Page 12 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

The next day, late afternoon, the Fitz-Stephenses piled into the carriage, Noel being magnanimous enough to sit with his mother and grandmother so everyone would fit, however much of a squeeze.

Marion Fitz-Stephens whinged the whole ride from the dower house to the big house. “To have our carriage sent for us from our stables to take us to our house… it’s outrageous.”

“Hear hear,” seconded Edwina Fitz-Stephens with a blaming glare to her son Anthony.

Rafe, shifting sideways so his father and Otis had more room, said, “My challenge to you is to be kind . Noblesse oblige , remember? We had this discussion.”

Gran sniffed. “I’ll be so sweet, your teeth will ache by the end of dinner.”

Father voiced, “I think it’s a kindness they invite us to dine. I wish you would come to like the Slades. Roland is the best of men, once you get to know him, and now that Rafe and Miss Slade—”

“Hush!” crowed Mother. “I’ll hear no more of the entrapment . Rafe, darling, how have you not shaken the barnacle free yet?”

“Mother, please.”

“I give you permission not to be a gentleman. Anthony—who taught our sons to be gentlemen rather than rogues? I blame you.”

Otis and Noel exchanged glances before Otis said, “Your wish is our command, Mummy dearest.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“We’ve arrived,” Rafe trumpeted, relieved to interrupt.

He had said nothing to his family about Mr. Thorpe or that the betrothal was, in all likelihood, temporary, for he saw no benefit in doing so, least of all because he could not say with any honesty that it was temporary. Judging from the initial reaction of the Slades to Mr. Alan Thorpe’s name, it would be a forlorn hope to convince them Thorpe was the man for Miss Slade. If the mission did not succeed… It would be best for all parties to grow accustomed to each other.

The Fitz-Stephenses were shown into the drawing room—by their own butler into their own drawing room, Mother pointed out to all in hearing, but thankfully before they were within earshot of the drawing room itself. The Slades were assembled, each of the ladies looking lovelier than usual, including Mrs. Slade, who had gone above and beyond with her jewelry this evening, the sparkles nearly blinding. Beside him, his mother harrumphed.

“Anthony,” Mr. Slade said in greeting, rising to shake his friend’s hand and welcome the family.

Seating had been arranged, Rafe saw, to encourage he share a settee with Miss Slade, the brothers to sit on either side of Miss Slade’s sisters, and his mother and grandmother to enjoy Mrs. Slade’s exclusive company while Mr. Slade sequestered his father for conversation before dinner. At everyone’s expressions, he was unsure who should receive his pity. He rather thought the sisters had the worst of it. His brothers were not known for their genteel charms. They would soon discover the sisters’ mettle if the girls could survive before dinner without crying, losing their appetite, or demanding apologies after insult. Silently, he wished the girls luck.

He accepted the seat next to Miss Slade and flashed her a smile. “I have the best seat in the house, I’m to understand.”

She cast him a sidelong glance then began fidgeting with one of her curls. Her celestial blue gown darkened the shade of grey of her eyes, awarding her an alluring air. A matching bandeau tamed her hair, but several curls had been allowed to tumble loose to tease her neck, tendrils that invited more than fidgeting fingers.

Rafe shook his head. No good could come of an attraction to her, not when the intent was to send her into someone else’s arms.

Miss Slade broached conversation first. “Are your brothers here for the competition, then returning to school after, or perhaps not until Michaelmas term? Winchester, Eton, or…?”

He eyed the troublemakers, neither of whom had engaged the sisters in conversation yet, although Rafe could not say if it was the sisters ignoring them or the other way around. He suspected the former. Wise young ladies.

“A tutor from Hartminster comes three days per week. We’ve all been privately tutored, my older brother, as well. And you? Your sisters? No, don’t tell me, there is a governess hiding behind a jib door, keeping a stern eye on her wards at all times.”

Miss Slade caught herself before the dimples at the corners of her lips tugged a smile, or worse, a laugh. “No, I’m responsible for Cecilia’s education, and then Cecilia’s responsible for Theia’s. We did have a governess for ages. She traveled with us happily wherever we moved. But then, quite unexpectedly, two moves ago, she married the local curate, and soon after moved with him when the bishop offered him a vicar’s living. Since then, we’ve carried on without her except the occasional dance master, music instructor, or whoever.”

“Dance master, you say.” Rafe grinned. “So, you dance ?”

“Only once. At a village assembly in our previous residence.”

“Mmm.” He let his gaze sweep appreciatively down to where the toes of her slippers peeked out from beneath the embroidered hem of her gown. “I wager you made a lasting impression, danced figures around the other ladies.”

Her cheeks rouged pink, and she tugged at the loose curl with ferocity.

Before he could tell her about the celebratory assembly at the end of the frolic, dinner was announced.

Rafe looked about to his family to judge the expressions of dissatisfaction. Thankfully, no one seemed put out by having to interact. In fact, Mrs. Slade was flushed from the attention she had received from the Mmes. Fitz-Stephens. He doubted his mother and grandmother were anything more than civil, but despite their vocal opinions behind closed doors, they knew how to play a crowd. The fathers were too busy sharing a glass of brandy and guffawing to realize dinner was served. His brothers and her sisters still ignored each other. At least no one had been put through a window. Yet.

Throughout dinner, Rafe fought the urge to ask a dozen more questions about where she had lived previously, how long she typically lived in each location, what dances were her favorite, and so many more, but he did not wish to dominate her attention or sound like a doting betrothed. He was merely curious. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the three new curls that had fallen unbidden from the bandeau or Miss Slade’s steely gaze that challenged him with each glance. Never mind she looked fine as a fivepence. It was singularly his curiosity.

As dinner wound to a close, the ladies about to return to the drawing room or the garden room, whichever of the two Mrs. Slade chose, and Mr. Slade about to invite the gentlemen to stay for port—including Otis and Noel, who were ecstatic to be included and not relegated to nursery-sitting the sisters, as they so eloquently said within hearing of said sisters—Mr. Slade turned his attention to Miss Slade.

“Genevieve, dear, could you find that book from the library? I wish to show my good friend Anthony.”

She stared blankly at him. “Book?”

“You know, the book we discussed earlier today. I told you then I wanted to show him.”

She shook her head, her expression pure perplexion.

“Gah. Hopeless. You’ll remember as soon as you step into the library. Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens should escort you. Wouldn’t want you getting lost.”

Mother eyed Mr. Slade down her nose. “Does she often lose her way?”

Miss Slade made to protest but Miss Cecilia spoke first. “I can accompany them. Theia, as well. We want to show him the books by Trowbridge. Oh, and by—”

Mrs. Slade shrieked. “I’ll not have the g word spoken in my hearing again! How do you handle wayward children, Mrs. Fitz-Stephens? My nerves are…”

As she continued to explain the state of her nerves, Rafe nodded towards the door for Miss Slade to follow before anyone was the wiser.

Genevieve followed Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens out of the dining room and into the garden room. She turned left towards the library, but he turned right towards the parlor.

Halting mid step, she watched him slip into the parlor, leaving her behind. She was as befuddled now as when her father had instructed her to find a book. There had been no conversation earlier that day or any time this week about a book, much less a book he wished to show his friend. It had been a ploy to give her time alone with her supposed betrothed, time she did not desire. Still, time with him sounded rather innocuous compared to the judging glances of the Mmes. Fitz-Stephens or the vapors of her mother.

She shrugged off being abandoned by her peculiar companion—what did she expect from a gentleman who favored climbing into upper story windows after midnight?—and made for the library in the west wing.

“ Psst ,” came a whisper from behind her.

A glance over her shoulder met with the slow wink of Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens. He come-hither- ed with his forefinger, then slipped back into the parlor.

Lips pursed, she followed.

The parlor was… empty.

She narrowed her gaze at the far door to the Great Hall, the only direction he could have gone. Why was he going in the opposite direction of the library? Traipsing around this monstrosity of a manor was not her idea of after-dinner entertainment.

A soft scrap followed by a softer thud sounded somewhere in the room. When she turned to look, he had reappeared in the far corner next to the fireplace.

Genevieve gasped.

With a darting look to the Great Hall door then back to Mr. Fitz-Stephens, she asked, “How did you appear there when you were not in the room upon my entry?”

He hooked an arm over the mantel, a smug grin playing at one corner of his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Well, yes, I would. And I assume you want me to know, or you would not have disappeared, then reappeared, for my benefit.”

Wearing a full grin, he nodded for her to follow him. Again. This time, she went to him directly, loath to lose him. Once was quite enough for one day.

As casual as a lady in a millinery shop, he walked to the little bookshelf next to the hearth. Caressing his chin between his thumb and forefinger, he eyed her, then eyed the bookshelf, then eyed her again, still sporting that ridiculous grin.

“If you think to convince me that is the library,” she began, “you can stop this tomfoolery right here, right now. I’m not as daft as Papa depicts me. I’m not —”

Whatever she was about to say—she had quite forgotten already—went unsaid, for he tapped the base of the bookshelf with the tip of his shoe, and the bookcase clicked . Before her disbelieving eyes, the entire case sighed away from the wall. Genevieve stared, mouth agape.

With another wink, he slid the corner of the case forward, and leaned just enough for him to dip behind it. She inched forward, eyeing it cautiously, as though it might bite her. When she stood where he had been standing, she could see the opening, not a full door size, only a short, pocket-sized opening. Beyond were stone stairs leading up. The stairs were narrow, the center of each step worn into a trough-shaped slope.

Tugging at her curls, one in each hand, she hesitated to step into the darkness.

A hand shot out towards her. She covered her mouth to silence her cry of alarm. It was his hand. In the dark. Reaching out for her. He curled his forefinger again then held his palm open for her to take. She gawped, strangely exhilarated. Slipping her fingers into his firm, warm palm, she allowed him to hand her gently up the stairs.

Two steps up, her slippers nestling into the worn divots, the bookshelf clicked back into place, shutting them into pitch black. Genevieve squeezed his hand, her pulse quickening. Next to her, he chuckled. She could not see him, but she could sense him. He was the warmth beside her, an aromatic citrusy delight that tickled her all the way to her stomach.

“There’s light ahead,” he promised, before guiding her further into the unknown.

They climbed one story before he paused, his hand still firmly clasping hers—for safety, of course. A squeak, as soft as a mouse, came first, and then a shaft of light shone onto the stairs. She fluttered her eyelids. He had opened a door, one of ancient oak and iron studs. When he guided her through it, she could see they were in a narrow corridor, stone floor, stone walls, only a slender crack high on the wall behind them gave way to light, the afternoon sun streaming in. The crack, she could see, was quite intentional, not the wearing of stone, but what looked almost like a spyhole, too narrow for an arrow but too finite for a fissure.

Rather than proceed forward, Mr. Fitz-Stephens released her hand and leaned against a wall to face her. “The west wing is the only remaining part of the old monastery. Passages, such as this, snake through the whole of the wing. Only a few rooms have access, and each of those with a hidden entrance. Made for great fun in a house of boys. I can tell you which doors squeak, which steps crumble beneath foot, and which areas have light. You’re not afraid of spiders, are you?”

Wide-eyed, fascinated, envious of having been brought up in a house with secrets, more so to have lived in a house long enough to know its idiosyncrasies, she almost missed his question. When it dawned what he asked, she laughed aloud, a giddy sound, one full of the glee she only felt when riding.

“I like spiders, I’ll have you know. If it can be found in nature, it has a special place in my heart, spiders included.” She raised her chin, proud not to be missish.

He cocked his head. “Be careful how you use that laugh. A weapon not unlike cupid’s bow.”

Without explaining himself, he proceeded forward.

Fiddling with her fallen curls, she followed once more. The corridor was relatively short before turning a sharp left, then it dipped three steps down to a landing, a small wicket to the right—she assumed leading to either another room or another set of stairs—and then three steps up again for the remaining length of the hallway. This stretch was unlit, but the glow from the previous bend illuminated it just enough that she did not stumble into him. At the end of the corridor were two doors, one to the left and one to the right. It was to the right, he opened. The door was little more than half height, so Genevieve ducked to pass through it.

As soon as she stood up, she bumped into him. His laugh rumbled in the small room. He felt along the wall until she heard a click . In front of him, the wood paneling shifted forward, flooding the little room with sunlight. He angled the panel and stepped through the opening.

How surprised was Genevieve to realize they were in the upper gallery of the library. To either side was the mezzanine, overlooking the ground floor.

He shut the bookcase behind her until its molding thunked flush against the wall. “A longer route than had we entered from the garden room,” he said affably, “but far more fun. I thought you might enjoy a bit of fun.”

Fun? She could not hide her smile of sheer pleasure.

Leaving her behind, he circled the mezzanine, then down the spiral stairs to the ground floor. “While you find whatever book your father wishes to show mine, I’m going to grab a few works I’ve been sorely missing.” His voice faded as he roamed the stacks below. “I hope you don’t mind my raiding your library.”

Under her breath, she said, “Technically, it’s your library.”

“What was that?” he called up to her.

Clearing her throat, she said with more volume, “Nothing. Carry on.”

For how long did she stand there, mulling over what she had just experienced and staring at her palm in memory of it being held by his? Long enough that Mr. Fitz-Stephens caught her attention by waving a book in the air.

“Do you like poetry?” he asked.

With a flick to one of her curls, she shook herself out of her stupor and joined him on the ground floor.

She accepted the book he offered but did not have the wherewithal to comprehend the writing along the spine. It might as well have been written in Arabic. What had come over her?

A nod to the book, he said, “One of my favorites. Give it a read?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to sift through a few more books he had stacked on a table. “Does Mr. Thorpe enjoy reading anything in particular?”

“Who?” The word sounded far breathier than she expected. She cleared her throat again. “You like poetry?”

“Do I not strike you as the poetry type?” His question was full of amusement, as though they were sharing a joke.

He took a seat at the table and thumbed through one of the volumes.

Still trapped in the peculiar daze she could not explain, she sat across from him and flipped, unseeing, through the pages of the book he had given her. For each page she turned, he turned two.

All laughter gone from his voice, he said after a stretch of silence, “I beg your pardon for upending your life. It was never my intent to distress you. Imagine my horror coming home and finding a stranger in my room. More horror still to realize the situation I inadvertently forced on you, first to fear me as a burglar, and then to be… stuck with me.”

Genevieve’s heart pounded as she studied his sober expression. His apology weighed heavily on her shoulders. She felt, oddly, guilty. Not about the situation so much as for blaming him, resenting him, judging him, oh, so many ill feelings towards him when she knew he was not to blame. It was easier to blame a stranger than her own father.

“It’s I who should be apologizing, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. I must for my abominable behavior. We are, I believe, in this together, and I’ve been so worried you would resent me for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I’ve been… defensive. I certainly must apologize for my father.” She stared down at the book in her lap before asking, “Why did you not laugh at my father and leave? Why did you allow him to bully you into making a declaration when we all knew it was a misunderstanding and nothing nefarious?”

“Because I’m a gentleman, Miss Slade.”

“Being a gentleman means marrying a stranger you’ll dislike more each day since she’s a barrier to your dreams?”

“Choosing to become a circuit barrister, you mean,” he said, rather than asked. “Being a gentleman means sacrificing for someone else’s honor. Doing so honors the gentleman in return. His sense of pleasure at exacting honor should increase exponentially each day. A gentleman, a true gentleman, would never harbor resentment or otherwise, rather he would make it his mission to see the lady happy with the match, more so since it was not of her choosing. As to circuit versus Old Bailey, who is to say my dream isn’t to become a country barrister? People change. Choices change.”

Genevieve compelled her attention on the book in her lap to disguise the tears stinging her eyes. Why his words caused such an emotional response, she would not admit, could not admit—she did not k now why.

“May I call on you tomorrow afternoon?” he asked when she showed no signs of responding.

Blinking to clear her vision, and hopefully any signs of distress, she raised her chin. His expression had changed from serious to teasing, one corner lifting into the almost-familiar smirk he favored.

On her lips was a quip that he need not worry about calling on her, not with Mr. Thorpe soon to arrive, but she stopped herself before the words slipped free. She had already made that excuse before; she did not know if Mr. Thorpe really was coming; and after what he had just said…. Genevieve refused to be snotty. The reaction too often flicked like a whip in her defense, but he did not deserve the licks. He was a true gentleman. And that scared her a little.

She nodded her assent when she could not find her voice to reply.

“Splendid. I now consider it my duty to acquaint you with all Grant Lindis has to offer, which is, I regret to say, only this one-week festival.” His smile deepened. “If you promise to wear your hair tomorrow as you have it now, I’ll reveal what the ladies’ event is going to be, and then, do my best to convince you to participate.”

Brows knitting, she echoed hoarsely, “My hair?”

That deepening smile twisted with a frisson of mischief. He nodded to one of the unlit sconces hanging against a pillar, a mirrored sconce. Setting aside the book in her hands, she stepped to the mirror.

Aghast, she covered her face at the sight. She had fidgeted with her curls so much that her bandeau had been tugged to one side, the hairpins loose, and several great masses of frizzy curls hung unbound around her shoulders. What a fright, she looked! Positively indecent.

When she turned back to spy him between her fingers, still covering the shame flaming her cheeks, she growled—he was leaning back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, howling with laughter.

Uncouth man!

Genevieve did not know if she wanted to laugh or cry. So, she did a little of both.