Page 5 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

A herd of elephants trampled down the stairs, or so it sounded to Rafe, startling him awake the next morning—or rather, a few hours later. Guffaws followed the stomps on the steps, the clamor softening as the culprits descended to the first floor, then further down to the ground floor. Who knew all it took to rouse his brothers before noon was a scandal involving Rafe?

He covered his head with a pillow and groaned.

Returning to sleep would only delay the inevitable. With a slow, reluctant sweep of his hand, he tossed back the bedding and swung his legs over the edge. He flexed his feet, the soles tender from the evening’s walk. London was softening him. For years, he had prized himself on his athleticism, and now a short jaunt across the deanery had left him sore. His thoughts briefly turned to Alfgar and how his sole must feel this morning. Mr. Smith would have him right as rain in no time.

Rafe took care dressing, being fastidious. His waistcoats still fit—thank heavens for small mercies. Forest green was the choice for the day. Forest green and gold. The first four cravats were tried and tossed, the fifth folding just right. He splashed a dash of perfume about his person. Admiring the reflection, one corner of his lips curled into a smirk. Before leaving, he puckered his lips to blow the flirty devil in the mirror a kiss—irresistibly dashing, if he did say so himself.

With the last, he followed in his brothers’ wake to meet his family in the parlor. No morning room surprise over the breakfast table. Unlike the Priory, the dower house, where his grandmother resided, did not have a morning room.

When he opened the parlor door, all eyes turned his direction, and all conversation halted. His father stood by the empty fireplace. His grandmother lounged in her chaise. Two of his three brothers were present, standing near the harpsichord as though to talk privately, never mind the room was far too small for unheard conversation. His mother had been pacing in front of the windows.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, conversation resumed, everyone arguing about “the incident” but no one listening to anyone except themselves. Rafe accepted the fauteuil chair across from his grandmother, Mrs. Edwina Fitz-Stephens.

Speaking over the hubbub, Rafe said, “I’m for the Priory. Don’t believe I could eat until I’ve spoken with Mr. Slade. I propose we meet here afterwards.”

His mother, Mrs. Marion Fitz-Stephens, flicked her fan closed with a snap . “That is most certainly not what will be done. You will eat a hearty breakfast while we rejoice in your return from London, which is precisely what we would have done when you arrived last evening had the situation been otherwise.” She glared at her husband.

As soon as his father began to respond, Rafe’s mother interrupted, her eyes trained on Mr. Anthony Fitz-Stephens, but her words addressed Rafe. “Your father will go to the house and handle Mr. Slade. This is his fault, and he will make amends.”

Rafe rose. “Rather than rehash the drama my arrival has caused both families, let us handle this rationally. I have caused the upset. I have been invited to discuss the matter with Mr. Slade.”

His father shook his head. “I agree with your mother. I should be the one going to the house. Roland has been a good friend, and it’s my responsibility to apologize for my son’s mistake.”

“His mistake ?” Mother shrieked, flicking her fan open with a click and waving it so rapidly her curls swayed. “Rafe is above reproach. He is a barrister , a professional, a grown man, which is more than I—”

Rafe cleared his throat. “I’ve not yet been called to—”

“It was your grand plan,” his mother continued, “to let the house to that, that, those people and relegate us to the dower house. There is nothing for which any of us should apologize. Go to the house and show Mr. Slade how imposing a squire can be when angered. He is the one who should apologize to our son.”

His grandmother muttered to Rafe, “Your grandfather, God rest his soul, never would have allowed anyone except Fitz-Stephenses to live in the house. A disgrace to allow strangers to serve as master of one’s own domain.”

His father raised his voice to talk over Rafe’s mother, while his grandmother began squabbling more loudly, wanting her displeasure known, and so Rafe inched towards the door. He cast an apologetic glance at his brothers, then slipped out of the parlor before anyone noticed his departure. Once outside, he took a deep breath. His shoulders shook with laughter. A stranger may think the family at odds. Not so. He suspected they were enjoying themselves. A day in the life of the Fitz-Stephens family, he mused. It was good to be home. Or specifically, in the bosom of his family, if not exactly home .

And that was the bone of contention.

He left the dower house to walk across estate grounds to the main house, not wanting to be late for his appointment with Mr. Slade. Nothing had been settled after “the incident,” only the exchange of introductions which Rafe had requested ad nauseum until his wish was granted, at which time he was directed to the dower house with the insistence he return that morning to discuss his being found in a state of undress in Mr. Slade’s eldest daughter’s bedchamber.

Following “the incident,” and in the mood for answers, not surprises, Rafe had knocked soundly at the dower house door. Ironically, he had not disturbed anyone, as all in the family, save Gran, had been in the drawing room gathered around the gaming table despite the late hour. It would have been a laughable moment had Rafe been in a laughable mood.

The situation was simple.

To fund his eldest brother Giles’s latest expedition to Lord-knew-where, his father had let the house for the year. Understanding that Rafe would not be returning that year for the Fracas Frolic, they did not bother to inform him of the situation, it being a point of contention between Father and… everyone. To maintain the trend of omitting information, Rafe thought it best not to mention he had climbed through the bedroom window, allowing them to believe of their own free will that he had marched through the front door, up the stairs, and through his bedchamber door like a civilized, mature man of four and twenty. He likewise omitted Mr. Slade’s demand for satis faction .

It was the last that plagued Rafe during his walk to the house. Did Mr. Slade truly intend to challenge him to a duel? Surely not. Had the gentleman been serious, he would have arranged his second to meet Rafe’s second, not request Rafe come in person. Rafe found his breathing more shallow than usual, nonetheless. A simple misunderstanding. No need for bloodshed.

At least his brothers had found levity in the situation. Noel and Otis, fourteen and sixteen, respectively, had made the most sensible observation Rafe had heard all evening: “Only Rafe would complain about finding a girl in his bed.”

Hand on handle, Rafe tugged at the iron to open the front door before releasing the ring in haste, as though singed by the metal. Not currently his house, he reminded himself.

Stepping back, he took a moment to steady his nerves. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he extracted a small, engraved box. A pop of the lid, a sift of the contents, and then a pinch, Rafe slipped the mint leaf between his lips. As he chewed, he tucked the box back into his pocket. Minty fresh breath.

Ready, he made use of the knocker.

Less than fifteen seconds passed before the door swung open, revealing a familiar face.

Rafe cracked a smile, genuinely relieved not everyone in his home was a stranger. “A sight for sore eyes, Peter!”

The footman maintained his composure, only the twitch at the corners of his lips betraying his pleasure. “Mr. Slade is in the study, sir.”

“Right. Shall I see myself there, or…”

The footman stepped aside to allow Rafe into the wood paneled entrance hall.

Rafe removed his beaver hat, eyeing the corridor that would lead him to his father’s—er—Mr. Slade’s study. “I suppose you’ve heard about my grand entrance?”

Disguising his amusement with a cough, the footman nodded but said nothing. Rafe winked before following the servant down the hallway, his gait a confident swagger, his expression revealing nothing of the pounding in his breast or tremor of his nerves.

Demand satisfaction , Slade had said.

Circling his hat in his hands, he waited for Peter to knock, then announce the caller. A caller in his own home. He could understand how his grandmother and mother felt about his father’s decision to lease the house, but then, he could also apprehend his father’s plan. The Fitz-Stephenses were an old family, a wealthy family, but most of the wealth was in the estate, in their assets, not necessarily in ready money. If Giles needed blunt for another one of his adventures… well, Rafe could sympathize with his father’s decision.

Mr. Slade invited Rafe to join him for port in front of the cold fireplace. Too early for a drink—Rafe had not yet broken his fast, for that matter—but it would not prove an auspicious beginning to the conversation if he refused. With a nod, Rafe accepted, taking the seat facing the windows. The curtains wafted in the breeze, the windows slanted open, a subtle reminder of last night’s decision to scale a wall for fun. Then, no one knew how he had entered the room, did they? No one except the young lady in curlers.

“You claimed your presence in my daughter’s bedroom was a misunderstanding,” Mr. Slade began without preamble as he squeezed into the chair.

Rafe nodded, taking the man’s measure. Surplus build—in girth, not height—and receding hairline, but laugh lines around his mouth and an intelligent gleam in his hazel eyes. Roland Slade was a cleverer man than his appearance credited, Rafe surmised. All the same, Rafe could take him, if it came to it, both in a duel and in an argument. But would he? From his understanding, the gentleman was an old Oxford friend of his father’s, one who was letting the house as a favor, a way to fund a large sum of money while reaping the benefits of playing lord of the manor, however temporary. Would Rafe want to best the man, prove with a sleight of hand who was superior?

“While I do not wish to call you a fibber, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, you must understand my position as a father. I arrive at my eldest daughter’s bedchamber to find a gentleman caller in his shirtsleeves. The evidence is clear. Following a midnight assignation, you thought to dress and sneak away, but were clumsy in the dark. I am impelled to believe what my eyes tell me, not what a rogue might say to save his skin, no thought to the young lady he’s ruined.”

“ Res ipsa loquitur ,” Rafe muttered to himself in Latin.

“What was that?”

With a shake of his head, Rafe said, “The evidence speaks for itself from your perspective. Is there no opportunity for my defense?”

“You’ve already offered it, have you not? That you did not know . You plead ignorance. Not a convincing stance. Are you not studying to become a barrister? Since my residence at Devington Priory, your father has spoken highly of you, yet all I see before me is a young boy caught in bed with my daughter.”

In a flash, Rafe saw where this was going. How he had not realized it sooner said more for his belief in human benevolence and the moral code of gentlemen than it did for his wit. All his worry about being challenged over a misunderstanding… He had not envisaged this . Not by any stretch of his imagination. The trap had already clinched his ankle. How could he be so unaware?

His fingers tightening around the glass, Rafe said, “That I’ve been in London, that I’ve never met your daughter, that I could not identify her in a crowd, that I was not told of the rental agreement—all of this is inadmissible, I comprehend, testimonial hearsay.”

Mr. Slade offered the palms of his hands in a shrug. “I don’t make society’s rules, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. Whatever the circumstances, you have compromised my daughter. I’ve no wish for a scandal, and I will not see my daughter ruined by a rogue’s maneuverings.”

A rogue or a barrister-in-training? Ruined by a rogue yet matched with same-said rogue? Threats of a scandal when only family and two servants had witnessed the incident? Threats of ruining his own daughter? Accused of a tryst when a witness could verify his whereabouts prior? Rafe wanted to laugh at Mr. Slade’s attempts at duress and slander, his empty threats, his sloppy ad hominem , the makings of a fallacious argument. If the man were as adroit as he thought himself, he could convince Rafe to do his bidding ex gratia , or in a moment of desperation he could throw in a little quid pro quo .

Rafe’s fingers ached from clutching the glass in his hands. With a whip of words, he could metaphorically knock the leg of the chair Mr. Slade sat on, then return to the dower house, unaffected. The situation was clear, the man’s machinations straight forward. This should be an easy extrication.

The problem? Rafe was a gentleman. Even knowing when he was being played a fool, he was a gentleman.

His sympathies went to Miss Slade. The young lady had not set a trap. She was a victim, unaware two gentlemen were deciding her fate, one a stranger. He had not had a good look at the young lady, had no way of knowing her disposition. Was there a reason her father was eager to catch the first passing fox, or was it that this was too prized a fox to release? Rafe had only himself to blame. It was Rafe who set his own trap by behaving like a devil-may-care juvenile.

The options were limited: puncture Mr. Slade’s plans with a few well-placed darts; not waste his breath, just leave; play the game to extricate himself later. There were few situations he could not extricate himself from should he wish, but at what cost and at whose expense?

There were detriments to being a gentleman. This moment proved one of them.

Rafe sighed and set aside his glass. He would not allow Mr. Slade to defeat him. This was his decision as a gentleman. The onus was on him to rectify the situation caused by his own carelessness.

Standing, Rafe said, “If you will grant me permission, and if she would consider accepting, I wish to ask for your eldest daughter’s hand in marriage.”

As what Rafe could only describe as smug victory deepened Mr. Slade’s laugh lines, there was but one thought: I don’t even know h er name .