A Gentleman for Judith (The Wednesday Club Book 1)

by Sahara Kelly

  “You have a point,” he acknowledged with a grin.

  “And there is one other thing.”

  “There is?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that would be…”

  “I’m the second-best piquet player in London. I’d enjoy the challenge of playing some excellent opponents.”

  That gem set Lord Rolfe back on his heels and he frowned. “Says who? Sir Marcus Childs? The Earl of Dunsmere?”

  Judith recognised those names as fine players and shook her head. “No, not them.”

  He named several others, none of whom she knew. “No, not them either.”

  “Then, my dear, without sounding too officious, I beg leave to doubt your assumption.”

  “I have beaten Sir Ragnor Withersby, and Sir Laurence Sydenham and I play regularly. Thus far, I have taken about a third of those games.”

  Lord Rolfe’s lips pursed in a silent whistle and he gazed at her for a moment. “That is a high recommendation. Very high indeed.”

  “High enough for your establishment, sir?”

  His lips twitched. “If you can shed the shackles of a correctly brought up young woman and visit my club tomorrow afternoon, I’ll let you know. Just an hour. I fancy a partie with someone who knows her way around a declaration…”

  “Excellent, sir.” She beamed at him. “I shall make it a point to be there.”

  He shook his head. “You’re up to something, Miss Fairhurst, but I find myself intrigued and also pleased that people of your tender age still have a desire for adventure. There are too many things in this world that bore me. You, thankfully, are not one of those things.” He touched his hat. “I await our game with interest.”

  “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it…” Judith curtseyed as he walked away.

  The timing was perfect…the Sydenham carriage rounded the corner at that precise moment. Judith joined Lady Maud with pink-cold cheeks and a mixed set of emotions—excitement at the thought of accomplishing her plan, and trepidation about Ragnor’s reaction when he found out about it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  R agnor had hoped to spend the evening in the company of Miss Fairhurst—and others, of course—but those would be irrelevant. He’d acknowledged his current state of affairs, and in his usual fashion, had rearranged his thoughts, his goals and his life.

  It would now include Judith as his wife, and this decision had led him to evaluate both his future bride and the prospects of a life together.

  She was an acceptable match although probably not one his parents would have suggested.

  Her lack of fortune, while not any kind of hindrance, was one of the things they’d have mentioned, he knew. In addition, her birth—genteel though it was—did not bring with it the cachet of a family renowned for their contributions to the British way of life.

  In other words, she was no Cavendish or Devonshire.

  Ragnor cared naught for matters of that nature. What he did know was that he found Judith to be delightful, unexpectedly sensual, and most intelligent. Her views on various matters matched his quite closely, and he felt she would be open to his suggestions should anything arise with which she was unfamiliar.

  Her humour was often on display, but he was pleased to see it was quick and to the point, much like his own. She was definitely presentable and acceptably modest in her choice of garb, always presenting an appropriate appearance.

  Yes, she was the right woman for him. They would create fine children to further the Withersby line, and he suddenly found himself aroused at the thought of Judith carrying his child.

  They were compatible in most all areas, he realised. This had been confirmed when he’d listened to her logical arguments today, and then accepted his decision that she simply could not take on the role she’d proposed.

  That kind of obedience was much to be desired in a wife.

  Satisfied that his mental discourse had stayed right where he believed it should be, he strolled into his club to meet Miles and share a late supper.

  The Trowbridge assembleé had been cancelled, leaving him at loose ends. Hence the message to Miles, who had also been dispossessed by the unfortunate fire in the kitchens of Trowbridge House.

  “I always thought their beef was overdone,” said Miles, as the two men strolled through the quiet rooms of their club.

  “We English do like our meat well cooked,” Ragnor observed.

  “But not our chefs along with it,” Miles answered with a chuckle. “They were lucky to escape the inferno, I hear.”

  “If it took Millicent Trowbridge’s collection of bats as well, I’ll not complain.”

  “Bats?” Ragnor blinked. “What bats?”

  “You mean she never showed you her collection of dead bats?” Miles raised his eyebrows.

  Ragnor pulled out a chair at the table for two reserved for himself and Miles. “No. I’ve been spared that delight, apparently. For which I am profoundly grateful.”

  “Pity. You’d have found her knowledge quite intimidating. Not to mention the lecture on the evolution of the species that goes along with the presentation.”

  Ragnor rolled his eyes. “Well, I suppose it could be worse.”

  Miles blinked. “How?”

  “Give me a moment and I’ll come up with something.” He turned to the waiter who had arrived at their table. “I think the trout for myself, please, Charles.”

  “Me too,” added Miles. “Not sure I could look at beef this evening, since the roads still smell of the Trowbridge’s aborted meal.”

  The two men enjoyed a companionable meal and a particularly fine brandy. Finally, Miles mentioned Lord Rolfe. “Any news about that devil Rolfe?”

  Ragnor leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, warm, well-fed and relaxed. “We’re working on it,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who could be described as intelligent, observant, plays a fair hand of cards and is unremarkable in any way?”

  “Of course. My brother Mowbray.”

  “Really?” Ragnor sat up in a hurry. “I didn’t think he came up to town.”

  “He didn’t. Until this summer when he met Cordelia Mannering at some country house weekend.” Miles rolled his eyes. “All of a sudden, he discovered women.”

  “Bit of a late bloomer, isn’t he?”

  “Indeed. But at least he has bloomed. M’mother was starting to worry about him.”

  Ragnor chuckled. “And how does the Magnificent Mannering feel about all this?”

  “Completely uninterested. One hears rumours of an Earl in her train these days.”

  “God, are there any unattached ones left? Someone should spread the word at Almack’s…”

  “Speaking of Almack’s, Rag…and thus by association the Wednesday Club…how much do you know of Miss Glynde-Beauchamp?”

  Ragnor raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “I was thinking she might make a suitable match for Mowbray.”

  “Ah.” Ragnor stared into the fire. “Actually, I know next to nothing. You should talk to Judith.”

  “On a first name basis now, are we?” Miles’s mouth curved into a wry grin. “Should we cross you off the eligible list, old lad?”

  “If and when, you’ll be the first to know.” Ragnor left it at that. “But, to get back to our discussion, what makes you think Mowbray might the man for the job? Would he blend in to Rolfe’s gaming hell?”

  Miles laughed. “Not as a dealer. Those dresses are quite lovely, but not on Mowbray…”

  Ragnor cast a dry look across the table. “Lackwit.”

  Miles held up a hand. “All right. Sorry. But you have to admit your question pointed right down that path…”

  “Mowbray. Would he do it, Miles?”

  “I don’t know. Not only that, I’m not sure if he’d be any good at it,” answered the honest brother.

  “How could he possibly not be right? Nobody knows him in London, if what you say is true, except for Cordelia Mannering. And I’ll wager
my new phaeton that she’s forgotten him by now.”

  “Well…” Miles hesitated.

  “You said he’s bright?”

  “Very. Got an amazingly analytical mind and a capacity for intelligence that scares me.”

  “That says something, right there. And he plays cards?” Ragnor pursued his line of thought.

  “He does. He tends to lose track of everything else when he’s playing.”

  “Excellent. He’s intent on winning, then?”

  “Actually, I think he’s counting cards and calculating odds. Man’s got a mind like a Chinese abacus.”

  “And he’s presentable, naturally. He’s a Linfield,” asserted Ragnor.

  Miles smiled. “Thank you for the compliment. Mowbray tends more toward my mother’s colouring though.”

  Waving that aside, Ragnor shrugged. “It sounds as if he’s our man. I haven’t heard anything yet that might exclude him…”

  “You’re about to,” sighed Miles, looking past Ragnor into the next room.

  A loud crash broke the quiet as what sounded like a tray filled with glasses hit the tile floor and shattered.

  Ragnor jumped. “What the…”

  A man walked in, his steps slow, apparently apologising to Barnabus, the club’s resident butler. There were many gesticulations and hand wavings, one of which just missed a rather nice vase full of dried flowers.

  “‘Tis quite all right, sir,” soothed Barnabus. “No harm done. And here’s Lord Miles, waiting for you. Why don’t you sit yourself down here and I’ll fetch you a brandy for your nerves.”

  The man approached Ragnor’s table, sat on the chair Barnabus had procured for him, and blew a lock of curly red hair off his forehead. “Silly things, those trays. People always overload ‘em and try to carry far too many glasses for my liking.” He looked at Miles. “I accidentally caught my boot…”

  Miles sighed. “Ragnor, I’m not sure if you remember meeting him, but this is Mowbray, my brother.”

  “It’s been many years,” smiled Ragnor, extending an arm across the table to the younger Linfield. “Good to see you again, Mowbray.”

  “At least ten, but it’s delightful to see you too.” Mowbray reached to take the outstretched hand—and knocked over his brother’s brandy snifter. “Dammit,” he swore softly. “Can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

  Miles looked at Ragnor. “And that, Rag, is why Mowbray cannot possibly be your subtle inside spy.”

  *~~*~~*

  Getting out of the house the following afternoon proved less of a difficulty than Judith had anticipated, simply because Maud had announced her need for a new horse.

  Sir Laurence, being a man who prided himself on his excellent judgement of horseflesh, immediately arranged to take his wife to Tattersall’s, whisking her out of the mansion and into the carriage as soon as he could. Overseeing the purchase of a mare for his spouse was both a joy and an absolute necessity, since Maud was prone to falling in love with the “sweetest face” and forgetting to ask about breeding, temperament, suitability for riding and gait. All of which would make for an uncomfortable partnership.

  Sir Laurence was grinning from ear to ear as they left. “We shouldn’t be more than two hours, Judith.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I might pop over to see Rose and Ivy. They’re getting fitted for some clothes for the country today. And possibly tea after. I’ll be fine.”

  “Take a maid, my dear,” cautioned Maud as her husband helped her into the carriage.

  “I will. Find a nice horse…” Judith waved them off and then heaved a sigh of relief.

  By the time she’d changed from her morning dress into something suitable for her afternoon visit, it was well after one o’clock. With luck, she could arrive at Lord Rolfe’s door by two and be home by three, or half-past at the latest. Since her destination was going to be Pall Mall, not Bond Street, she selected her wool gown, a cotton shift, and a lace chemisette.

  Modest, attractive, and also warm, since she’d walk the few streets to Pall Mall. From where she was now, it was barely a twenty-minute stroll, and something she regularly undertook when in the country. Time to exercise those muscles once more, before she became soft and useless from riding in the carriage everywhere.

  Summoning Susan, Judith inquired as to whether she might be free of other chores this afternoon, then explained that she had an errand to run that would take her near Pall Mall.

  Susan nodded. “I have a friend there, Miss. ‘Twould be nice to see her, if your business permits it?”

  Inwardly, Judith rubbed her hands together and cackled with glee. Outwardly, she just smiled. “That would be perfectly acceptable.”

  So it was that Miss Fairhurst knocked on a very elegant door, located on a house just off Pall Mall, while her maid happily took tea with an old friend.

  “Miss Fairhurst to see Lord Rolfe,” she announced to the massive man who opened the door. “He’s expecting me.”

  “Yes, Miss. This way, if yer please.” He bowed, something which surprised Judith, who held her breath in case that sort of motion, folding himself into a deep bow, might cause a catastrophic explosion.

  “Thank you.”

  Feeling a brief shiver of nerves, she obeyed, then breathed more slowly, since nothing untoward occurred as he led her down a corridor and tapped on a door at the end.

  “What?”

  “A Miss Fairhurst to see yer, sir. Says’ yer expectin’ her.” He grinned at Judith, revealing several shiny gold teeth, and very few real ones.

  “Miss Fairhurst,” said Lord Rolfe, dressed informally, his cravat askew, and his hair quite untidy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. “Do come in. I was just fighting with numbers—a battle I always lose.” He sighed and stepped back. “Pardon the mess.”

  His office, for such it was, held numerous bookshelves, and his desk—the surface of which presumably lurked beneath papers, quills, half-open books, an unhappy looking potted plant and an empty teacup—matched the rich walnut of the walls and floor.

  A fire burned contentedly, and a large grandfather clock marked the passage of time with a stately tick.

  “Goodness.” She looked around. “You have been hard at work.”

  “Running a place like this takes a lot of effort,” he sighed. “But you’re here. And I will admit that I was looking forward as much to a break from this chaos as I was to a game of cards. See?” He led her nearer the fire and away from his desk. “I had a table set up in anticipation of your arrival.”

  And indeed he had. Two large leather wing chairs stood on either side of a traditional card table, already bearing cards and notepaper.

  Judith felt the familiar tingle of pleasure at the sight. “You really do want to play piquet.”

  “Yes I do, I wouldn’t have invited you otherwise.” he answered. “Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll tell you why.”

  She removed her cloak and bonnet, setting them down on a small side table, and adding her gloves. “Go ahead then,” she glanced at him as she straightened her skirts.

  “I don’t have a piquet table set up in the club at the moment. Not to put too fine a point on it, I need card games that will run in my favour. The house, as I like to think of myself, needs to turn a profit in order to keep going. Would I like to win every single penny that walks in? Of course. But I’m a pragmatist. If I can end up of an evening with even a small increase in revenue, I know I’ll live to open another day.”

  Judith seated herself, adjusting the cushion behind her. “Why do this at all, my Lord? You have a title…” It was a somewhat improper question but given that she had been told of the cheating taking place, she felt it relevant.

  He tipped his head on one side, and Judith felt as if she was being evaluated. “I do.” He paused. “But I have no fortune to go with it.”

  “Er…” she blinked. “Isn’t that somewhat contradictory?” She offered him the deck and he waved it back, so she shuffled as she waited f
or his answer.

  “Not really. The man who lost his title to me was bankrupt. I accepted his wager, won the hand and claimed the title.”

  “What happened to him?”

  He shrugged. “If this were a work of fiction, he’d have gone home and shot himself in his study, leaving a wife and seven fatherless offspring.”

  Judith tried hard to suppress a giggle. “This is not a novel, sir. What did happen?”

  “Being a man of his word, although rolled up financially, he signed over the title and allowed me to purchase his estate at a significantly reduced price.”

  Judith fanned out the cards in readiness for the draw for dealer. “That was obliging of you, sir. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “And in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have. The money I spent on that estate, and continue to spend, is taking most of my capital.”

  “Hence this establishment?”

  “Another investment. I’m hoping this one will at least deliver a return.” He drew the high card. “My deal, Miss Fairhurst.”

  She nodded. “Your deal, Lord Rolfe.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A s luck would have it, Ragnor, Matthew, Miles and Mowbray all found themselves looking at each other at Manton’s on Dover Street, that same afternoon. Not having any notion that Miss Judith Fairhurst was—at that very moment—considering her declarations over a gaming table opposite the notorious Lord Rolfe, Ragnor simply nodded at his acquaintances and continued to examine a new rifle he was thinking of buying to add to the weapons available for guests who might arrive for a bit of hunting over Christmas.

  “I say, this is fortuitous,” grinned Matthew.

  “Hallo there,” Miles nodded. “Have you met my brother Mowbray?”

  “I’m not sure…” Matthew extended his hand just as Mowbray’s coat snagged on a rack designed for umbrellas. It crashed resoundingly. “Oh, wait. Yes, I think I have,” Matthew winced.