Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (19 page)

“Then you collect on the wager,” Phoebe finished. “The earnings are limited, but so are the losses. There’s no way you can lose everything.”

“Hedging your bets.” Rafe scratched his jaw. “That’s just mad enough to be genius.”

Phoebe shrugged. “I’ve been called both.”

“Well.” Clio took her by the arm. “As your oldest sister, I am calling you to bed. We have an important day tomorrow. It’s your first proper ball.”

Her sister’s face was grim. “Oh, yes. The miserable ordeal.”

“It won’t be so bad. These things can’t be avoided forever. Not if you’re to have your come-out next season.”

“No one’s going to court me. Why must I have a come-out at all?”

Clio caught a lock of her sister’s hair. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there for you. I do know how it is.”

“You don’t know how it is for
me.
” Phoebe’s dark head turned, and the lock of hair slipped from Clio’s fingers. “Lord Rafe, you are coming with us tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Rafe’s eyes were dark as they met Clio’s.

Please,
she silently begged him.
Please come.

His presence would soothe Phoebe, and as for Clio . . .

This could be her last chance.
Their
last chance. Once she’d broken her engagement to Piers, she wouldn’t have an excuse to invite Rafe to these things. What it could hurt, for the two of them to have one evening to remember?

“You still owe me a dance,” she reminded him. “I think it’s time to pay the debt.”

“It’s not a good idea. There’s a reason I left your debut ball. I’m out of my element at those things. Restless. And when I grow restless . . . that’s when the devil in me rises. People get hurt.”

“I rather like the devil in you,” she said. “I’ll be hurt if you stay away.”

In a move that was as awkwardly sweet as it was uncharacteristic, Phoebe reached out and clutched Rafe’s forearm. “Please. Do say yes.”

He sighed. “I’ll sleep on it.”

Chapter Nineteen

R
afe didn’t sleep at all that night.

And when dawn arrived, he left.

For an hour, maybe two, he kept the horse at a walk. He didn’t want to push his mount too hard, and in his current mood, that was all too likely. Step after step, he put distance between himself and Twill Castle.

And Clio.

He knew she’d be disappointed, but he had to go. He didn’t trust himself. If he spent one more moment in her presence, with those fair, soft hands reaching out to him—he’d haul her close, ruining her and both their families.

No, this was the perfect time to leave. After he’d done all he could, and before he cocked anything up. He’d made certain his brother would have a chance to win her back, and to be honest, that was probably more than Piers deserved.

After a while, the stretch of road started to look familiar. He wasn’t but four or five miles from Queensridge.

And in Queensridge, he could find a fight.

God, that was just what he needed. He’d gone too long without the taste of blood in his mouth and the frenzied roar of a crowd in his ears. He was forgetting who he was.

He could have walked into any hamlet and picked a scuffle with the local loudmouthed blackguard. Every village pub had one. But he wasn’t a bully, and he didn’t fight amateurs. He needed a proper bout with a skilled opponent.

The Crooked Rook was just the place.

In centuries past, the inn had been a favored haunt of smugglers and highwaymen. Nowadays it mostly catered to a prizefighting crowd. Since prizefights were illegal, they had to be staged well outside Town and could only be publicized on short notice. The broadsheet went out a day in advance, and from there it was a mad race for spectators to reach the designated site.

The Crooked Rook was ideal: close enough to London, not too far from the main road. Only a few hours’ journey for most. It had a wide, empty field in the back with plenty of room for a proper ring and spectators. And Salem Jones, the current proprietor, stayed on friendly bribing terms with the local magistrates.

To Rafe, and many others, it had become a surrogate home. If he had entered the place last year—back when he was champion—he would have been met with a rousing cheer from every corner.

Today, when he strode through the doorway just about noontime, his reception was more tepid. Oh, a good many nodded or called in his direction. But the general mood in the place was uncertain. No one quite knew what to make of a vanquished champion.

He cracked his neck. That would change by the time he left this place. It felt like a good day to start a comeback. And a quick glance toward the bar was all he needed to find his first opponent.

Prizefighters fought for different reasons. Some liked the sport. Some liked the money. Some just liked to make men bleed.

Finn O’Malley belonged in the latter category. He’d been champion some dozen years ago, but for the past decade O’Malley had been holding down the leftmost barstool at the Crooked Rook. He only roused himself from that perch for one of two reasons: to go out for a piss or to throw a punch. He’d fight anyone, loser buys the next round.

The man hadn’t paid for a pint in years.

Rafe made a path straight for him.

The aging Irishman peered up at him, his eyes dark, wary slits. “Is that Brandon? What do you want?”

“I want a fight. One washed-up champion against another.”

O’Malley sneered. “I only fight idjits for pints. I don’t fight champions unless there’s a purse.”

“That can be arranged.” Rafe drew his own money from his pocket. He shook a few coins loose and kept them, then dropped the remaining weight on the counter. It landed with a resounding
thunk.
“Hold it for us,” he told the barkeep.

A new fire kindled behind O’Malley’s eyes. It was a look that told him this wouldn’t be easy.

Good. Rafe didn’t want it to be easy.

“In the courtyard.” O’Malley placed both hands on the counter and levered his weight off the stool. “Give us a minute. After I take m’self out for a piss.”

Rafe nodded.

As he stood gathering his thoughts, a tankard of porter appeared on the bar before him.

“From the lady.” The barkeep tilted his head toward a hazy corner of the tavern.

Lady?
Hah. Only one kind of “lady” frequented this establishment.

Rafe had a glance.

Slender. Dark-haired. Fetching.

Available.

He could see exactly how it would go. First he’d win this fight, then he’d go to her upstairs. He’d start to wash the sweat and blood from his face, but she’d tell him not to bother. When he touched her, she’d shiver—on purpose, because she liked the idea of being scared. His brutishness would excite her.

And from there, it would be just like all his other encounters. Quick and rough and, in the end, unsatisfying.

He lifted his porter, attempting to drown the twinge of guilt. Perhaps that kind of encounter was what he needed. It was time he stopped slavering over a woman—an innocent, betrothed, gently bred
virgin
—he couldn’t have.

What did he want with yards of ivory lace and a four-post bed with two dozen pillows? There could be no wedding nights or honeymoons or happily-ever-afters in a bloody storybook castle.

Not for a man like him.

“Rafe Brandon, you dodgy bastard.” Salem Jones emerged from the inn’s back room. In his arms, he carried a small trunk, which he set down on a nearby table.

Rafe offered his hand in thanks, and Jones used it to draw him into a hug.

“You stayed away too long,” he said, patting Rafe on the back.

Jones was a West Indian freedman, born in Jamaica and come to England with a group of abolitionists some twenty years ago. As an eyewitness to slavery with stirring testimony, he’d made his Quaker sponsors pleased indeed.

As a pacifist, however, he’d been a profound disappointment.

Like most prizefighters, Jones had a few good years. Unlike most, he’d parlayed that success into something more lasting—the Crooked Rook.

At those odd hours of the night when he contemplated his life beyond prizefighting, Rafe had thought about offering to buy a stake in the place. Despite what he’d told Clio, he did know his years in fighting were numbered, and he wanted to make something of his future. But it had to be on his own terms. He didn’t belong in any sort of office. And he wanted to be more than a tavern curiosity, fighting for pints or slamming tankards into plaster walls.

“I reckon you’re here for this.” Jones patted the trunk. “The rest are in back. Let the barkeep know where you want them.”

Rafe had almost forgotten about the things, to be honest. He’d asked Jones to hold these trunks for him when he moved out of his rooms at the Harrington. He didn’t want clutter in the warehouse while he was training.

He opened the trunk, sifting through a stack of linen shirts and wool trousers. He hoped he’d find something more comfortable for a sparring match—but the garments in this trunk were too fine. When he reached the bottom, his hand closed on a small, plain wooden box.

He knew what it contained before he even lifted it into view.

It was the box with Clio’s letters.

He laughed to himself. Just when he’d made up his mind to forget her. She’d followed him, even here.

She’d followed him everywhere, hadn’t she? No matter how many times he changed his address. Over the years she’d kept sending him these missives—one or two a month, at least. Rafe had stashed them away in this box. He didn’t pore over them, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard them, either. They just sort of stuck to him, the way sweet things tended to do.

“Well?” O’Malley came back in from his piss. “Are we on?”

“In a bit.”

Rafe dropped himself in a chair, ordered another pint of porter, sent a bottle of wine to the “lady” who’d be spending the night alone . . . and then did something he hadn’t done willingly in years.

He settled in to read.

Most of the notes were breezy, dashed-off invitations, mixed in with the occasional bit of family news. All of it out of date, and none of it especially momentous.

We’re having a dinner party Thursday next. If you have no other plans that night, you’d be most welcome.

Warmest birthday greetings from all of us here at Whitmore House.

I’ve had a new letter from Piers, and I’ve taken the liberty of copying the parts that might interest you. We’ll be spending August at my uncle’
s estate in Hertfordshire. If you find yourself passing through, do pay a call.

Nevertheless, Rafe went through letter after letter, note after note, reading every last word she’d penned from salutation to close. By the time he lifted his head and rubbed his bleary eyes, the sky was growing dark.

The notes were so brief on their own, so inconsequential. But when taken together, their weight was crushing.

When he’d walked away from Brandon House, his father had closed the door. The rest of his family and high-class acquaintances had shut their doors, too.

Everyone but Clio.

She’d reached out to him, again and again. Never letting him drift too far away. Ready to welcome him, whenever he might decide to appear.

She couldn’t know what that had meant to him.

Probably because he’d never made the effort to tell her.

It was so ironic. As a youth, he’d never felt he belonged. Now the older he grew, the more he could see the Brandon traits he’d inherited. Qualities like ambition, and pride, and the stubborn refusal to admit any feelings until it was too damned late.

He tamped down the futile swell of anger. The past was decided. There could be no changing it.

Nor would there be any changing him.

He couldn’t be the man Clio needed. Even if he returned to society, scandal would always follow him. It wasn’t merely the gossip. He was formed now, set in his ways—for good or ill. There was too much restlessness in his mind, and his body craved constant action. He wasn’t suited to the life of a gentleman, and he didn’t want to be. He could never be one of those useless, preening prats like Sir Teddy Cambourne.

Rafe simply didn’t know how to do nothing.

Which was why, now that he’d finally read all these missives, he couldn’t sit idle another moment. He owed her a debt much larger than a dance. Even if he couldn’t be the man she needed, Rafe needed to do
something.

He stood, gathering the letters and envelopes one by one. When piled, they made a stack as thick as his wrist. Over the years, she must have invited him to hundreds of dinners, parties, balls.

The least he could do was show up to one, and somehow make it worth all the rest.

He rose from the chair, stretching the stiffness from his arms and legs. It wasn’t too late. He had an hour or two of waning daylight. A few suitable items of clothing in this trunk. He couldn’t dash off penniless, however.

He went to the bar to retrieve his money. “Sorry, old friend,” he told O’Malley. “The bout will have to wait for another day.”

Rafe reached for the purse.

“Not so fast.” Finn O’Malley’s big hand clapped over his. “You want that back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”

“I don’t think Lord Rafe’s coming.”

Clio had been holding the words back all evening, and now they slipped out. Here, in the quietest nook of the Pennington ballroom, where she and Phoebe had passed the last two hours. Waiting, watching. Punctuating the boredom by straightening the seams of her gloves or rearranging the drape of her rose-colored silk.

Every once in a while, an acquaintance made the pilgrimage to their remote corner to exchange greetings. They asked about Piers and the wedding, and practiced the art of the subtle-yet-unmistakable smirk. She could tell what they all were thinking: Will Granville this time, or won’t he?

But it wasn’t Piers and his absence that occupied Clio’s mind.

More than eight years after her debut ball, she was still waiting—in vain—for Rafe Brandon to claim his dance.

As they watched the ladies and gentlemen pairing up for a dance, Phoebe teased a bit of string from her pocket. “He’ll be here.”

“It’s half past eleven. Perhaps something happened to change his plans.”

She’d meant to seek him out earlier that day, make certain he meant to attend. She didn’t want Phoebe to be disappointed. But he hadn’t come down for breakfast, and then she’d been too busy with her sisters, preparing for the ball. By the time she went searching for him midafternoon, he’d already gone. Bruiser said he probably meant to meet them at the ball, but who could know the truth.

He could be back in that Southwark warehouse by now, carrying on with his life.

Or he could be thrown from his horse, lying injured in a ditch and using his last bits of strength to write her name in his own blood.

She really shouldn’t hope for the second scenario, but a horrible, selfish part of her preferred it to the first. He wasn’t here, and she couldn’t help but feel hurt. It dredged up all those all subtle insults.

You’re a good girl, Clio. But that’s not good enough.

They were joined by Sir Teddy, who carried two cups of punch, and Daphne, who brought them a delicate scowl. “Phoebe, I can’t believe you brought that string.”

“I don’t go anywhere without string.”

“Well, you can’t have a ratty bit of twine in a ballroom.” She plucked the string from Phoebe’s hand and cast it on the floor, where it was immediately trampled. “Tonight, we want people talking about Clio’s wedding, not your peculiarities.”

“I have more,” Phoebe said.

“Peculiarities? Oh, yes. You have no end of those.”

“String.” She reached into her reticule and brought out another length of twine.

“Give that here.” Daphne grabbed for the twine.

This time, Phoebe held tight. “No.”

“Leave her be,” Clio said. She was not in the mood to tolerate Daphne’s mothering.

For that’s what all this was. Mothering, as they’d learned it in the Whitmore house. Daphne
thought
she was being caring and protective, in her own strange, misguided way. But she was wrong.