hartwell House in Wilton Crescent, Phinn had never been so grateful to have his feet planted firmly on terra firma.
“I don’t suppose you’d be up to attending an event with me this evening,” said Marcus as he pulled off his leather riding gloves and slapped them against his buckskin breeches.
Phinn took a few steps away from his horse and grimaced as his leg muscles protested. “What sort of … what sort of event?”
Marcus sighed. “A deuced ball. I’m doing my best to comply with the Queen’s decree that I look for a wife.
In fact, she’s going to be at this ball.
The Duke of Albemarle and his wife are throwing it, and they happen to have an eligible daughter—Lady Sophia Granville.
No doubt I’ll have to waltz at least once with the girl. ”
Phinn would rather eat rocks than attend a ball thrown by Albemarle. No doubt Albemarle would like nothing more than to throw rocks at him considering the contemptuous looks the arrogant prat had aimed Phinn’s way at Boodle’s a few nights ago.
He said as much to Marcus but his friend waved a dismissive hand.
“Albemarle looks that way at everyone, so I wouldn’t worry.
And aside from being my righthand man on the battlefield, so to speak, I thought it might give you the chance to be seen out and about by Her Majesty.
You know, rubbing shoulders with other toffs can’t hurt.
” His expression changed and his eyes gleamed with a decidedly wicked light.
“Come on, Lord Kinsale. I know you’re no monk and the ladies do like a man with a fine physique—or more specifically the buttocks of a Corinthian.
” He winked. “You’re bound to snare the interest of a willing widow or two at the very least.”
Phinn’s thoughts immediately went to Miss Davenport. Was she of the same opinion about his behind? She’d certainly seemed transfixed by the sight of his bare torso the day before when she’d come upon him in his banyan and breeches. Aloud he said, “The butt-buttocks of a Cor-what-thian?”
Marcus laughed. “It means you’ve got a well-shaped, muscular arse, my fine Irish friend.”
Phinn snorted. “The only thing m-m-my arse is, at the mo-moment, is bloody bruised. And because of that, I’m afraid I w-w-won’t be up to attendin’ any b-b-ball tonight, whether the Queen is goin’ to be there or n-n-not.
” He wasn’t lying about his backside. He also didn’t want to confess that the only dance he knew was an Irish jig.
And that he wasn’t interested in trysting with willing widows or indeed anyone at all.
(Well, that was another lie, but he wasn’t going to tryst with his ward’s governess.
Although, he hoped she’d be up for teaching him how to dance a wee bit at some point. A waltz would be useful to know.)
Marcus sent him a look of sympathy. “That bad, is it?”
“You-you have n-n-no idea,” said Phinn. And he wasn’t just talking about his abused body. “I think it will be at least a w-w-week before I go ri-ridin’ again.”
Thank God Kinsale House in Eaton Square wasn’t too far off. Because he’d be limping the entire way.
Christopher slept peacefully through the rest of the night and when Mina rose the next morning, she watched the small lilac butterfly on his pillow fade into the shadows as light filtered into the room.
Perhaps the protection spell helped to keep bad dreams at bay too.
Mina couldn’t be certain, but she had her fingers crossed. It couldn’t hurt to hope for the best.
At ten o’clock, the marquess’s tailor, a Mr. Travers from Savile Row, and his tailor’s assistant, arrived at Kinsale House to take Tom and Christopher’s measurements for a raft of new clothes.
Christopher didn’t seem to mind standing still and being poked and prodded and measured, but Tom Fleet was as twitchy as a rabbit in the sights of a fox.
He looked like he wished to bolt at any second.
When Mr. Travers was done, he tucked his tailor’s chalk in his pocket and draped his tape measure about his neck. “Now, we just need to choose the fabrics,” he said, pushing his silver spectacles up his long nose.
Tom Fleet groaned. “I’d ravver stick pins in me eyes,” he grumbled.
Mina laughed. “It’s all right, Tom. I can take care of that. Why don’t you and Christopher go into the schoolroom and wait for me there?”
Another groan. “Don’t tell me we’re goin’ to start lessons today.”
“I’ll make it as entertaining as possible, I promise. You can show me what you know about coins. How about that?”
“All right,” said Tom with a defeated sigh.
Mina reached into the pocket of her governess’s uniform and pulled out a pack of playing cards. “While you wait, Christopher can teach you how to play Old Maid.”
“It’s wizard fun,” said Christopher brightly as the boys trooped out of his room into the hallway. “Miss Davenport taught me on the train yesterday and I trounced her three times …”
Turning to the tailor, Mina said, “Right, Mr. Travers. Where are these fabric swatches?”
“Oh, the butler suggested that I leave them with the marquess’s valet in the marquess’s suite downstairs,” said the tailor.
“It’s quite a hefty bundle and I wasn’t keen on lugging them all the way up here.
I hope you don’t mind accompanying me to his lordship’s rooms. Mr. Smedley assured me it would be all right. ”