An Uncommon Season, 2/6

[topaz119]

It was gone past three before Jensen found himself abed following Danneel’s rout, but he was back awake by ten so that he might breakfast lightly and take a turn about the park before beginning the day's social obligations. To Jensen's surprise, Collins did not object to Jensen paying calls in riding dress; when Jensen hesitated, Collins informed him gravely that he was not going to ever be seen as a Pink of the ton and might therefore feel free to set himself apart as one who did not feel the need to subscribe strictly to the vagaries of fashion. Upon further reflection, Jensen felt that his valet's unanticipated casualness might also be related to the pride he took in the shine imparted to Jensen's riding boots, a notion that was not discredited by the many envious looks they received.

Jensen was able to pay short calls on several of the less insipid young ladies he’d met the previous evening. He left his card with the footmen at the homes of several others, and ended his social obligations at Lady Graham’s house for a less dutiful and more enjoyable few minutes with Miss Bush. After taking his leave he made his way back to the park; it was an unfashionable hour, and no one of any consequence could be expected there, but not long after he’d let his gelding break into a spirited trot, he was hailed by a group coming up quickly from the other way. He recognized the young Hussar captain and reined in.

"Excellent timing, sir." The horse Captain Padalecki was riding was young and skittish, a blood-chestnut with beautiful lines. Jensen was not surprised to see how easily Padalecki handled him; the 3rd Hussars had seen ferocious action in the Peninsular Wars, most especially in the brutal skirmishes at Salamanca and Vittoria. A captain of their post, especially one who had risen to that rank at seemingly so young an age, would necessarily live in the saddle. "We are off to Gentleman Jackson’s to take in a lesson or two. If you’ve no other call upon your time, we should be pleased with your company."

As Jensen did not, in fact, have plans, he greeted this invitation with enthusiasm and was immediately swept up into the group riding out to Bond Street and the famous pugilist’s boxing academy. Joshua would be envious; he had made a visit or two during previous trips to the city, but had never had the time to stand amid the hustle, the air all but vibrating with the energy of the retired champion. As the other young men made arrangements for lessons, Jensen found himself distracted by one already in progress.

Jackson himself was in the ring, his hands swathed in the mufflers he’d made popular so that he could provide instruction to his high-born patrons without causing serious injury. With him was just such a patron; Jensen was fascinated to realize that he knew the gentleman in question--Morgan, Miss Bush’s cousin. Even more intriguing was the ease with which he moved about the ring, and the familiar way Jackson treated him. It was less a lesson and more a match between equals.

Jensen had of course heard of the easy camaraderie Jackson had with such notable figures as Lord Byron and even members of the royal family, he had not expected to witness it with someone he himself was acquainted with, howsoever slightly that might be. He watched, absorbed, as Morgan near danced across the ring, gliding easily, responding to the defensive moves Jackson called to him as quickly as the champion himself.

"It’s enough to make a grown man weep," Captain Padalecki said, coming up quietly beside Jensen and following his eyes. "By all accounts, Morgan has only the barest minimum of time with Jackson, yet he takes to it as though he spent every free moment here."

"Refresher course," said another member of the group--Mr. Murray, Jensen believed it was. "They say he has ample opportunity to put what he learns here to practice out in the world."

"They?" Padalecki asked.

"You know," Murray answered. "Word from the ones in the know, that sort of thing."

"We met in Vienna last year," Padalecki said, with a quelling expression that made Jensen find him quite likeable. Gossip had never been a particular passion of Jensen’s either. "In and around the conferences. He had some connection, but the kind no one speaks to."

"Quite possibly, my boy," Murray answered, completely unfazed by the set-down. "He never sticks long in any one place, they say, though I'm sure I wouldn't know why he might care about such things as were happening in Vienna." The captain sighed again and Murray shrugged. "Just know what they say: wild hellion who they pushed off to the Continent after a duel, close to twenty years ago. Doesn't give a damn for England or the rest of his family; only comes back when the dowager commands it. Graham himself doesn’t have anything to say about it, even if he don’t much like it."

Jensen listened absently, his attention still on Morgan as he finished sparring with Jackson and climbed down out of the ring to meet up with his friend, Lord Merton. He glanced over toward the small assembly of young men, his expression unreadable; Jensen felt as if the dark, intense gaze lingered for a brief moment as it passed over him, but that was in all probability nothing but a trick of the light.

"Have you interest in lessons?" Padalecki broke into Jensen’s reverie, though Jensen didn’t think the young captain had noticed anything amiss. "I would be happy to share a time with you."

Jensen thought briefly about the account books in the estate office, their lines crossed heavily with red ink. Young men of the ton were not supposed to concern themselves with such thoughts, but they perhaps had no care for a brother’s face grown old before its time. It was important not to appear to wracked for money, though, Jensen thought. And there were his winnings from the previous night--they could defray at least a portion of the costs without the need to apply to Joshua for more funds.

"My time is not strictly my own," Jensen said. "I am promised to execute some commissions on my brother’s behalf, but a chance for a lesson with the champion should not be missed. Thank you."

As soon as the course of lessons was inked into the academy’s schedule, Jensen quickly sought to change the topic before a suggestion for additional time could be made.

"And how is Miss Cortese this day?"

"She is quite well, thank you," Captain Padalecki answered promptly, his smile now beaming. "She has promised to ride with me this afternoon, and might even accompany me to a balloon ascension Friday next. And she attends the assembly this Wednesday at Almack’s; I hope to stand up with her at least once. If fortune favors me, I’ll have the opportunity to waltz with her."

Jensen could not help but smile at the energy and enthusiasm in his new acquaintance’s voice; it swept them out the door and back onto their horses and all the way to Hyde Park.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Do forgive my tardiness, Cousin!" Sophia ran lightly down the front steps of Lady Graham’s townhouse. "Lord Merton came to call earlier this week and thought my ribbons were insipid, and of course we have now gone through my entire wardrobe, rooting out the offending articles. It is very amusing, but I have been late to everything these past three days while Miss Beacham puts finishing touches on me."

Jeff held the horses while Jackson, the great-nephew of the stablemaster at Lady Graham’s estate, handed Sophia up to sit beside him in the curricle he had recently determined was a necessary purchase. He had no desire to be driven about in Lady Graham’s landaulet, not if he could help matters along, and as Jeremy was fond of reminding him, he was possessed of a relatively handsome fortune no matter how little attention he paid it. Sophia wore a fawn-colored dress with cherry ribbons that matched the ostrich feather in her hat, all very cheerful and charming, quite appropriate for Lady Cranfield’s al fresco party in Chiswick.

"You’re here now--"

"And very much not insipid, I should hope?"

"I’ll leave that pronouncement to Jeremy; you should know by now that I have not the slightest inclination toward good taste." Jeff took the horses out at a trot; his cousin did not much care for a swift passage through the streets of London, vastly preferring a quiet, calm ride. "Though I’m sure that none of your admirers have as lofty of standards as he, and would not mind if your ribbons were not up to snuff."

Sophia blushed a little at the mention of admirers, but Jeff knew that Lady Graham’s scheme to marry the girl off was well-launched; according to Fraser, who seemed to be much enjoying the chance to preside over a Season once more, they received no fewer than a half-dozen callers every day.

"Well, I am sure that some of them would be mortified to be seen with someone Lord Merton did not think acceptable." Sophia paused for a moment. "They are welcome to their opinions of course, but I find I cannot think much of them."

"Well spoken, Cousin," Jeff said. He was glad to see the girl had a layer of common sense and was not having her head turned by the sudden rush of attention. "And my grandmother? What does she say of all this?"

"Oh, I believe she has her own plans," Sophia said calmly. She smiled as Jeff forgot himself long enough to stare at her, not paying attention to the horses until she began to look a trifle uneasy. "She does that, you know."

"I had been given to understand that, yes," Jeff managed to say. His tone was strangled, but whether it was due to Sophia having made such an astute observation or her utter indifference to it, he could not say. Sophia kindly paid him no mind.

"She asks you to accompany me because she wishes us to make a match," Sophia continued, ending with a squeak as Jeff’s astonishment overtook him completely and he dropped his hands long enough for his bays to take the notion that they had the lead. They did not bolt, but it took him some minutes to bring them back under control.

"My apologies," he offered, slowing the carriage to a walk and allowing Sophia to regain her equilibrium.

"Oh, no," Sophia said breathlessly. "It was quite my fault. I should not have sprung that upon you." Her eyes were serious as she took his measure. "I hope you will not take offense if I am frank and tell you I do not think we should suit each other."

"Not at all," Jeff managed to answer, not precisely sure how he was being out-maneuvered by a slip of a girl.

"Oh," Sophia said with what could only be a sigh of relief. Jeff was not entirely sure that he should not feel a bit insulted. "I did not think you could be harboring feelings for me, but you are very kind and I would not wish to cause you distress."

"You may rest assured you have not," Jeff answered, as firmly as he was capable.

"It is not that I think you too old, you understand." Sophia was very earnest. "It is that you are very attached to your travels and your house in Italy, which I am sure is very beautiful, but I am quite content here."

"Of course," Jeff answered. He wondered if Lady Cranfield might possibly be serving something stronger than a lemonade, but did not think it likely.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lady Cranfield’s gardens were quite lovely, to be sure, and Jensen was gratified to have been invited, but all in all, it was nothing more than another occasion for Collins to garb him suitably and for him to make proper, painstaking conversation with the young ladies Danneel had identified as meeting his needs. He was not bored, precisely, but he was more relieved to spot Captain Padalecki’s tall form amid the flowers and shrubbery than he should be. Jared, of course, was attending to Miss Cortese’s every need, but that young lady was wise enough not to place so many demands on his time that he could not talk briefly with Jensen regarding a scheme he claimed to be hatching. Since an earlier plan had involved such niceties as Jared jumping his pretty chestnut gelding over a fully set table without so much as disturbing the flower arrangement upon the center, and another had Mr. Murray walking the length of Piccadilly on stilts, Jensen merely arched an eyebrow and asked if he should need to settle his affairs before joining the fray.

"Nothing so fun, I promise." Jared grinned irrepressibly. "I have word that Weatherly is done in and must sell off his cattle before he takes a turn in the country. I’ve an eye toward his blacks for my phaeton."

Jensen managed a credible-enough nod and, thanks to Miss Cortese and the distractions she provided, he did not think Jared noticed anything amiss, but he could not help the chill he felt at the thought of being forced to sell possessions so that everyone should know. It was for that very reason that he had yet to sell the necklet and armband Margaret had sent him, even though it was quite common for older pieces handed down to be reset or sold if the lady in question did not find them fashionable. He resolved to visit Kripke at his earliest convenience and pay closer attention to the investments, no matter the distractions town life was offering.

As Jared moved off, Jensen espied Miss Bush and her cousin, Mr. Morgan, and waited for them to make their way along the neatly raked path of gravel. While he could not say that he was as enamored of Miss Bush as Jared was of Miss Cortese, he did find her company a fair length more entertaining than that of any of the other young ladies of his recent acquaintance. She smiled as she caught sight of him. While he did not think her feelings were any stronger than his, she appeared to hold him in some regard and fondness. She touched her cousin on the arm, nodding toward Jensen, and they turned to join him.

Jensen had just made his bows when another young lady and her formidable mama approached: Miss Phillip, if Jensen remembered correctly. The two young ladies moved off to exchange greetings and confidences. Lady Phillip hesitated long enough that it was remarkable, and then somewhat stiffly invited Jensen and Mr. Morgan to accompany them, her tone such that one might infer she fully expected the Hounds of Hell to follow in their path.

"Mr. Ackles and I were about to go inspect Lord Cranfield’s new Grecian temple," Morgan answered politely, though Jensen saw the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

"Yes, of course." Lady Phillip did not bother to hide her relief and sailed off after the young ladies, leaving Jensen standing with Mr. Morgan on the gravel path.

"My apologies," Morgan said, with a sigh. "My reputation precedes me; I understand if you have a prior engagement."

After a silence that was more than a trifle awkward--he’d met the man once, over a faro table; hardly a sound foundation for … whatever had just happened--Jensen heard himself offering, blandly, "I have heard that the temple is unequalled; it would be a shame to miss it."

Morgan stared as though Jensen had just produced a trained monkey from under his coat. To be sure, Jensen was not precisely certain himself why he had not taken the opportunity Morgan had offered to extricate himself. It was, he supposed, merely that he was intrigued by the rumors that swirled about the other man. Or possibly that he had not summarily dismissed Jensen during their first, inauspicious meeting in the Park. Then again, it could simply have been that Jensen disliked airs and pretensions, and while Morgan had neither, Lady Phillip’s actions were ridiculously overblown for a duchess, never mind the wife of a newly made and quite minor baronet.

It did not matter, Jensen decided. He was happy enough to further his acquaintance with the enigmatic Mr. Morgan for whatever reason. He arched an eyebrow, waiting for a reply. Morgan recollected himself, and, when Jensen made no move to run off, swept his arm in the general direction of the folly.

"After you," he said gravely, but Jensen saw how his mouth quirked in a half-smile. That was another mark in his favor, Jensen decided. Most people did not bother to look past the bland front Jensen liked to present; Morgan quite clearly saw through to everything Jensen hid behind it. Saw it and did not disapprove, which was exceedingly rare, in Jensen’s experience.

The particular corner of the gardens dedicated to Lord Cranfield’s passion for all things Grecian beheld a commanding view of the river--fortunately, as it afforded something pleasing to gaze upon when the full horror of the artfully aged ruins proved too much.

"It is most certainly unequalled," Jensen murmured after the two of them had spent a some five minutes circling the small, round pavilion without noting so much as a single detail that either could identify as properly authentic.

"Let us hope," Morgan said. "If there were more, I could not in good conscience argue against Zeus striking down the nation."

By mutual, though unspoken, agreement, they turned to leave, stepping aside as another small group made its way to examine the travesty, led by a pompous young lordling whom Jensen heard expounding on the "exquisite use of shape and form" he perceived in the marble columns.

"One wonders if he ever allowed his dons’ words to pass his ears," Morgan murmured as they moved around a curve in the path. He smiled unexpectedly. "Not that I ever did, but seeing the actual objects in front of me did manage to penetrate even the fog left by vast quantities of Greek spirits."

"The ruins of Athens?" Jensen asked, somewhat pleased that he did not sound quite as eager as he felt. It was difficult given how many hours he’d pored over the great atlas in the library at Richardson Hall as a child.

"The Parthenon," Morgan confirmed. "It’s quite magnificent, but I have a particular fondness for the temple at Delphi." He walked quietly for a few moments, than added, "Now that Napoleon is indeed finished, there might be opportunity to see it again."

"It would seem possible," Jensen said, attempting to mask his ardent longing to see those sights--and so many more. The middle of an al fresco luncheon party in Chiswick was hardly the place to reveal the inadequacies of his education or the sense of duty that kept him so firmly anchored to an estate that held family and familiarity but not much else. He was not entirely successful, but it seemed Morgan appreciated his interest.

"And not only Greece," Morgan mused, as though the thought was only now occurring to him. "I confess I am more taken with sculpture than ruins, but Rome has both, and Paris will be possible now, too."

"You have a home in Italy, Miss Bush says," Jensen said, trying to disguise the unbridled envy that coursed through his veins at the thought. "It sounds an excellent base."

"I suppose it would be," Morgan said. "I have not occupied it long enough to test its convenience for travel, but as it’s in the northern part of the country it is not terribly out of the way for the rest of the continent."

They had reached the front of the gardens by this time, and Jensen spied Danneel in conference with the grooms, which allowed him to excuse himself civilly before he gave away too much of his covetousness. Gentlemen were, of course, encouraged to make a Grand Tour of the Continent, but the fashionable enthusiasm was to be saved for the more licentious of the sights. Only prosy bores were expected to enjoy ancient ruins.

Danneel had driven them out to the luncheon in her extremely fashionable and correspondingly expensive phaeton. It was a high-perch model, one that turned heads no matter who was driving it. Add in a spectacular pair of greys--second only to the pair Ross drove himself--and Danneel at the reins, and it was a sight not to be missed.

A lesser man would have objected to being driven by a lady, or at least insisted on putting a critical eye about her form, but Jensen had grown up watching Danneel drive, and as competent a whip as he was himself, he was perfectly content to allow her to put her team through their paces. He did, however, warn that he would extract a hideous revenge should she overturn them, as she had been known to do on occasion when her eye for speed was done in by an unexpected irregularity in the roadway.

"I should not be such an idiot in front of the whole town," Danneel informed him archly. "You may take your leisure; it is an excellent day for driving and I do not intend to ruin it by overreaching. Not that my beauties could not put every other pair here to shame," she added.

"They are splendid," Jensen agreed. "Where did you have them from?" He purposefully did not ask their cost, as the number would only depress him.

"They are out of Ross’s pair," Danneel said. "Can you not tell? They are as perfect as anything, just as everything he owns is. He has another pair that he uses with his own when he desires a coach and four, but these two had too strong a head for that combination."

She took a curve in the road at a spanking pace, casting a glace sidelong at Jensen to gauge his reaction. As the phaeton was perfectly balanced, and Danneel had driven him through worse turns on worse roads with a far less nuanced vehicle under them, Jensen had not seen the need to move from the lazy slouch he had been enjoying. He did, however, arch an eyebrow in her direction.

"Oh, famous," Danneel said, laughing. "You are such a much better choice to be my cicisbeo-in-chief than any of the other dullards the on-dits want for the role."

"I am your chief admirer?" That did bring Jensen out of his slouch, and Danneel laughed anew. "I?"

"Well, to be sure, they have not heard one of your thundering scolds--and they do not need to; pray do not look for opportunities, Jensen!" Danneel fell silent as she passed a slower-moving barouche, and Jensen nodded politely to the occupants, several ladies who were slightly familiar. "Do not mind it a bit--they will say the same about anyone who dances with me twice in the same evening, and I am far more entertained by you than anyone else. You would think they might work out that had I been diverted by any of the likely choices I might have married them instead of Ross, but that is not the case."

Jensen did not even have to speak to express how distasteful he found the entire topic.

"Don’t frown so, Jen," Danneel cajoled. "Every young wife has her court; to not have one is to be seen odd. In truth, your arrival has actually calmed the gossips. I had no clear favorite before; it drove them all mad. But now you are here and they can all whisper behind their fans and move on to the next topic."

Though Jensen knew she spoke the truth--he could not think of a young woman, new-married or not who did not have her favorites clustered about her at every gathering, he still could not like it.

"I have it from Ross himself," Danneel snapped. "It is not good ton to be seen hanging about one another incessantly; I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." Jensen liked that statement even less, but Danneel refused further discussion on the subject, and the rest of the trip was accomplished in a silence that was as strained as it had ever been between them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Once he safely returned his cousin to Lady Graham’s care, Jeff had no plans other than an escape to White’s for dinner with Jeremy, with vague intentions of throwing the dice at Watier’s or, more likely, finishing out the night with Mary-Louise. He did not feel equal to addressing the entire issue of a match between Sophia and himself; not with the added unease from encountering Lady Phillip and her daughter.

His grandmother had other intentions, of course, and nonplussed, Jeff stared at the sight of Fraser descending the front steps of the townhouse at a smart pace, chasing after Jeff for all that he retained his composure. Jeff toyed with the thought of leaving regardless, but as much as this assumption that he was at Lady Graham’s beck and call galled him, he couldn’t lay the blame at Fraser’s feet, and there was no purpose served by sending him back empty-handed.

"Take them round the square once or twice if they get restless," Jeff said, descending from the curricle and leaving the horses in the more-than-capable hands of his groom. "I won’t be long," he added, his voice hardening.

Fraser led him up the steps and into the house, saying, "My lady is receiving in the drawing room, sir."

"Oh, so we’re to be formal today," Jeff answered. "Send in a decanter of the good brandy."

"Very good, sir," Fraser answered, as if it were not the height of familiarity for Jeff to be giving orders. He announced Jeff with his usual aplomb and took himself off. Silence descended upon the room, Jeff bowing over his grandmother’s hand with punctilious care but otherwise not greeting her.

"So kind of you to join me," Lady Graham said, finally, and Jeff thought it might be the first time he’d ever been able to outwait her.

"I could hardly refuse the summons," Jeff answered. "Not without causing a scene."

"There was a time when that would not have mattered to you."

"There was a time when you would have applauded my restraint," Jeff bit out, but before he could well and truly lose his tenuous grasp upon his temper, Fraser returned, carrying a silver tray with decanters of brandy and water and several heavy glass snifters. He deposited his burden on the sideboard, pouring Jeff a glass before once again removing himself silently from the room. He was not, Jeff was happy to note, at all abstemious with the liquor. Jeff took a breath and then, leaning against the mantel, turned to face the dragon.

"Lord knows I am well used to your arranging the family’s life to suit you, but this entire business with Sophia is..." He drank deeply from the glass--Fraser had done him the courtesy of serving up a vintage that fair raised his eyebrows--and continued, "Dragging the girl out of the country and sending her off in my escort is a new landmark even for you, ma’am."

"Don’t be tiresome, Jeffrey," Lady Graham sniffed, but with only a small portion of her usual acerbity. "The girl came to me, asked me for help in finding a husband. Can you blame her--shut off down in Kent with no one but Hubert for company? She’s a good girl, looking after her father, but the living there passes to some ridiculous popinjay at Hubert’s death. He’s already been nosing around, making suggestions that it would be providential for them to marry so that she should not lose her home. Sophia is quite intelligent enough to know there are better alternatives than that."

Jeff nodded, but as that only answered half the issue, did not say anything further. After a few moments, Lady Graham sighed. "Of course I should like it if you formed a connection. Why should I not like something that would bring you home?"

"I have a home, ma’am," Jeff said, more gently than he would have thought possible given all the heated words that had been flung--in both directions--over the years. "It is a villa in the hills, with a view of the lake and more sun than seems possible."

"That is your pride, Jeffrey. Your pride and your stubbornness." Her voice was steady, unflinching, but her eyes softened when she looked at him. "Your home waits for you here."

"A decade past, I would have wanted to agree with you," Jeff said. A decade past he would have welcomed those words with an eagerness that seemed to be nothing now but a distant echo. "My life has moved in different directions since--"

"Bonaparte is finished," she snapped. "You were never obligated to take on that burden in the first place, but what’s done is done." When Jeff boggled at her, she added, "Do not gape at me, boy. Did you think I would not hear of your work? I have known the truth these last five years. For all the respect Castlereagh inspires in the halls of the Foreign Offices, it does not follow him into my drawing room."

"How remiss of me not to have understood that fact," Jeff said dryly, with a small bow.

"I have yet to determine how it all began, but I do know that it is long past time for you to stop these games and come home." For the first time in Jeff’s memory, she sounded her age, her voice thin and whispery.

"With the greatest of respect, I find I cannot agree with you, ma’am," Jeff said quietly. He finished his brandy and, sketching a quick bow, let himself out the front door as quietly as he could. He would follow his original plan: dinner at the club, and then the rest of the evening lost in the cards and dice.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jensen had no plans for the night; upon receiving a note from Jared inviting him to join their party for dinner and an hour or two of gaming, he changed quickly and set out for White’s. It was a pleasant-enough evening to make his way to St. James Street on foot, foregoing the always-questionable interior of a hired coach. Dinner was a companionable affair; Jared had a wide circle of acquaintances, and somewhat to Jensen’s surprise he himself had passed enough time in society to be able to make his bows to a respectable number of the gentlemen who frequented the wood-paneled rooms. As they lingered over the excellent port poured by the club, Jared became embroiled in an intense, if friendly, debate that ended with him laughingly swearing to prove the Viscount Morecomb wrong.

The book was brought out and a wager was entered, that Sir Jared, late of the 3rd Hussars, could not ride the length of the Thames to the coast and back within the space of sunrise until White’s itself stopped serving dinner. To prove that he truly did make the entire journey--Jensen saw Jared’s eyes narrow at the implied slight to his honor--arrangements would be made for him to retrieve a package from the innkeeper at Ship’s Inn in the village of Clacton, the contents of which would be known only to the viscount, but recorded and kept at White’s. Upon completing his journey, the package would be opened and the contents verified.

"Five thousand pounds," Jared said amiably, as if he had not just wagered a year’s income. The viscount agreed and the amount was duly inscribed; it was not the largest sum ever set forth at White’s, not by a long draw, and for far less substantial terms. As news of the bet filtered through the club, more gentlemen appeared to add their own lines to the book.

"Solid bit of flash," Mr. Murray murmured to Jensen. "You’ll not find an easier way to turn a handsome profit." He himself put a line down for a thousand pounds.

"It’s a long way to the coast and back," Jensen answered. "Easy to throw a shoe, strain a foreleg. Not to mention the smugglers running in and around there."

"You don’t know my Diablo," Jared said, laughing. "Old Soult chased us halfway across the Peninsula and back and he still had the spirit to take a groom’s finger off at the knuckle just for getting too close."

Jensen watched carefully as Jared met bet after bet--there was nothing of self-aggrandizement or boastful insincerity in Jared’s face, no unease or doubt. Nothing was ever certain, of course, but when it came time Jensen calmly laid down his own line, five hundred pounds, and did not flinch. It was one of the lesser bets, to be sure, but it was still money Jensen did not possess. He felt it a reasonable risk, though he wondered if the Black Earl had felt the same way in all of his ruinous wagers.

"You won’t regret it." Jared clapped him on the back and they started out of the club. There was a small delay stemming from a disagreement over which gaming hell to move on to; while the matter was being debated, Lord Ross came up the steps, as effortlessly stylish as always.

"Mr. Ackles," he said with a small smile. Jensen bowed slightly, and found himself wondering idly if Ross had some condition that made it painful to express happiness. "I understand from my wife that conditions were well-nigh perfect for driving this afternoon."

"She did seem to enjoy putting the team through their paces."

"How fortunate for her that she had such a good friend there with her," Ross said, as he continued on his way into the club. If he were not so well-bred, Jensen would have said his smile was closer to a snarl.

Jensen was tempted to take out his quizzing glass and give his lordship a close examination. He’d see nothing but the back of a superbly cut coat, but perhaps there might be some clue as to the man’s disagreeable temper. He wondered why Danneel had ever consented to the match--the obvious reason was for his not-inconsiderable fortune and the opportunity to gain the title of Marchioness, but Jensen had thought he knew his friend to be above that sort of scheme.

Jared was calling to him, though, so Jensen put the marquess’s ill temper out of his mind and went off to see what the night had in store for him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jeff had, in fact, forgone the quieter option of dinner at White’s, having decided that the cold buffet Mary-Louise provided would suffice. More importantly, her wines and spirits were oftentimes better than anything he could be served in all of London.

He started the night with deep basset and faro, but as the clock ticked on and the itch under his skin grew more and more insistent, he found himself in one of the back rooms holding the bank, dice in his hand. Mary-Louise made her usual rounds, smiling and making sure her guests had everything they could possibly desire, but Jeff wasn’t so far gone that he missed the sharp, assessing glances she favored him with.

"You’re in quite the mood this evening," she said as he closed out another round and reminded those at his table that he wasn’t accepting vowels. It was unusual but not unheard of for the bank not to accept notes of hand, but the less he had to interact with society this evening, the better it would go for everyone.

"Have you received complaints?" Jeff asked in a low growl.

"Not so far." Mary-Louise put her hand on his arm, a cautionary touch that did little but raise his temper higher. "Perhaps it would be best to let someone else take the bank." She spoke lightly but her eyes were serious, and Jeff was reminded of all that it had taken for her to reach this spot of semi-respectability. No lady of the ton would acknowledge her, of course, and most gentlemen would look right through her if they saw her in any capacity other than as their hostess for a night of gaming, but to have the house and the staff was a luxury few women cast out by their family ever achieved.

They had an amiable relationship, one that sometimes extended beyond the gaming table; and if in the past she had never directly given Jeff the information he sought, she had often enough pointed him to the person who would. Jeff accepted her help and offered his protection when he could; after dangers of Dublin and Lisbon and Madrid, he would not intentionally cause her harm here in London. That was, he knew, what she counted on: that he would take her presence in the hazard room as the first warning he was crossing a line. It was not her fault that he had had enough of being told how he was not living up to expectations.

"Perhaps it would," Jeff said finally. He collected the money he’d staked and allowed one of Mary-Louise’s capable assistants to take his place, but shook the lady herself off when she suggested they take in a cold plate or two.

"You have your admirers waiting for you at the tables," Jeff told her. It was, after all, one of the attractions of the house: an intelligent, beautiful woman who could deal faro like the sharpest of them all. Every minute she was away from the table was money out of her pocket, and Jeff was not so foolish as to mistake his temper for anything other than a boy’s pique. "Go; I’ll take advantage of your chef’s work on my own."

"By which you mean you’ll try more of my cellar," she said, with less of an edge to her voice than Jeff deserved. "Have a care, my love. Even the finest brandy works its evil without regard for who might be drinking it."

She swept out the door, the watered silk of her skirts rustling softly; from the front room, Jeff could hear the greetings called to her from the faro tables. He took himself off to the buffet, filling his plate with the plainest of its offerings before settling in a corner table. His wine was refilled regularly, which was not, he thought, the wisest of actions, but it was wine rather than brandy and he was eating, so that must even the table some.

It was of no matter, though; not when a fresh wave of guests entered the room and he recognized Robert’s dark head among them. Before Jeff could quit his table, Robert had seen him as well, and was excusing himself from his party to cross over to Jeff’s table.

"Jeffrey," Robert said, smiling and extending his hand so that Jeff took it automatically. "It is good to see you after these many years."

Robert’s smile was still the personal one, and if his words could be construed by the casual listener as meaning something different than they did to Jeff, well, theirs had never been a relationship that had been as it seemed on the surface.

A waiter hurried up with a glass for Robert, reminding Jeff that he didn’t need to be causing a scene for Mary-Louise to have to clean up, so he nodded as Robert asked wordlessly if he might take the other chair at the small table, and even went so far as to pour him some of the wine still in the carafe. At the very least it was alcohol Jeff himself wouldn’t be imbibing.

"You look well, Jeff," Robert said quietly. "I know these last few years have not been the easiest, but you always did have the devil’s own luck in getting in and out of trouble without much more than the occasional scrape."

Jeff shook his head; the "occasional scrape" had been one thing when he was barely out of the schoolroom; they seemed to take longer and longer to recover from as he aged.

"I’ve not had the chance to congratulate you on the baronetcy," Jeff said. It was not the most smooth of subject changes, but it was one he felt sure would be successful in distracting Robert from what he thought he might know of Jeff’s life.

"Thank you," Robert said, leaning forward to add, "It is due in no small part to your efforts, you know. I am sorry that cannot be more widely known."

There was something not quite sincere in his voice; in all the many years and guises of their relationship, it was perhaps the first time Jeff could remember thinking that. He had long since come to accept that Robert spoke the truth that best benefited his own interests, but he could not think of a time when Robert had not first convinced himself of whatever that might be.

Coupled with Jeff’s already fraying temper, it was enough for him to answer, equally quietly, "Perhaps it might ease your mind to at least let your lady wife know, so that she is not ready to fly London should our paths cross once more."

Robert sat back in his chair, blinking in some confoundment before a knowing look came into his eyes. "I know that you have long held Lady Phillip in some disregard--I do understand your dislike of what I had to do to further my career, not having your advantages of wealth and family--but I had thought you above such commentary." He stood--calmly, so none might think there had been words exchanged--and finished, "Perhaps we should find time for a luncheon, when we might better discuss our business without the effects of Mrs. Parker’s wine cellar muddying the waters."

The part of Jeff that had learned hard lessons at the hands of his ill-considered temper had him pushing away from his table and making his way to the door, stamping down with hard force on the other parts, those that howled he was giving the field over without a fight. Aided no doubt by Mary-Louise’s very excellent cellar, those parts had very nearly succeeded in turning him about and sending him back in when he all but ran down a familiar pair of green eyes. It should not have been too great of a shock--for all the gaming hells in London, Parker’s was the darling at the moment; every young blade worth his Hessians found his way to Mary-Louise’s tables at least once--but to be in the same company twice in a single day while fighting off the demons of the past was somewhat more than Jeff counted as ordinary.

Those eyes took in everything: Jeff’s poorly concealed agitation, the porter Jeff knew had been taxed to watch over him, Robert’s tall figure standing out in the group beyond. Jeff saw the curiosity flicker across the other man’s face, and braced himself for the questions that must surely follow. Ackles said nothing, however; merely contenting himself with a slight bow and an inquiry as to whether Jeff would consider joining Ackles’s group at one of the faro tables.

"Mr. Murray is taking the bank." For an unexceptional statement delivered in the blandest of tones, it carried a wealth of meaning, promising untold amusements in which Jeff was invited to partake, should he so desire. Somewhat to Jeff’s own surprise, he found it not unappealing. It salved his pride that he was not leaving or ceding the common ground to Robert, while offering his temper a distraction.

"No limits this evening, gentlemen. Are we in agreement?" Murray was saying, making the arrangements with Mary-Louise’s majordomo as Jeff walked up in Ackles’s company. A table was prepared for them and play commenced. Jeff was hardly in top form, his thoughts still in some disorder, but he had played for far higher stakes than money in his life. It was a lively group, to be sure, but good-natured and civil as well as deep-dipping at the bank. Captain Padalecki played with a reckless ease that did much to cloud the level of his skill; Major Welling showed so little emotion he might have been home abed. Mr. Murray was remarkably astute at the bank, belying the careless disposition he affected. Jeff still found it highly satisfying to win a hand and watch him frown.

Most interesting to Jeff was Mr. Ackles. He played the table like Jeff himself did--watching each player with a painstaking care disguised behind an affable, if quiet, smile. His bets showed the same deliberation, with an edge toward bravura that on this evening was playing out well. The stack of guineas in front of him grew steadily, but slowly enough that Jeff was certain none of the others noticed. He found it equally fascinating to note that while Mr. Ackles was surely aware that Jeff was cognizant of his strategy, it did not appear to unnerve him.

The game had an ebb and flow to it, a few lighter hands inevitably followed by one where play got deep. Gentlemen bought in and cashed out as the night progressed, some to partake of the buffet, others because they were tapped out. A quiet, unobtrusive porter made certain glasses were replenished and fresh cards were to hand; Mary-Louise stopped by a trifle more frequently than necessary, sitting in on several hands to lend an extra air of competition. Jeff played tolerably well, ending the evening with a few extra pounds in his pocket. The others at the table were well-satisfied with their evening’s entertainment, but Jeff was certain that none of the rest had even a measure of the intensity with which Mr. Ackles collected his winnings.

Jeff did not mention it; to do so seemed churlish in light of Ackles’s own acceptance of Jeff’s behavior, but he was indeed interested. It was, perhaps, nothing more than gambling being in the younger man’s blood--the Black Earl’s legacy, as it were. Jeff found himself curiously loath to accept that, as though he had some stake in finding Ackles more than another careless young society blade.

It was not until they took their leave of their hostess, who favored each of them with a smile before taking Jeff’s hand and eying him critically, that Jeff remembered that he had almost ended his evening in a far less pleasant mood.

"That was quite a turn-around, my love." Mary-Louise leaned close so that only he could hear. "You give him far too much command over you, and allow him to believe he has even more, but I can tell you that he did not like seeing you enjoying yourself this evening. His choler was quite entertaining." She allowed him to kiss her hand and sent him on his way with an air that said while she did not precisely forgive him for taxing her patience, she would nevertheless overlook his behavior.

It was not all that late; a good number of the group was setting out for other, less reputable haunts. Jeff could not help but laugh when he was also invited along; the joys of the Beggar’s Club had long since lost all appeal for him. Captain Padalecki excused himself and Mr. Ackles, as well, saying that they had plans for the following day.

After some few minutes of desultory conversation, Captain Padalecki hailed a cab and disappeared into it with a cheerful reminder that he would be by Cavendish Square quite early in the morning.

"Yes, yes," Jensen sighed as the door slammed behind him and the hackney drove off. "I am not overly fond of the morning," he added to Jeff.

"Given the quantities of brandy I watched him consume, I’m of the opinion that quite early is a relative term," Jeff said mildly.

"He is in the hunt for a matched pair of blacks," Jensen said with another sigh. "For that, I am persuaded he would rise at dawn and be full of cheer."

"Weatherly’s blacks? I had heard he was done in."

"I believe so," Jensen answered, his voice doubtful as he added, "I’m to be the voice of reason as we look them over."

"I find myself in much the same situation," Jeff agreed. Jeremy had firmly requested Jeff’s presence--to any other person, that request would have been an order, but for Jeff, Jeremy had couched it ever so civilly as a tax on their friendship. Given the dismal performance of the chestnut pair upon which Jeremy had so recently thrown away his money, Jeff was not at all surprised he was in the hunt for a new pair, nor that he remembered that Jeff had a far better eye for horseflesh than he himself did. "Given what I’ve seen of the captain’s eye for cattle, I’d wager you’ll have an easier time of it than will I."

They had fallen into step as they spoke, a companionable stroll along toward Piccadilly, there to cross over into the more fashionable part of the city.

"I am done with wagers for the evening, most especially when it comes to our young captain," Jensen said with feeling.

"I was only present for the later parts of the evening, but that went well by all accounts."

"That was an uncommon run at the end, was it not?" Jensen said, with an unexpected grin that lightened his face even in the dim light thrown by the gas streetlights. Jeff found himself returning it easily. "It was more the as-yet-unsettled wagers I had in mind--Jared is a persuasive man."

He did not seem inclined to add details and they walked in companionable silence for some while. As they came upon the corner where Jeff would take the turn for Clarges Street, Jeff said, "You’ll forgive my bluntness, but I find myself in your debt for the evening."

"Not at all," Jensen said promptly. "Happy to have been able to include you." Jeff snorted at the platitude, and Jensen added, with more honesty, "It is rare fun to have someone who plays as sharply as you do at my elbow."

"Likewise," Jeff said, and then hesitated, searching for words as they stood on the corner.

After several seconds, Jensen said, not unkindly, "I apprehend there is … some history between you and Sir Robert, but I assure you, I am not offended that you are not able to share it."

"History," Jeff said, with a short laugh. "Yes, there is that. We do better when we do not mix in the same circles, but I’m in for the season, courtesy of my grandmother, so I suppose I should make do and find a way around it all. I did not expect to end the evening so well. For that, I truly am in your debt."

"I find it difficult to accept a debt when I gained such enjoyment from such little effort," Jensen said with a small bow. "When I say I’m happy to have been of service, I mean that with deepest sincerity."

As his voice and manner were indeed most sincere, Jeff would be churlish to continue with thanks as though he could not believe the other man was speaking truly. He accepted the statement with a bow of his own, saying, "As we both have friends who are determined we should accompany them in the morning, I’ll leave you here and suppose we’ll meet again shortly."

"With pleasure," Jensen said, continuing on toward Cavendish Square and leaving Jeff to make his way to his rooms and Ferguson, who would at least be marginally happy to see Jeff, if only because it meant his night would not be disturbed by having to deliver Jeff from the tender mercies of the Watch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jensen rose early and did without his usual morning ride so that he could make his way to the City and the offices of Messrs. Kripke and Singer. As he stepped down from the hackney coach into the busy street, he marveled at the difference a few short miles could make. The streets were more narrow here in the financial district; there were few trees and none of the parks or squares of the London Jensen knew. There was nonetheless much life and vitality; men--dressed in sober black, or sometimes gray--hurried to and fro and carriages thronged the streets. The few women Jensen saw also dressed with less of an eye toward fashion, though he knew enough to recognize rich fabrics and trimmings when he saw them. He wasn’t there to study the differences between the Upper Ten Thousand and the rest of the country, though, and he had little enough time as it was.

He hurried up the front stairs and into the reception area. He was expected; an assistant met him and showed him into Kripke’s somewhat garish but perfectly adequate office.

After exchanging pleasantries, and ascertaining Jensen would prefer coffee over tea, Kripke wisely determined that business was indeed Jensen’s highest priority and opened his files.

"I’m sorry to tell you, sir, but I’ve had no success in persuading my lord Richardson to take up investments other than the most basic of bonds," Kripke said, picking up a letter in what Jensen could easily recognize as his brother’s strong script. "He is most adamant that we not risk what little capital the estate has in speculative ventures."

"I had feared that would be the case," Jensen sighed. "No blame to you, sir--he is as stubborn as they come, and does not trust in anything but the land."

"Your father, may God rest him, felt much the same way," Kripke offered.

"My father spent a lifetime in the shadow of his father," Jensen said. "I had hoped my brother might see that his reactions were born of that. A yield of five percent on what little capital we have is not going to bring us out of that debt in any year soon."

"I believe your brother understands that, but the thought of risk in something he does not perfectly comprehend is not something he wishes to indulge in, no matter how highly I recommend the investment," Kripke said.

"You have something?"

"There is a mining venture in South America," Kripke answered. He reached for another pile of papers, spreading them across his desk and inviting Jensen to study them. "I cannot recommend the firm highly enough, but there is, of course, some not inconsiderable risk."

"Of course," Jensen murmured, studying the letters and surveys. It was, as Kripke noted, not without risk, yet the company was experienced and successful and held rights from the governments in question. They had shipping lines already in place and agents in markets around the world. The potential for a handsome profit to investors was a solid one.

"You’ve shown this to my brother?" Jensen asked, looking up from the documents and nodding at Kripke’s affirmative. "Joshua, Joshua," Jensen sighed.

"Perhaps you might be interested yourself?"

"I?" Jensen laughed. "I would indeed be interested, but the sum total of the funds I personally have available for investment come to the three hundred odd guineas in my desk from last night’s faro winnings."

"A good night’s work, should you ask me," Kripke offered, seemingly nonplussed by Jensen’s admission. "Even small investments can bring changes."

Jensen nodded again, thoughtfully, and his eyes returned to the papers on the desk. He read through them again with care, making note of the things he did not understand or that were not clear. He finished as Kripke’s assistant returned with the coffee, served out of an elaborate urn that Jensen recognized as being of Arabic design. As they drank their coffee, instead of exchanging more meaningless pleasantries Jensen allowed Kripke to answer those questions he had, judging the responses as carefully as he had the papers.

Kripke did not have answers to every question Jensen raised; Jensen rated him highly for his honesty in admitting what he did not know. In the end, Jensen listened to that part of him that told him how to play a hand at faro and basset and when to roll the dice in hazard, and signed a draft on his personal account at Hoare's for investment in the venture. He resolutely did not think about the five hundred pounds he had wagered on Captain Padalecki--that, too, was a calculated risk. He knew the state of the family finances as well as anyone, and despite knowing for certain that Joshua would not approve--nor would his father have--he was comfortable with the risk.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"For pity’s sake, Jeffrey," Jeremy sighed, putting up his glass and giving Jeff’s attire a careful quiz. "Must every day be funereal? Black and black, unrelieved by anything save white, is deadly dull."

He smoothed his striped waistcoat and adjusted the elaborate cuffs of his linen shirt. His cravat was equally elaborate ("Just a basic waterfall; really, Jeffrey, don’t be tiresome") but the crowning glory was his pantaloons of a particularly virulent shade of yellow.

"I’ll leave the heights of fashion in your capable hands," Jeff said, dryly. "Or did you want me distracted while we give Weatherly’s cattle a good going-over?"

"No, no, my mistake." Jeremy shot Jeff a look that said he was prepared to suffer Jeff’s inadequacies in silence for the sake of his stables, but that his patience was growing thin. Since Jeremy had been giving Jeff that very look since they had been schoolboys at Eton and Jeff wouldn’t have it any other way, the morning was off to an excellent start.

It was not uncommon for a spoiled son of the ton to have overextended his finances and have his spending privileges cut off by an irate father. Generally, the horses sold in such circumstances weren’t worth more than a cursory glance, having been purchased more for their looks as accessories than for true excellence. Mr. Michael Weatherly was different, though. Far more than the delights of London’s gaming hells, his stable and his inability to pass by the stalls of Tattersall’s without adding to that stable had proved his downfall. Word had been filtering through the gentlemen of the ton steadily; Jeff was rather surprised that there were only some five or six groups milling around the commercial enterprise where Weatherly had had his stables moved in anticipation of his own removal to the country.

Jeremy tossed the reins to a groom and disappeared in the direction of the stalls, motioning impatiently at Jeff who was moving more slowly. It was too late, though; as they came around the corner, they could see the blacks harnessed to a high-perch phaeton that Jeff recognized as belonging to Captain Padalecki, who, from the smile that graced his countenance, had just made an offer that had been accepted. Jensen stood off to one side, but where Jeff expected to see a patient, perhaps long-suffering air about him, he was more than a little animated. As Jeff drew nearer, he realized the cause of such excitement was a beautiful roan mare, her coat glossy and shining and her eyes bright and lively.

"Now there’s a beauty," Jeff said, coming to stand behind Jensen. The mare looked briefly at Jeff, but then returned her attention to the other man, whickering gently. Jeff laughed at the clear snub. "Clearly, she’s found her heart’s desire."

"The head groom says she rides as sweetly as he’s ever seen," Jensen said, reaching out to run a hand over her neck and shoulder. She tossed her head at that, as if to say that she would be happy to show her paces, but only to Jensen. Jeff, she still ignored.

"You should make an offer for her," Captain Padalecki said, coming up behind them. "Weatherly is taking only his personal mount; says his father won’t pay to stable any more of his pretty things." He was distracted by a shout from another group who had arrived only in time to find themselves too late, and strode off to meet them and, Jeff judged, preen a bit.

"Would that I could," Jensen murmured, softly enough that Jeff was certain he was not meant to hear. The mare answered, butting her head at Jensen’s shoulder, but after one more lingering pat he stepped back and squared his shoulders. Before Jeff could decide whether or not to admit that he had indeed heard, Jeremy called for him.

"The blacks were stolen right out from under my eyes by that overgrown, underdressed puppy and his friend, but Weatherly says he has a second pair. Not so perfectly matched, of course," Jeremy broke off to glare at the captain, "but they look to be a fine pair."

"So say you," Jeff said, dryly, but the second pair were indeed decent. "Much better than those blown chestnuts you were swindled by," he added, enjoying Jeremy’s glare as always. "No more than three hundred pounds for them, Jeremy, and you’d be much better served not going above two hundred and fifty."

He left Jeremy on that note and rejoined Jensen, who had moved away from the stalls but who clearly was still distracted by the roan mare. He also clearly did not wish to speak about her, or any details of his suggested purchase of her. Jeff was curious, but not overwhelmingly so, he told himself.

"Your prediction of last night proved correct, I take it," Jeff said, nodding to the truly beautiful pair of blacks that Padalecki’s groom was taking charge of. "No such thing as too early, eh?"

"Apparently, the good captain can still crawl out of bed at dawn," Jensen answered dryly. "I had business to attend to in the City; he very nearly left me before I could make my way back."

"What business could be more important than these beauties?" Padalecki said, joining them.

"The kind that ensures the opportunity to keep them, not be forced to cash them out," Jensen said.

"Of course, of course, but since you’re passing on that mare, that wouldn’t appear to have happened." Padalecki surveyed the situation with an unexpectedly astute eye. "Strange--I know for a fact you stood up from the faro table three hundred pounds richer than when you sat down last night."

"I am," Jensen said, amiably enough, but Jeff saw the steely glint in his eye, "all-in on a South American mining venture at present."

Padalecki stared for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. "It’s good to see that nerveless streak doesn’t just apply when you’re sitting at the faro table. If you play your ventures like you play your cards, I should probably ask you for the details."

"Of course," Jensen said, as a groom led the roan mare out past them for one of the other gentlemen to see. She tossed her head coquettishly, and Jensen reached out to pet her one last time before they left.

Jeremy returned, triumphant in obtaining Weatherly’s second pair and deep in consultation with his head groom about making a place for them in his stables. Jeff waited as patiently as he was able, and found himself distracted by the protracted negotiation over the roan mare. The young blade who’d mounted her had hands like iron buckets; Jeff saw none of her spirit or fire under the idiot’s reins.

"Jeffrey," Jeremy sighed, and Jeff realized he’d missed several moments of conversation. Jeremy followed his eyes and studied the mare thoughtfully. "Well, now..."

Jeff hesitated--he was renting space at a hostelry as it was, and had no need of yet another mount, especially one that he would have to leave behind when he returned to Italy. His grandmother no longer rode; Sophia was not fond enough of riding to appreciate this particular horse’s spirit, and he had no care about the rest of the family. It was ridiculous to consider, but before he even finished the thought, he’d called Weatherly’s agent over and told him to name his price.

"And get that idiot off her back," Jeff added as he ignored the look Jeremy was giving him through a quizzing glass. "Not now, Jeremy."

"No, no," Jeremy drawled. "Wouldn’t dream of intruding on this moment. It might be the first time I’ve ever paid less for a horse than you have. It’s a most exquisite feeling; I must savor it."

"So long as you do it silently," Jeff growled, and tried to work out just exactly when he’d lost whatever sense he normally possessed, and why he couldn’t seem to care that he had.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


One || Two || Three || Four || Five

Epilogue