The Choice of a Cavalier (The Heirs of the Aristocracy Book 3) Read online

  Tom gave a start at hearing her query. Unless it was a mention of pin money, women rarely spoke of blunt. “I do, although I will admit I’m a bit more conservative than my father in my approach to choosing investments.”

  “Why is that?”

  He allowed a shrug and then noticed she was about to step onto a pile of horse manure that lay in their path. His reaction was to quickly reach out, lift her by the waist, and carry her over the excrement, which had her letting out a yelp of surprise.

  “Whatever are you—?”

  “Forgive me, but you were about to foul your boots,” he explained, as he set her down beyond the manure.

  “It would not be the first time,” she replied, her annoyance apparent as she seemed to struggle to regain her balance. After a moment, her expression softened, and she said, “I am grateful you saved my boots from excrement, however. Thank you.”

  The comment had Tom nodding. “Hobys, are they not?”

  She regarded him with an expression of curiosity. “They are.” After a pause, she added, “I am surprised a man who does not ride would know such a thing.”

  “I am well aware of Hoby and his custom boots, my lady.” Tom didn’t add that the original owner of the boot maker’s shop was a client of his father’s, nor did he allow his gaze to return to the boots. For a moment, he was sure one of them was different from the other, the shape of the sole much wider.

  Victoria led the horse to a stableboy, who took the reins from her. “Wrap his left foreleg, will you, Jemmy? And just to be safe, keep him in his stall for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the boy said before hurrying off.

  “Is something wrong with the horse?” Tom asked when she returned her attention to him. “He was quite impressive in his run.”

  “Possibly. And I cannot take a chance.” At seeing his continued interest, she added, “He’s one of Lord Reading’s two-year-olds. I am training him for the racing circuit.”

  Tom was secretly glad Lord Michael had told him about Lady Victoria’s avocation. Otherwise his expression would have betrayed his shock. “But... I thought the marquess had his own trainers,” he murmured.

  “He does,” Victoria acknowledged. “Just not enough of them for his current crop of colts.”

  “Ah. I understand he is one of the best horse breeders in the country,” Tom said. He knew that much because the marquess was another of his father’s clients. Lord Reading’s investments in horse racing meant his fortunes might require more conservative investments to help cover the losses for years when his nags failed to win at the track.

  Which was rare.

  “I do believe his wife is the horse breeder in that family,” Victoria remarked as they made their way to the back door of the Portland stone manor house. Despite the weather, a gardener was seeing to trimming the boxwoods that bordered the base of the house.

  “You refer to the Marchioness of Reading?” Tom asked, hoping to gain a bit of respect from the young woman. He knew Constance Fitzwilliam Roderick. Knew of her skills when it came to matching dams to sires to achieve horses who could display both stamina and speed.

  Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, was always quick to sing his wife’s praises. With Constance having given birth to three boys during their twenty-year union, the marquess had his heir, a spare, and a jockey, not to mention the four bastard sons he had fathered prior to his marriage.

  “And you said you knew nothing of horse racing,” Victoria accused as she allowed him to open the manor’s back door.

  Expecting to step into the kitchens, Tom was surprised when they instead ended up in a wide, carpeted corridor.

  “I’d like to change clothes before we speak,” Victoria said, noticing the leather satchel that hung from one of his hands. “Can you afford the time? I can see to it you have a comfortable place to write letters.”

  Impressed she would consider his time valuable, Tom nodded. “Much appreciated.” The extra time would give him an opportunity to look at the house.

  They passed several doors before she led him into a parlor. At the back, a card table was set up near a window. A pot of ink and several quills were on display in a silver-handled carrier.

  “This will do nicely,” he said as he admired the inlaid table, sure it was a Chippendale.

  “I like to write letters here instead of in my salon. The light is so much better,” she explained. “Let me help with your coat.” She moved to stand behind him and held onto the collar of the greatcoat as Tom pulled his arms from it. Then she draped it over one arm. “I’ll have Clark see to some tea and cakes.”

  Tom bowed before she turned and took her leave of the parlor.

  At the sight of her retreating figure, he swallowed.

  Hard.

  Besides the perfect shape of her bottom, she displayed a slight limp that had her hips swaying in a manner that could only be described as arousing.

  Her unusual attire not withstanding, Victoria Statton was unlike any of his other clients. As to whether or not he would take her on as a client, he wasn’t yet sure.

  But he found he didn’t mind waiting in her well-appointed parlor as he wrote a letter, drank tea, and occasionally remembered what she had looked like in her riding clothes.

  Perfect bum, indeed.

  Chapter 3

  A Foiled Attempt at Pressing a Point

  Meanwhile, Carlington House, Mayfair

  The sound of someone entering his house had David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, moving to the threshold of his study and angling his head around the door frame. The servants had the day off—it was Sunday—and Alfred, the butler, was spending the day with his aged mother in Cheapside.

  When David realized the identity of the intruder, he stepped out of his study and regarded his son from head to toe. Then he frowned. “Where have you been?”

  Christopher, Earl of Haddon and heir to the Morganfield marquessate, tapped his fencing foil against his right leg before he lifted it in front of him. “Paris,” he replied. “Bertrand finally had time for me.”

  Bertrand referred to Francois-Joseph Bertrand, a fencing master who emphasized speed and mobility in the sport. Having received a missive that the master could accept Christopher as a pupil, but only for a fortnight, the earl had taken the next ship to France without so much as a word to anyone.

  At least, to anyone but his mother, Adeline.

  Christopher thrust the foil forward and then stepped back, his weight evenly distributed over both feet. Other than the lacy cuffs that extended beyond the sleeves of his navy topcoat, he was dressed in the current fashion—buff trousers, tasseled boots, and an embroidered waistcoat featuring a shawl collar. The aforementioned topcoat, pinched in at the waist, flared out in pleats and nearly reached his knees. “I’ve had to unlearn everything I learned at university,” he said.

  Unimpressed, the marquess arched a brow. “I should hope not.” His son had studied political affairs at Oxford and actually seemed to have retained much of the information when he had returned to London in 1818. In the past two decades, he had taken on the day-to-day responsibilities of the marquessate in addition to accepting a writ of acceleration so that he might attend sessions of Parliament before his father’s death.

  “I meant about fencing, of course,” Christopher countered. “This new style is quite economical and far easier to learn. I can hardly wait to employ it when I’m next at the fencing academy,” he continued. Then he glanced around the hall. “Anything of note happen whilst I was away?”

  “Two weddings and two betrothals,” his father replied. “Which means four fewer eligible ladies to choose from.”

  Christopher gave a start. “I was only gone three weeks!”

  David allowed a shrug. “It seems the parson’s trap works quickly when a young man—or lady—is of a mind to marry. Given your age, you really should consider it, and soon.”

  Bristling at the reminder he hadn’t yet taken a wife, Christopher allowe
d a sigh. “Anyone I know?” he asked as he and his father made their way into the Carlington House study.

  “Lady Angelica and Sir Benjamin—”

  “I knew they were betrothed.”

  “Lady Anne and Lord Hexham—”

  “She was far too young for me.” Christopher furrowed his brows. “I have a niece Hexham’s age,” he said, referring to his sister Elizabeth’s second child, Christina. “Who’s betrothed?”

  “I expect Gabe Wellingham will marry a ceramist whom he met whilst working at the British Museum.”

  “That’s unexpected.”

  “And James Burroughs—Lord Andrew’s son—has set his cap on one of the Grandby daughters.”

  Christopher’s eyes darted sideways. “Hmm. I think Emily was the only one left unmarried, but it’s not like she was royalty. Her father doesn’t even possess a title.”

  “No, but he has money. I rather imagine her settlement will be huge,” David remarked as he poured them both a brandy. “And I rather doubt Burroughs was in need of any of it.”

  Dropping his foil on the room’s only sofa, Christopher regarded his father with a look of suspicion. “When I left, I was under the impression all was well with the Carlington coffers,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve been seeing to the books.”

  “They still are,” David quickly replied. “What I’m trying to make you understand is that your options for a wife are growing more limited.”

  “Nonsense,” Christopher argued. “I’m not even—”

  “If you’re about to say ‘forty,’ then allow me to set you straight right now, son. You are one-and-forty and not far from two-and forty. There are those at White’s who are placing bets that you’re trying to follow in your godfather’s footsteps—”

  “There is nothing wrong with Torrington’s footsteps,” Christopher argued, referring to Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington. “He waited to marry, and his countess still gave him an heir.”

  “Who is now married,” David was quick to say. “And in Italy. He’s probably already got an heir on his new wife.” When Christopher rolled his eyes, he added, “I got Elizabeth on your mother during our wedding trip in Rome.”

  “Really, Father,” Christopher said with disgust. “I didn’t need to hear that.”

  “No? Then hear this. I’m about to have your godfather arrange something for you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Not that Torrington would choose a poor match for him—the man had done rather nicely for some of his godsons, at least for those who hadn’t arranged their own marriages—but he really didn’t wish to have a wife forced on him. Especially one not of his own choosing.

  Outside, snow was falling again, the gray skies casting a gloom over Mayfair that was made even more gray from the coal soot that erupted from the rows of chimneys atop every single mansion and townhouse in London.

  “Not that I would expect you to wed a daughter of the aristocracy, but it’s past time you wed someone,” David murmured. He took a drink from his rummer and set the glass down on his large desk. “At this point, I would have suggested your mistress, but apparently she quit you sometime back. Something about you being an arrogant ass?”

  Christopher recoiled at hearing his father’s words, more so because his father knew he’d had a mistress than that she had quit him. “Did Delilah come to you for money?” he asked in alarm.

  “No,” David replied. “I have my own source when it comes to learning about who’s bedding whom in this town. What worries me is why she would say such a thing about you. Are you behaving poorly with the fairer sex?”

  Anger building—why would Delilah make such a claim?—Christopher shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”

  “You are awfully proud,” his father argued. “Which probably works well on the piste. But it does you no favors elsewhere.”

  Christopher raised his chin but then thought better of providing a retort and quickly lowered it.

  Yes, he was proud. He was educated. He was heir to a marquessate. He was handsome, at least to those women who were attracted to his dark auburn hair, decent height, and hazel eyes. His nose was more hooked than he would have liked, but it suited his angular face. And he had a chin, which was more than he could say for some of the other men his age.

  Thanks to his inheritance, some of which he had claimed upon his twenty-fifth birthday, he had a fashionable wardrobe, several pairs of custom boots, his own town coach with four shires to pull it, a phaeton, his own cologne from Floris, a membership at White’s and another at Brook’s, and his own table at his favorite London coffee shop.

  He could have any woman he wanted.

  “I will prove to you that I can find a suitable match,” Christopher said. “Why, I may have to choose from among many,” he boasted.

  “Make it quick,” David replied. “You’re not getting any younger.”

  Pulling his shoulders back, Christopher downed the rest of his brandy, retrieved his foil from the sofa, and took his leave of the study, determined to prove his father wrong.

  Chapter 4

  Learning About a Lady Over Luncheon

  Meanwhile, back at Fairmont Park

  “I do hope Clark has seen to tea for you,” a female voice said from the door to the parlor.

  His attentions entirely on the letter he was penning to a fellow investor, Tom gave a passing glance toward the door, thinking a housemaid was addressing him. “Yes, he’s been very attentive, thank you.”

  He did a double-take when he realized the woman wore a coral day gown, the neckline decorated with a white eyelet collar. Her black hair was pinned up in a neat bun atop her head. She looked familiar, but for a moment, Tom couldn’t remember where he might have seen her.

  Rising to his feet, he gave a bow. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  He watched as the young woman made her way into the deep parlor and dipped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Mr. Grandby. I apologize for taking so long. My lady’s maid insisted my hair be repinned,” she said.

  Tom blinked. “Lady Victoria?” Despite having spent nearly thirty minutes in her company only the hour before, he hadn’t recognized the young woman. She looked positively elegant. Her bell-shaped skirts hid any evidence of what her breeches had so nicely displayed, but her fitted bodice accentuated her slim waist—he had learned of it when he lifted her over the manure—and a modest bosom. Whilst she was walking towards him, he didn’t see any evidence of a limp.

  “Yes?” Her reply was hesitant, especially after she glanced behind her to ensure there wasn’t anyone else in the room.

  He gave a shake of his head. “My apologies. I did not recognize you.”

  Victoria allowed a nod. “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing?” she guessed, reminded that he had seen her in breeches only the hour before. “I wondered if we might talk over a luncheon? I’ve not eaten since early this morning, and I am in need of more than just tea.”

  “A luncheon would be welcome,” he replied, glad for the opportunity to see more of the house. He’d been tempted to wander whilst she changed, but he didn’t want to be caught by the butler. The servant might think he was there to steal something. “Let me just put away my things.” He moved to stuff the parchments into his satchel and then turned to indicate he was ready.

  “A footman has seen to a table for us in the orangery. With the sun out now, it should be warm enough for us in there.”

  Tom offered his arm. “Lead the way.” He was secretly glad for the change in venue. Although the parlor had been comfortable for writing letters, the other furnishings were from the century prior and lent a stuffiness to what he had thought was a more modern estate located just beyond the northern borders of the city. “Have you lived here long?”

  Victoria gave him a sideways glance. “Only on occasion until recently,” she replied. “Usually during a Season. I expect I shall be spending more time here, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “There isn’t a suitable location to e
xercise the horses at my father’s house—to train them for racing. Besides, it’s too far from the racing towns,” she said as they stepped out to a covered loggia. The air, still chilly, carried a few snowflakes as they made their way into the brick orangery.

  Warmth and tropical scents immediately surrounded them. Tom closed the door behind them and took a quick look around. Potted orange and lime trees, already heavy with fruit, lined the front windowed wall. Palms and bromeliads filled the rest of the building. In the middle of the terra cotta-tiled floor, a white painted iron table was set with a cold collation of meats and cheeses. Instead of the usual floral arrangement, a soup tureen sat in the center of the table.

  “Quite a contrast to the weather outside,” he commented as he pulled out a chair for her.

  She settled into the tooled iron chair and said, “Indeed. I much prefer eating here than inside. I don’t care for the furnishings in the main house. They’re far too stuffy.” She reached over and ladled the rich soup into a bowl. “Would you like soup? It’s probably lobster bisque.”

  “I would, thank you,” Tom replied as he took the chair opposite. “It smells delicious.”

  “Father has always managed to employ good cooks,” Victoria said as she set the bowl on the table and filled a second one. “Anything to keep my mother happy.”

  Curious, mostly because Lord Michael hadn’t mentioned it, Tom asked, “Where do they reside now?”

  “Wiltshire, of course. Although my mother used to love coming to the capital in her younger years, she has no use of gossip or soot-filled air and now prefers to stay at the ducal house.”

  Tom quickly reviewed her family connections in his head, glad he’d had the chance to meet with Lord Michael the Friday prior. Her father was Jeremy Statton, Duke of Somerset. Her mother was Elizabeth Cunningham, daughter of Viscount Mark Cunningham.

  Tom wracked his brain in an effort to remember how many children there were in the Somerset family. Four? Two boys, two girls, which meant Victoria was...