Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (11 page)

“He didn’t wave.”

“Yes he did.”

“He lifted a hand. He didn’t move it to and fro. That’s not waving.”

Nonetheless, they were halfway to the stone border and committed now. As they approached, Rafe slipped his linen-clad arms back into his coat sleeves and ran both hands through his hair.

He looked instantly marvelous.

“I should have worn a different frock,” Clio muttered.

“Why?” Phoebe asked.

“No reason.”

And there truly was no reason. It didn’t matter how she looked. Whatever it was between them . . . It wouldn’t come to anything.

It
couldn’t
come to anything.

And on some level, enjoying the attraction had to be wrong. Until he signed those papers, she was still—on paper, if not in her mind or heart—engaged to Piers. But she’d been waiting so long to feel even the slightest glimmer of this exhilaration. Who could tell when she would feel this way again?

Rafe bid the laborers good-bye and started walking toward them. They met in the center of the field, knee deep in clover.

“Are you helping mend a fence?” Phoebe asked.

“Been working on it a few hours.” He looked over his shoulder. “Mostly finished, I think.”

“That’s good of you,” Clio said. “I’m sure Mr. Kimball appreciates the help.”

He gave a modest shrug. “I’m in training. I need the exertion.”

Oh, and did it ever look well on him. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and he wore that aura of exertion like a golden fleece, radiating health and power. She got rather lost in the dazzle for a moment or two.

“We’re going to the village,” Phoebe said. “I’m buying string.”

“I have a letter to post,” Clio added lamely.

“I’ll join you, if I may.”

So they walked into the village. Clio posted her letter. Phoebe purchased her string. Rafe was hungry from his morning’s work, and he suggested they take luncheon at the pub.

It was a simple, unfussy establishment. A dozen or so tables, a small bar. The day’s meal choices—all two of them—were chalked on a slate. The pub was crowded with customers, and as they entered, everyone in the place turned to gawk.

Clio nodded and smiled, noticing a few familiar faces. She’d made her best efforts to visit the homes of her tenants and become acquainted with the local merchants.

But it wasn’t her appearance that had the caught their fascination—it was Rafe’s. His reputation sailed ahead of them, cutting through the room and leaving quite a wake.

As they moved through the pub, she could hear the whispers.

“That’s Rafe Brandon, isn’t it?”

“The Devil’s Own. I’d heard he was here on holiday.”

“I saw him fight once, you know. At Brighton. He did an exhibition for the regiment just before we shipped to the Peninsula.”

If Rafe heard the gossip, he didn’t acknowledge it. He guided Clio and Phoebe to the last free table in the pub, one tucked in a corner behind a group of men playing cards. When the tavern girl came, he ordered shepherd’s pie for the ladies, and a ploughman’s luncheon of cheese, sliced ham, and buttered bread for himself.

While they waited for their meal, Phoebe pulled out a length of string, cut it off with her teeth, knotted the ends, and began to weave string figures.

“I’ve been working on something new, but I can’t get it right.” She shook her head, frustrated. Then she slipped the string loose and began over again. “Perhaps this through that loop . . . There. Lord Rafe, do you see that bit of string in the middle? Third one down. Pinch it tight, please.”

He did as Phoebe asked, and she pulled her hands downward, widening her fingers to reveal a web of string in the shape of a castle. The bit of string Rafe held had become a soaring spire in the middle, and there were turrets on either side.

“Oh, well done.” Clio applauded.

Rafe whistled in appreciation. “That’s the best yet.”

“It’s a useless accomplishment,” Phoebe said, letting the string drop. “I don’t suppose I can stand up and make string figures when I have my debut.”

“Speaking as someone who attended a few debuts,” Rafe said, “I’d far rather watch a girl make string figures than endure another unfortunate performance at the pianoforte.”

Phoebe looked to Clio. “What did you exhibit at your come-out ball?”

“I played the pianoforte.” Clio gave a wry smile. “Most unfortunately. But Rafe was spared the pain of listening since he didn’t attend.”

He took a draught of ale.

Perhaps she shouldn’t poke at him for it, but his absence had hurt. In childhood, Rafe had always teased her, but she’d thought they were friends, of a sort. And then he’d abandoned her, on the one night when she needed a friend the most.

“It’s just a shame that we can’t preserve the figures somehow,” Clio said. “I wish I could hang them on the wall for everyone to see.”

“Better this way,” Rafe said. “On the wall, it would just be string. Phoebe is what makes it special.”

His praise didn’t seem to have much effect on Phoebe, but it caught Clio by surprise. A tender spot throbbed in her heart. Like a toothache, only somewhat lower down.

He had so many decent qualities. Why did he insist on maintaining such a reputation for devilry? She supposed it must do with his career. “The Dog-Coddling Demon” or “The Fierce Fence-Mender” probably wouldn’t draw many spectators to a fight.

The serving girl brought their food from the kitchen. Phoebe ate quickly, then picked up her string and turned her chair to watch the men playing cards. Clio poked at her serving of pie.

Rafe moved closer to Clio’s corner, where they could speak in relative privacy. “Mr. Kimball was telling me about your land agent and his meeting with the farmers. He shared your ideas for the hopfields and brewery.”

“Oh?”

“He’s not convinced. Neither am I.”

“Why not? Hopfields might require an initial investment, but the farmers will have a ready market for their harvest.”

“Assuming the crop doesn’t fail.” He pushed a wedge of cheese into his mouth.

Clio tried not to stare, but she was quietly fascinated by the unapologetic, masculine manner with which he ate. He didn’t pay any special attention to etiquette. He didn’t make a show of flouting it, either. He just . . . ate.

She found this appealing in a strange, visceral way.

Perhaps she envied him.

“We’ll be keeping coopers, cartwrights, and woodmen furnished with custom,” she said, taking a dainty bite of her own food. “The brewery itself will employ dozens. It’s good for the entire parish. The plans are sound.”

“Be that as it may,” he said, scratching the light growth of whiskers he hadn’t shaved. “Starting a brewery requires a tremendous investment. Hops are a delicate crop. You could lose your entire dowry, and the castle with it. Where will the farmers and coopers be then?”

“I know there’s risk. But it’s not as though I’m chasing some fickle fashion.” She nodded at the crowded pub. “Englishmen aren’t going to cease drinking beer anytime soon.”

“But you’re not an English
man
. You’re an unmarried gentle
woman
with no experience in agriculture or trade.”

“Of course I lack experience. Where would I have acquired it? At finishing school?” She poked at a chunk of beef. “It’s so unfair. Women are allowed to do one-tenth of what men may do, and yet we are scrutinized for it ten times as closely. If I’m going to be found wanting, at least this time it will be different. I would rather be judged for my failures at estate management than for my failures at the pianoforte. It might be a rough start, but I have the funds and determination to make it a success. I’ll be the first to admit there’s much I don’t know. But I’m willing and able to learn.”

When she looked up, Rafe wasn’t at the table. She looked on as he walked to the bar and returned with three pewter tankards, brimming with beer.

“Brown ale,” he said, pushing the first tankard toward her. “Bitter. Porter.”

“All three? You’re very thirsty from your work.”

“They’re for you,” he said. “You said you were willing and able to learn. Let’s see you prove it.”

Ah, so he meant to give her a lesson. That was rather sweet. Ridiculous and unnecessary, but sweet.

Conscious of people watching them, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Thank you. But I know. I would not propose to open a brewery without first understanding brown ale, bitter, and porter.”

“Then let’s see if you can tell the difference.” He slid the tankards around on the tabletop, jumbling them like walnut shells with a pea underneath. “Taste, and tell me which is which.”

“I can tell you which is which by sight. This is the brown ale.” She nodded at each in turn. “This is the porter, and the bitter. But I’m not going to drink any today.”

Clio could hear Mama’s ghost hitting the floor in a swoon at the mere suggestion. Well-bred ladies drank lemonade or barley water. Perhaps a touch of cordial or a glass of claret. Small beer, at home. They didn’t drink ale. Much less porter. Not in public.

“So you want to produce beer, but you don’t want to be seen drinking it. That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense in a nonsensical world.”

He was a man; he had no idea. Ladies were encouraged to produce all manner of things—beauty, dinner, and children, most commonly. But those productions must appear to be effortless. Drawn from feminine mystery and ether. Woe to the lady who plucked her chin hairs in public, or welcomed callers with flour on her hands. Much less dared to admit desire.

“This isn’t the place,” she said.

“This is a public house. It is, by definition,
the
place for drinking.” He nudged the brown ale toward her.

Her pride won out over propriety. With a cautious glance about the pub, Clio lifted and sipped from each heavy tankard in turn. “There. I’ve tasted them.”

“And . . . ?” he prompted.

“And . . . they’re fine.”

“Wrong,” he said. “Two are fine. One is swill. How can you go asking farmers to risk their harvests on the prospect of your brewery if you can’t tell good ale from bad?”

She sighed. There seemed no getting around it. “The brown ale is quite good. Freshly brewed with local water. Sweet, nutty. There’s a touch of honey in it, too. Someone had clover growing next to his barley. The porter is decent. The coffee flavors would be richer if they’d used dark malt, not just burnt sugar for coloring. But everyone’s using the light malt these days. Now, the bitter . . .” She sipped it again and tilted her head. “I wouldn’t call it swill. It had potential, but the yeast didn’t dissolve properly. What might have been crisp sky and grassy fields is just . . . swamped in fog. Pity. A waste of good Kentish hops.”

She raised her gaze to find him staring at her.

“Where did all that come from?” he asked. But his eyes phrased the question slightly differently.
Where did
you
come from?
they asked.

Oh, Rafe. I’ve been here all along.

Just waiting.

“A girl needs a hobby.” She felt a bit cheeky. No doubt the work of the ale. Or perhaps the expression on his face.

He regarded her with those intense green eyes of his, and even though he was violently attractive and oh-so-close, Clio tried not to do something silly and girlish. Such as touch her hair. Or wet her lips. Or recall the feeling of his aroused manhood pressing against her tender flesh.

Naturally, she did all three.

Vexed with herself, she lowered her gaze. “Are you going to keep staring at me like that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’ve a bet with myself. To see if I can make you turn ten shades of pink.”

Well, in that moment he must have counted off yet another. Some muted crimson hue, most likely.

“A man needs a hobby, too.” With a sudden, lethal flash of charm, he pushed back in his chair and stood. “I’ll settle our bill.”

Phoebe leaned toward the neighboring table, where the men were playing cards. “Don’t wait on the king,” she told the man nearest to her, peering over his shoulder at the cards in his hand.

“Phoebe,” Clio whispered sharply. “Don’t. It’s rude to interrupt.”

“But he needs to know.” She tapped the man on the shoulder. “Don’t wait on the king of diamonds. It’s not in the deck.”

“What?” The man looked over his shoulder at her.

“I’ve been watching for fourteen hands now. Every other card in the deck has appeared at least once. With an average of twenty-one cards revealed per hand, the chances of the king of diamonds remaining unplayed would be less than one in . . .” She paused. “One million, three hundred thousand.”

The man brayed with laughter. “There’s no numbers that big.”

“What the devil’s wrong with her?” a man across the table said. “She some kind of half-wit?”

“She’s got more wits than you.” The dealer turned over the remainder of the deck and riffled through it. “She’s right. No king of diamonds. If it isn’t in the deck, where is it?”

Phoebe shrugged. “I’d ask your quiet friend.”

Across the table, a burly, ginger-haired man scowled. “Keep your nose out of men’s business, girl.”

Clio tried to distract her sister, to no avail. When Phoebe latched on to a fact, she could be like a dog with a bone.

“There.” She nodded toward the man with ginger hair. “It’s in his left sleeve. I see the edge of it.”

Now the man rose from the table, looming over them all. “Are you calling me a cheat, you little wench? Because if you are, I won’t stand for it.”

He grabbed the tabletop’s edge with both hands and flipped the entire table, cards and beers and all.

Clio gathered her sister into her arms. Phoebe stiffened at the contact, but it couldn’t be helped. She would not let this man hurt her sister.

“Lying, unnatural witch,” he snarled. “I tell you, I’ll—”

Rafe stepped in, confronting the man chest to chest. His voice was a low, controlled threat. “You’ll stop. That’s what you’ll do. Because if you touch or threaten either one of these ladies again, I swear on everything holy, I will kill you.”

Chapter Eleven

O
h, yes. Rafe could kill him. He could demolish this vile, reeking piece of scum. Easily. With one hand.

Which meant he had to be very careful now.

“Do you know who these ladies are?” he said, both to inform the scum and to remind himself to keep some hold on civility. “They’re both nieces of the Earl of Lynforth. Miss Whitmore is the local landowner and soon to be married to my brother, Lord Granville.”

Rafe still held his tankard of beer in his right hand. With his left forearm, he nudged the man in the chest. Repeatedly.

“You don’t touch them.” He strode forward, backing the man toward the edge of the room. “You don’t speak to them. You don’t look at them.” He pushed the man against the timber-and-plaster wall. “You don’t breathe in their general vicinity, ever again. And in exchange, I let you leave this pub with the same number of teeth you brought in. Miss Whitmore’s intended groom might be a diplomat, but he’s not here right now. I am. And I don’t do anything the nice way.”

In his youth, he’d lived with anger at a constant simmer. Smaller insults than these had sent him boiling over with violence. Ten years ago, he would have punched first and thought later, leaving blood on the walls and no apologies.

He was older now. Wiser, he hoped. But when it came to scum like this? No less angry.

He was closer to losing control than he had been in years.

Easy, Rafe.

The card cheat chuckled. “Oh, I know who you are, Brandon. You had a good run in your day. But that’s all over now, isn’t it?”

“Not for long. I’ll be reclaiming my title soon.”

“That so? Let’s see what you have, then.” The man cracked his neck and shook out his fists. “I’ve been in a brawl or two myself. I’ll take you on.”

Rafe rolled his eyes. Damnation.

This ginger-haired jackass couldn’t be a compliant, fearful, reeking piece of scum. No, the idiot was just drunk enough to make this difficult.

“I don’t spar with amateurs, as a rule.”

“So the gossip’s true,” the drunk taunted. “You’re washed up. Running scared.”

“I said, I don’t spar with amateurs as a rule. But every rule has its exceptions.”

Behind him, someone in the growing throng of onlookers crowed. “It’s a fight, boys!”

“No fighting is necessary,” Clio said, speaking from somewhere behind him.

Rafe heard her.

His eyes never left the card cheat, but he heard her. And though he couldn’t reassure her, she needn’t worry. He knew very well what was at stake in this situation—for her and for him.

“This was all our fault for interrupting the card game,” she said bravely. “Sirs, you have our sincere apologies. Isn’t that right, Phoebe?”

“I see no reason to apologize,” Phoebe said. “He was cheating. I was right.”

“Neither of you owes this man a damn thing,” Rafe growled, taking a handful of the scum’s shirtfront and twisting it in his grip until he’d hauled the man up on his toes. “I’m going to give him what he’s got coming.”

The man’s face paled in a most satisfying fashion.

All around them, the tavern customers’ excitement reached a new pitch. Men cleared the tables and chairs to the edges of the room. Wagers were being made. And the reeking filth he held dangling in his grip . . . well, he had to be hearing how few of those bettors liked his chances.

Rafe was getting hungry. And he didn’t mind who saw it. He had earned this brutish reputation, and it was his to use as he pleased.

A soft touch landed on his shoulder. Clio’s voice broke as she whispered, “Rafe, please. Don’t do this.”

“Oh, I’m doing this. And I’m going to enjoy it. Just as soon as I set down my drink.”

With that, he drove his right hand forward, crashing his tankard into the limewashed plaster of the tavern wall, just six inches from the man’s blanched, ugly face. Beer sloshed the floor.

When he withdrew his hand, the tankard stayed there, embedded in the plaster. As though he’d made it its own little shelf.

“Still eager to fight me?” Rafe asked.

The man flicked a glance toward the tankard stuck in the wall, no doubt picturing it embedded in his teeth. “I . . . That . . .”

“Didn’t think so.” Rafe released the man, and he dropped to the floor and lay there. Just like the scum he was.

Before the onlookers could catch their breath, Rafe had both Clio and Phoebe under one protective arm.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he told the crowd. “No fight today.” To Clio, he murmured, “Let’s be on our way.
Now.
”

Rafe didn’t have to ask her twice.

Clio was only too happy to leave the place.

The three of them walked out of the village without stopping or speaking, all the way until they reached the country path.

When they came to a stile, Rafe stopped and turned to them. He swept them both with a concerned glance. “Are you both well? Not harmed at all?”

Clio shook her head. “We’re not harmed. Just rattled a bit.”

“That was my fault, wasn’t it?” Phoebe’s delicate dark brows knitted in a frown. “I made him angry.”

“No,” Clio said. “He was a drunkard and a cheat, and you did nothing wrong.”

“But I did. I did.” She tugged at her hair. “I’m always doing or saying the wrong thing. I know I’m odd.”

“Phoebe, darling. You’re not odd. You’re special.”

“Why make the distinction, as if they aren’t the same thing?”

Clio moved to comfort her with a pat on the shoulder.

Her sister brushed the touch aside. “If you’re worried I’m going to weep or go into hysterics, don’t. I never do either. That’s what makes me odd. Or at least, it’s part of it. You can’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t think or behave the way others do. There are things that are important to me that no one else seems to give a fig about. And then there are things everyone else seems to prize, and try as I might, I can’t understand the fuss. Daphne teases me. Clio, you’re too polite, but I know you’re worried. I’ve heard you discussing it.”

“We both love you,” Clio said.

“And I don’t understand that, either.” Phoebe clambered over the stile and strode away.

Clio moved to rush after her, but Rafe held her back.

“Let her go,” he said. “She knows the way home.”

“But she’s upset and hurting. I can’t abide it.”

“You don’t have a choice. Because she’s got it right. She’s not like other girls.” He silenced her objections with a touch to the arm. “I may not be brilliant with numbers like Phoebe, but I know something about being troubled at sixteen. Trust me on this. From time to time, she’ll need the space to sort things through. It’s all right to let her walk away. Just make certain she knows she can always come back.”

Clio suspected he was right, but that didn’t make it any easier.

To distract herself, she tilted her head and looked at his hand. What she saw made her wince. “You’re bleeding. You must have scraped your knuckles on the plaster.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Let me see to it anyway.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and lifted his hand into the sunlight for closer examination. “If I’m letting Phoebe walk away, I need to fuss over someone.”

He relented, leaning against the stile while she dabbed at his wounds.

With his free hand, he reached into his pocket. “Here. Use this. It’s good for all manner of aches and pains.” He withdrew a small, disc-shaped tin, smaller than a snuffbox. “Bruiser swears by it.”

“Bruiser,” she repeated, taking the tin and tracing its circumference with her thumb. “So he
is
your trainer. I thought as much. Wherever did you find that man?”

“I don’t recall. It’s been years now. And I’d taken some strong blows to the head that week.”

She smiled.

“I can make him drop the Montague act if you like. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

“No, don’t bother. It’s amusing to watch Daphne fawn over him. And he’s enjoying himself. It’s nice to know at least one of my guests is appreciating the castle.”

With a flick of her thumbnail, Clio opened the lid of the salve. A wave of rich, pungent scent reached her. She recognized it instantly.

Oil of wintergreen.

She stood motionless for a moment, reckoning with its effect on her.

He stretched his fingers. “If you’re trying to tell my fortune, you’re staring at the wrong side of my hand.”

She gave herself a brisk shake, breaking the spell. With the tip of her middle finger, she gathered a small amount of the salve and dabbed it on his scraped knuckles.

No, she hadn’t been trying to tell his fortune. But that moment had given her painful insight into her own.

Sometimes, she believed, it
was
possible to see the future. No need to cross a palm with silver; no crystal ball required. All it took was the courage to look inside your own heart and be honest about what you found there.

What she saw today was this: For the rest of her life, even if she lived to see a hundred summers, anytime she smelled wintergreen, she would think of Rafe Brandon. The warmth of his coat, and the devilish tip of his grin, and the sweet way he’d kissed her in the rain.

She soothed her fingertip over his abraded flesh. Gently, as if his hand were a damp-feathered hatchling instead of an instrument of violence. “He never made you feel welcome to come back, did he? The late marquess, I mean. When you were a troubled youth and needed time to walk away, sort things out . . . He was too stubborn to welcome you home.”

“Can’t blame the man.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t like Phoebe. I was a true hellion. Too far gone.”

“Yours was the calmer head today.” She stroked his hand. “Thank you for coming to our rescue.”

“I know how you hate an unpleasant scene.”

“Sometimes an unpleasant scene is warranted.”

In truth, Rafe had dealt with the situation perfectly. He’d punished the cheater, defended Clio and Phoebe . . . And he’d given the crowd what they craved, as well. An impressive display of strength and danger. A story to tell, retell, and embellish in months and years to come. All of that with no blood spilled, no part of his pugilistic reputation compromised.

“Tomorrow I’ll go back to smooth things over,” he said. “And I’ll pay the tavernkeeper for the damage.”

She laughed a little. “You mean the plaster? They’re not going to patch that hole. They’ll probably make a frame around that tankard and display it with pride. ‘Rafe Brandon Drank Here.’ ”

As soon as the words came out of her, an idea took hold. Her mind began turning faster than a waterwheel.

“That’s it,” she said, closing the tin with a snap. “That’s what I need to make this brewery successful. A business associate.”

“An associate?”

“Yes. Someone who has a good rapport with the farmers and tradesmen. Someone with a name known in pubs and taverns all throughout England.” Excitement rose in her chest, and she looked him in the eye. “I don’t suppose you know anyone like that?”

His jaw was steely. “No.”

“Come along, Rafe. This could be perfect. We could . . . We could call it the Devil’s Own Ale. To advertise, you could go about England, punching tankards into tavern walls. I’d give you a share of the profits.”

“You want to
hire
me?”

She shrugged. “Why not? At some point, you have to take up a career.”

“I have a career. I’m a fighter.”

“But—”

“It won’t happen, Clio.” He cut off her objection by lifting her over the stile. Then he vaulted the wooden fence himself and resumed walking along the path.

End of conversation.

Clio walked a step behind him, sighing to herself. How could the idea of a brewery compete with the glory of a prizefighting career? How could anything?

She had to admit, the prospect of imminent fisticuffs
had
been rather exciting. When she’d thought Rafe was preparing to fight that cheating blackguard, chills had raced over her skin. Not merely because Rafe was
a
champion, but because he was acting as
hers.

But even that rare, heady thrill was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the relief she felt when he punched the wall instead.

She’d followed the sport for years now, and she knew how these fighters too often ended. Forgotten. Impoverished. Sometimes imprisoned. Broken, in body and mind.

It would kill her to see that happen to Rafe.

Between the relative privacy and the lingering courage imparted by the beer, Clio felt brave enough to tell him so. She jogged to his side. “I think you lied to me when I came to your warehouse in Southwark.”

“How’s that?”

“You told me I hadn’t walked in on a suicide. Now I’m not so sure. I know you weren’t planning to hang yourself, but going back to fighting . . . ? Isn’t it a slower route to the same end?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

“I read the accounts of your fights, Rafe. And not just because I read the papers, and you happened to be in them. I sought them out. I read about all thirty-four rounds of your bout with Dubose. The magazines recounted it in such breathless detail. Every blow and bruise.”

“The reporters make it sound more dangerous than it is. It’s how they sell magazines. And it helps generate interest for the next fight.”

Clio’s concerns weren’t soothed. “I hate the way people speak about you. Even in that pub today, the way they all leapt to clear space and place wagers. As if you were an inhuman creature meant to bleed and suffer for their amusement, no better than a fighting cock or a baited bear. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No. I don’t fight for them. I fight for me.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“Because I’m good at it,” he said, sounding agitated now. “I am bloody great at it. And I was never good at anything. Because it’s the one place where I know that my success is mine, and my failure, too. In the ring, I might be facing an Irish dock laborer or an English tanner or an American freedman. When the bell rings, none of it matters worth a damn. It’s only me. My strength, my heart, my wits, my fists. Nothing I was given, nothing I took. I fight because it tells me who I am.”

“If you’re looking for someone to tell you who you are, I can do that.”