by Amelia Grey
Gibby’s eyes narrowed. “You know that all three of the men who want the pearls are still in London, don’t you? Four, if you count Her Grace.”
“I know Spyglass and Winston are inserting themselves into Society, and I know the antiquities dealer has a shop on the other side of Town,” Race said, refusing to acknowledge Gibby’s remark about Susannah.
“Spyglass is attending every party he gets invited to, and Winston is making his presence known at the parties and in all the clubs.”
“That’s not surprising about either one of them. With Prinny’s backing, Winston can go wherever he wants. And I’ve heard rumors Spyglass intends to host his own party before the Season ends.”
“I’ve heard that about Spyglass, too. Everyone wants to get in good with the prince, and every young lady wants to say she’s danced with a handsome buccaneer. Smith is another story. He doesn’t have the heritage to ease his way into Polite Society, but he’s been seen at a few places in the Hells recently.”
“That’s probably where he belongs.”
The men’s presence in London didn’t worry Race, but he was beginning to get tired of being pursued because of the necklace. It was true that the pearls would be worth a fortune in any market, but that’s not where their value lay as far as Race was concerned. The pearls were his grandmother’s most prized possession, and she had left them to him. He wasn’t about to give them up to anyone.
“Gib, do you know where or how our grandmother got the pearls?”
“Sure I do. I don’t think there was much about your grandmother’s life I didn’t know.”
Race waited, and when the old man didn’t say more, Race sighed and said, “Do you mind telling me where?”
“Not at all. Her second husband, Sir Walter Hennessey, gave them to her shortly after they married.”
Race thought on that a moment and frowned. “Are you sure it wasn’t Lord Elder?”
“Of course I’m sure. She already had them when she married the earl.”
“The pearls would have been very costly, even twenty-five years ago. Did she question how Sir Walter could have afforded such an extraordinary necklace for her?”
“Probably not,” Gibby said. “I don’t think she cared how he got them. I know of only one other thing that ever made your grandmother as happy as receiving those pearls.”
“What was that?”
Gibby leaned back in his chair and smiled. “When she became Lady Elder. She wanted to have a title attached to her name more than she wanted to live.”
Race smiled, too. “I do remember that. After she married the earl, she always signed her letters to us as ‘Your loving Grandmother, Lady Elder.’”
Gibby leaned back in his chair and laughed lightly as a faraway look glistened in his eyes. The man never changed. Gibby’s countenance always softened whenever he talked about Lady Elder.
“Yes, I remember. She didn’t even want me to call her by her name anymore. I had to call her Lady Elder.”
“She certainly was an unusual woman. What else can you tell me about the pearls?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Why?”
“When I was talking to Morgan and Blake, we couldn’t help but wonder about them. It just seems odd that four different people are suddenly after the necklace.”
Gibby tilted his chair on its two back legs and said, “My thoughts would be because not many people knew where the Talbot pearls were until it was written in Society’s Daily Column that they were left to you by your grandmother.”
Hearing Gibby confirm what he and his cousins had considered brought Race up short. Cautiously he asked, “Tell me, did you ever know of Grandmother wearing the necklace outside private dinner parties in her home?”
Gibby seemed to study on that. “Not that I can remember, but she might have. Keep in mind, the pearls were irreplaceable. I can’t say for sure, and it’s only a guess, but she must have worn them when she was married to the earl and they attended Court.” Gibby ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “It’s never a good thing to let everyone know what valuables you have in your possession.”
“True,” Race said, turning pensive.
“Are you sure you’re not worried about these people who want the pearls?”
Race shook his head as the server put two glasses on the table between them. “They are safe.”
Race picked up his glass and took a big swallow. He screwed up his face and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Blast it, Gib, what is this stuff?”
“Milk. I told you I was drinking milk.”
“I know, but I thought there must have been some kind of sweet liqueur in it.”
“It is plain milk,” he said with a cunning smile.
Race looked closely at Gibby. The old man looked fine, yet Race asked, “Are you sick?”
Gibby leaned back in his chair again and puffed out his chest. His lips tightened together for a moment. “No, I’m not sick. I’m in fine shape. Why?”
“Why do you think?” Race said, exasperated. “Bloody hell, you’re drinking milk, for mercy’s sake.”
“Of course I am. I’m in training.”
Race stuck a finger down his collar, trying to loosen it. The muscles in his neck and shoulder had begun to ache. Gibby could heat his blood to boiling. “In training? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m not drinking anything but water and milk. I’m not eating anything but fish, vegetables, and fruit. I’m not taking my carriage. I’m walking everywhere I go until after my fight with Prattle.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Not drinking ale or wine, and walking everywhere? That’s insane, Gib. You’ve lost your mind, and you’re taking this too far.”
Gibby placed both his hands on the table and leaned forward. “All the winning pugilists train, Race. I’m good-sized for a man my age, but did you notice that Prattle is built like a tree trunk?”
Race swore under his breath. “Yes, I did happen to notice that, Gib. Why do you think I’m trying to stop you from meeting him in Hyde Park a month from now?”
Gibby waved his hand as if brushing away Race’s comment. “It’s less than a month now. You just want to mind my business. That’s all you and your cousins ever do.”
“It’s full time employment, and somebody needs to. You aren’t doing a very good job of it.”
“Don’t worry about me, Race. I can beat Prattle once I get in shape. I’m sure of it. And I would like to hear that one of my favorite people in the whole world had some confidence in me about this.”
How could he let Gibby know he and his cousins were worried about him and didn’t want him to take the chance of getting hurt? The old man was just too stubborn to admit he had made a mistake in encouraging Prattle.
“Let me tell you what I do have for you—an answer. I discussed this with Blake and Morgan a couple of days ago. We want you to give us permission to offer Prattle and his sister money to end this farce.”
Gibby threw his shoulders back and bowed up his chest. His eyebrows wrinkled together, and his lips pursed into a sneer. “That’s an insult.”
“Not if money is what Prattle was after in the first place.”
“I’m not talking about Prattle,” Gibby exclaimed. “I don’t care what he wants or doesn’t want. It’s an insult to me. My honor is at stake here.”
“So is your life.”
“What kind of life would I have without my honor?”
Race softened. “Gib, we don’t believe for a moment you did anything to his sister, and I don’t want you fighting and possibly getting hurt over something that didn’t happen.”
“You don’t know what did or didn’t happen, because I’m not talking.”
“You don’t have to. We know you. We know you are an honorable man and would never push a lady into something she didn�
��t want.”
“It’s unforgivable what her brother did to her by his blathering in the park, but I can’t change that. I can only answer his challenge,” the old man said, shaking his head.
“We can do what Prattle didn’t do and settle this quietly.”
“No, I’ve given my word now. Besides, every gentleman, no matter his station in life, loves a good, fair fight.”
“Not when one of the bruisers is a member of Polite Society,” Race argued.
“Tell that to Figg, Broughton, Jackson, Mendoza, and all the other great pugilists who have been welcomed by the ton. Even that sap Lord Byron enjoys a good match and writes about them. He has been known to go a few practice rounds at one of the fight clubs in Town.”
“Most of us have, Gib, but it’s always been in private, not public,” Race emphasized. “Besides, we use gloves in practice. You’ll be expected to bare-knuckle it. Look, my job was to talk you into letting me offer them money. If they don’t take it, we’ll go from there.”
Gibby leaned forward. “Do you realize there are already hundreds of wagers at every club and gaming hell in London about this match, and I’ve heard betting has spread to outlying towns?”
“I’ve been to White’s and the Rusty Nail, looking for you. I know the furor this has caused.”
“And I can’t believe you want to take this away from me. You tell your weak-kneed cousins I’m going through with this, Race. And I’m going to win.”
Gibby picked up his glass and drained it. Race’s stomach tightened. Gibby’s hands were red and chafed. His knuckles were swollen, too. No doubt he was in the process of toughening his hands with some harsh concoction like all prize fighters used.
“I’ll finish this for you,” Gibby said and reached over and pulled Race’s glass toward him. “Now tell me, what can I get you to drink?”
Eight
My Dearest Grandson Alexander,
I hope you will remember these sobering words from Lord Chesterfield. Take heed, dear one, he is seldom wrong about anything and never wrong about a man. “That great wit, which you so partially allow me, may create many admirers; but, take my word for it, it makes few friends.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Race was in a quandary and filled with frustration as he entered his house late in the afternoon. He’d had a frustrating and unsuccessful meeting with Gibby at the Harbor Lights Club a couple of days ago, and he’d just come from another long, heated discussion with his cousins. He was beginning to feel as if he was going in two different directions at the same time. Gibby had been absolutely giddy with excitement over his duel—if this travesty could be called that. And Blake and Morgan still thought Race should talk to Prattle and find an amenable way to settle his accusation against Gib, even though the old man was dead set against him doing it.
Race really had no idea how Prattle would take an offer of money, if in the end he decided to approach him. Except for Gibby’s objection, there certainly wasn’t anything out of line about doing it. Through the ages, men, and maybe a few ladies too, had been saved from marriages they didn’t want by the exchange of money, lands, or making other suitable arrangements with the offended parties. But this sort of thing usually happened with young ladies and randy blades, not people the ages of Gibby and Miss Prattle.
Blast Gibby’s rotten soul. What was a man in his sixties doing training for a bare-knuckle fist fight and drinking milk? Gib was too damned old to be a pugilist.
Race strode into his book room and straight over to his sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine. He took a sip of the velvety liquid as he loosened his neckcloth. The stiff collar had been choking him all day. He walked toward his desk and stopped midstride. Was that music he heard? He looked over at the open window. The brown and gold wide-striped draperies were parted, and the alluring melody drifted inside.
The sound was coming from a pianoforte, but was it a composition of Bach, Mozart, or some other composer? He listened to the soft engaging theme for a few seconds.
He half laughed as he took another sip of the wine. Hell, why hadn’t his grandmother insisted they learn more about music and less about Lord Chesterfield and his bloody blubbering about how to be a man?
Race walked over to the window and looked out over his grounds and realized that the music came from Susannah’s house. Was it her, Mrs. Princeton, or someone else playing? He stood there for a few moments, looking at her house and listening to the strains of the score.
Finally, he pulled a chair over to the window, sat down and propped his feet on the windowsill, and let the soothing, lyrical notes float in and relax him as he enjoyed his drink. He felt the tightness leave his eyes, mouth, and shoulders. The stress of the past couple of days, brought on by his conversations with his cousins and Gibby, seemed to ebb out of his body. His neck and shoulders loosened up, and he melted more comfortably into the chair and thought about Susannah. He liked that she was unconventional. She created an excitement inside him whenever she was near.
Race had sent Susannah an informal note four or five days ago, saying that he wanted to see her, but as of yet he hadn’t had the time to call on her. He supposed he should have been more decorous when he wrote to her. After all, she was a dowager duchess and deserved the most circumspect protocol, but to him she was simply a beautiful, desirable woman named Susannah. He wanted to put aside her title, and his, and simply enjoy her. He didn’t really know why yet, but she enchanted him.
He wanted to see her again.
Today.
Right now.
What would she do if he went to her door and asked her to go to the park with him again, or to a party or the opera? Vauxhall Gardens was open. She might enjoy walking around the gardens with him and watching the fireworks. Or they could walk right here in his own gardens.
He really didn’t care what they did. All he knew was that he wanted to look into her sparkling green eyes and kiss her again. But this time he wanted to kiss her properly, in private. He didn’t want a quick peck on the lips while standing on a street. He wanted a long, leisurely kiss so he could drink in her essence. He wanted to pull her close and feel her warmth against him and lose himself in the softness of her tempting, womanly body.
Suddenly, without real thought about exactly what he was going to do, Race set his glass down on his desk and headed for his rear door. The only clear thing he knew he wanted to do was to establish who was playing the pianoforte.
Afternoon mist lay gray and gloomy in the air when he stepped outside. A gentle breeze blew a strand of hair across his face, and he quickly brushed it behind his ear as he hurried down the steps that led to his back grounds.
People often commented that he had one of the largest and loveliest formal gardens in Mayfair, but he had seldom walked through it. He never had the time for such niceties. But today as he stomped on the stone pathway, he noticed that it was indeed beautiful. The foliage in his garden was a lush, deep shade of green. No doubt from the drenching spring rains that had plagued London for months. All of the roses in the beds were different shades of pink, but the various kinds of flowers that dotted the landscape seemed to be of every color imaginable.
The formal knot garden had been laid out to form an intricate pattern, with shrubs trimmed in different sizes and shapes. Obviously his gardener had a sharp eye for detail. And the large waterfall fountain that stood in the middle of the garden was expansive and flowing with water.
When he reached the end of his property, he was perplexed for a few seconds. He stood in front of a seven-foot yew hedge that had made a solid fence, separating his grounds from Susannah’s, and whispered, “Bloody hell.”
His gardener was obviously worth the money Race paid him. The man had made it impossible to pass through or around the thick yew wall that completely surrounded his garden on three sides. What the devil was he going to d
o now?
But Race was not of a mind to be stopped by a tall green shrub. He strode back to his gardener’s supply room, picked up a hatchet, and returned to the green mountain hedge, knowing what he had planned was not going to be easy with the small hand-held ax. He mathematically studied the corner where two ends met, and then carefully started chopping and hacking a hole at the bottom of the yew big enough for him to squeeze through.
It wasn’t an easy task, and it took him quite a while, but after he finished, he stepped back and looked at his handiwork of the closely cropped hedge. He was satisfied that it would be difficult for him to crawl through but not impossible. He looked around at the clippings that were scattered all around his feet. His gardener was not going to be a happy man when he found the mess the next day.
After forcing himself through the hole, Race stood and brushed small bits of the shrub from his coat as best he could. He straightened his neckcloth as he traipsed through Susannah’s property. He couldn’t help but notice, after passing through his own well-tended gardens, that the grounds surrounding Susannah’s house had been sadly neglected. He supposed that was to be expected when the place hadn’t been lived in for at least a year.
The music grew louder as he approached the rear of the house, and he realized the sounds came from the right. He finger-combed his hair and cautiously walked around the house until he saw a slate pathway that led to a side door. A window was nearby, so he quietly eased up to it and peeked inside.
He saw Susannah sitting at the pianoforte, her back to him. His breath quickened, and his loins thickened at the sight of her. She sat on a cushioned bench. Her spine was straight, the nape of her slender neck accented by a stray curl of hair that had escaped her chignon. He admired the gentle slope of her softly rounded shoulders. It stimulated him to watch the way her nimble fingers danced across the ivories while her hands and shapely arms moved gracefully.