Page 19 of A Trial of His Affections (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #2)

Chapter Nineteen

M iles Yardley paced in front of the door separating him from the members of Brooks’s. He did not know why he was so uneasy about the outcome when he’d not even wished to join the club.

Yet, as he watched the men slowly walking up to cast their balls, a decidedly nervous twist tightened in his stomach—which was ridiculous. Both Freddie and Fin said the vote was merely a formality. There was no reason for anyone to cast a black ball against him.

Miles did not have any enemies, did he? His mind flashed briefly to Lord Wetherby, but he pushed it aside. Wetherby may be his enemy, but the feelings were not mutual, certainly.

He stopped his pacing and peered through the cracked door, his heart stopping for a moment. Lord Wetherby and Lord Dunsmore stepped into the small chamber at the front of the room where Mr. Sherwood sat in state as he presided over the election, the box on the table in front of him. The two men whispered to each other, and then they glanced back to where Miles was hiding.

He took a step back. Did they know he was in there? It was not strictly allowed for Miles to be there when they voted. Normally, Mr. Sherwood would notify the applicant in the days that followed. But Fin had convinced Miles to stay hidden in the small antechamber that connected the private room to the public one so that once Mr. Sherwood announced the results, they could celebrate together—as members.

However, Miles suddenly had doubts about his election. From his position, he could see Lord Wetherby and Lord Dunsmore. Wetherby lingered in front of the box for a moment, his hand clutched tightly in front of him.

Wetherby stuck his hand in the box and looked in Miles’ direction before pulling his empty hand out.

Lord Dunsmore moved forward and thrust his hand into the box. He didn’t waste even a moment before he withdrew his empty fist. The men both smirked at the anteroom where Miles stood rooted to the floor. What were they about?

The men then returned to their seats. But not before giving Fin and Freddie looks of disdain.

Miles ran his hands up and down his thighs to dry the sweat from his palms. In a matter of moments, Mr. Sherwood would reveal the balls, and Miles would officially be a member of Brooks’s. Or would he? The appearance of Lord Wetherby and Lord Dunsmore gave him pause and unease. Their looks had been too confident. Too all-knowing. But why would they cast a black ball for him?

His stomach churned as he remembered the look Wetherby had given him after the spilled lemonade at the theater several evenings before. It was then that Miles realized it. Wetherby knew . He knew who had bumped into him. Did he know it had been on purpose? Did it matter? Miles had let Wetherby take the blame, all the while knowing it was his doing. The question that plagued him most, though, was did Wetherby know about the other incidents—the monkey incident and the walking stick incident, as he’d come to call them?

He rotated his shoulders and closed his eyes, trying to gain some composure. How could Wetherby know? No one had seen him at the menagerie. And no one had seen him kick the walking stick. Though it bore no consequence in his present situation—Wetherby and Dunsmore need not justify their blackballing as such things were to remain anonymous—it mattered in the broader scheme of things. If they knew everything he’d done, would they tell Grace? Or maybe Philip? Or everyone else in society? Indeed, the gossipmongers would spread the news faster than a whispered secret at Almack’s.

“This is the last call.” Mr. Sherwood’s gravelly voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room next door. “If you’ve not yet cast your ball, step forward and do so now.”

Miles leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his hair. Botheration! Why had he not done as his brother suggested and applied for membership years ago? Why did he even care? He had not wanted this.

He grunted in dissatisfaction. He had membership at his Inn. He did not need this membership. And yet, he could not help the disappointment that burned a hole in his stomach at the thought of being blackballed. Only men who had earned it—and knew they had—were blackballed. Not because of spilled lemonade!

Leaning forward, Miles dropped his elbows onto his knees and burrowed his fingers into his hair. It was a sign of weakness. Or so his father would say. But at the moment, it was all he could do not to race into the room and sort the balls himself. Lud! How could this be happening? To him? He was a barrister of sound reputation. He did not get blackballed.

“Very well, I shall reveal the balls,” Mr. Sherwood called.

There were some scuffles, and then gasps sounded, followed by a low murmur.

Miles pushed himself off the wall and peered through the crack to see Mr. Sherwood holding up two black balls. Two! Had Dunsmore followed suit just out of spite? Or did he have an inkling about the monkey?

Miles shook his head. No, he could not. Who would think that a monkey would do Miles’ bidding? No, Miles hadn’t thought it could happen, else he would not be in this predicament.

“Not elected!” Mr. Sherwood shouted.

The words bounced around inside Miles’ head. Not elected. Not elected. Damnation! What would his father say?

“Thank you for your time, my lords and gentlemen. You may return to your activities.” Mr. Sherwood held a bag as men filed forward and dropped what Miles assumed were their unused balls inside. Fin glanced over at him from his place in line, a grim look on his face.

Slowly, the room emptied. Mr. Sherwood poured the balls from the box into the bag and fastened it closed. Then he packed it all up and left through a door on the opposite side of the room.

Miles leaned against the wall and closed his eyes as the reality sank in. He would never have guessed such a thing could happen. He was not universally adored by all, but he did not figure anyone disliked him enough to blackball him. Had they taken the vote just a week earlier, the outcome would surely have been different. Indeed, he’d done many things of late that were out of his character.

The door swung open, and Fin stood in the doorway. Freddie stood just behind him. “Miles,” Fin looked befuddled, “I have no notion what happened. How could they not have elected you?”

Freddie nodded. “Indeed. Until this moment, I would not have believed that there was a soul who did not like you. You are the most agreeable gentleman of my acquaintance.”

“Perhaps I was once,” Miles muttered. He flicked up his brows. “But I believe you are biased, brother.”

Freddie shook his head. “Not at all. Julian is my brother also, and I can think of any number of people who dislike—” He clamped his mouth shut and looked to the floor with a creased brow.

Miles could sympathize. Sometimes, he wondered if Jules really had died on the peninsula. Sometimes, it felt as if it were a dream. A terrible, awful dream.

Miles allowed his lips to turn up, even if he did not feel it. “Yes, he was rather disagreeable.” He released a sigh as he stood up and straightened his coats.

“All is not lost,” Freddie said. “We’ll simply put you up for membership at Boodle’s or we can all join White’s together.”

Neither were Miles’ preferred clubs, as most of his friends were members at Brooks’s. But it was better than nothing, was it not? His father would surely sponsor them at White’s. It was not as if his father had not offered before.

He sighed. Why was he even considering the other two clubs? It was not as if he needed either of them. But now that he had been ‘not elected,’ he felt as if he were missing out on something. It felt a matter of principle to belong to one of the clubs.

“I suppose we can try one of the other clubs,” he said hesitantly.

“Who cast the black balls? I cannot account for it.” Fin scratched at his ear. “Dunsmore and Wetherby looked rather dark, but what motive do they have?” Fin gave Miles a meaningful look.

“Well, it’s not a good one,” Miles defended. He brought his hands to his face and massaged his brow. “It can only be the spilled drink at the theater. Somehow, Wetherby must know it was me. Or he suspects. Either way, I’m certain he feels justified.”

Fin shook his head. “One does not cast a black ball over a spilled drink.”

“I’m certain gentlemen have been blackballed for less.” Freddie twitched his lips to the side. “But if he knows, why did he not call you out at the theater?”

“Perhaps he cannot prove it. He would not risk the public censure if he defamed Miles and had no proof of it.” Fin sounded defeated. “But he need not prove anything to keep him from becoming a member.”

“Deuced improper to blackball someone on only suspicions,” Freddie grumbled.

Miles shook out his arms and legs. “It’s no matter. This is not the only club in London.”

Freddie frowned. “No, but it’s the best. At White’s you’ll have to endure the prattle of Bunbury and Barrymore. And Boodle’s? It’s just a bunch of foxers.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to brush up on my hunting terms. I have little other options.” Miles shuffled into the public room. “But I think for now I shall return to Red Lion Square. I’m before the bar tomorrow next. I wish to ensure everything is as it should be for my cause.”

Freddie and Fin followed close behind, each of them lost in their thoughts.

“Ah, not elected.” Lord Wetherby twisted his glass on the arm of the chair. He was likely only sitting in the public room so he could crow over Miles. “That’s a shame about the black balls, Mr. Yardley.”

Miles stopped in his tracks and Fin and Freddie bumped into him from behind.

Lord Dunsmore leaned against the chair back and looked at his fingernails. “Yes, quite unfortunate.”

“I’m certain you feel great remorse about casting it.” Miles took a step toward the gentleman. “You had no right to do it.”

Wetherby sneered. “I had every right. You made me look the fool.”

Miles scowled at him. “I believe you looked the fool all on your own, Wetherby.”

“Yes,” Fin cut in. “Why can’t you just accept that you’re clumsy? Must you blame Yardley for all of your missteps?”

It was all complete gammon. Miles knew he was to blame. But he would take his part in it—at least to Wetherby and Dunsmore—to the grave. He straightened to his full height and jutted out his chin. “But it is no mind. Brooks’s is not the only club in London.”

Dunsmore scoffed. “The results will be no different at any of them. And at those we are not members, we can easily persuade someone to cast the black ball.”

Miles’ hands fisted at his side. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch us,” Wetherby leaned forward in challenge. “I’ll take great pleasure in seeing you put in your place.”

“One day, we will see you put in your place,” Fin shot back.

Miles looked back at him and frowned. It was not the most thought-out retort he’d ever heard.

Fin shrugged. “Come along. I don’t care to associate with rubbish.”

Miles followed them through the front door and onto St. James Street. They stood under the overhang, just out of reach of those walking on the pavement. “How can a man be such a jackanapes and have entry to a place such as Brooks’s? How did no one cast a black ball for him?” Freddie sulked.

“I suppose it’s because most men are not of a similar ilk. They understand the fates do not look kindly upon such behavior.” Fin pressed his beaver down firmly on his head.

Miles twisted his neck and stretched his shoulders. He must push the vexation from his mind and focus on his cause. He could lament his poor fortune after he presented at the bar. “I’ll bid you farewell. I must prepare for my cause. I do not wish to wreck my profession, as surely as I have my personal life.”

Fin shook his head. “Now, don’t think that way. We’ll think of something.”

Miles smiled at his companions, not wishing for them to become glum. “You are right. It will be well.” He motioned with his head to the club. “You need not leave. I’m certain there are other gentlemen you wish to see inside. I will return home and see you both at the Chapmans’ dinner party. You were both invited, were you not?”

Both men nodded but looked longingly at the front door. “Are you certain you do not wish us to leave with you, simply out of principle?”

Miles raised a hand. “I’m certain.” He smiled again to reassure them. “Until tonight, gentlemen.” He turned and tipped his beaver to them as he stepped out onto the pavement.

His carriage pulled up, but he waved it on.

Miles clasped his hands behind him as he walked. He needed to clear his head before he could focus on Miss Barrington and her cause.

He’d never have guessed that the Season could go so terribly wrong. And all because one Grace Jenkins had asked for his help. Lud, he would not wish the help he’d given her on his worst enemy. And yet, he’d foisted it, however unwittingly, upon the woman he loved most in the world.