Page 26 of A Trial of His Affections (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #2)

Chapter Twenty-Six

M iles stood in front of the Mayfair townhouse situated comfortably on St. James. It looked much like any other townhouse in the area, with a circumspect black door and Palladian-style columns.

He released a breath. It seemed a legitimate place. Perhaps Fin and Freddie were mistaken about the owner. Nothing on the exterior indicated that the man was…how had Fin said it? A gentleman who marched to his own drum, if indeed he heard one at all.

Miles looked down St. James. Perhaps he should return home and send a letter of regret. After all, he did not have to join a club. He had his Inn. And yet, he could not help but feel the blackballing had pushed him to the fringes of some society.

He looked back at the house. How bad could the man be?

A gentleman exited the house and made his way down St. James, turning on to Brook Street. He looked average enough. His clothes were not old or threadbare, nor were they of garish colors for a gentleman of any standing.

Miles looked at his own pale-yellow waistcoat and blue tailcoat. It was not of the navy sort of blue, which his father would have chosen. Nor was it the sky blue that would have been Freddie’s choice. It was a very middle-of-the-road blue. Neither too shocking nor too dull. Just right for a respectable barrister.

He straightened his shoulders and approached the door. Lifting the knocker—a crow’s head where the beak dropped against the metal plate—the first inkling of what he might walk into niggled in his stomach. But he pressed on. He would not know what he was in for until he presented himself and met with the man.

Miles dropped the beak several times and stepped back while he waited. He watched the street, not particularly wanting anyone to see him. At least not until he was certain whether he would join this club.

The door opened and a man—rather younger than Miles had expected—stood in the doorway with a small black book in his hands. He dressed in black, except for his crisp cravat, which was white and tied in a mathematical knot. His hair had far more pomade than Miles thought necessary, but he pushed that judgment aside as a personal choice.

Miles handed over his card. “Miles Yardley. I have an appointment with Lord Blackstone.”

The man opened his book to where the satin ribbon marked and ran his finger down the page. “Yardley. Yardley. Is that with an ‘e,’ sir?”

Miles nodded. “Yes.” But then he frowned. “First an ‘a’ then an ‘e’.” He was unsure where the man was placing the ‘e’ in his name and did not wish to be turned away because the man thought his name was Yerdley. Although why the question was necessary at all was a bit baffling. It seemed highly unlikely that there were many Yardleys or Yerdleys on the schedule for any given day. And did he not have his card?

“Ah, yes. Here you are, Mr. Yardley.” He looked up and smiled, but it felt merely perfunctory. He turned on his heel. “If you’ll please follow me, sir.”

Miles sighed in relief. But why he was relieved, he could not rightly say. He stepped inside, and his breath left him in a woosh. And then a cough. The mixture of smells in the entry were rather…overpowering. Tobacco smoke hung low in the air, and then there was the matter of the stuffed animals perched about the entryway.

Miles stared, open-mouthed. He snapped it shut as a throat cleared, and he glanced over to find a footman at the ready. He looked expectantly at Miles’ beaver and gloves.

He handed them over without further hesitation, but he could not keep his gaze on the man for long. Not when there were so many other things to keep his attention. Most of them stared at him in a rather disconcerting way.

A menacing-looking animal—Miles could not be certain, but he believed it to be a mongoose—looked ready to pounce on him, with its bared teeth. He kept a wide berth of it when the porter directed him to the stairs.

They walked up, only to be greeted at the top by a goat. The porter patted the goat’s head as they passed. “No need to ram him, Randolph. He’s a guest of his lordship.”

The goat had a name? Miles could not even comprehend what that meant.

They passed through a sitting room, which was refreshingly limited on animals. Although the ones it did have were of the dangerous sort. A king cobra, coiled and ready to strike, sat on a side table. If he were accepted as a member, Miles decided he’d select a different seat entirely—one where he needn’t worry about grazing his arm on the serpent’s fangs. And a crocodile stretched out atop the sideboard on the far wall, its mouth opened wide.

What had he walked into?

The porter turned into a corridor that had become more of a gallery. Displaying a dizzying number of animals, all arranged on shelves. What the blazes did Lord Blackstone do with them all?

He looked closely at a case. Was that a fox wearing spectacles? Miles blinked. The cautions offered to him suddenly felt woefully inadequate. The thought had barely finished when he caught sight of a flamingo wearing a cravat.

Miles’ head shook slowly.

They made it to the end of the corridor without being attacked by any creature—which Miles felt was no small victory—and the porter knocked. There was a muffled reply, and the man pushed open the door. “Mr. Yardley to see you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Plockton,” a voice said. It was low and gravelly but otherwise normal. Although Miles wasn’t certain what he thought an abnormal voice would sound like.

He stepped inside, and his eyes burned from the smoke hanging in the air. The man sitting behind the large desk was nothing like Miles expected from his walk through the menagerie.

His face warmed. Perhaps if the menagerie Grace had visited had only had stuffed creatures, it would have ended better for both of them.

Lord Blackstone’s gray hair, while rather unkempt on the sides, was trimmed and combed on the top. He gave Miles a smile that put him immediately at ease.

“Mr. Yardley,” he motioned to a chair opposite him, “please sit down. It pleased me to receive your reply. Not everyone does, you see.” Was that disappointment in his brown-eyed gaze or merely disinterest?

Miles dropped into the chair across the desk and crossed one knee over the other. “I’ll admit to being surprised to receive your missive. I do not recall ever being introduced.”

“That’s because we never have been, my boy.” Lord Blackstone chuckled as he loaded his pipe with tobacco. “I like to keep my finger on the whirl of society. There is little that happens without my knowledge.”

Miles twisted his head to the side, uncertain how much to believe the man. Or how disturbed he should be to think that a stranger knew his affairs.

“I have asked you here to assess if you would make a pleasant addition to my little club. Regardless of what you might have heard, I do not accept everyone who is blackballed. I do have rather strict criteria. But as I well know, blackballing is not always because of a moral weakness. Oft times it is simply a vendetta. And that sort of meanness, I try to remedy.”

Miles nodded but kept his face blank. He did not wish to give anything away until he knew if this gentleman was in earnest. Where had he come by his information? “And what is your assessment of my situation?” Miles asked.

“I’ve had dealings enough with Lords Dunsmore and Wetherby, and I can’t say I’m surprised by their actions.”

Miles nodded slowly. He knew who’d blackballed him then. Although that should not be surprising. Wetherby and Dunsmore had not kept that information close to the vest.

“I understand their grievance was over a spilled drink at the theater.” Lord Blackstone puffed on his pipe. A great plume of smoke hovered above his head, and Miles found himself transfixed for a moment. He pulled his attention back to his host.

Lord Blackstone rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “Am I mistaken in my information?” He asked in a slightly demanding tone that Miles did not appreciate. But he was in no position to point that out.

Miles nodded. “You are correct. Or at least, that is my understanding as well.”

“And is it true? Did you purposely knock Lord Wetherby’s hand so he would spill his drink on the young lady with him?”

Miles narrowed his eyes at the man. What did he say? If he told the truth, he’d expose his feelings for Grace to a complete stranger. His gaze flicked up to the portrait of a badger with a beard wearing a morning coat that hung behind Lord Blackstone. Could Miles trust such private information to a man of such…unique tastes?

But if he lied, would Blackstone discover it and exile Miles from the only club left to him? He chewed on his cheek for a moment. “It is partially true. I did intentionally knock into him with the hopes he’d spill his drink. But my intention was that he would spill it on himself, not on Miss Jenkins.”

He sucked in a breath and regretted it immediately as he coughed from the smoke. He’d not betrayed his motivations for what he’d done but neither had he lied. And if Lord Blackstone had dealt with Wetherby before, it was likely he understood the desire to spill a drink on the man. Wetherby was a complete nodcock.

Lord Blackstone nodded, his gaze intent.

Miles reared back slightly. The man had a slight look of madness about him. Or was it only a matter of scrutiny?

“Yes, I’ve often wished to throw things at him, too. I’m rather envious that you took advantage of the opportunity. Pity your plan went awry.”

Miles nodded. Pity, indeed. Grace was the only one who’d suffered from his actions.

Lord Blackstone pushed out his lips in thought. “Then you have affections for the young lady?”

Miles frowned. How had he deduced that? His openness only went so far, and they had come to the limits. He shook his head. “No, but she is a friend. I observed several flaws in his treatment of her, and I tried to put him in his place. But as you pointed out, my plan went awry.”

Blackstone nodded. “It seems you had flaws, also.”

Miles flicked up a smile as a courtesy. Perhaps he’d been correct in his original thinking that he did not need a club. He glanced to the side and was startled by a large tortoise at the side of the chair. How had he missed it before?

“You just noticed the newest addition to my collection, I see.” Lord Blackstone clapped his hands together, looking very much like a boy of nine or ten. “It just arrived yesterday. He’ll make a fine footstool, will he not? I’ve named him Archibald.”

Miles blinked. A tortoise footstool named Archibald? Did he really wish to be a member of such a club? “Did you hunt him yourself?”

Blackstone’s eyes widened, and he looked horrified. “I’m not a hunter, my boy. But I’m exceedingly fond of animals. I take great pride in only acquiring those which have died a natural death.”

Miles’ brow rose. Did he dare tell the man he’d been bamboozled? Miles had noted several animals in the cases outside the office where there were noticeable ‘holes’ in them. But he decided against such information for the time being.

Lord Blackstone pushed out his chair and stood. “As I know your good father and your brother—although, I must say he does little to recommend you—there is no need for a probationary period. Once you’ve paid your dues, I see no reason not to extend full membership.” He moved around his desk. “Why do I not take you on a tour? You are welcome to bring guests with you—they always seem quite envious when they see the club for themselves—and there are sleeping quarters upstairs for a small fee.”

Miles nodded, unable to understand completely what had transpired. He had a club? But did he want the club? That seemed to be the real question.