Quite likely it was an instinctive resistance to the idea of losing his bachelor’s freedom and nothing more. He only needed a little more time to reconcile himself fully to the idea of taking her for his wife. Once he did, his qualms would disappear. In the meantime, he had professional obligations to meet, such as the case he would be arguing tomorrow.
Thinking of court, he wondered if he might bump into Ross Carrow. He hadn’t seen or heard from the younger man since their billiards match at Brooks’s Club. He’d thought Carrow would have contacted him by now to satisfy the wager he owed him. He was probably busy too, though, and just hadn’t gotten around to it. Perhaps he needed a bit of reminding.
“Something have you vexed?” Leo asked.
“What?” Lawrence looked up, surprised to have been caught woolgathering.
Leo nodded toward the paper. “Something in there annoying you? You’re forever reading politics and the opinions of Tory idiots with whom you don’t agree. Sometimes I think you do it just to make your own blood boil.”
“No, I do it to keep up with the facts on both sides of an argument so I have a thorough understanding of the topic at hand. Always better to know what one’s adversaries are thinking rather than to remain ignorant. I find it easier to beat them that way when the opportunity arrives.”
“I suppose, but if you aren’t careful, you’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”
Lawrence patted his stomach. “Me? Impossible. My stomach is steel-plated.”
“The only thing steel-plated about you is your hard head.”
Lawrence laughed and Leo joined him.
While Leo finished his meal, Lawrence returned to his newspaper, skimming over a few articles before settling on one that did indeed make his stomach muscles clench with anger.
After downing the last of his coffee, he tossed aside the paper and got to his feet. “I’m off to work in the library. See you anon.”
Leo glanced up from his perusal of the latest racing results. “Oh, before I forget, I’ve been told to remind you about the surprise anniversary party for Ned and Claire next week. Mallory has already tasked me with the job of making sure you remember to buy a gift.”
“I should think you’d be the one in need of reminding about that.”
Leo grinned. “Not a bit. That’s what I have Thalia for.”
Lawrence snorted. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”
Leo’s grin widened, unrepentant.
“Yes, well,” Lawrence said, “tell our dear sister Mallory that I am perfectly capable of managing my affairs, including the purchase of gifts. Now, if that’s all, I need to get on with my work.”
Leo chuckled and returned to his newspaper while Lawrence left the room.
• • •
“I find for the claimant—all costs to be paid by the defendant. This court is adjourned.”
Rosamund let out a sigh of relief at the judge’s decision, a smile moving across her lips. She had won again—this time on behalf of the claimant.
Her client, a robust man with a chest like a boxer’s that strained the buttons on his waistcoat, ambled forward. He pumped her hand with an enthusiastic shake, even more exultant at his win than she. “Excellent work, Mr. Carrow. Excellent. I cannot thank you enough.”
“You are most welcome, Mr. Chipsbury. Hopefully this will be the end of your difficulties with your competitor.”
Mr. Chipsbury was a successful tea merchant who had been battling a rival merchant over lies the man had been spreading about his product, falsely claiming that Chipsbury used old, inferior tea leaves that he dyed to look new by using a mixture of vegetable peelings and manure. The talk had cost Chipsbury a great deal of business, plus customer goodwill Rosamund hoped would now be restored.
“It ought to shut his big gob, that’s for certain,” the older man said, “seeing he’s to pay not just the damages sought and punitive costs but my legal bill as well. Make sure you charge him extra so every penny hurts.”
Rosamund resisted the urge to laugh. “I’ll do my best, given the ethical constraints. Congratulations again, Mr. Chipsbury. I know you must be pleased that His Honor ordered the defendant to issue a public apology to you as well.”
“Dead thrilled, I am.” Chipsbury beamed, thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets. “I’m going to make sure each and every one of my customers sees that apology if it’s the last thing I do.”
“As you should, Mr. Chipsbury, as you should.”
“What kind of tea do you favor, Mr. Carrow?”
“Tea?”
“You do drink tea, I presume.” His thick eyebrows gathered with sudden suspicion. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those coffee men?”
“No. I love tea. Drink it every day.”
Chipsbury’s smile returned. “Then I’ll send round a crate of my finest. Only the best will do for a great man like you.” He clapped her on the back with a force that nearly sent her stumbling forward. She caught herself against the table and somehow conjured up a smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but it isn’t necessary.”
“Course it is and I won’t take no for an answer. Green or black?”
She met his determined look, wondering what he would think if he knew the truth—that his “great man” was actually a “great woman” instead.
“Green or black?” he repeated.
“Black.”
“Right you are.” He smiled widely. “Well, I’ll quit chewing your ear, since I know how busy you are.”
“As are you, Mr. Chipsbury.”
She met his eyes again, then tensed, afraid he was winding up for another manly clap on the shoulder. Instead he shook her hand one more time—crushing it in a powerful grip—then departed, whistling under his breath.
After flexing her aching hand to restore the normal flow of blood, she reached up to make sure her wig hadn’t gone askew, gathered her belongings from the barristers’ table and left the courtroom.
She was alone today despite Bertram’s not so subtle hints about wanting to accompany her. But as she’d told him earlier, her deception would be more believable if he wasn’t always trailing after her like some hovering duenna. Besides, he had work of his own to do. Over the past two weeks, the pair of them had settled into a new rhythm of sorts with Bertram seeking out noncourtroom work that their father would have rejected without a second thought, while she handled the rest. Bertram was happier, and if truth be known, she was as well. She loved the law and relished a chance to practice it.
Of course, she would have to give it up sometime, but with each passing day she worried less about being caught. From ordinary hawkers on the street to the professional men with whom she now rubbed elbows, each one of them believed her lie. To them she was a man, regardless of her fine features and occasional less-than-masculine gestures. But she was getting better at pretending, having taken to observing the actions and habits of the men around her, then doing her best to mimic them. Even Bertram had commented recently on how convincing she had become.
She turned a corner in the hallway, her thoughts on her empty stomach and the nuncheon awaiting her at home, when the door of a nearby meeting room opened. Two men exited and joined the cluster of people milling about in the corridor. She paid them scant attention and walked on, weaving between a pair of gossiping clerks and a lawyer with his nose buried in a handkerchief.
“Carrow?”
She turned her head, her step slowing at the sound of her name. Her pulse stuttered when she saw that the speaker was Lord Lawrence Byron. For a fleeting instant, she considered pretending not to have heard him and hurrying on. But since he was now looking directly at her, she guessed it was too late for that.
Not that she’d been avoiding him precisely, but after her talk with Bertram, she’d decided that maybe it would be prudent to put a bit of distance between herself and Lor
d Lawrence. Oh, not for the reasons her brother had outlined—a notorious womanizer like Lawrence Byron would never be interested in an old maid like her. Were he to meet her as her real female self, she was sure, he wouldn’t give her a second look. But that didn’t mean that she hadn’t noticed him or that she was immune to his considerable charms. She liked him already after spending only a single evening with him. Just imagine how she might feel were she to give their nascent friendship a chance to deepen. Nothing good could come from getting to know him better, especially not when Ross Carrow would have to “disappear” one of these days, never to be seen again.
Yet here was Lord Lawrence, walking toward her after having bade a quick farewell to his bewigged colleague. “Carrow,” he said in greeting, looking handsome and refined in his own lawyer’s garb. “This is a happy accident running into you today.”
“Just so,” she said, regulating her features so they didn’t reveal her suddenly churning emotions. “How are you, my lord?”
“Quite well. And you? Have you just come from court?”
“Yes. Another case concluded.”
“Successfully, I trust?”
She couldn’t keep from smiling. “I won, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, then, congratulations. Again. I seem to say that to you every time we meet, do I not?”
“It’s early days yet in my London career. Most likely you’ll have the opportunity to offer your condolences at some point.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Let’s just say I’m thankful not to have been the one on the receiving end of a drubbing from you this time. I had my own case to handle today.” He inclined his head in the direction of the room from which he had come. “That was the opposing counsel with whom I met. We just reached a settlement.”
“In your client’s favor, I trust?”
It was his turn to smile, a boyish grin that did funny things to her stomach. “Very much in my client’s favor,” he said.
“Then congratulations in return and well done. I am pleased to hear that your winning streak has resumed.”
“As am I. Speaking of winning things, I’ve been thinking about our billiards match the other evening.”
Some of her buoyancy fell away. “Ah, the bet, you mean.”
“Yes, the bet.” He arched a golden eyebrow. “I trust you have not forgotten?”
“Of course not!” she said, hating how defensive she sounded.
In truth, she had thought frequently about their bet, hoping against hope that he would be the one to forget and let it go. But considering that men viewed gaming debts as matters of personal honor, she’d known it wasn’t likely. Duels had been fought over far less.
“I’ve just been overly engaged,” she said. “I meant to contact you earlier, but the time got away.”
“Exactly as I presumed.” His tone was as smooth and agreeable as his words. “To save us both the bother of corresponding later, why do we not settle this now? In fact, I know just the thing. There is a mill in Watford this Saturday. Supposed to be a real bruiser of a battle.”
He waited, watching as though he expected her to crow with excitement.
Instead her stomach churned. “A mill?” she repeated. “Boxing, you mean?”
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Yes, that is generally what happens at mills. Don’t you like boxing?”
Her? Like boxing? Not that she’d ever actually witnessed a bout of fisticuffs, but she’d certainly heard enough to know that it involved a pair of grown men punching and bloodying each other in some ridiculous contest of male stamina and strength—usually until one of them either gave up, passed out or died. No, she couldn’t say she liked boxing.
But most men loved it, including Lawrence Byron apparently.
“Of course I like boxing,” she said with false enthusiasm, wondering when she’d turned into such a natural liar. “Sounds excellent. Saturday, did you say?”
Lord Lawrence sent her another quizzical look before his expression cleared. “Yes. And since you don’t always have ready access to a carriage, why don’t we take mine?”
“That would be most agreeable.” She decided not to mention that she wouldn’t have been able to use Bertram’s carriage even if she’d wanted to, considering the fact that she couldn’t drive.
“Capital.” Lawrence reached for his pocket watch and checked the time, closing the heavy gold case with a small snap. “Look, I’ve got to be back in court in a few minutes. I’ll drop round Saturday morning, say about eight? It’s going to take a couple of hours to get to the field where the mill is being held, and if we’re not early, we won’t get a view of anything worth seeing.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Eight it is, then.”
After she provided him with her home address, the two of them parted ways.
Her body was stiff with anxiety as she left the courthouse, wondering how in the world she’d landed herself in such a fix.
Chapter 8
Rosamund was still puzzling over the bind she’d put herself in as Saturday dawned sunny and warm. She dressed in the fresh set of black men’s clothes she’d sewn for herself in the evenings after work, wondering how she was going to break the news to her brother about the day’s outing.
She’d considered telling him earlier, but hadn’t been in the mood to endure the displeasure she knew he’d unleash. Better to leave it to the last, she decided, so he wouldn’t have the time or opportunity to convince her not to go. For as nervous as she was made by the prospect of accompanying Lord Lawrence to a boxing mill, she found herself equally excited and intrigued as well. Then too it would be a chance to spend time with him again, something even prudence couldn’t convince her to avoid.
She ate breakfast—or tried to at least, since she was too nervous to choke down much more than half a slice of plain toast and a few sips of some of the delicious black China tea that had arrived courtesy of Mr. Chipsbury.
Bertram entered the dining room just as she decided to give up on her meal. He took a seat at the table across from her, then quietly told a housemaid what he wanted for breakfast. Once the girl had hurried off to the kitchen, he turned his sights on Rosamund, his brow creased with inquiry.
“Why the trousers? I thought you were going to relax and wear a dress here at home on Saturdays and Sundays. Unless you’ve an appointment with someone today.”
She picked at the remaining toast half on her plate, slowly breaking it into pieces. “Actually I do.”
Bertram reached for the teapot and filled his cup. “Oh? With whom?”
Rosamund hesitated, then drew a breath and plunged ahead. “Lawrence Byron.”
He scowled. “Byron? What does he want now? This isn’t another visit to his c-club, is it?”
“No, we’re going to a mill.”
“A boxing mill?” Bertram’s eyes widened.
“That’s what I said when he mentioned it. I’m glad I’m not the only one who needed clarification.”
“You are not going,” he said flatly.
“We’ve been through this already. Appearances, Bertram, remember?”
“Appearances be d-damned. A boxing mill is no place for a woman.”
“Which he doesn’t know I am. Nor will anyone else. I’ll be fine. Besides, this excursion is my way of settling the wager I lost to him.”
“What wager!”
“I told you I lost to him at billiards.”
His eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “But not the fact that it left you in his d-debt. Goddamn it, Rosamund. T-two minutes in that scoundrel’s company and he’s g-got you in his clutches.”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s a day out of the city where we’ll be surrounded by dozens and dozens of people.”
“Men, not people.”
“One of which I’m supposed to be.”
&nb
sp; “And what do you mean ‘out of the city’? Exactly where is this mill taking place?”
“Watford.”
Below in the street came the sound of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels drawing to a halt in front of the town house. Rosamund darted a quick peek through the window and caught sight of a now-familiar head of thick golden brown hair, broad male shoulders and the smartest sporting phaeton she’d ever seen.
She leapt to her feet. “He’s here.”
“And he can go away again,” Bertram complained sullenly.
“I’ll be back in a few hours, well before nightfall, so you’ve no need to worry.”
He tossed down his napkin. “You’re right, since I’m coming with you.”
“No, you are not.” She hurried around the table and laid her hands on his shoulders to press him back into his seat. “There isn’t room for you in the phaeton. It’s a two-seater. And anyway, you weren’t invited.”
“I’m inviting myself.”
“Bertram, stay. Please. I’ll be fine. Lord Lawrence will look after me.”
His scowl deepened. “Lord Lawrence thinks you’re another b-bloke, so he won’t bother to look after you. Particularly not if he decides there’s something else he’d rather do instead.”
“He’s hardly going to strand me somewhere. Despite your opinion, he is a gentleman.”
Bertram snorted. “That remains to be seen.”
Downstairs, a knock came at the door.
She bent and pressed a kiss against her brother’s cheek. “Have a good day. I shall see you for dinner.”
Before he could begin another round of objections, she rushed out of the dining room and down the stairs, praying he didn’t follow. She deliberately slowed her step on the last few treads, not wanting to be caught hurrying—or worse, tripping.
She’d just reached the final step when the footman opened the front door.
And there stood Lord Lawrence, framed in the entrance. He looked even more dashing than usual in a coat and trousers of dark bottle green, a color that brought out the clear forest tones in his golden green eyes. She liked his silk waistcoat too with its subdued geometric pattern of tiny gold keys on a warm ivory background.
Bedchamber Games Page 7