Page 3 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Rafe angled his beaver hat to reduce the glare of the setting sun. The stopover at the tavern had taken longer than anticipated, as had the remaining jaunt into Devonshire and through Axminster. Still time for an unexpected visit to Mr. Rupert Headley’s humble country manor, he wagered. One welcome hour or two but no more than three. Best to keep to two hours, for he had a generous hour ride from Headley’s to home.

He cringed at that remaining hour. The need to dismount and stretch was imperative. The bumping and jostling had done him in. His legs were sore. His back was sore. His derriere was sore. Despite the meal at the tavern, his stomach growled again. Poor Alfgar was sweating beneath the saddle more than Rafe would like, and for that matter, Rafe himself was far sweatier than he would like, certainly if he wanted his surprise arrival with family to be a welcome one.

He leaned forward and sniffed. “Is that you, Alfie, or me?”

After the harshest winter of Rafe’s memory, one that extended into May, no less, the weather had no right to turn this balmy.

Calling on Headley would be just the thing. He could wash, change, and eat, while Alfgar received much the same treatment, and then they could both arrive home fresh as daisies. On his best dressed days, he would not consider himself a dandy, but his acquaintances would, even on his worst dressed days, which said a great deal about his discomfort with road grime.

Squinting against the sun, he spied ahead the rising terrain of the hill that marked the threshold of the Hartminster deanery. Just over the crest, he would arrive at Glanvale, a small but wealthy village nestled in the valley within Devonshire’s natural landscape.

The scenery was one to admire with lush meadows and bubbling brooks. Rafe was too hot and tired to admire anything except the proximity of his destination. Handling the reins with one hand, he retrieved his handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his forehead. How had it not rained since he left London? A blessing while riding, but must it follow that without rain, the heat should be oppressive? He was certain this time last year he was still wearing an extra layer for warmth, summer month or not.

At the first bridge, he veered right to cross over the river. The path widened into a well-kempt drive. Two miles west, and in the shadow of twin hills, Headley’s family home welcomed Rafe. Only a modest hall, but it was a sight to behold for this weary traveler.

Alfgar champed at his bit, and Rafe’s lips curved into a broad smile as he heard the pack of dogs herald his approach. No baying hounds sounded off behind those great double doors. Oh no. The barks ranged from howls to yips, a pack representative of every misfit and stray Headley’s mother could adopt, save for the wolfhound belonging to Headley himself, and the pug belonging to Headley’s younger sister, Miss Diana.

Before he was past the gatehouse, the front door opened, releasing the little demons. Alfgar snorted his displeasure.

“So distracted by the beasties,” Rafe said to his horse, “I wager you’ve not noticed the grooms heading our way, eager to pamper you. You’ll be so fussed over, you’ll not want to leave. Well, I don’t fancy walking home, Alfie, so don’t become too comfortable.”

Before the last word left Rafe’s lips, Rupert Headley stepped into the courtyard, commanding the dogs to heel, or trying to.

Careful of the smaller dogs, Rafe drew Alfgar to a stop and dismounted. He would need to retrieve a few items from his saddlebags before they took the horse around to the stables, but first things first.

With hand outstretched and smile wide, he made for his old friend. “How did you know it was me?”

Headley clasped Rafe’s hand. “Diana saw you from the parlor window.” He stepped back to take in his guest’s state. “You look like a glorified Londoner, Fitz-Stephens. You smell like one, too.”

“I resemble that—er—resent that remark, Headley.”

“What the devil are you doing on my doorstep unannounced?”

Rafe doffed his hat to the relief of his flattened hair. “Change of plans. Here for the Fracas Frolic after all. With any luck, I’ll receive the Call while on holiday. Couldn’t resist seeing your ugly mug before heading home.”

“Staying for the evening, then?” Headley patted his leg for the dogs to follow as he waved Rafe inside.

“Not this evening, no. A drink, a washbasin… a bite to eat wouldn’t be declined, if I could beg a few scraps. I only have an hour, two at most. I want the timing to be perfect to surprise the family.”

As they stepped into the entry hall, Rafe pivoted, remembering his gear in the saddlebags.

“Leave it,” Headley said, anticipating Rafe’s intentions. “They’ll bring the bags to your suite. Need a valet?” Before Rafe could respond, Headley added, “I would give my left arm to see your mother’s expression when you arrive on the doorstep. Game for a wager rather she swoons with happiness or beats you over the head with her fan for not telling her?”

They lingered in the entry only briefly, the dogs making conversation difficult, their whines and barks echoing. While he was still unwashed, Rafe took the opportunity to greet each one he had known for years, along with a few new ones he had not yet met. After the butler nodded to Headley, Rafe was shown to his usual guest suite to make himself more presentable.

A light breeze wafted through the billiard room by way of the open windows. With the sun having set, the air had cooled considerably, almost to the point of carrying a chill. Rafe made no complaints. He looked into his glass and gave the amber liquid a swirl.

“I’m surprised,” Mr. Rupert Headley was saying, “you didn’t plan the journey better, at least early enough to stop in Sidonia for shopping. You’ll be passing through town regardless.”

Rafe waved off the observation. “I did not wish to arrive home to find the family paying calls. Evening is best. They’ll be around the table with cards or at billiards. Besides, they would wonder what I was up to if I arrived laden with gifts. Not usually my style.”

He shared a chuckle with his friend, who was lounging in a leather chair opposite, ankles crossed, cup balanced on his waistcoat. Headley was less imposing when seated. Although a gentle giant, he was a full head taller than Rafe and a shoulder wider, clearly muddled breeding and hardly an English gentleman at that stature, or so Rafe had teased throughout their formative years when Headley began to outgrow his friends.

Rafe closed his eyes. The hour ride loomed. Had he not been so determined, he would beg a room for the night. Even his bones ached. He had also missed dinner, having to settle for a light supper in the billiard room.

In the distance, a voice buzzed. Rafe swatted the air.

“It’ll be a winning wager,” the voice said, “if I accept.”

Finding his family playing cards? Was that the wager? “ Ita vero ,” Rafe affirmed in Latin with a soft snore.

Something kicked his foot none too gently. Jerking awake, Rafe blinked at Headley’s raised eyebrows. Had Rafe drifted? Intolerably rude of him. He patted his cheek, then tossed back a burning gulp of his drink before setting it on the end table.

Headley asked, his tone languid, “Is my racing that aristocratic tosspot in Healltoning not entertaining enough for you?”

“A duel would have made a better story.”

With a scoff, Headley sat up to top off their drinks. “Last one for you, mate. Instead of invigorating you, it’s putting you to sleep. You will need your wits about you for the ride. Would you like me to send a groom to light the way?”

Rafe shook his head. “Almost a full moon. Ample light. I wouldn’t turn down a lantern, but no need for company.” Retrieving his refilled glass, he inhaled the sharp aroma before taking a drink. “More pressing, what can I do to convince you to compete with me against Eurwendin? And no excuses about this not being your battle since you don’t live in Grant Lindis. Anything to wipe the smug smile from their faces after winning last year. Come now. Bribery? A challenge? Flattery? What’ll it take?”

“Agree to join me for the day when I call on Selwyn Relish.”

“Selwyn!” Rafe brightened. “I had hoped to call on him. Hardly a favor for a favor when I’m eager to see the new members of the Vitruvian Society. Met any since I’ve been in London?”

“I’ve not. Remiss of me. I haven’t the excuse of distance, either.”

“Been too wrapped up in curricle racing to engage in real sport? I see I can’t leave you unguarded for too long. Who is the tosspot now?”

Headley smirked. “You’ll rescind that remark if I win the competition for your village.”

“It’s team racing, Headley. There are no champions.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have invited me.”

Rafe raised his glass. The retort on the tip of his tongue turned into a curse when he glimpsed the table clock. “By Jupiter! How have we whiled away the hours? If I’m not off in the next half hour, they’ll have retired before I arrive, and that would not be a welcome surprise. Some host, you are. How did you allow me to stay so long? This is sabotage!”

Headley set aside his cup and rose from the chair. “Unintentional, I assure you. The room for the evening is on offer. You could leave at dawn.”

“And surprise them in the morning room? Not likely. Father enjoys an early morning ride, rarely breaking his fast with the family. Mother prefers a long morning toilette in her dressing room. And my brothers will sleep until noon—unquestionably. They’ll be gaming into the wee hours, so my timing is perfect this evening, but I dare not dally.”

Arms crossed, foot tapping, Headley questioned, “Then why are you still seated? I’ll ring for your horse to be brought around.”