Page 7 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)
The Fitz-Stephenses gathered in the parlor to hear the glorifying tale of Rafe’s set down of Mr. Slade, that house-stealing blackguard who had the audacity to request an apology from Marion’s angelic son. In contrast, the chaos resulting from Rafe’s accounting of what actually happened in the Devington Priory study could be heard through the corridors of the dower house and beyond the baize doors.
Slouched in a chair, ankle propped on his opposite knee, chin cradled in his palm, Rafe brooded.
Around him, the family deliberated the proceedings.
Anthony Fitz-Stephens was defending, to anyone who would listen, “This is a good alliance, a dream come true, really. Considering how well-lined are Slade’s pockets, the dowry is bound to impress. But that’s only a perk. Slade is the best man I know. Had he not moved about so often, our families would have been closely tied all these years, our children brought up together.”
“I can’t trust a man with no sense of responsibility,” Gran said in protest. “Three young girls, and he’s raised them like gypsies. Any gentleman worth his salt would have purchased and settled, not moved from lease to lease. I care not a fig for what lines his pocket if he’s no sense of what being a gentleman or a father means.” She turned to her grandson. “You must put a stop to this, Rafe. There is no obligation on your part to proceed. No one would believe a word of that Banbury tale of you sneaking into her room, and it would ruin their daughter to tell it. Besides, your father, despite his questionable loyalties and poor decisions, is squire and magistrate—he is well versed in dealing with blackguards and upstarts.”
Rafe dropped his hand to sit up, wondering if he would be able to join the conversation this time. In half an hour, he had not yet been invited.
Mother fluttered her fan to cool her ire. “It is distasteful enough they are living in my home, sitting on my furniture, ordering my servants, inviting us to dine weekly as though I was a guest in my home. Now they want my son? I’ll not stand for this, Anthony.”
Rafe leaned back in the chair and returned his chin to his palm.
Gran said, “Mark my words. This is a well-orchestrated trap. They want to secure connections with the Fitz-Stephens name and with the house, doubtless a ploy to continue living in the house beyond the lease.”
“Rafe, darling,” his mother said, “this will ruin your plans. You are to be invited to the King’s Counsel one day, make your mark in London as a top barrister. How is this to be done if you’re saddled with those people ?”
“A dirty trick,” Gran continued. “It’s the mothers of spinsters about whom one must usually worry, not respectable fathers. They’ve taken advantage of your being a gentleman and abused you cruelly.”
His mother added, “You can’t allow them to force you into marriage, Rafe. Stand your ground.”
Gran insisted, “Anthony, I demand you terminate their lease immediately. You were a fool to let the house. And for what purpose? So that spoiled son of yours can squander his inheritance before he’s earned it? Gallivanting around the world, no better than these Slades. You don’t see it, son, because you’re blinded by his ‘golden boy’ wiles.” Punctuating each word with a slap of her palm to the cushion of her chaise, she said, “He plays you like a fiddle.” A shake of her head, then she muttered under her breath, “A travesty. That’s what has befallen this family. Strangers living in the house, the heir voyaging seas he has no business sailing, compromising situations to trap our Rafe—what has become of us? My husband is rolling in his grave.”
As Father crossed his arms with a “Now, listen here, Mother,” Noel and Otis caught Rafe’s attention for a hushed conversation of their own.
Rafe arched a brow.
Otis asked, “Is she an ogre?”
Noel pulled an ogrish face.
Rafe sat up and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “That’s your future sister-in-law you’re talking about.”
“ Nah ,” they said in unison.
Too cheerily than the occasion warranted, Noel said, “Mum will make you cry off before the day ends.”
“Make it seem as though they misunderstood—the Slades, not Mum,” Otis advised. “You never offered, merely suggested you might offer. Convince them they misheard. That’s what I would do.”
“That’s what Mum will have you do.” Noel and Otis nodded to each other, pleased with their display of wisdom.
With a playful but warning look to both, Rafe rose to his feet. Patience personified, he waited. His parents and grandmama continued to bicker, talking over each other in teeth-achingly polite condescension, voices never raised. His father held his defense of Mr. Slade, supporting the match between Miss Slade and Rafe, the argument holding little weight with the pair of women set against the family and Mr. Slade’s sly entrapment.
Not for long did Rafe have to wait before they realized he had risen from his chair. Their sentences trailed until all present held a collective breath.
Rafe flashed a smile before saying, “Now that we’ve cleared the air, we must no longer question cui bono ? Your answers have pointed to Mr. Slade as the one to benefit, but I put to you an alternative. I am the one to benefit. I have proposed to Miss Slade, and Miss Slade has done me the great honor to accept. From this point forward, the Slade family will understand the meaning of noblesse oblige . They are beyond reproach and will know our respect. They will learn what it means to enter an alliance with the Fitz-Stephenses.”
He paused to look from one family member to another before continuing.
“Contrary to appearances, this is not a story of parson’s mousetrap. There is no evidence the betrothal is against my will or the will of Miss Slade— actus me invito, non est meus actus. This is a story of a boy who has fallen smitten with a girl at first sight. That girl, in turn, has agreed to make him the happiest of men. This is the account I posit, and I will brook no discrepancies. Omnia praesumuntur contra proferentem . Alternatives, inconsistencies, clauses, and exceptions to the account I have provided will be presumed erroneous and against the offeror. I request pacta sunt servanda —are we in agreement that we will do our best to fulfill the obligations set forth?”
He waited for lightning to strike.
His grandmother sneered but nodded. His mother looked at her fan but also nodded. His father grinned. His brothers each gave him a slow wink, as though to say either they suspected him of biding his time until he could escape the noose or that Miss Slade was the antithesis of an ogre.
Satisfied, Rafe said, “If there are no objections, I propose we adjourn to the dining room. I’ve not yet broken my fast and am a bit peckish.” As he said the words, his stomach growled.
In truth, he was so famished, he could eat a horse.