Dearest Alexander,
I was reading through some of Lord Chesterfield’s old letters yesterday and found this shining gem from one of his early posts. “The strong mind distinguishes, not only between the useful and the useless, but likewise between the useful and the curious. He applies himself intensely to the former; he only amuses himself with the latter.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Race had never been so caught off guard that he was speechless, until now. He felt Susannah’s protective step toward him and Gibby’s, too, but the last thing he wanted was for them to witness this stranger’s outrageous behavior. What the devil was this man thinking to make such a claim in front of more than two dozen people?
He didn’t know this short, rotund, and very angry man staring at him, accusing him of being a seducer of innocent ladies, but that was about to change.
Through the years, Race had tempted many young ladies into giving him forbidden kisses in dark gardens at parties and balls, and in his younger years he had tempted a few of them into letting him share their bed, as well. This was the first time he had ever been accused in public of such risqué behavior.
As of late, the younger ladies had lost their appeal, which was evidenced by Miss Mayflower just a few days ago. More than once she had tried to corner him at his card party, but he’d avoided her each time. Recently, he’d much rather spend a leisurely evening in bed with his mistress than chasing after insipid ladies who were too young to know what they were doing.
The first thing he had to do was safeguard the duchess from this ill-mannered oaf. Race slowly set the food basket down at his feet and calmly stepped in front of Her Grace, shielding her.
“Sir, as you undoubtedly know, I am the Marquis of Raceworth. Identify yourself.”
“I know who you are, my lord.” The older, balding man bowed quickly. “I am Mr. Steven Prattle. I am here to defend my sister’s honor.”
Race felt the duchess move from behind him to his side. He tried to step in front of her again, but she took hold of the crook of his arm and held firm, releasing him only when he stopped trying to shield her from the man.
Gibby remained at his other side. They were both making it clear that no matter this man’s claims, they were supporting him whether he liked it or not. And while their defense made him feel damn good, it was not comfortable to find himself in the middle of this situation. He didn’t like being called out in public, and he was incensed it had happened in front of the duchess, not to mention at least two dozen other people who were inching closer to them with every second that passed.
Race didn’t recognize the man’s name, and he couldn’t remember a young lady named Prattle, either. He searched his memory for what incident this could be about. What the hell had he done to a young lady whose name he didn’t recognize? The sun that earlier had been warm and inviting suddenly seemed scorching hot. He felt as if someone was pulling on his neckcloth, choking him.
“And well you should look after your sister,” Race said calmly, even though his insides were shaking with anger at this man’s ill manners, “but this is not the place to do it. This matter should be handled in private, not in a public park.”
The man walked closer but still kept a reasonable distance. “I went to his house, but he wasn’t there.”
His house? That didn’t make sense. Unless…
Race’s eyes narrowed. “Are you talking to me, sir?” Race asked.
The man’s bloodshot eyes bulged with rage, and his heavy cheeks shook. “Of course I’m talking to you! But he is the man I want to talk to! That man standing beside you, Sir Randolph Gibson.”
This time it was clear the man pointed to Gibby, not Race.
Gibby?
Race felt as if a fist slammed into his stomach, and he jerked toward his elderly friend.
“Me?” Gib said and pointed to his chest with his thumb. He threw a questioning glare to Race, to the small crowd that had now gathered around them, and then back to Mr. Prattle again. “You are accusing me of compromising an innocent young lady, sir?”
“I am,” he thundered. “And it’s not that she’s that young anymore, but she is innocent.”
It was one thing for the man to accuse Race of a vile act—he could easily defend himself—but accusing Gibby was a whole different matter. Race wouldn’t let the man get away with that. Everyone in London knew Gibby was a man of impeccable honor.
Race turned to his friend and in a low voice said, “Gib, do you know what he’s talking about?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands as if to sayI have no idea what this man is talking about, and Race didn’t really want to find out here in the park with more than two dozen pairs of eyes and ears crowding even closer to listen.
Sweat beaded on Prattle’s upper lip and trickled down his neck to his collar. Clearly he was fighting angry. His clothing and speech indicated he was a man of some means, but obviously he was deep in his cups and had forgotten civility. Surely, even his sister would not want him announcing this kind of information in public. Race considered it an insult to her that her brother was doing this.
Race took a deep breath. “Mr. Prattle, I must insist that we move out of the park and finish this conversation at a more private location. We will meet you wherever you wish.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” he shouted and pointed his finger at Gibby again. “He compromised my sister, and I’m calling him out. I’m challenging him to a duel.”
