Page 31 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)

Eugenie let out an amused scoff. “You should try riding in a carriage with them,” she quipped. “They are so utterly bewitched by one another that they hardly notice anyone else exists.”

Jane’s lips curled into a soft smile. “That is sweet.”

“Perhaps I said it wrong, then,” Eugenie said with a mock shudder.

Jane’s laughter was brief but genuine, though it faded almost as quickly as it had come. “I do not even dare to dream of marrying for love,” she confessed. “My father has made it abundantly clear that he will be the one choosing my husband.”

“And you’re simply going to accept that?”

“What choice do I have?” Jane asked, a trace of bitterness creeping into her tone. “Without my father’s approval, I have nothing. No home, no security. The only thing I truly possess is a substantial dowry, and that, too, will belong to my husband the moment I marry.”

Eugenie fixed her with a pointed stare. “So you’re going to let him dictate your entire life?”

Jane held Eugenie’s gaze for a long moment before offering a weak smile. “Not everyone is as fortunate as you, Eugenie.”

The words hit Eugenie harder than she expected.

She was indeed fortunate—perhaps more than she had ever truly considered.

She had a brother who loved her unconditionally, who defended her even when she was at her most impossible.

She had the freedom to speak her mind, to make choices for herself, and to live a life that many young women of the ton could only dream of.

But what was she doing with her life ?

An image of Charles came to her mind. And a realization struck her. Every day, he was the first thing she was grateful for. That thought should have comforted her, but instead, it terrified her. For he wasn’t just a part of her life; he was the best part of it.

Charles settled into the plush leather armchair at White’s, his fingers loosely curled around a glass of brandy that had long since lost his attention.

The rich scent of tobacco and the low murmur of conversation filled the gentlemen’s club, but his mind was elsewhere.

The news from his coachman still rang in his ears—Philip had indeed used his coach to travel into the rookeries.

What was his cousin thinking? Could he truly be entangled in the attempted abduction of Lady Eugenie?

The notion seemed absurd, yet the evidence was mounting.

His brooding was interrupted when a man took the seat across from him.

Dark-haired, well-groomed, and dressed as a gentleman, the newcomer’s transformation was striking.

The fitted blue jacket and buff trousers were a stark contrast to the rough, clandestine figure Charles had encountered before.

But the scar on his right cheek was unmistakable.

Stevens.

Charles’s gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a low voice.

Stevens smirked, an expression that didn’t quite reach his calculating eyes. “I do not know why you look so surprised. I am a member of this club.”

“You are a member of White’s?” he repeated back in disbelief.

“I daresay that you know very little about me,” Stevens responded smoothly. “Besides, I am merely doing my friend, Westcott, a favor.”

Charles leaned back, studying him. The man was an enigma, and he disliked puzzles he could not solve.

Stevens’s expression turned serious. “Did you speak to your coachman?”

“I did,” Charles confirmed. “Philip, my cousin, used my coach to travel to the rookeries.”

Stevens nodded as if he had expected this.

Charles lifted a hand. “But that doesn’t mean my cousin attended a meeting with the alleged abductors,” he argued. “There is a notorious gambling hell near the pub. He may have gone there instead.”

Stevens’s brows lifted. “Did your coachman say how long Mr. Ellsworth was gone?”

“About an hour.”

Stevens exchanged a knowing look with him. “I daresay your cousin usually spends a considerably longer amount of time in gambling hells.”

Charles’s grip tightened around his glass. “How would you know that?”

Stevens’s smirk returned. “Consider it a lucky guess. But let’s assume for a moment that Mr. Ellsworth did meet with the men who attempted the abduction. Do you have any reason as to why?”

“I don’t. It wouldn’t benefit Philip at all if Lady Eugenie were abducted.”

“There must be a reason.”

Before Charles could respond, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Warwicke,” Alcott greeted, coming to stand beside their table. “I hadn’t realized you had returned to Town.”

Charles’s head snapped towards Alcott, his brows furrowing in surprise. “Warwicke? As in Baron Warwicke? The war hero that came back from the dead?”

Alcott bobbed his head. “The one and the same,” he confirmed. “This man fought right alongside Wellington.”

Warwicke—Stevens—rose abruptly. “I am no war hero,” he said gruffly, excusing himself before either of them could press further.

Alcott watched him go, his gaze thoughtful. “From what I have heard, he does not talk about what happened to him in the war.”

Charles was left with more questions than answers. If Warwicke was a baron, why was he working as a Bow Street Runner?

Alcott took the vacant seat. “I was not aware that you were acquainted with Warwicke.”

“I’m not, really,” Charles admitted. “I only met the man earlier today at Westcott’s townhouse.”

“I fought alongside Warwicke for a short time,” Alcott mused. “I do not think I have met a finer soldier.”

Addington approached, taking a seat beside them. “I do apologize for arriving late.”

“Well, you are here now,” Charles said.

With a curious look, Addington remarked, “I have not seen your ‘friend’ at Oxford since the last lecture you both attended.”

“Which friend is that?” Alcott asked, glancing between them.

Charles shrugged. “Someone you do not know.”

Alcott arched an eyebrow. “Do you have more friends than us?” he teased. “I scarcely believe that.”

“It is true,” Charles said before taking a sip of his drink. “I hope to bring my ‘friend’ to one of your lectures in the near future. ”

“Now I am even more curious,” Alcott said. “Would I at least know of him?”

Charles leaned forward and placed his glass onto the table. “I would prefer if we discussed something else.”

“We could discuss how I am a Fellow now,” Addington announced proudly. “It was confirmed this morning.”

“Well done!” Charles praised.

Alcott shifted to face Addington. “You are rather young to be a Fellow, are you not?”

In response, he puffed out his chest. “I am.”

“Have you told your father yet?” Alcott asked.

Addington’s pleased expression dimmed. “I have not, but I doubt he will care. He thinks a profession in academia is pointless.”

“Well, what you have done is rather impressive,” Charles said, raising his glass. “You worked hard, and you are reaping the rewards.”

“Thank you, Bedford,” Addington said.

Charles lowered his glass. “Fellow Addington. That has a nice ring to it.”

A short, balding server approached with a tray. “May I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“We have cause for celebration,” Alcott declared. “Bring three glasses of your finest brandy.”

The server nodded and disappeared to fulfill the order.

Alcott settled back in his chair. “Perhaps we have two causes for celebration,” he said, meeting Charles’s gaze. “Are you engaged to Lady Eugenie?”

“Not yet, but not for lack of trying,” Charles admitted, seeing no reason to deny it.

“I assumed as much since I read about your… situation in the newssheets,” Alcott said.

Charles crossed his arms over his chest as his irritation flared. “The only reason why there was a ‘situation’ was because you got distracted by a political debate.”

Alcott gave him a baffled look. “What does that mean?”

“I took your sister outside because she was rather drunk and then she tried to kiss me,” Charles explained. “Lady Eugenie happened upon us, and I followed her to the veranda to try to explain what happened.”

“My sister tried to kiss you?” Alcott asked in disbelief.

Addington grinned. “Interesting,” he muttered.

Alcott ignored him and pressed forward. “I hadn’t realized. She said nothing of this when she returned to the ballroom. So why was it reported that you were alone with Lady Eugenie?”

Charles tossed his hands up in frustration. “I cannot say. But a Mr. Fairchild wrote the article for the Society page.”

Addington leaned in and whispered, “Some people say that Mr. Fairchild is actually a lady writing under a pseudonym.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Alcott said, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. He leaned back in his chair. “Women do love their gossip.”

“Regardless, Mr. Fairchild was utterly mistaken about Lady Eugenie and me, yet no one will believe it. The damage is done,” Charles said as he clenched his jaw.

Addington merely shrugged. “There are worse women to marry.”

Alcott grew somber. “Thank you for what you did for my sister. I am truly sorry to have gotten you into this predicament.”

Before Charles could reply, the server stepped forward and set their glasses down. “Will there be anything else, gentlemen?”

“No, thank you,” Charles said, barely sparing him a glance.

Alcott picked up his drink, swirling the amber liquid idly before taking a sip. “I must admit that I have no desire to fall prey to the parson’s mousetrap. Marriage is the least of my concerns when I can barely manage my sister as it is.”

Addington lowered his voice, glancing around as if ensuring they weren’t overheard. “Did you read the newssheets this morning?”

“I did,” Alcott replied grimly. “Poor Wilton. The ton has finally caught wind of his sister running off to Gretna Green to elope.”

Charles shook his head. “That is most unfortunate.”

“But what’s worse is that it was reported Lady Olivia has returned home… without a husband,” Addington added.

Alcott’s brows shot up. “Where did the husband go?”

“No one knows,” Addington said, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge. “The rumor is he abandoned her the moment he claimed her dowry.”

“That man is despicable,” Charles said, his tone sharp with disapproval.

Addington leaned back in his seat. “I won’t argue with you there.”

Charles tossed back the rest of his drink in one swift motion and placed the empty glass onto the table with a dull thud. “If you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

“Would those ‘matters’ have anything to do with the duel?” Alcott asked with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Charles let out a heavy sigh. “So, you’ve heard.”

Alcott let out a dry chuckle. “Everyone has heard. Your cousin can’t seem to keep his mouth shut about it.”

“Wonderful,” Charles muttered under his breath.

“If it’s any consolation, getting shot might humble Philip,” Alcott offered up.

Charles pushed back his chair and rose. “I’m more concerned about him getting killed.”

The humor vanished from Alcott’s expression. “There’s always that risk when it comes to a duel,” he said, his voice quieter now, edged with something that could have been concern or resignation.

“I am hoping to keep my cousin alive long enough for him to figure out what he actually wants out of life,” Charles said. His tone was laced with exasperation, though beneath it, a sliver of worry remained. Philip had always been reckless, but this was pushing the limits of foolishness.

“I wish you luck with that,” Addington said. “You’ll need it.”

Charles didn’t reply. Instead, he strode towards the door. His frustration with Philip simmered beneath the surface, growing with every step. He had neither the time nor the patience for this sort of nonsense.

There were more pressing matters at hand—his estate, for one, which required constant attention. And then there was Eugenie. Convincing her to marry him was proving to be a far greater challenge than he had anticipated.

He tightened his jaw, shoving aside his irritation. He would handle Philip. He would handle the estate. And somehow, he would convince Lady Eugenie that marrying him was the right choice.

One way or another, he had no intention of losing.