Page 34 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Two days passed without incident. Rafe was champing at the bit to make an excuse to see her, but he wanted her to stew a little. She should wonder by of her own accord for her next fencing lesson. From there, Rafe would find a reason to venture to the Priory and make his presence known, complete with the continuation and further enaction of his plan, the coup de grace for the final week.

A good plan. Until he received the letter.

Not the letter from Giles, which arrived the same day and had the family gathered in the drawing room to read and reread the correspondence, each family member having a turn to read aloud. Giles wrote of success in his expedition, a return within the next six months or sooner, and a surprise he would wait to share in person. A guessing game ensued for the best answer to this “surprise.” So enraptured by Giles’s letter, the well-worn and crumpled note for Rafe went unnoticed for some time.

Only as the Fitz-Stephenses dispersed to their own devices and Rafe went about his day, did he spy the letter on the salver in the entrance hall, buried beneath sundry ignored missives of less import.

Addressed to him, he took it into the parlor for privacy. The letter’s deplorable condition told a story of misdirection and misadventure before finding its way to the correct personage. He flipped it over to eye the seal. Staring back at him was a griffin encircled by the too tiny and unreadable motto Integra Lex Aequi Custos Rectique Magistra Non Habet Affectus Sed Causas Gubernat . He need not be able to decipher the wax imprint to know what the words said. He knew them by heart. “Impartial justice, guardian of equity, mistress of the law, without fear or favor rules men’s causes aright.” The seal of Gray’s Inn.

Heart thumping to the beat of a team of horses, he hooked his thumb beneath the wax-sealed fold, trying not to rip the paper. Unfolding, he held his breath as he read. His eyes combed the page thrice before he refolded and sat, steadying his breath and the trembling of his hand.

He was called to the Bar to serve as barrister for England and Wales.

His application for the Trinity Call ceremony had been accepted. The letter confirmed and congratulated, inviting him to take his oath. As it sank in, the elation boiled and bubbled. He stood. He sat. He stood again. He walked towards the parlor door, walked back to the sofa, walked to the door again. And then with an almighty cry, he rejoiced with a whoop . The family came running.

Rafe unfolded the letter once more and waved it. “I’ve been called! My application has been accepted! I’m a bloody barrister!”

Otis kindly pointed out, “Not yet. Gotta’ attend the ceremony and all.”

Mother embraced Rafe and peppered his temple with motherly kisses. “Ignore your brother.” Then to said brother, “A technicality only, Otis.”

“No, itan’t,” Otis argued. “Don’t attend the ceremony, and he an’t a barrister. Am I right?” He looked around him for confirmation.

Father leaned across the sofa to box Otis’s ears, drawing laughter from the lot.

But then it sank in. Otis was right.

Rafe’s smile faded. “Dear Lord. I’ll never make it. The ceremony is July 18 th . It’ll take me at least a week, and that’s if I leave at first light on the morrow and the stars are aligned and our glorious English weather is cooperative.”

Noel chimed in with, “Take the mail coach. You’ll be there in 24 hours, easy.”

“My grandson will not take the mail coach,” Gran protested with a shake of her stick. “Fitz-Stephenses do not take public transport.” With a decisive nod, she added, “Nor do barristers.”

Mother agreed, brushing Rafe’s hair out of his eyes, clearly in a maternal mood.

Noel and Otis exchanged corroborating glances and shrugged.

“Take the gig. Spring the horses,” Father said, rubbing the side of his nose.

Rafe shook his head. “It won’t prove helpful if I break my neck trying to arrive on time. I’ll take Alfgar. If the dashed letter had arrived last week, we could have arranged for a horse exchange. I would have made excellent time. No, I’ll take Alfgar. We’ll need most of today to prepare. Food and water for him in the saddle bags, at least until the first stop, will save time. With only the necessary rests along the way, we can make decent time.”

He tried not to think about the thrown shoe from his ride here. This journey had to go smoothly.

If he missed, the next Call ceremony was not until Deferred Trinity in late October or the last ceremony in November. What a kick in the shin that would be to wait so long, assuming they allowed him after missing his first Call.

Within the hour, preparations for the trip were set into motion, and a footman was sent to the Priory with a message for the stables. Thankfully, Rafe need not pack much, only the necessities for travel, since he had left his London possessions in his wardrobe at Gray’s Inn. As he rummaged through his bedchamber, tempted to ring for the valet to do the work for him, and feeling anxious and excited, and thus indecisive about what to bring, what to wear, what to do, a rush of panic flooded him— Ge nevieve .

His plan was not complete. He had only just begun! One week remained, and by that fact, only one week remained. He could not flee to London with things unsettled. Slade would suffer from apoplexy, and Genevieve may misconstrue Rafe’s actions as a dismissal. Their relationship was at a tipping point. If he left, this could ruin everything, but if he attempted to confront her now, to push her into action, she could resist and run, undoing all his work over the past week and leaving him in a sticky wicket from which he may not be able to recover. He needed this second week to accomplish his goal.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he sank his fingers into his hair and cradled his head. What the devil was he going to do?

The solace to his anguish was imagining marching into the Priory, scooping Genevieve over his shoulder, slinging her over Alfgar—or more appropriate into the gig as he confiscated it—and abducted her for the ride to London. How was that for a forced betrothal? He chuckled. He wagered he could win her heart during that journey.

If he were not a gentleman, he might be inclined towards that plan—desperate times and all. If it were earlier in the day, he could head to Exeter for a word with the bishop, secure a common license, and then slap that on a table before her as proof of his affection, although he would still be leaving for London tomorrow morning before a marriage ceremony could take place. Shame. He rather liked the slapdashery of it, the dramatic flair.

Arg! His choices were limited, at least if he wanted to win her heart without her doubts or fears or reservations getting in the way. He had today and only today. More problematic, today needed to be devoted to preparing for the journey and an early evening’s sleep.

Groaning, he rose, gave his cravat a straighten in the mirror, and headed out for the Priory.

It was one thing to propose to a woman and reassure the father that the situation was in hand, and quite another to do so before one had completed the wooing process. Rafe could not be certain in any way she would accept. There had not been enough time. His plan was lacking a full week. Either those two days for her to mull over their picnic needed to do the trick—and if he had known, he would not have wasted those two days, desirous of her stewing or not—or Slade needed to be considerate and give him more time. His hope was on Slade more than Genevieve being receptive to his proposal. He would need to see Slade first to determine if he was going to put on the most romantic show of his life, complete with bended knee, or more simply, promise her romance upon his return.

While he was at the Priory, he could visit the stables.

He reached the front door and used the knocker without sparing the iron. A footman answered, saw it was Rafe, and opened the door wide without question.

The butler peeked into the entrance hall. “Master Fitz-Stephens. How may I be of service?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Slade. If you could press this is a matter of urgency, as well as delicacy, I’d be appreciative.”

“I’m afraid, sir, Mr. Slade is from home, as is the family.”

Rafe exhaled with a puff of his cheeks. “Do you know how long they’ll be away? I can wait in the drawing room. Or, if you think it’ll be longer than a wait would permit, you could send word to the dower house when they return.”

“If you’ll forgive me, sir, for being the bearer of ill-tidings, they’ll be away the remainder of the day. Sir Courtney has invited them for dinner.”

“For dinner. Then…. they could return before dusk.” Under his breath he added, “Not if I know Sir Courtney.” A little louder he vented his frustration, “This will not do. This simply will not do.”

“A note, sir? I’ll see he receives it.” Then with a knowing glint in his eyes, he said, “A discreet message for the young mistress would, also, be sure to reach her.”

With a nod, Rafe conceded, “That will have to do. I can only hope for understanding.”

The butler led Rafe into the study so he could dash off whatever note he wished. “May I be permitted to offer congratulations, sir?”

“Word travels fast. Naturally it does. The stables are probably in chaos preparing for my departure. Yes, you may offer felicitations, and I will receive them with a smile and a jig—as soon as your back is turned, of course,” he added with a wink.

“Very good, sir.”

The butler ducked out of the study long enough for Rafe to compose a letter to Slade explaining the situation, assuring him of his faithfulness, and begging for a brief reprieve, whereupon he would make good on his promise as soon as he returned. He folded this, then started a new note for Genevieve. With this, he struggled. Confess undying devotion? Promise he would resume paying her court upon his return—which somehow sounded more like a threat when he tried to write the words?

Ah, it was no use. He did not know what to say that would not give up the game or presume an intimacy she would deny, not with her believing the betrothal had been dissolved.

After a few false starts, he drew a fresh slip and wrote,

I must away to London to answer my Call to the Bar. When next we meet, I hope to hear your confession. You know to what I refer. Your most devoted servant.

That should work in his favor. He admired his cleverness before folding the letter and flourishing a G on the front of the missive. Before leaving the Priory for the stables, he placed both notes in the butler’s hands to ensure each party received their note in as timely a fashion as possible.

Not how he had wished to handle the situation. This left too much unresolved, too much reliance on Slade’s goodwill and Genevieve’s patience. More desirable would have been to settle matters himself now and tête-à-tête. If he had more time, he would ride to Eurwendin and invite himself into Sir Courtney’s home for the express purpose of begging an audience with the man’s guests. Alas.

Once the ceremony concluded, he would choose the Western circuit, hoping that was pleasing to the parties in question, arrange for his possessions at Gray’s Inn to be sent to Devonshire, and then return post-haste so he could perfect his pursuit of his fair damsel.

Rafe had done what he could for the present. Now to see to the preparations of his departure, eat a hearty meal, and retire early.