Frowning, he thought back to the point at which his evening had taken a decidedly unwelcome turn. The challenge had come over the faro table, and just when his luck had changed too. Quite why Sir George Weston had chosen that exact moment to demand satisfaction was a mystery, to say the least. The ton may have noticed Sir Weston’s pretty sister making cow eyes at him, but he couldn’t be responsible for every debutante’s flight of fancy, and the heat of his challenge was most curious for a gentleman who usually presented in sensible coats and a quiet manner.
Even if they did have history.
Lord Rotherby’s eyelids sank lower as he recalled the moment he suggested it might be Miss Weston’s fanciful nature that required a challenge, rather than his good self, and that anyone who knew him knew his rules too.
With hindsight, his suggestion that Sir Weston might guess he wouldn’t look for the attentions ofa silly chit who was not only prone to fits of the vapours, but also possesseda ‘braying laugh that could wake an entire neighbourhood’,might have been a little sharp. But the more he thought on it, the more he was convinced it wasn’this fault the girl had a tendency towards theatricals– much less so that she’d invented an entire fanciful romance with him playing the role of chief villain. All of which had led to the ruin of the best hand of cards he’d had in a while.
Lord Rotherby sighed. It really was excessively inconvenient, especially since the season had just begun and he’d backed some real sweet runners at Cheltenham. But as any real gentleman knew, he had little choice but to see the matter through. A challenge, once issued, was a matter of honour and even if there hadn’t been several witnesses present, he’d still be duty-bound to meet sensible Sir George Weston at dawn, with his affairs fully in order.
He slowed as he reached the wide steps of Rotherby House, the grand Grosvenor Square home he’d inherited upon the passing of his parents, and turned to gaze out at the moonlit park. It was his favourite time of day, when the whole neighbourhood was quiet, and illuminated only by the handful of lanterns left to burn overnight. Tonight though, a strange and melancholic mist hung over the silhouetted silver oaks, almost as though they sensed that he might have to leave for a while.
Briefly, he considered the options that lay before him once again. He couldn’t rely on Sir Weston being a terrible shot; he’d hunted with him on a number of occasions and he could hold a pistol like any man. It was more that a Rotherby never missed.
His father’s faded face reached through his thoughts as he gazed at the shadowed park, ignoring an old twist deep inside. As a boy, he would often sleep fitfully, dreaming of the glass-eyed stags his father felled and imagining their escape instead, but the cold light of day would only ever confirm his fears. And when he grew old enough to refuse to join the hunt, his father labelled him ‘a coward, unworthy of his bloodline’–words to which he’d grown hardened after discovering his betrayal.
His mother’s face followed, and Lord Rotherby closed his eyes, recalling the way her gentle tone had always soothed him whenever he was distressed. She’d been his one saving grace, and her untimely death the very reason he would never marry or have children or his own.
‘Do you require a nightcap, my lord?’
The large front door creaked inwards, revealing an elderly gentleman bearing a candle and a kindly smile.
Lord Rotherby regarded the proud retainer, who’d been his butler for as long as he could recall, with real affection. He really needed to put his domestic affairs in order as a matter of priority; they all depended on him after all.
‘No, I thank you, Benson. And shouldn’t you be abed this hour? What have I said about waiting up for me?’
His tone was short but Benson merely inclined his head, unabashed.
‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but I had some personal correspondence to finish.’
Rotherby nodded, though they both knew the truth.
‘I have also left a fire burning in the library, my lord, just as you like.’
‘Thank you,’ Rotherby returned in a milder tone. ‘Though you know you need only ask if you need time off, Benson. No one should be writing letters at one o’clock in the morning!’
‘Thank you, my lord. I am in need of no extra time. Will that be all, my lord?’
‘Yes… That is to say…’
The butler paused his withdrawal, as his young master frowned.
‘It is likely…highlylikely that I will need to leave town tomorrow… for a few weeks. I’ll send word as soon as I can but, in the interim, I’d be grateful if you and Mrs Farleigh could oversee the closure of Rotherby House– as my mother would have wished?’
He paused to consider the damnable speed at which gossip travelled through the ton.
‘Also, it’s probably best not to mention this to anyone– at least not until I send word.’
Lord Rotherby rarely mentioned his parents, save to those long-standing members of his household who remembered them, and even then only when absolutely necessary. In truth, he was quite aware that collectively, they could claim many more memories than he, and suspected most of their enduring loyalty was out of love for his mother, who’d bewitched them all in her short, bright lifetime, rather than his father who’d done little but instil fear.
Yet their marriage had resulted inone note of hope: a quiet boy who adored his mother with all his heart until the day she and his unborn sister died, when he swore his father’s violent blood would end with him. Thankfully, his father had outlived his mother by only a few months and, by the time an eccentric aunt had filled the breach, he was quite used to being thought an orphan. She’d arrived with three trunks of books and a glaring parrot, maintaining that she would guide him only until he came of age and, true to her word, she’d left for Europe the morning of his twenty-first birthday, advising him to look for heronly if he ‘made a real mess of things’.
Tonight was the first time he felt he might have come close.
‘As you wish, my lord,’ Benson said with a nod, the tiny crease between his eyes the only sign that he was at all surprised. ‘Although, might I suggest you peruse the contents of the letter that arrived ten minutes ago before making any… permanent arrangements? I’ve put it on your desk, my lord.’
Lord Rotherby frowned.
‘Thank you, Benson. That will be all.’ He nodded briskly before making his way through the grand hallway of Rotherby House in the direction of his library. Benson was discreet, but the last thing he needed was for Mrs Farleigh and the rest of his overprotective household to get wind of his impending duel. They all worried enough as it was.
