When he entered the club a short time later, he sensed excitement in the air, something that had been lacking since Brummell’s flight to the Continent. “What’s going on?” he asked Lord Sefton as the dandy hurried by.
“Alvanley’s placed a bet on the raindrops.”
When he’d first been accepted into White’s, Griff had striven to become part of Brummell’s clique. He’d since had reason to be glad they’d shunned him, probably because of his Lancashire roots. They drank to excess and gambled ridiculous amounts of money on trivial things. “How much?” he asked, feigning interest.
“Three thousand pounds on which of two raindrops will make it to the bottom of the pane first,” Sefton replied with great glee. “You don’t want to miss it.”
Griff dutifully sat within sight of the bow window, ordered a brandy and watched entitled men make idiots of themselves. Alvanley loved being the center of attention, having taken over leadership of Prinny’s Pals after Brummell’s departure. Griff’s only interest in the Regent was his love of horse racing. He’d sooner bet on a prized thoroughbred than on a raindrop.
The raucous atmosphere was doing nothing to soothe his headache, so he drained his brandy and left the club before the outcome of the “race” was decided. He had more important things to do, like deciding how to end things with Edwina without hurting her feelings. He recalled her opinion that horses were pungent. “The smell of money, my dear lady,” he snorted, though the real reason he’d gone into horse breeding wasn’t for the profits to be made. He simply loved the magnificent creatures—had since he was a child.
Potts already had the front door of his townhouse open before he stumbled from the carriage. Griff accepted Frederick’s arm and the shelter of the footman’s umbrella. Admittedly, he was mildly foxed—not an acceptable circumstance this early in the day—but he already resented the admonition he anticipated from the straitlaced butler who’d previously served his parents.
He groaned when the poker-faced Potts stuck his chin further in the air and announced, “Bad news from your northern estates, my lord. The Luddites are at it again.”
Charges Laid
Dower House, Thicketford Manor, Preston, England
Lady Susan Cromptonbreezed into the morning room, not surprised to see Rebecca Waterman already seated and enjoying a steaming cup of black coffee.
“You seem chipper this morning,” Rebecca noted.
“I slept well,” Susan replied, helping herself to a boiled egg from the sideboard. “However, this room always makes me feel cheery. You certainly have a good eye for pleasing decor.”
Rebecca blushed as she always did when anyone paid her a compliment. “I simply contributed a few ideas.”
Susan sliced off the top of her egg, pleased to see the yolk was still runny. “That’s an understatement. Restoring this house after the fire was a massive undertaking. Thank goodness you moved to Lancashire right around the time Gabriel instigated the repairs. Laborers could have done the work, but it was your eye for color and furnishings that turned a sow’s ear into a silk purse.”
“You can hardly call this house a sow’s ear. True, the fire did a lot of damage, but I’ve benefitted too,” Rebecca allowed, rising to help herself to buttered toast. “It worked out rather well. You needed a companion to share the dower house, and there I was.”
“Yes. Neither of us dowager countesses but living here in the lap of luxury,” Susan replied with a chuckle.
“This place is certainly far more opulent than my late husband’s house,” Rebecca said as she regained her seat.
Susan made no reply. Her friend had hinted at the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her parsimonious drunkard of a husband; his fists had driven away his stepsons. It was a source of constant regret for Gabriel and his mother that his older brothers had been killed at Trafalgar after running away from home to join the navy.
“I consider myself fortunate to be living here so close to my one surviving son,” Rebecca said. “I’m glad I made the move from Kent.”
Susan nodded. “It’s amazing the twists and turns life takes, isn’t it? Your son unexpectedly inherits an earldom from my late brother, falls in love with and marries his widow, then agrees to allow you and me to move into the refurbished dower house.”
“And you hadn’t lived at Thicketford Manor for years.”
“Not since my father drove me out because I refused to conform to his perception of how the daughter of an earl should comport herself.”
“I’m sure he’d be proud of you now. You’re one of the most accomplished and well-read women I know.”
“I doubt it. Papa was too set in his ways and, as you’re aware, he went mad at the end of his life, hence the fire that almost destroyed this house.”
She refrained from reiterating her father had died in the fire he’d set. Let sleeping ghosts lie.
A discreet cough from the butler drew their attention. Jenkinson excused the interruption as he handed her a copy ofThe Times. “What’s this?” she asked.
“A footman brought it over from the main house,” he replied. “Lord Farnworth thought you’d want to read it now rather than waiting until you join Lady Farnworth for afternoon tea.”
“Must be something important,” Rebecca remarked. “My son usually likes to read the ink off the paper before anyone else sets eyes on it.”
Susan perused the front page. “I don’t see…”