Page 11

R oland had been left sitting alone at the dining table at Almack’s. Charles caught his eye and smiled at him, as if satisfied with the situation. He’d not stayed long after that, as there really was no point to it.

He had, at first, viewed Charles turning up at Almack’s as a simple irritation. Now he’d begun to think differently. It was becoming clear that Charles had decided to compete with him for Lady Serenity’s attention. Whatever Roland was interested in, Charles must have.

He’d not heard the whole story about the mystery dog Nero, but he suspected that Charles had noted Lady Serenity’s sentimentality over her three-legged dog and had invented one of his own.

He’d certainly never owned a dog and Roland was glad of it.

Charles had so little care for anything but himself that he could not imagine another being having to depend upon him.

Very typical of Charles to claim the dog was dead, as that would be the most convenient for him.

Roland wondered what Lady Serenity thought of it all.

He dearly hoped she would not be taken in by his brother.

What a lady! She was the most lovely lady living, of that he was certain.

Then, there was something in her manner that was so charming.

Her enthusiasm in speaking of her dog, or the Dales, or her sisters, or her father, had really been very touching.

Her eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, fairly sparkled in the candlelight as if she was near overcome with the recollection. She really was perfect.

He smiled to himself as he thought of the duke.

Had it been any other lady, he would be counting the duke’s behavior as a strike against her.

The conversation between His Grace and Lady Marchfield had been positively outrageous.

And yet, he found he did not give a toss for whatever outrages might emanate from her father.

Quinn entered his bedchamber with two glasses of brandy. Roland sat on the windowsill, keeping an eye out on the square. It seemed vastly unlikely that Lady Serenity would appear out there with her dog at this late hour, but he was compelled to watch anyway.

Quinn handed him his glass and sat in his preferred leather chair by the fireside.

Havoc struggled to his feet, having just woken from a doze, and ambled over to the chair.

He unceremoniously threw his head on Quinn’s lap for a scratch.

“Was she everything you imagined?” he asked, looking down at the dog and petting his very large head.

“I did not imagine anything.”

“I see.”

Of course, Quinn knew him inside and out and knew perfectly well that he had been imagining. “She is,” he said.

“Very good news, very good indeed. I suppose you will initiate a pursuit.”

Roland was silent for a moment. Of course, he would pursue. Quinn was as yet unaware that Charles was making a game of it though. “Charles was there, and seemed to notice my interest.”

Quinn issued a small groan, as his butler would well know what that meant.

“Charles finagled an invitation to dine from the duke, and I have been invited too.”

“Here we go,” Quinn said. “Your brother will be thinking night and day how to best you regarding the lady. You had better begin thinking the same. This is one competition he cannot win—it is the first and only time you have showed positive interest in someone. He cannot be permitted to meddle with it.”

Roland had been thinking along the same lines. Charles had already meddled with it in his own way. “He noted that Lady Serenity is very fond of her three-legged dog, and spun a story of having lost his own beloved dog. Nero was his name.”

Quinn chuckled. “Charles having a beloved dog. It’s preposterous.”

“The lady will not know that, though,” Roland pointed out. “I think I will arrange to have a special dog collar made for Nelson, just as I did for Havoc.”

He’d harbored a lingering fear that Havoc would be lost, or even stolen.

Especially when he’d been a puppy. He still worried about him becoming lost, but stolen was less of a risk these days.

He could not imagine what person could wrestle that lug of a dog into a conveyance.

In case he was lost, he wore a black leather collar with an inscription on the inside.

The message read similar to the newspaper advertisements for lost dogs by offering either a reward for return or prison for failure to do so.

“Havoc, of the Marquess of Thorpe’s household. Reward or law.”

Had he more room to expand the inscription, he’d have informed whoever had his dog that he’d better bring him back or he would be tracked down by the Marquess of Thorpe. If one hair on Havoc had been harmed, the perpetrator would be torn limb from limb. Or something along those lines.

“A collar. Very good thought,” Quinn said. “Let Charles wax on about his invented dog while you do something tangible and practical for a real dog.”

“I will arrange it on the morrow so it arrives before the dinner.”

“And flowers. You ought to send flowers.”

“The message must be careful,” Roland said. “It must indicate interest but not be so forward as to startle the lady or annoy her father.”

“Pink musk roses would say what needs to be said at these early days.”

Roland nodded. Pink for new beginnings, and musk roses for the lady’s charm.

“You will likely have Charles on the backfoot with the effort; he never thinks much about doing anything for anybody. He will depend upon himself to turn up at that dinner and turn on his alleged charm as being quite sufficient.”

“You are probably right,” Roland said. Though, one never knew with Charles.

If only his brother would find happiness in his situation in life.

Nobody picked Roland to be the heir or denied Charles the opportunity.

It was just the chances of birth order. As well, being the younger son of a duke carried quite a few advantages.

Charles was afforded respect everywhere, he’d been gifted Marshall Downs, which was a large estate, he had access to all the funds he could wish for, he was not forced into the army or the church, and he would never have the headaches that came along with managing a dukedom.

“Now, to a stickier question,” Quinn said. “Who, exactly, did Lady Serenity meet with at this first introduction? Was it you, or was it the reserved marquess you’ve been pretending to be?”

“The reserved marquess,” Roland answered. “I do not wish to frighten her off with the true me.”

“Until when? You cannot keep up the mask forever. Sooner or later, you’ll see something that sets you off. You’ll pass by a limping horse and think about your old pony and weep at the sight. If she does not understand your real temperament, she will presume you’ve gone insane.”

“Perhaps I can change, though. Perhaps I can be what I only act now.”

“People do not change who they are,” Quinn said. “In any case, I would not wish you to. You are a good man who cares for your fellow beings on this earth, and there is not a thing wrong with it.”

Roland did not suppose there was a thing wrong with it when it was described that way.

It was another thing when his feelings entirely overtook him.

He perfectly well knew what set him off.

A person or animal powerless and being hurt—that set him off.

He was relatively sure it all led back to his pony.

He’d been riding Balthazar when he broke his leg by galloping right into a deep hole in a field.

The horse had to be put down. His father had made him do it, he’d been forced to pull the trigger.

The duke said that if a man were to own animals, that man must take responsibility for them right up to the end.

Roland felt that to be true and he knew putting Balthazar out of his misery was a kindness.

A horse could not survive on three legs, as much as he wished it were possible.

That entire horrendous morning was burned into his memories.

Anything at all remotely like it set him off.

He was not certain what to do about how he appeared to be the unfeeling marquess. Perhaps he could inch very slowly away from his alleged reserve but not all the way to who he really was. He might find a happy medium of some sort.

But not while Charles was sniffing around. He had to be got rid of first. Somehow.

*

Mrs. Right was just now engaged in a game of cat and mouse with Mr. Cremble.

Or a game of ungodly housekeeper and pious butler, as the case was.

She’d planted the idea that she might be in league with the devil and he’d been watching her carefully at every opportunity.

Though she was tickled to pretend she did not see him peering round doorframes, she had, for some days, been stuck on what to do next.

How did one confirm that one was in league with the devil?

It was the sort of thing that did not come up in everyday conversation.

Then, as these butlers always seemed to do, he gave her a direction to follow.

Cook had spied him slipping into the servants’ hall and affixing a small cross underneath the table at her place.

Mr. Cremble meant to test her like their very own Spanish Inquisition!

It was too convenient, really. His worst fears were about to be horrifyingly confirmed.

Some hours had passed and that time of day had arrived when all the servants would gather for tea. She noticed Mr. Cremble had hurried ahead of her, no doubt to be in place to view his test.

Mrs. Right took her time down the stairs. When she turned the corner into the servants’ hall, she would launch the performance of a lifetime.

She suddenly shielded her eyes. “Why is it so bright down here? Oh, it burns my eyes. I can come no closer.”