Page 4 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

After traveling south past Glanvale, he hesitated at the crossroads in Sharoncott. Usually, he would take the south route, then loop around to the west, but given the late hour and that he was, moonlight and lantern aside, traveling in the dark of night, he felt the safest choice would be west through Sidonia to stay on the turnpike as long as possible. It meant paying tolls and extending the ride by several miles. Not ideal.

Rafe eyed the narrow, desolate path leading south. No tolls. Fewer miles. But…

Caution won. He guided Alfgar west towards the market town.

The road was well maintained, wide, and typically rife with traffic, but he doubted he would see many, if any, travelers this late at night. At one time, Hartminster had been the heart of the deanery with its impressive abbey, wherein both the dean and his lay chair resided and worked, regular visits from the deacon, and a thriving market. When the market moved to Sidonia, the town doubled in size within a year. Now, Sidonia was the heart of the deanery, even if the dean remained in Hartminster.

At this time of night, it would not be a thriving town. Likely, the only establishments open would be the coaching inns. He would not be stopping at any, not unless a strong coffee was in order by the time he reached the edge of town. Renewed by the fresh air and determination to reach home in good time, he did not suspect he would need coffee.

Having the road to himself, he was tempted to hum, sing, or carry on a lively one-sided conversation with Alfgar. He did none of these. Instead, he kept his wits about him. His ears listened for unnatural sounds. His eyes combed the road and surrounding land for signs of anything untoward, be they wild animals, highwaymen, poachers, or otherwise. The closer he came to town, the more uneasy his supper sat. Call it what one willed, uneasiness replaced joviality. The plan to surprise his family had sounded grand until he realized the reality of riding under the cloak of darkness. Oh, sure, the moonlight was bright enough. He had no trouble seeing the path. And yet there was a queerness about being so exposed at night. He felt vulnerable.

There was no fear or worry he could not hold his own. Should he come across a bandit lying in wait, Rafe would be the one to ride away unscathed. He was confident in that regard. But he would rather avoid confrontation. The whole of being set on by brigands made him downright queasy. After all, he had donned his smartest riding attire in anticipation of arriving home, complete with perfumed linen. A gentleman did not scuffle in fashionable riding raiment.

Much to his relief, the outskirts of Sidonia surrounded him before he realized he had traveled so far.

From earth to cobblestones, the road narrowed. Alfgar’s gait slowed to a friendly clip-clop across the stones. All was quiet, so different from the London that never slept.

They hoofed their way straight down the main without stopping. As cobblestone turned back to earth, mud replaced the hard-packed road they had been traveling. So, this was where all the rain had been that Rafe had bemoaned only hours prior. Thankfully, it was not currently raining. The rutted road sloshed and slurped beneath Alfgar’s hooves. Rafe did his poor best to avoid the deepest puddles.

They crossed over the first stone bridge without incident. The farther they wended their way from town, the higher Rafe’s spirits, his attention turning more towards the surprise to come than worries of bandits. Should he sneak around to a servant’s entrance and pop into the drawing room from one of the jib doors? Mother’s fan would go flying from her shock. If they were in the games room, that would spoil his plan. Best enter the front door and have the butler discreetly point the way. But then, how to get the butler’s attention at the front door without knocking and alerting them all? Hmm. If he walked in without knocking, the exclamations from any nearby footmen would give away the game.

As he worked through another possible scenario, Alfgar shimmied nervously, hesitated, then continued forward.

Rafe’s attention focused. His eyes darted. His ears strained.

Alfgar bobbed his head and blew angrily from his nostrils.

Rafe moved the reins to one hand, his free hand reaching beneath the folds of his overcoat, readying for battle.

As they approached the next bridge, Alfgar’s clip-clop became a clip-clump , and with another hesitation and shy, the horse showed every sign of favoring one of his front legs.

Ah.

Exhaling his guard, Rafe pulled Alfie to a stop and dismounted. He took a moment to scratch Alfie beneath the chin, mostly an excuse to slow his own pounding heart. Tugging free the lantern, he moved to the troubled leg. A thorough perusal showed no injury or harm. He persuaded Alfie to lift the leg and show his hoof.

“Tell me you’ve not been walking shoeless for long.”

Alfie admitted nothing.

Rafe looked back from whence they came. Somewhere, Alfgar had thrown a shoe. There were a few options, none of them ideal. Regardless, he would need to retrieve the shoe. For all he knew, it could be facing up with nails to the sky, waiting for some poor beggar or his horse to step on it. Safety aside, Rafe needed to retrieve it to see if there was a chance of reshoeing here and now, however temporary a fix it would be.

Guiding Alfie to turn around, they retraced their steps. Rafe held the lantern aloft, scouring the slush for signs of a horseshoe or nails. They ambled. They trudged. Alfie expressed his displeasure. Rafe slipped and muddied his freshly polished boots.

Nearly halfway to the first bridge, Rafe spied the offending shoe. He tugged it one way. The mud tugged it another. With a firm jerk, Rafe freed it from the sludge. He turned it over in his riding gloves. No noticeable damage or bend. It could be reshod for the ride home.

However good the plan, it only took leading Alfgar to the flattest and least muddy terrain for Rafe to realize the pebble in the works. The horse’s sole had been bruised from loose rocks.

“Of all the pranks, Alfie, you chose this one.” Rafe shook his head but stroked his horse’s neck. There was no point in them both being glum.

Had the sole not been bruised, shoe or not, Rafe could have ridden Alfgar home. Alas, Rafe refused to exacerbate the bruising. He reattached the lantern and dug through his saddlebags for a strip of linen.

“If I were any other man, you would need to prove your resilience and take us both home, but we know I’m your humble servant. Now, lift your leg, Your Grace.”

Before wrapping the hoof to protect the bruised sole from further damage, he gave everything a thorough feel to check for jagged edges or stuck nails. Riding gloves or not, Rafe bemoaned the state of his best riding suit. All his washing and the splash of perfume were for nought. He supposed the situation could be worse: the band of thieves he had fretted over could have leapt out from beneath the bridge.

Hoof wrapped, saddlebags secured, Rafe took the reins in hand and began the ginger walk home alongside his horse.

The walk to Grant Lindis would not have been too terrible if it had been Rafe alone. He could have quickened his pace for better time and made the most of the evening march, in all likelihood cutting cross-country rather than following the main road, but he had Alfgar to consider, as well as his gear, so they set a slow but steady pace. There was no way to know the hour. If he hazarded a guess, he would say the journey took two hours rather than one, but he could not say for certain.

As he reached Grant Lindis, the familiar sign above the blacksmith’s shop greeted him. He slowed, then stopped in front of the shop door.

It was not that much further to Devington Priory. Once home, he could settle Alfgar into the stables for the evening. Alfgar disagreed. His limp had worsened over the past few miles. However near they were, there was still mileage between the village center and home, mileage he would rather not have his horse endure if limping. Hindsight had Rafe wondering if he should have backtracked into town rather than continuing forward, but he did not know the farriers in Sidonia and would prefer not to test them during a time of need. He swallowed his should have thoughts.

Rafe gazed at the darkened windows. He hated to wake them. Oh, he hated to do it. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he waffled, indecisive.

His companion snorted.

Rafe knocked firmly on the door. He waited several minutes before trying again. It took three tries before the door swung open.

Candle in hand, nightcap adorned, the blacksmith’s wife scowled at the intruder. Rafe blanched under her scrutiny.

Recognition dawned in her sleep-crusted eyes. The frown curved into a smile. “Young Master Fitz-Stephens! Here was I thinking you were off to be a barrister, only to be at my doorstep gone on midnight. Mischievous as ever.”

He chuckled, relieved she had not beat him over the head with a pot. “Only a brief return, here for the Fracas Frolic, then back to London.”

“Ooh, we’ll win with you here.” She squinted at him, then took in his horse’s hoof wrappings. “You didn’t wake me about the races.”

“‘Fraid not, Mrs. Smith. Alfgar threw a shoe just outside Sidonia. We’ve walked the distance, and I’m not comfortable walking him the rest of the way home. He’s limping fiercely. Think Mr. Smith could see to him? You know he’s the only farrier I trust.”

Unmoved by flattery, she spluttered, “ Now ?”

“’Pon my soul, no, Mrs. Smith. I’m already guilty as a gypsy for waking you.”

Relief renewed her smile. “Bring him ‘round.”

Rafe spent the next half hour or longer helping settle Alfgar for the night, accepting a kindly offered drink, and making quick use of a washbasin before resuming his journey to Devington Priory.

Rafe held little hope his family remained awake, not at this hour, whatever hour that happened to be. Eager for the trip to be at an end, he jogged the remaining distance, his mind on a good night’s sleep more than on the element of surprise.

Blast. He had left the saddlebags in the stall. His jog slowed, and he considered turning back. No, no, there was nothing in the bags he did not have at the house in his dressing room. Thinking clearly was proving more difficult by the minute. He had been awake since well before dawn, eager to be on the road and not waste daylight, especially given the frequency of stops for Alfgar to rest and eat. The evening, as with every evening since he had left London, had offered little in the way of sleep. Even with the most respectable inns, there was not much to be said about quality accommodations.

As he crossed onto the drive, he considered his choices of entry. If the front door were unlocked, he could sneak inside and up to his room unseen, assuming the household was, indeed, abed. If the door was locked, he could try any of the servant entrances. If they, too, were locked, which he doubted, he could try the windows. As warm as the evening, he could not imagine the windows being closed. Luck may be on his side. He did not think he could swing a morning surprise for all the reasons he had given Headley, but at the least he could pop in during his mother’s morning toilette. It was mostly she who he hoped to shock. In all likelihood, she would send her tray of chocolate and toast flying as she shrieked with dramatic flair.

He was grinning by the time the Gothic-screened forecourt came into view. The stone archways emulated cloisters, one of the few surviving structures of the dismantled monastery. The framework of the west wing was all that remained of the monastery, the rest of the house a combination of architectural styles, a new addition with each century. The east wing had been built by his grandfather. His grin broadened into a smile to spy his bedroom window, open in hopes of a breeze. Oh, how he longed to prop his feet up, lay his head down, and slip into a dreamless sleep.

From the main approach, he could see the drawing room windows, as well as the main apartments. He could not see the games room. Of the windows he could set eyes on, not one hinted at a candle flicker. The house was as dark as the night around him. Ita vero, he had lost the element of surprise.

Tomorrow morning, he reassured himself. He could at least surprise his mother, and that was what mattered most.

His feet led him to the front door. Quiet as a thief, he tugged the iron handle. It made a soft thunk but resisted. Locked. If he knocked, he would wake more than the butler. He stepped back to survey the ground floor windows.

Ah! So giddy, he had to repress the impulse to laugh aloud. His gaze turned towards the jutting stones of the garden wall beneath his bedchamber window. A thorough wash and a jolly night’s sleep were within reach. The years of collegiate training and professionalism stepped aside at the return of his playful boyhood. How many times in his youth had he climbed that wall? Rafe chafed his hands together, eager to grasp the sturdy stone.

Removing his layers to make climbing easier and protect the fabrics, he began the ascent. Next time he saw Headley, he would regale him with this bit of foolhardiness. Was he the only one of their old club to relive youthful mischief? Surely not.

Wall mounted, Rafe snatched his coats, dusted his boots, which were lamentably caked in more mud than dust, and walked to the open window. To his knowledge, his mother did not know he had ever made fond use of the garden wall for entry or departure. No need to change that. He doubted she would ask how he sneaked inside unseen. With a toss of his garments over the windowsill, he swung himself up and over to straddle the frame.

And then, everything that could go wrong went wrong.

The settee he always used as a stepping stool was not where it should have been. The washstand waged an assault on his person. The desk was not a desk. And the scream ringing in his ears did not belong in his bedchamber, much less his bed.

He tumbled into the room, grace personified, and rose to the peculiar awareness that reality was beyond his grasp.

In his house, in his bedchamber, and in his bed, sat a young lady clutching the bedlinen in fright, her mouth agape, and her hair in papillote curlers.

Caught between a chortle and a scream to match hers, he managed to sputter, “Wh-who the devil are you?”

Rather than answer, she whipped her attention to the door as it swung open. A gentleman in his dressing gown and cap stepped in, empty candlestick holder held as a weapon. Piling behind him, Rafe could see a woman, a young girl, and at least two servants, one of which had a lit candle.

Baffled, bristling, and bemused, he looked from the young lady in his bed to the strangers at the door. Had he not been certain the panic in his breast was real, he would wonder if he had fallen asleep at Headley’s and dreamt the past several hours, his dream now reaching its pinnacle. If he could but awaken.

Everyone spoke at once. Simultaneous voices overlapped, the older gentleman with the candlestick blustering in anger, the woman behind him yipping like Miss Diana’s pug, and the lady with her papillote curlers hugging Rafe’s bedlinen screeching about being burgled.

This was an easy explanation on his part. He was climbing into his bedchamber. What was their excuse? He looked down at his state of undress. His coats lay in a heap beneath the window. With only boots, breeches, and shirtsleeves, he was as undressed as they were in their gowns and caps.

Snap to, old boy. You can’t stand here with your head up yo ur arse.

Raising staying hands for attention, he said with the firm, clear voice of authority, never mind the circumstances, “I beg a moment of silence.”

The din quieted, all eyes on him.

“We have caught each other at a disadvantage. Let us remain calm and approach this rationally, one voice at a time.” He looked at the gentleman in the doorway. “Pray, may I be the first to enquire, who a re you ?”

The overlapping voices rose in shock and fury again before the man could answer. Rafe maintained composure and locked eyes with the candlestick-caper.

Above the raucous noise, the man pointed the silver stick at Rafe, then at his daughter, then back at Rafe, eyeing the unexpected guest’s state of undress, and screeched with umbrage, “A lover’s tryst! An assignation with my daughter! Thought you could sneak out unnoticed, eh?”

A protest trumpeted from the bed occupant. No one paid her any heed, accusatory attention directed at Rafe only. Rafe took an unsteady step backwards.

The woman standing behind the father, whom Rafe presumed was the young lady’s mother, was sobbing into the shoulder of one of the servants, muttering some nonsense about ruination.

Rafe held up his hands again. “Let us, please, clear the confusion rather than venture dark and untrodden paths. Introductions would—”

“I demand satisfaction!” shouted the man.

A hand over his heart, as though struck by a poisoned arrow, Rafe said, “I do beg your pardon, sir. If this were, as you say, a lover’s tryst, I should hope my ladybird would do me the courtesy of not wearing her hair in curlers. Now, let us be sensible and introduce ourselves, each party explaining—”

“Lothario! Rogue! Philanderer! I demand satisfaction!”