Page 13 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Alfgar whickered as they approached the ruins of the Rhydderch Fort in Lynntreow.

“Good memory, Alfie.” Rafe slowed their pace.

While he could not yet see anyone, the clash of swords was unmistakable. Ah, yes, today was fencing day. One did not soon forget the Vitruvian Society weekly agenda. Were the new recruits disciplined disciples? Which lessons did they favor? Were any from elsewhere in Devonshire, or all from within the Hartminster deanery? He had more questions than he had time to ask.

As he and Alfgar drew closer, the open arches to the cloisters teased to the inhabitants. Rafe thought he caught sight of Headley and Selwyn, but he could not be sure. A small gathering of young men circled two fencers. Further afield, several pairs were engaged in assault.

After spending so long on the cricket pitch at Gray’s Inn, the clang of swords was a welcome sound indeed. Rafe dismounted and walked Alfgar the remaining distance until he reached where the other horses grazed or dozed. Before joining the Vitruvians, he took a moment to settle Alfie and prepare himself. Chin scratches, treats, and water for his horse. For him, he removed his outercoat, riding coat, and beaver hat. Hefting his sword from the front of his saddle, he unwrapped the leather belt from the scabbard and wrapped and tightened it around his waist.

Calling on Selwyn was never a drawing room affair with polite conversation over tea and sandwiches.

Despite it being early enough in the morning that the earthy aroma of dew filled the air, and the sun had not risen high enough to warm one’s shoulders, Rafe could already feel a bead of sweat trailing down his spine. He would need to wash well before calling on Miss Slade that afternoon.

As Rafe turned to join the group, Headley waved from beneath the arcades, jogging towards Rafe.

“Selwyn is in good spirits,” Headley said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve already gone three bouts. Nothing makes you feel old like combating youth with endless stamina.”

“You’re one year older than I am, hardly infirm.”

“Just wait. You’ll see.”

“Promises, promises.” Rafe surveyed the crowd as they entered the inner sanctum of the Society.

There were more attendees present than had ever been in his day. Nevertheless, the group was exclusive. For membership, one had to be recommended, attend a one-week trial, and then be voted in unanimously. One black ball, and membership was barred. This was a gentleman’s club, but nothing of the likes seen in London.

Walking towards them was Baronet Lyttleparva’s steward, Selwyn Relish.

He was a distinguished man with salt and pepper hair, sun-kissed complexion, laugh lines crowing the corners of his eyes, boulders for shoulders, and tree trunks for legs—a fierce opponent in both physical and mental battles. No one knew his age. No one knew him .

Selwyn had lived in Lynntreow as the baronet’s steward and the founder of the Vitruvian Society for a little over a decade, but where he hailed was a mystery. He had proven fluency in more languages than the Society members knew existed and demonstrated unbeaten combat acumen. Former pirate? Spy for the Crown? Privateer? Runaway aristocrat? Younger son of a peer in hiding? Former King’s Counsel? Military officer? French émigré? To the young men he trained, he was Herculean, God-like in his knowledge, experience, and prowess.

Rafe was older now, more experienced, more knowledgeable, both an Oxford education and legal training in his arsenal, and yet all he saw as Selwyn approached was the same man who had awed him all those many years ago when he attended his first meeting of the Society.

Headley said, as Selwyn offered his hand to Rafe, “Look who I found—the Crown’s newest barrister.”

“Not quite yet,” Rafe said with a flush of embarrassment. “Am awaiting the Call, so don’t bewitch me by speaking too soon.”

Clasping Rafe’s shoulder, Selwyn congratulated him, welcomed him to join them for the day, and then said, “Are you worthy to approach the Bar, Fitz-Stephens? Prove yourself in the ring. Barba non facit philo sophum .”

This was a challenge Rafe could not resist. A beard does not make a philosopher, Selwyn had said in Latin.

On the other side of Selwyn, Headley cast Rafe an “I warned you” expression.

It was another hour, at least, before Rafe would engage in battle. During the hour, he met the new members, as well as shook hands with those who had only just joined when he was leaving for Oxford but were now the mature members. With each discussion and story exchanged, the spoken language shifted, all part of the training, all part of the Society life. Of all the languages, he slipped most easily into Latin. A pity the court did not still use Law Latin. Rafe bemoaned being born half a century too late.

At last, the moment Rafe had been anticipating arrived. Selwyn chose his opponent, a freckle-faced boy of about eighteen whose focus could sharpen a blade. The Society members gathered en masse to watch.

Before facing off on the piste, Rafe squeezed the boy’s hand, each wishing the other luck. His parting words were, “ Gladiator in arena consilium capit .”

The gladiator forms his plan in the arena. The fighter has trained until what challenges him is easy. He now adapts on the spot. Or, more appropriately understood by Rafe’s opponent, the arse kicking was about to begin.

The day could not possibly improve any further, not when Genevieve had spent the morning in the village helping prepare for the frolic. The reception of the villagers had surprised her. Since moving to Grant Lindis, she had mostly been ignored except for the few curious callers who came to the house to meet the family, but now that word had spread there was an understanding between the eldest daughter and Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens, everyone wished to know her. From the welcoming responses, she knew them to think it was a desired match, nothing in the way of the true circumstances. Gone was her fear they would think she had trapped him.

Did it make her a bad person to wish to take advantage of the situation, to accept their kindness and play along as though this was a match between two friendly families? It seemed deceptive. And yet she could not help but relish in the reception. For the first time in her life, she was part of something, a recognized face in the village, an invited neighbor, everyone wanting her to take part.

On top of that, she had been with the group marking the path for the forest run. A morning in the forest? Nothing could be more divine!

The day had not begun so dreamily. On the way into the village, her mother had insisted Genevieve, Cecilia, and Theia accompany her to call on Mmes. Fitz-Stephens. Her mother had dominated the conversation, and much to Genevieve’s chagrin, made the Slades sound like roaming gypsies. Mmes. Fitz-Stephens already disliked them, Genevieve suspected. But to describe the family’s traipsing about the countryside, hither and yon, from one house to the next—it was insupportable.

To her relief, both Mrs. Marion Fitz-Stephens and Mrs. Edwina Fitz-Stephens were superb hostesses, never sneering. That did not stop Genevieve from feeling the eyes of judgment upon her. She wanted to reassure them the betrothal was temporary. To say so would require an explanation, and it would not do to announce Mr. Thorpe was coming, assuming he was. Besides, she did not want to say aloud that the betrothal would end. It must, of course. Despite Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens’ talk of being a gentleman, nothing would change the circumstances. He had been forced. That was not a solid foundation for marriage. And yet she did not want to say the words, for saying them would make them real, and a plague upon her, but she could not stop thinking about his promise to call later this afternoon. Would he remember?

Just thinking about it had her touching a hand to her hair. She had already learned what the ladies’ event in the competition would be, but she would not reveal that to him. She wanted him to tell her, just as he had promised.

And so, as the Slade ladies made their way from the village up the long drive to Devington Priory, Genevieve had a skip in her step. She had an hour before he called. Perfect. Long enough to visit the washbasin after trampling through the forest most of the morning and to change from her walking gown into her visiting gown. However foolish it was to be excited to see a man she detested—a lady must detest a gentleman for tumbling into her room and compromising her—she could not convince the flutter in her stomach of that fact.

If only she had not written Mr. Thorpe…

Beside her, Mama chattered, scarcely drawing breath. Cecilia responded louder than necessary to be heard over Mama. Theia ignored both, her attention fixed on a book as she walked and read simultaneously with impressive skill. Genevieve, too, ignored them, busy skipping to the beat of her anticipation.

As the stone arches of the entry screen came into view, she put extra pep in her steps. Ahead, she saw the silhouette of a figure leaning against one of the columns—how unusual for Papa to greet them. But oh, he must have seen them coming up the drive. How kind!

It took exactly twenty-five seconds for her to realize the figure was not Papa.

Her heart skipped a beat as the man swaggered towards them. But no !—she had not yet washed and changed! Her hand touched her hair again, worried about loose curls and frizz, or worse, leaves and forest debris.

“Good afternoon,” called the sultry voice of Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens.

In one hand, he carried a fashionable walking stick, and in the other, his beaver hat. His flaxen hair shimmered in the sunlight, never mind the sky was overcast, his teeth gleamed when he smiled, and his blue eyes sparkled, although Genevieve was too far away to see any such things or the pernickety fact that eyes did not sparkle . Even from this distance, his perfume was heavenly, or so she imagined. Genevieve inhaled deeply, then exhaled her sanity.

It was the only explanation for her reaction—she had parted with sanity somewhere between the stone corridor of a forgotten monastery and the driveway.

Mama’s triumphant greeting made Genevieve’s ears ring. “Mr. Fitz-Stephens! Have you come to call on us? Here we are!”

“I was out for a ramble about the grounds,” he said, his walking stick tapping against the gravel as he approached. “What a coincidence to bump into the most beautiful ladies at Devington Priory during my aimlessly leisure stroll.”

Genevieve bit her lip to keep from laughing. Her initial reaction was to say something acerbic like, we’re the only ladies at Devington Priory , but knowing him, he would spin things to include the servants or emphasize he meant the estate, not just the house, some pithy retort that would deepen his compliment rather than expostulate his silliness.

Mama insisted, “Do come inside. You must be parched.”

“Ah, how you lure me, madam. You ply your charm to tempt me with sweets.”

“Yes, yes, I shall have cake be brought with tea.”

“I wasn’t referring to cake, Mrs. Slade.” He let the words linger before leaning forward as though to share a secret. “Before me stand the four most honeyed confections I’ve had the pleasure to know.”

Mama flicked open her fan. Cecilia cooed. Theia peered over her book with batting eyelashes.

Genevieve harrumphed. What a rogue! All her excitement ebbed away.

“Alas,” he continued, “I must reserve my affections for my betrothed. If she would do me the honor of accompanying me on my walk home, I would be the happiest of men.” He turned the full force of his smile on her, eyebrows raised in invitation.

Chin tipped, she ignored the extra beats in her pulse. “I’m afraid I—”

“Of course she’ll accompany you!” trumpeted Mama. “Come, girls. With me.”

Cecilia and Theia muttered protests about wanting to extend their walk, but Mama dragged them with her.

Genevieve scowled at the rogue. Honeyed confections . Of all the asinine… Without a word, she turned towards the dower house and began walking.

“This way, Miss Slade,” he said.

Slowing her gait, she glanced over her shoulder. He nodded towards the west wing of the house.

Baffled, Genevieve said, “I thought you wished me to accompany you home.”

“Technically, this is my home.” With a slow wink, he moved his hat to the hand carrying the walking stick and offered her the crook of his elbow.

She eyed his elbow. She eyed him. She eyed the direction of the dower house. Curiosity got the better of her.

Sighing, she slipped her hand around his arm and fell in step with him as they walked past the front of the house, around the west wing garden wall, past the library, and then…. He brought them directly in front of a line of yew along the north wall of the house.

Parting the branches, he revealed a camouflaged servant’s entrance, a few stone steps down to a door. She did not know where the servant entrances were or were not, but did find it peculiar that the entrance was concealed. More peculiar still was their using a servant’s entrance. Not that she was a snot, but this was highly unusual. When he realized her hesitancy, he stepped past her, down the stairs, and through the door. She was left staring at the branches.

“Psst,” came his whisper.

Oh, very well. She nudged the branches out of her way so she could duck past and follow him. So help her, if he was going to promenade her through the staff quarters or the kitchens or… He stood just inside the doorway on a landing, the only option forward being stone stairs leading up.

Her heart pounded. Another secret? Forgetting herself, she tucked her hand beneath his elbow again and held firmly, caught between anticipation and the renewal of her earlier excitement.

He led her up three flights of short stairs before they came to a door. It opened with the merest suggestion.

A sharp gasp of surprise escaped her lips as she stepped inside a room, little more than a snug. It was a much-used room by the look of it. Much loved, as well. Floral paper hangings of damask green, a well-worn rug, the smallest fireplace she had ever seen, a winged chair before the hearth, two high backed chairs against the wall, short bookcases lining two of the walls, and one large window framed by damask curtains.

“It’s a reading nook,” he explained. “Then, I suppose it can be whatever you make of it, but we always used it as a reading nook.”

“Is the only entrance the one we used?”

“Not quite.” He walked to the far wall and tapped a panel in the wainscoting. A hollow report was his response. “This panel opens into the billiard room. If you stand outside the house looking up, you’ll see the window here matches perfectly with those of the billiard room, seamless. The only clue you would have is if you counted the number of windows in the billiard room to realize you were one short.”

She turned slowly, taking in the snug. First a secret corridor and now a hidden room. Would she ever learn all the secrets of the house? What must it have been like to grow up here? Why was he showing her all these things?

“You would think we got away with murder as children,” he was saying as she continued her exploration. “We spent more time hiding and escaping in secret routes than using the main thoroughfares. Our parents knew all the hidden ways, though, and would chase us down. No sneaking to our rooms to avoid being caught with mud on our breeches.”

He laughed at the memories. Genevieve struggled to imagine either Mrs. Fitz-Stephens or the Squire chasing anyone, least of all down narrow, forgotten corridors. For her part, she had never been mischievous or done anything to warrant hiding or sneaking, always the biddable daughter. She did not fight the grin teasing the corners of her lips. This was her secret now.

After she turned three full circles to gawk at the room, she realized he had set aside his stick and hat and moved one of the high-backed chairs next to the winged one.

How naughty of them, hidden in a room together when her family thought they were walking the grounds in open view, she doing little more than accompanying him to the dower house. The sheer impropriety of it all thrilled her.

Accepting the winged chair, she waved for him to join her. He did, his expression caught between irritatingly smug and disarmingly honest.

“I owe you an answer,” he said cryptically.

Genevieve smoothed her gown, then folded her hands in her lap, the epitome of calm reservation, thankful her feet were tucked beneath her hem so he could not see her toes curl as she braced herself for this “answer.”

“Archery.” He watched her, as though waiting for a reaction. “The ladies’ event. It’s archery.”

“Oh!” She blinked in surprise. What else had she expected him to say? “I thought your information was conditional. I recall something about my hair.” Not that she wanted to remind him of her tousled curls, but since she was confident her coiffure was in perfect semblance, a little teasing seemed in order.

That cursed smirk looked back at her. “May I?” He leaned forward before she could respond and plucked something from her tresses. Held between his fingers as a trophy, and twirled to torment her, was a spindly twig.

“You tricked me, planted it there to tease me.”

“ Planted it?” He chuckled. “Appropriate choice of words.”

“How is it you always see me at my worst?”

“I beg to differ, Miss Slade.”

She scoffed but could feel her cheeks heating in a blush.

“Will you participate in the archery competition?” He continued to roll the twig between his fingers.

“I’m afraid I’m out of practice.”

“All the more reason to join the fun. It is fun. No one really cares who misses or hits, who scores for the team or doesn’t. If you’re nervous, my mother would take pleasure in coaching you before the event. It’s the last event of the frolic, so ample time to practice.”

“Your mother?” She gave a soft ha of incredulity.

“She’s a marksman with a bow, archer extraordinaire.”

“I wasn’t questioning her skill so much as her wishing to help me. I’m not so na?ve to believe she hasn’t spoken ill of me behind closed doors. I tricked you into proposing, am brandished with the guilt of keeping you from your London plans, never—“

“About my mother,” he began, dismissing whatever excuse she was about to use, “…she’s not only the wife of a magistrate, she’s the mother of four boys, four rambunctious and troublemaking boys. If she acts like a sergeant, it’s because she’s had to assume the role or risk being trampled. She’s not as frightening as she seems. You can win her over. Easily.”

Dubious, Genevieve fidgeted, lacing and unlacing her fingers. “Pardon my doubts.”

“Would you be surprised to know there was a time when my grandmother and mother disliked each other? Thick as thieves now, but it was open war once. My grandmother is a proud woman, cannot abide weakness in a Fitz-Stephens. One must bear the name with strength and condescension. Only when my mother found her voice and built a will of iron did she earn my grandmother’s respect. She had to prove herself capable of heralding Fitz-Stephens men into the world, something a delicate and vaporish woman could never do, at least not according to my gran.”

“So… your family values rude, outspoken, and obstinate women?”

He barked a laugh. “Nothing so vulgar. What’s valued is assertiveness and knowing one’s own mind. One needn’t speak their mind, at least not outside the family, that would be ungenteel, but one must know their own mind.” He studied her before adding, “Be yourself.”

“I’m always myself. That’s silly advice. I can’t do anything to dissuade your mother from thinking—“

He held a staying hand. “When you’re with your family, you’re… different. You’re… amiable.” He cleared his throat but did not explain what he meant by amiable , which sounded complimentary to Genevieve, not a shortcoming. “When you’re with me, you’re…” He circled his hand. “Assertive.”

“Obstinate, you mean. Rude. Ungenteel. Uncultured…”

“Unbowed.”

She let that sink in rather than respond.

“While my mother,” he continued, “may seem to hold you responsible for our situation—something along the lines of if you had not been party to the trap or had in any way objected to the match, you would have protested, refused my offer, etc.—it’s hot air. She knows you’re at the whim of your father’s will. Every unmarried lady is. She was once an unmarried lady herself, you’ll want to recall.”

“She has said this?”

“No. But she’s a shrewd woman. Don’t let her intimidate you with the I-rule-a-house-of-boys attitude. She’s syllabub inside.”

At the thought, at the choice of description, even at the reminder of honeyed confections, Genevieve laughed. Once she started, she could not stop. How was she to face Mrs. Fitz-Stephens now? All she would think of was syllabub. With the tips of her fingers, she swatted at the tears in the corner of her eyes—she had not laughed quite this hard in a long time.

“Will you call me Rafe?” he asked when her laugh had softened.

The question sobered her. “Is that appropriate?”

“As appropriate as our sitting here together.” His smile was sweet, gentle, only a tiny hint wicked.

She looked away, her tummy fluttering again. Not meeting his eyes, she gave a curt nod.

“And do I have permission to use your Christian name in return? Or is this to be a one-sided informality?”

With a playful sneer, she said, “You may.”

She stopped herself from adding, don’t become too accustomed to it. Mr. Thorpe is coming . The thought was so fleeting, she gave it no credence. She could scarcely remember Mr. Thorpe. Why had she written to him? With a swat at a drooping curl on her temple, she dismissed those thoughts.