Page 2 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)

It wasn’t foolishness that drove her to such extremes—it was defiance.

A quiet, stubborn insistence that her life could be more than Seasons filled with dull poetry lectures and tiresome suitors.

She wanted to expand her mind, push boundaries, and feel the thrill of stepping into a world that unequivocally told her that she didn’t belong.

Charles Ellsworth, Earl of Bedford, felt utterly exasperated as he trudged through the foul-smelling streets of a disreputable part of Town. The mission to retrieve his wayward cousin had long since worn thin, and all he wanted now was to be home poring over estate accounts.

Beside him, Richard, Marquess of Wilton, cast a doubtful glance at their surroundings. “Are you certain we’re in the right place?” he asked, his tone betraying skepticism.

Charles nodded stiffly. “ The Rabbit and the Fox gambling hell is supposed to be on this street,” he said, his eyes scanning the dilapidated structures.

Some had roofs caving in, others were barely held together by rotting beams. The few figures loitering in the shadows paused to observe the two well-dressed gentlemen, their eyes sharp and curious, as if they knew these men didn’t belong here.

Wilton pointed towards a narrow door from which a man had just emerged, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Perhaps that’s it.”

Charles pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and glanced down at the address. “It’s worth a try. None of these buildings seem to have numbers anyway.”

“Frankly, I doubt people live in these buildings at all,” Wilton muttered.

As if to prove him wrong, the wail of a baby pierced the air.

Charles grimaced. The sound was a harsh reminder that, even in the filthiest corners of London, life stubbornly persisted.

He steeled himself and approached the door, testing the handle.

Locked. With a sigh, he pounded his fist against the wood.

After a long pause, a narrow slit at the top of the door slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. “What’s your business?” the man behind the door growled.

“Is this The Rabbit and the Fox ?” Charles asked.

The man’s gaze narrowed further. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m looking for my cousin, Mr. Philip Ellsworth,” Charles responded.

“Don’t know him. Now shove off,” the man snapped and moved to close the slit.

Charles thrust his hand into the opening, halting the movement. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “I was told my cousin was here, and I don’t intend to leave without him. If you’d prefer, I can return with the constable.”

The man let out an irritated sigh, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he muttered, “Fine. But you get your cousin and you get out.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, withdrawing his hand.

The slit slammed shut, and a moment later, the sound of multiple locks being disengaged echoed in the dim street. The door creaked open, revealing a burly man with a bald head. He stepped aside, motioning for them to hurry. “Come in, before anyone notices.”

Charles and Wilton stepped into the dark corridor, the door slamming shut behind them.

Their silent escort led them deeper into the building, past flickering lanterns and the thick scent of cigar smoke.

They entered a large room filled with haze and the low hum of conversation.

Men hunched over card tables, coins clinking as they changed hands.

Scantily clad women lounged nearby, some draped over men’s shoulders, and others watching the game intently.

The burly man pointed towards a table in the back corner. “There’s your cousin. No doubt losing at cards.”

Charles spotted his lanky, dark-haired cousin seated at the table with cards in hand and an air of false confidence about him. His irritation flared. “Wait here,” he said to Wilton before weaving his way through the crowded room, ignoring the stares of the women and the gamblers alike.

When he reached the table, he placed a firm hand on Philip’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he commanded.

Philip turned, his eyes wide with surprise. “Charles? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you home,” Charles said bluntly.

Philip turned back to his cards with an air of dismissal. “There’s no need. I’ve got a winning hand.”

Charles glanced at the cards and instantly saw how slim his cousin’s chances were. “I doubt that,” he stated. “Besides, your mother is worried about you.”

Philip snorted, not bothering to look at him. “I am eighteen years old. I do not need a nursemaid.”

“Apparently, you do,” Charles shot back. “You’re squandering your money on cards in a place like this.”

One of the other men at the table, a short and stout fellow with a sneering grin, chuckled. “Go home, Boy. You’re out of coin anyway.”

Philip’s shoulders stiffened. “I can win it back,” he insisted.

“Unlikely,” the man mocked. “Run along now before you embarrass yourself further.”

Shoving his chair back, Philip shot to his feet. “You have no right to speak to me that way!”

“I have every right,” the man countered coldly. “You owe me money. Until you pay up, I’ll speak to you however I like.”

Charles stepped between them, placing a restraining hand on Philip’s chest. “Enough,” he said sharply. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Philip glared at him. “You have no right to dictate what I do.”

“I have every right,” Charles responded. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll cut off your allowance.”

The stout man snorted. “Must be nice to have an allowance, eh?”

Philip faltered, his defiance wavering. After a tense moment, he shoved past Charles, brushing his shoulder as he stormed towards the exit. “Fine. But I’ll find my own way home,” he snapped.

Charles followed as he responded, “I assured your mother I’d bring you home, and I intend to keep my word.”

Philip said nothing, his pace quick and angry as they stepped back out into the night air. Standing on the filthy pavement, Charles inhaled deeply, trying to steady his fraying patience.

“Where is your coach?” Philip demanded.

Charles gestured down the dimly lit street. “Not far. Just around the corner.”

Without waiting for them, Philip stormed off in that direction, his shoulders stiff with indignation .

Wilton stepped up beside Charles. “Your cousin seems to be in an exceptionally pleasant mood,” he quipped.

Charles sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I bother,” he muttered. “Philip is never going to change. He’s determined to squander every opportunity handed to him.”

Wilton tilted his head thoughtfully. “You don’t know that. We all had our rebellious streaks when we were young.”

Charles began walking, falling into step with Wilton.

“True,” he admitted begrudgingly. “But I’ve never been foolish enough to chase every vice like Philip.

When I was young, I knew the limits of what I could afford.

And frankly, I didn’t have the funds to indulge in nonsense.

Even now, my estate’s profitability hinges on careful management and investments. ”

Wilton cast him a sidelong glance. “So what’s the plan? What will you do?”

“As of now, Philip is still my heir,” Charles said, his tone grim. “But if he continues down this path, I may have no choice but to reconsider giving him an allowance. He needs to grow up, take responsibility, and stop acting like an insolent child.”

“Did he really get kicked out of Oxford?” Wilton asked.

Charles’s jaw tightened. “So it seems, though I plan to confirm that with the Master tomorrow. With any luck, I’ll be able to convince them to reinstate him.”

“You might need to sweeten the deal with a donation,” Wilton suggested.

“Wonderful,” Charles muttered. “Just what I need—another expense caused by Philip’s poor decisions.”

They reached the coach, where the footman was already opening the door.

Charles climbed inside first, taking the seat directly across from Philip, who was sprawled against the cushions with a sulky expression, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Wilton followed and settled beside Charles as the coach jerked forward .

“You made a fool of me in there,” Philip growled, his gaze fixed out the window. “You had no right to interfere.”

“It’s time for you to grow up and start focusing on your responsibilities,” Charles replied.

“Responsibilities,” Philip scoffed, his lips curling in disdain. “Like you? Spending your days buried in estate accounts and ledgers?”

“Precisely.”

Philip let out a dramatic sigh and tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling of the coach. “You want me to be boring.”

“There is nothing boring about managing an estate,” Charles countered. “It’s meaningful, necessary work.”

Philip barked a humorless laugh. “Meaningful? Sitting in a chair all day? Counting numbers? That sounds dreadful. I’d rather do anything than end up with a flat bum like yours.”

Charles bristled. “My bum is not flat. And this isn’t about me. It’s about you and the fact that you have responsibilities as my heir.”

Philip sat up straighter. “Responsibilities? Only until you get married and your wife starts popping out sons. Then I’ll be conveniently discarded, won’t I?”

Charles’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know what the future holds,” he said evenly, though there was a faint edge of tension in his voice.

Philip leaned back again, his gaze hard. “Neither do you. But don’t expect me to sit quietly in the corner while you play lord of the manor.”

“You seem to forget that I am the lord of the manor and I can act however I see fit,” Charles defended.

Wilton pulled out his pocket watch and studied it. “Do you not have plans to dine with your cousin and her family this evening?”

Charles hesitated. “I did, but perhaps it’s best if I forgo the dinner,” he said, glancing towards Philip. “Someone needs to keep an eye on him.”

At this, Philip let out a derisive snort, but remained quiet, seemingly perturbed by anything and everything.

Wilton snapped his watch shut and tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. “Nonsense,” he said firmly. “Go to dinner. I’ll ensure Philip is returned home properly and doesn’t wander off again.”

Charles considered the suggestion for a moment.

It would be intolerably rude to send his regrets at this late hour.

And there was another reason—a far more personal one—that made him reluctant to cancel.

Lady Eugenie. She had been in his thoughts far too often for his liking.

It was that blasted kiss. It had been a moment of weakness, but one that had unsettled him deeply.

“Very well,” Charles said. “I shall take you up on your offer, but make sure Philip goes straight home. No detours.”

Wilton gave a wry smile. “You wound me, Charles. Do you truly think I’d let him out of my sight?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Wilton chuckled. “Fair enough,” he conceded. “But I give you my word. The boy will be delivered home intact.”

Philip shifted in his seat, clearly annoyed. “I’m not a parcel to be delivered,” he muttered under his breath.

Ignoring the boy, Charles adjusted his coat and leaned back against the bench, his mind already drifting to the dinner ahead. He would be a dutiful guest and hope that the evening wouldn’t bring more complications than he already had in his life.