A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Seemed?” Sinclair leaned hard against Thrale’s shoulder, drunker, he now realized, than was apparent to the eye. “Seemed a thrilling sport?”

  “I’m sure I don’t recall her exact words. Something much like that.”

  “Emily, my dear girl.” He touched the side of his index finger to his nose until his eyes crossed. “My dear girl. Your sister knows more about battling than most of the men in this room.”

  Faint color appeared in Mrs. Wilcott’s cheeks. Glynn and Niall had gone stone-cold silent.

  “I think it’s splendid if she troubled to learn a thing or two about a subject that interests so many men,” said Glynn. “You are to be commended, Mrs. Wilcott.”

  Sinclair patted his coat pockets. “It was her advice to me that paid for this suit, which is a damned fair set of threads. Aikers against Fellows paid out at seven-to-one odds.”

  Niall cocked his head. “I lost money on that battle. Everyone was sure Fellows would prevail.”

  Mrs. Wilcott gave her father such a look it was a wonder he didn’t wilt under that gaze. “Do not encourage him.” She brought an arm forward to resettle her shawl—there was some particular name ladies had for that sort of lacy, gossamer thing, but damned if he knew what it was. A bit of the fringe tangled in Captain Niall’s sleeve, unnoticed by anyone but Thrale, it seemed. She frowned when her shawl went crooked. She lifted her arm to catch the edges and made an inward motion.

  “Not I,” Sinclair said. “I put a hundred pounds on Aikers because Lucy swore it was a better bet.”

  Captain Niall frowned when the tangled edge of Mrs. Wilcott’s shawl brought his arm forward. “What—”

  Thrale stepped in and without comment disentangled the material from Niall’s sleeve. Some kind of silk gauze woven into open patterns.

  “Who do you like, Lucy,” Sinclair asked. “Granger or Clancy?”

  “Yes, do tell us your expert opinion, Mrs. Wilcott,” Mrs. Glynn said. Thrale heard, and did not like, the nasty undertone of the question. “We await your advice.”

  “I fear I have none for any of you. I hope you will forgive me.”

  “Ma’am.” Thrale put a hand to Mrs. Wilcott’s back. “I have detained you here quite long enough.” He surveyed the others. “Before we joined you,” he said, “she told me she was parched, and I engaged to remedy that.”

  He walked her away from her father and the others.

  CHAPTER 22

  Halfway to their destination, Mrs. Wilcott slowed. Thrale did not, much, mind their now glacial progress across the crowded room. She adjusted her gloves. “You’ve not said three words this five minutes. Does that mean you are sorry to have intervened? You needn’t have. I am inured.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Glynn will get in her digs. I was prepared for that. As for Papa, he’s had more to drink than he ought. There is nothing new in that.”

  It was not safe for him to say anything in his current state, so he dissembled. Some. “Do not take silence as evidence of anything but my inability to enjoy myself at large gatherings.”

  She faced him, chin tilted, relieved, he fancied. “You don’t care for parties. Yes, I recall you saying that.”

  “I had rather be at home than at a party. Give me a gathering of close friends or no gathering at all. I’ve no objection to solitude.”

  Some of the light returned to her eyes. “Yes, yes.”

  “What more does one need?”

  “One day I will live in a cottage of my own. With a garden planted with damask roses and lavender.”

  “That sounds charming.” He guided her away from the ballroom and into the less crowded connecting saloon.

  “My cottage will have a mossy path lined with violets and a willow tree in the front. I shall sit in my garden and read Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and Shelly, and whoever else is a new and upcoming poet whose name we do not yet know, and I’ll have all the novels I can carry from the subscription library.”

  “Paradise.” He moved them aside again. “You will color maps, as well?”

  “Every afternoon before tea. My sisters will call on me, and perhaps Miss Glynn, I hope she will, and I shall serve them hot tea, fresh butter, and clotted cream.”

  “Geneva wafers, I hope.”

  “Filled with strawberry jam from berries I’ve picked myself. Won’t that be grand?”

  He turned to ice. She was not speaking rhetorically. “You’ve found such a place? You intend to move from The Cooperage?”

  She dipped her head once, and when she looked up her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She meant it. She meant to leave. “There is the loveliest cottage in Little Merton, and… Well. It mayn’t come off. I haven’t enough money set aside yet, though I won forty-three pounds on Aikers. In the meantime, here I am.” She lifted her hands, and her gaze swept the room. “Comforted by dreams of moss and roses and delicious tea.”

  “I find it helps to think of anything but the crush of people.”

  “I find it helpful to know the exact number of guests.” She gestured, a graceful motion, and yet one that ended with that exquisite silk sliding off her shoulder. “Did you know, my lord, there are eleven chevrons carved into the molding along this wall?”

  “Eleven, you say?” He was bemused. He knew it and could do nothing about it.

  “Yes. Eleven. I counted them as we walked.” She put a hand on his arm. “But, my lord. You should not be here with me. You must ask at least some of these young ladies to dance.”

  “I do not care for dancing, as you well know.”

  “You must not disappoint them.” There was a lull in the general level of conversation, and from the ballroom came the sound of the musicians warming up. Mrs. Wilcott gave him another look. He refused to acknowledge that one as well. “My sister, and Miss Glynn.”

  “Yes, though not immediately.” He put a hand to his heart. “My word on it.”

  “Before you go do your duty, might I ask a favor?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I heard only a few hours ago that there will be an impromptu exhibition tomorrow. Will you attend?”

  “That would be imprudent of me.” Guests streamed toward the ballroom now. He had no desire to join them. “To be present at an illegal gathering.”

  “Hardly illegal. But if it were, the constabulary here is lax in such matters.” She extracted a banknote from the reticule dangling from her wrist and held it out to him. “I did not see Johnson in time. I meant to ask you before we left, but the time got away from me, and then in all the commotion of leaving…” She shrugged. “If you should find yourself so engaged tomorrow, purely by accident I’m sure, I would be grateful if you would put my ten pounds on Bellman to win. If and only if the exhibition between him and Fisk reaches the twentieth round.”

  He frowned at her hand. It was not a bad wager. With the odds firmly on Fisk, she could risk little for a large gain. But her request was quite specific. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why wager on Bellman? Fisk has lost but three battles in his last ten while Bellman is some unknown sprig fresh from America.”

  “If Bellman lasts to the twentieth, Fisk is unlikely to win.”

  This was Mrs. Wilcott, not some young man of the Fancy with more money in his pockets than sense. She was a student of the Art. “I repeat. What do you know?”

  She pursed her lips and lowered her voice. “Bellman has been training with Johnson this past month. He takes a breather up Butterfly Hill three times in a week.”

  “Battery Fortress, you mean.”

  She lifted her chin. “I do not.”

  “You have two hats that say otherwise.”

  “I’ve not worn them.” She smoothed the fall of her skirts. “Fisk relies on his strength.”

  “His considerable strength.”

  “You say he has not lost but three in ten battles, but he has fought twenty-five recorded battles. Bellman has a strong right and is fast to follow with his left. Fisk has lost eight mat
ches, all but one of them after the twentieth round, and all his losses have been to men who are quick.”

  “You do know something.”

  “No more than anyone else who studies such matters.”

  “Are you for Granger or Clancy?” This must be the oddest conversation he had ever had at a ball. That icy perfection had fallen away, and he was entranced.

  She cocked her head, and he saw a myriad of reactions in that pose; amusement, pride. Thoughtfulness. “Granger is the favorite by a considerable amount.”

  “That is no answer. What do you know about those two?”

  “Not as much as I know about Fisk and Bellman. I have not yet completed my analysis of the records I have for the other two. Now, will you place my wager for me, or must I ask Mr. Glynn?”

  “You ought to save your money. Put it toward your cottage.”

  “Is there any harm in a wager of ten pounds if I have the money to lose?”

  He knew as if she had confessed all that she was funding her plan to remove to that dream cottage by wagering on battles. He knew her. He knew her resolve well enough to believe that if she meant to remove to a cottage, she would find a way. “You might live with Aldreth or Cynssyr, you know.”

  “I might.” She went still in that way she had. “But I want to read poetry amid my roses and lavender. Not theirs.”

  He accepted the banknote. “Very well.”

  “If Bellman lasts to the twentieth.”

  “Should he last as long as that.”

  “He likely will.”

  “Your father has a wager on Fisk to win.”

  She stiffened. “That is his affair. I can do nothing to stop him.”

  He bowed in lieu of speaking then held out his arm again. “You are thirsty, yes?”

  “I am.”

  They recommenced their stroll toward the refreshments and away from the ballroom. “I hope you will not hold it against me if Fisk wins.”

  “I’m sure I shan’t, my lord.” Not everyone was in the ballroom yet. A good many people remained here. The orchestra’s warm-up became more vigorous.

  “Now, ma’am. What is your opinion on the Clancy-Granger battle? What do you know thus far, absent your more thorough study to come?”

  “Clancy has been training at the Academy these three months. You know this.” He did, indeed. “His regimen is precise and unforgiving. He is six feet and four inches. Sixteen stone. Like you, he is quick for his size and brawn. His technique, which was good when he came here, has since become superior. His reach is unusually long.”

  “Granger is seventeen and a half stone. I’ve seen him lift his weight without difficulty.”

  “Yes, but he has a habit of milling, and though it has served him well, he favors his right.”

  “For good reason.”

  She lifted her hands. “I do not disagree. Granger is a fighter. Proven. But Clancy is strong, adept with his right and left, fast, with good wind and excellent bottom. He is a determined fighter. Canny.” She tapped the side of her head. “Superior science wins over impetuous brawn. He is likely to come up to scratch in this battle.”

  “Granger, Mrs. Wilcott. The Ropemaker.”

  “Clancy was an observer at Granger’s last two battles.”

  “Both of which Granger won. Handily.”

  “I have not said Granger is not an excellent fighter. He is. But he has not seen Clancy nor studied him.”

  “Granger cannot lose.”

  “Your passion for the man has nothing to do with his ability to fight.” She leaned against his arm while she dug in her reticule again. This time she extracted a coin. “I will put this shilling against one of yours that Clancy will prevail in that battle.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I am saving, sir. As you advised.”

  They were not far from the refreshments, and Thrale gestured in the direction of the footman standing at attention behind bowls of punch, orgeat, lemonade and orangeade. They moved closer. “Done, Mrs. Wilcott.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thrale reached the table and filled a glass with orangeade. Had he in his life ever had such conversations with a woman? No. No, he never had, except with her. They left the table and found a spot where there were fewer people, and she could consume the refreshment that had cost him his equanimity. He stood, hands clasped behind his back.

  He ought to ask her to dance, but he didn’t.

  CHAPTER 23

  So many people. Too many. So many shoulders turned. Lucy left the Glynn’s ballroom for the dark and increasing chill of a foggy night, in dire need of fresh air and a few moments of solitude before she returned to face more frowns and disapproval.

  Lord Thrale continued to pierce the safety of her retreat behind her drawing room smile. He brought out the worst in her, all that Mrs. Glynn found objectionable; that dark part of her that embraced the lust she felt for him, the part of her that responded to his body. He was not interested, this she must remember. Or, if he was interested, he was determined to resist, and that was not a battle he would lose.

  She walked farther into the darkness of the terrace. Inside the house, the orchestra struck a waltz. Harry had asked her to dance, and she had told him no. His mother would have flayed her alive if she’d done anything but decline him. She had not danced with anyone and did not intend to do so.

  “There you are.”

  Her heart slammed in her chest, first, because she’d not expected anyone to come out here and second, because it was Harry. “Mr. Glynn. You should be inside dancing.”

  “As should you.”

  “As you can see, I am not.”

  “Mrs. Wilcott.” He grimaced, but his frown was not directed at her. “Lucy. Can we not clear the air between us?”

  “There is no need.”

  “There is.” He kept his distance, and she was grateful for that. “We are neighbors. You and your sisters are Clara’s good friends. She feels the strain.”

  “I do regret that, for I adore your sister.”

  He jammed his hands into his coat pockets. It was easy, now, to look at him and see the boy he’d been. “I’ve told my mother she must treat you with more respect.”

  “Mr. Glynn.”

  “Harry.”

  “I wish you’d not done that.”

  He frowned. “I do not approve of her behavior toward you. It’s not good ton, as she would say.”

  “She will resent me the more, I fear.”

  He gazed at her. Studied her and then shrugged. “It’s true. I once fancied myself in love with you.”

  Lucy spent several long moments adjusting her gloves. She did not wish to answer him. Such a statement could lead nowhere comfortable when she had rather pretend all was well. Men had their pride. Though she did not want to put a dent in his, she did not see much choice. “I never knew. I’m sorry, but I was not observant as a girl. I was too young.” Ruefully, she shook her head. “Far too young and silly.”

  “We were both too young.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and gave her a grin. “I sometimes think that if Mama had not objected to you so thoroughly I’d have fallen out of love as quickly as I decided you were my destined lover.”

  “Oh, Harry. No.” She laughed because he’d smiled when he said that.

  He laughed, too, and he meant it, she was glad and relieved to see. “I’ve grown up. Seen the world a bit. Done a few things. Travel broadens the mind.”

  “Yes. It does.”

  “I didn’t want you thinking I was still in love with you. I’m not.”

  “Thank you for that information.”

  “I know you did not return my ardor. I know. Mine was a youthful infatuation is all.”

  She grinned back. “I was in love with the vicar.”

  He grinned, too. “Were you?”

  “Quite desperately.”

  “Mr. Brown was a handsome fellow as I recall.”

  “Very.”

  “On to another living, alas, for the s
tate of your heart.”

  “Before he made that terrible announcement, Emily had helped me plan our wedding.”

  “So efficient—”

  “Harry.”

  At that sharp, hard, word, they both turned. Mrs. Glynn stood at the terrace door.

  “Mama. Good evening to you.”

  “What are you doing here? With that woman?”

  “Apologizing to her for your behavior.”

  “If that’s what you think is going on between you, you’re a fool. She’s lured you out here to trap you into marriage.”

  Lucy’s stomach sank to her toes. This was the confrontation she had hoped to avoid. Her only consolation was that the terrace offered a measure of privacy. “That is not so.”

  Harry remained unruffled. “She’s not lured me anywhere. I followed her here.”

  “She meant to be followed. Do you not see that?”

  “I must ask that you cease making that accusation.”

  Mrs. Glynn advanced on her son. “You will not speak to me so.”

  “I apologize. However, I will not have you speak so of her. That must stop. Mrs. Wilcott and I have been talking of old times and agreeing there is nothing between us but friendship.” Still, he was calm, no anger in his words. “You will apologize, Mama.”

  The pit of Lucy’s stomach hollowed out. “Please no. Do not argue because of me.”

  “I will not apologize, Harry, for looking out for you.”

  “Harry.” Lucy came forward. “Please. Allow me to speak with your mother in private.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Please. Go.” She gave him a gentle push. “You’ll make things worse if you stay. Your mother and I will soon come to an understanding.” She gave him another push, less gentle this time. “Please, Harry. Go dance with some pretty girl.”

  “I had rather not.”

  “Go. I insist.”

  “Very well.” He bowed and returned to the house.

  When he was gone, Lucy faced the other woman. “I am no threat to your son.”

  “You’ve had your hopes pinned on him for years.”

  “No, ma’am, I have not.”