Thirty-two
Lord Roger Fishwick strolled into White’s at half-past nine in the morning with only a slight wobble in his walk. True, he wasn’t entirely sober, but he wasn’t as drunk as usual after an all-night carouse either.
A few gentlemen were engaged in a card game, but for once, Lord Gobberd wasn’t among them. Instead, that overblown windbag had commandeered one of the stuffed chairs by the large window, the better to see and be seen as he read his freshly ironed newspaper and slurped down his morning coffee.
At least he’s a useful overblown windbag, Roger thought. Anything the teeniest bit scandalous about anyone was sure to have caught Gobberd’s notice, and he wasn’t shy about sharing his knowledge.
Roger slid into the chair opposite him and signaled to the waiting footman to bring him a steaming cup.
“The Jamaican brew, and step lively,” he ordered. Tea simply wouldn’t do. A pot of chocolate was for women or men with no hair on their chests. To keep Roger awake and upright, it had to be Arabica beans so stout they could lift the cup and carry it across the table on their own.
Gobberd peered over the top of his paper, his slanting gaze taking in the bedraggled state of Roger’s neckcloth and the grubbiness of his cuffs.
“Haven’t found your bed yet, I see, Fishwick.”
“No matter,” Roger said with a cheerful snort. “I found someone else’s.”
Gobberd laughed heartily at that. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, son. You remind me of me.”
A much younger and fitter version of you, Roger thought as the footman brought his coffee.
Unfortunately, the servant jostled the cup in the saucer as he set it down and spilled some of the precious brew.
Roger gave him a blistering tongue-lashing and the fellow backed away, apologizing profusely and promising to bring a fresh pot, not just a fresh cup.
“And a plate of biscuits too, while you’re about it,” Roger said with an imperious glare. Once the fellow hotfooted it back to the kitchen, Roger turned back to Lord Gobberd. “What’s wrong with the help this morning?”
“That poor fellow isn’t one of the regulars,” Gobberd said.
“The usual wait staff has the day off to prepare for that blasted Ladies’ Maids’ Ball this evening.
The whole city’s in a boiling stew over it.
” Gobberd cleared his throat loudly and, to Roger’s stomach’s discomfort, snorted wetly.
“A lot of nonsense, if you ask me. Does a real disservice to the lower classes. Gives ’em airs above their station. ”
The substitute footman came back, walking with such care it looked as if he scarcely drew breath. Roger took a sip of the coffee.
“It’s cold,” he complained. When the footman started to remove the tray, Roger stopped him with a glare. “Leave it. I’ve no hope you’d get it right even if you did try again.”
“Not to mention that he’ll probably spit in your cup next time,” Gobberd muttered behind his paper. “It’s only coffee. Why so particular?”
Roger swallowed back his reply. “Only” coffee.
Gobberd’s use of “only” whisked him back to his childhood when it seemed all he heard was “only.” It had been only his marks in school…only his seat on a horse…only the way he spoke with his mouth full…
Only. Only. Only.
His parents tried to control everything about him, all the while trying to make it seem as if it was for his own good.
As if they cared.
He knew better.
They treated him as though he were merely an appendage of themselves, as if his accomplishments were theirs. And as if his failures somehow redounded to them as well. Oh, how they made him pay when that happened.
But as Roger moved through his awkward boyhood, he found his own ways of taking control. He found that he liked it.
Craved it, even.
Of course, when his parents found his little experiments with power, the skinned frogs and singed cats, they’d tried to threaten him into stopping.
Once his father had even beaten him, but when Roger gutted his favorite hunting dog the next day in a way that made it seem as if the hound had run afoul of a wild boar, the threats and beatings stopped.
His parents walked warily around him after that.
They should have known better than to try to deny him, so he’d simply wrestled it from them.
Control.
And now that his parents were dead, he was the one who held all the power in his life.
Finally.
Roger studied Lord Gobberd over his cold coffee. If he didn’t understand how vitally important it was to have absolute control over every aspect of one’s life, Roger couldn’t explain it to him. Gobberd was content to bobble along through life like so much bloated flotsam.
Not Roger. He’d do one better than control his own life. He’d make certain of the fate of those around him as well. It was the “only” thing to do.
“Not much doing here this morning. I don’t see any of the regulars,” Roger said.
He’d hoped to run into Lord Nathaniel Colton again, without Lady Georgette at his side this time.
Though the man had technically done him what others saw as a “good turn” when he paid for his care that day Roger had stumbled into White’s, it grated on Roger’s nerves that others thought he was beholden to Colton in some way.
He’d never surrender that sort of power to another. Colton needed to learn that.
“Why is this place so dead this morning?” Roger asked.
Gobberd glared at him over his paper, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Probably because there’s also a ball for the Duke of Cambridge at Lord Yorkingham’s this evening.” Lord Gobberd flipped to the next page and scanned the headlines. “Didn’t you receive an invitation?”
“Of course,” Roger said quickly. He hadn’t, but Gobberd didn’t need to know that. “Yorkingham’s country seat abuts my own property. Our families have been friendly for years.”
Less friendly since his parents died rather unexpectedly and Roger came into the barony in his own right. But again, that was information Lord Gobberd didn’t need.
“I find it odd that it requires an entire day to prepare for an evening’s entertainment,” Roger said.
Lord Gobberd gave up and laid his paper aside.
“According to all reports, this will be no ordinary evening. Odds highly favor that the Duke of Cambridge will make an official proposal to Lady Georgette at the ball. Check the book, if you doubt me. I’ve put fifty pounds on the lady’s nose myself.
She’ll be the first filly out of the gate in the ‘Hymen Race Terrific’ if the betrothal and marriage come to fruition. ”
White’s ledger of wagers was full of any number of items on which its members might hazard a bet.
Whether or not Lady Georgette Yorkingham would become a royal was high on the current list, just under whether or not a horse named Blanchington’s Fancy would throw a shoe during its race on Saturday next.
“Hmm, I would have said the lady was taken with Lord Nathaniel Colton, not the royal duke,” Roger mused. He’d noticed the way Georgette and Colton sneaked glances at each other at the Daventrys’ musical evening and drew his own conclusions. “They’ve been seen together in public quite a bit.”
“Doesn’t signify. He’s only serving as an escort because of his past relationship with the family.” Gobberd shook his head, setting his jowls swaying, and resumed reading his paper. “But if Colton has feelings for the lady, he’s in for a rough evening.”
Wonder if there’s a way I can make it rougher, Roger mused as he bit down on one of the biscuits. The shortbread was stale and he pushed aside the rest in disgust.
“Speak of the devil,” Gobberd said, lowering his paper. “Or should I say ‘devil-ette.’”
Lady Georgette strolled past the large window at White’s, accompanied by her maid. The girl was chattering happily and Lady Georgette seemed to actually be listening.
As if a servant might possibly have something worthwhile to say.
“That maid seems an insolent bit of baggage,” Roger said. “I require mine to be seen only when absolutely necessary and heard not at all.”
“An old-fashioned view, I fear. Nowadays, women confide a good deal in their maids. Almost make companions of them,” Gobberd said with a derisive snort. “Were I a betting man—and I am—I’d lay odds that Lady Georgette takes that young chit to the palace with her when she marries.”
“Surely not. The royals undoubtedly have plenty of servants already.” Roger squinted at the maid and recognized her. “Besides, I have it on good authority that the young woman used to sell herself in Covent Garden.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Lord Gobberd said. “Word is Lady Georgette is spearheading a misguided effort to save soiled doves, you know. Stands to reason her maid is one of her ‘successes.’ See how she seems to dote upon her.”
Roger followed the women’s progress down the street. They did seem more like friends than employer and employee, heads together conspiratorially as they ducked into a milliner’s shop. Perhaps that unnatural attachment between them was something he could use.
A plan began to take shape in his gin-soaked brain. It was brilliant in its audacity. He’d exercise control over a woman who’d snubbed him and a man who thought he was beholden to him. Roger would even tweak the nose of the royal duke by denying him a bride in the process.
Now that was power.
Roger rose so hastily, his chair toppled over behind him.
“Where are you haring off to, Fishwick?”
“I just remembered some…some matters of my estate to which I must attend.” He dashed out of White’s. There was so much to do.
Of course, if he managed to pull it off, no one could ever know it was his work.
But he’d know.
And that would be enough.
***
“Oh, milady, it’s the finest thing I ever had in all me livin’ life.
” Mercy clutched the hatbox to her chest as they walked back to the waiting Yorkingham carriage.
“And no one’s ever worn it before me. Meanin’ no disrespect, I’m sure.
I’m tickled to pieces to be wearing that old gown o’ yours this evening.
But to think I’d ever have a brand new bonnet to go with it… ”