As for riding a horse, she hadn’t done so since she was a child. She was fairly sure she owned a riding habit, but it was no doubt long out of fashion.
As to racing her own horse in such a spectacle as the Derby, she found she wasn’t the least bit interested.
Despite knowing of several aristocrat’s wives who owned stables of racing horses—the Marquess of Reading’s wife, Constance, came to mind—the horse racing circuit was most definitely a man’s world.
Xenobia was thinking of this and more when she heard her butler make an odd comment from somewhere downstairs. Daring a glance at the mantle clock, she furrowed a brow and then murmured, “Damnation,” when she noted the time.
It was exactly nine o’clock.
At night.
A Dinner with a Father and Stepmother
Two hours earlier, at Reading House in Curzon Street
Constance Fitzwilliam Roderick, Marchioness of Reading, watched as her maid added another curl to an already elaborate hairstyle. “Really, Simmons. There will only be three of us for dinner this evening. Randall and I aren’t even planning to leave the house afterwards.”
Simmons paused, a hairpin held between two fingers as she regarded her mistress in the dressing table mirror. “Three?” she repeated, apparently unaware they were to host Randall’s oldest son for dinner.
“Randolph will be joining us. In fact, I expected he might be here by now,” Constance replied, hoping her lady’s maid might be finished. “He’s probably in the nursery, tossing his son and his brother about.”
Simmons’ reflection in the dressing table mirror showed her widened eyes. “Tossing?” she repeated.
Constance couldn’t help but grin. “He claims his father did it with him when he was a child, and I have paid witness to Reading doing it with our son when he doesn’t know I’m watching,” she explained. “As much as it frightens me to see my youngest son thrown into the air, his giggles are so delightful. Reading seems to enjoy it as much as Robert does,” she added.
Simmons had never had children of her own, but she probably wouldn’t have allowed baby tossing. “I believe I might have heard a commotion in the nursery earlier, my lady. I’ve just one more pin to place.” The hairpin was quickly inserted into the last curl and Simmons stepped back. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”
Constance rose from the small chair and regarded Simmons for a moment. The maid had been her companion for several years before her marriage to Randall Roderick. Back when she still lived at Fair Downs in Sussex. Despite living in London and near Reading for all the years since, Simmons still hadn’t adapted to their new lives. “Not tonight. In fact, I expect I won’t have need of you after dinner.”
At least, she hoped not. With any luck, her husband would be undoing the fastenings on her scarlet dinner gown. He was finally over a head cold, and she had every intention of spending the night in his bedchamber.
Simmons’ eyes widened. “Very good, my lady.” She dipped a curtsy and moved to the door. When she opened it, she let out a squeak.
“Ah, Simmons, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, said as he glanced beyond the lady’s maid. “My oldest son and I have worn ourselves out playing with the boys, and I’ve come to collect my lovely wife.”
Simmons dipped a curtsy and hurried out the door as Constance afforded her husband a brilliant smile. “I am so happy you are feeling better,” she said as she allowed him to kiss the back of her hand and then her lips.
“As am I. Did you dismiss her for the night?”
Constance eyed him through lowered lashes. “Should I have?” His look of disappointment had her smile returning. “I did, of course. If you think I would spend another night alone in bed—”
The rest of her comment was cut off when Randall kissed her again. “I nearly came to your bed last night,” he whispered. “I wanted you...”
The rest of his comment was cut off when Giles, the butler, appeared outside the marchioness’ door and cleared his throat.
“What is it?” Randall asked, struggling to keep annoyance from sounding in his voice.
“Sir Randolph has finally taken his leave of the nursery. I put him in the downstairs parlor, sir.”
Constance and Randall exchanged quick glances. “This must be a night to celebrate,” he murmured, one of his bushy eyebrows lifting in delight. “I think he was in there for nearly an hour. His son is going to grow up thinking he’s a bird.”
“And our son won’t?” she teased, giggling when she saw how he reacted.
“He’s grown too heavy to throw up into the air. I’m reduced to spinning him around by his arms until I’m dizzy,” he explained. “Children are hard work,” he added, sounding as if he was complaining. The expression on his face said he was teasing, though.
“I do hope Randolph did well today,” Constance said as she placed a hand on her husband’s proffered arm. They made their way down the carpeted stairs.
Her husband did his best to hide his first reaction at hearing her words. Had Constance somehow discovered his oldest illegitimate son’s true occupation? There was a reason Randolph had been knighted by the king, and it had nothing to do with training horses.
Then Randall realized she referred to that day’s auction at Tattersall’s. Two mares that Randolph had raised and trained since their birth were set to be sold. “He would not have come for dinner if he had not,” Randall replied, his manner having sobered. “But that doesn’t mean you should ask him if he’s courting anyone,” he warned.
“I wouldn’t,” Constance replied, feigning shock. “What has courting to do with how he did today at the auction?”
Randall ignored her query. “Although I favored his wife, I never thought Barbara was good enough for him.”
Constance knew better than to argue. Barbara Hancock had been a perfectly acceptable young lady for Randall’s oldest son. The daughter of a tradesman, she had been petite and pretty and didn’t seem to mind she was marrying a bastard. He was a knight, after all, so she could style herself a lady.
But after a year of being subtly reminded of his illegitimacy—and his tendency to labor in horse stables—by those who hosted her for tea or the occasional garden party, Barbara’s good nature changed. She grew resentful, as if she was feeling trapped by circumstances over which she had no control.
When Barbara died giving birth to their son, Randolph found himself a widower at the ripe old age of two-and-twenty.
Randolph’s son, Charles, shared the upstairs nursery with Randall and Constance’s son, Robert, Earl of Farringdon.
“I heard that, Father,” Randolph said from where he stood just inside the parlor, referring to the marquess’ comment about Barbara. “You should know better than to speak poorly of the dead.”
Randall feigned regret. “Noted,” he murmured as his son bowed and then kissed the back of Constance’s hand.
“I’m so glad you could join us this evening,” she said, just before she moved to her favorite chair. “Does this mean the mares sold for a fair price?”
“Constance!” Randall scolded.
She gave him a quelling glance. “You would have asked if I had not,” she countered.
Randolph allowed a brilliant grin. “They did. And for well over the expected price,” he said as he moved into the parlor. He waited until both his father and stepmother were seated before he took a chair near the fire.
“Spirited bidding?” Constance guessed.
Randolph angled his head. “Truth be told, I think it was a case of mistaken impressions.” He accepted a cup of coffee from a footman and helped himself to a few walnuts from a proffered bowl.
“Oh, now you really must explain,” Constance urged. Having declined the offer of coffee, she was able to place a hand on his arm to reinforce her words.
Her stepson grinned. “Alistair Comber’s wife came to the stables at Tattersall’s while I was brushing one of the mares,” he explained. “Co
mber was there, of course, but she was there to ask a favor of me. Apparently the buyer was watching from the door. He saw Lady Comber, dressed all fine like she always is, and he thought she was interested in the nags as a Christmas gift, so he bid high from the start, and the other gentleman who was bidding didn’t seem put off by the price, so he upped the bid several times.”
Having taken a sip of his coffee, the marquess furrowed his brows. “Lady Comber? What was she about?”
Giles appeared at the threshold and announced dinner.
Relieved he didn’t have to answer the query, Randolph set down his coffee and offered an arm to Constance. “Might I have the honor, my lady?”
Constance allowed a grin. “Yes, but if you think for one minute I’m not going to ask the same question—”
“Connie,” Randall said in a mock scold. “Let the man at least get through the first course,” he teased.
Randolph dipped his head in Constance’s direction. “She was there to ask if I might consider taking on the training of a filly.”
Randall and Constance exchanged quick glances. “Surely not one of her father’s horses,” Constance commented. Lady Comber’s husband, Alistair, saw to the Earl of Mayfield’s stables at Harrington House, including the training of the colts.
Giving his head a shake, Randolph said, “One belonging to a Lady Dunsworth.” He led Constance to her chair and pulled it out for her. “Are you familiar with her?”
The name had Constance jerking her head to look up at him. “Xenobia Dunsworth?”
He shrugged as he took his seat opposite of hers while his father sat in the carver. He didn’t recall if Julia Comber had mentioned the woman’s given name. “Apparently she has a timid filly in need of training. I told Lady Comber I would pay a call on Lady Dunsworth after dinner this evening.”
Once again, Constance and Randall exchanged curious glances. “This evening?” his father repeated, as a footman poured wine and another delivered the soup course. “I had hoped we might play a game of billiards.”
“Lady Comber assured me nine o’clock wouldn’t be too late,” he replied. “But where exactly might I find Bradley House?”
Randall seemed to count in his head as he regarded the chandelier above the table. “Tenth house east of here, same side of the street,” he murmured.
“She has wrought iron balconies on the second and third stories,” Constance added. “With flower boxes, although of course they are empty now. And a bright blue front door.”
Randolph nodded his understanding as he regarded his soup. “My lady, are you acquainted with Lady Dunsworth?”
Constance finished a sip of wine before saying, “I am, although not well. Since her husband died last year, she hasn’t paid calls. Perhaps that will change now that she’s out of mourning.”
“An older lady then?” Randolph guessed.
Pausing in the midst of bringing a spoonful of soup to her lips, Constance shook her head. “Not at all. I rather think she’s younger than me. Perhaps by five or six years.”
Since he had no idea how old his stepmother was—he was terrible at guessing people’s ages—Randolph made a mental note to ask his father when they would be alone later that evening. “Do you think her agreeable?”
Constance set down her spoon. “I do.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you... considering courting her?”
Randall let out a guffaw as Randolph displayed a suddenly reddened face. “I am not,” he said with a shake of his head. “I am just trying to be sure I am... prepared for when I meet with her. I’d like to make a good impression. Perhaps her good opinion will then be shared with others who are in need of a horse trainer,” he reasoned.
A grin lighting her face, Constance leaned forward. “I apologize. I could not help myself. She’s such a sweet woman. I cannot imagine how the loss of her husband must have affected her. They were such good friends, you see.”
Randolph remembered Julia Comber’s description of Lady Dunsworth, remembered her making a similar comment. At least Constance corroborated what his friend’s wife had said about the woman. He still wondered about her parting comment, though.
Just let yourself in. The footman is only there during the days, and the Dunsworth butler is very old. He probably won’t hear your knock.
About to ask about the servant situation at the Dunsworth house, Randolph didn’t have to when Constance said, “The baroness really should hire a younger butler. I really don’t know how Chesterfield manages all the stairs. He is a hundred years old if he’s a day.”
Randolph blinked. “Thank you for your insights,” he said as he returned his attention to his soup. When his father asked about the auction, Randolph was glad for the change of topic.
The three spent the rest of dinner discussing horses, the stables that one of his three younger half-brothers managed in Reading, and horse racing.
Later that evening...
The third to the last billiard ball careened off the side of the billiards table and into a leather pocket. “You are far too good at this,” Randall groused as his son straightened and moved to set up his last shot. They hadn’t even been in the billiards room for ten minutes, but it was beginning to look as if Randall might not get a chance to sink a single ball.
“I have been practicing,” Randolph said as he leaned over. “And apparently you have not.”
Randall set aside his leather-tipped cue stick and crossed his arms. “I have better things to do at night these days.”
His shot having sunk the second-to-the-last billiard ball, Randolph regarded his father with a furrowed brow. “A new mistress?” he guessed.
The marquess’ eyes widened. “God, no!” he exclaimed. “I’ll have you know I am a happily married man.” When his son didn’t look convinced, he added, “I’m spending my evenings with Connie, of course. And my heir and my grandson. I’ve no desire to spend them with anyone else.” There was a pause before he added, “You excluded, of course.”
Randolph seemed to finally believe his father’s words when he sunk the last ball. “Can you afford her?”
Randall let out a guffaw that had his son straightening in alarm. “Afford her? Why, Connie is the most frugal woman in all of England,” he replied. “She’d be sewing her own clothes if I didn’t require she use a decent modiste. Even then, she chooses the least expensive fabrics, which I then surreptitiously have to have replaced before the modiste starts any gown for her,” he complained. “Your brother and your son would be riding in a perambulator previously used by another’s heir if I hadn’t insisted on a new one.”
Retrieving the billiard balls from the six pockets around the table, Randolph considered his father’s description of his marchioness. He had worried that when Randall Roderick finally decided to marry and sire legitimate children, he might end up with a fortune seeker for a wife.
“May I ask how old she is?”
Randall narrowed his eyes. “Eight-and-twenty, so, yes, there is more than a decade betwixt us, but she is...” He allowed the sentence to trail off as his face displayed a quizzical expression.
“More mature than you?” Randolph guessed with a grin.
His father pretended offense. “Yes, but only because she lived so long without assistance,” Randall replied. “Poor thing saw to a household and stables for years and did so on funds she found hidden around her late father’s house in Fair Downs,” Randall explained.
“Hidden blunt?”
“She thought her mother had left it for her to find, since her father gambled away all his horse racing winnings, but I later learned from one of the servants that her late cousin, Norwick—David, not Daniel—would go to Fair Downs when he knew she wasn’t there and leave coins under the floorboards and at the bottom of containers and vases, under mattresses and inside her favorite books.”
Randolph stared at his father. “You said that with such glee, I have to wonder if you are doing the same thing now?” he half-questioned.
His father
’s eyes drifted up and to the side. “If you could see the delight in her eyes when she finds a five-pound note tucked under our son when she picks him up from his bed, you would do exactly the same thing.”
Furrowing a brow, Randolph asked, “What if the nurse discovers it first?”
Randall shrugged. “Unlikely, since Connie is always the first in the nursery in the morning, but if she did, then I have delighted a faithful servant and ensured she will be with us for the next babe,” he replied. “Which I think may be on the way.”
At that moment, Randolph’s opinion of his father went up a notch, and not because another sibling was in his future. Despite the fact that his father had seen to every expense Randolph had incurred since birth, he had thought the marquess a selfish, entitled man. Now he questioned everything he had ever thought about his father. “How did you know she was right for you?” he asked as he arranged the balls on the green felt.
Randall allowed a shrug before he started to respond. He stopped and then said, “I met her in the park whilst on an early morning walk. She was with Simmons, her lady’s maid, and...” He remembered her bearing and the intelligence she had shown. How she had captured his interest. Once he learned she raised horses—that she was familiar with horse racing and all that it entailed—he was hopelessly in love.
“And?” Randolph prompted, just before he took the first shot. The billiard balls scattered about the green felt, one of them falling into a corner pocket.
“Just how much have you been practicing?” Randall complained as he watched his son line up his next shot.
“Nearly every night, but only because I’m on an... an assignment,” he stammered, hesitant with how much he admitted. “At a couple of gaming hells.”
Randall furrowed his brows as he considered the hint. “Foreigners passing counterfeit blunt?” he guessed. “Or gaming hells serving smuggled liquor?”
Randolph sunk another ball into a side pocket. “Yes,” he replied with a smirk, and then his expression sobered as he missed the next shot.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 13