Carnal Pleasures (13 page)

Agina was sharp of tongue, selfish, conceited, and lacking in charm or tenderness, unless it was to get her way. Dulcie had wondered at the time why her father married the razor-mouthed, cold-hearted woman. While Dulcie’s father and Agina lived at Bonne Vista, she often overheard sharp words and fierce arguments between the couple. Mostly they were about Agina’s desire to leave Surrey. Her stepmother loved the bustle of London and Brighton, hated rusticating amidst the countryside’s rolling hills. The bickering hadn’t stopped until the earl and countess removed permanently to London. Agina had gotten her way.

Dulcie thought afterward that their violent arguments might have precipitated her father’s sudden demise. It was the London physician’s conclusion that it was apoplexy. Was that possible? Her father had never complained about heart pain or palpitations. He had been a robust man who seemed to enjoy life to the fullest until he married his second wife.

Dulcie remembered that just before her father and his new wife arrived at Bonne Vista, that she had suddenly succumbed to a vicious, unexpected malady. She was rarely ill, but she took to her bed. Her old nurse treated her with warming pans and piled on the bedclothes when Dulcie shivered with chills. When the fever spiked in the other direction and Dulcie tossed off the blankets, complaining they irritated her sensitized skin, the nurse sponged her with cool water. For two days, Dulcie lay as quiet and limp as a wet rag, but she forced herself to get out of bed and greet the newlyweds. When she swooned in the drawing room, her father, anxious and distraught, begged Agina’s help. She told Maxwell that her lady’s maid, Emma Trent, was an astute healer who used unusual herbal remedies to treat anyone with pains and fevers. Whatever
tisanes
the two of them concocted, Dulcie was cured within a day’s time. Either that, or her strong constitution fought it, because she recuperated rapidly. Dulcie herself was never sure what did the trick.

Now, however, Dulcie’s musing lingered on Griffith Spencer. She convinced herself she was simply attracted by his masculine beauty, nothing more. Subconsciously, she knew it wasn’t true. Flashes of girlish twitterings excited her whenever she saw him, and her heart rate sped faster. She finally realized she had
more
than a casual interest, and possibly stronger, feelings: There was still that urge to dig deep into the cleft in his chin and yes, to know what it felt to press her lips to his. Was it possible she
had
kissed him, half awake in a dream, the way he proposed?

“Milady, yer hip-bath is ready,” Marnie said, startling Dulcie out of her meandering thoughts after the maid had several burly footmen carry in pails of hot water. “And two new gowns were delivered for ye, too, milady. Do you wish to wear one of them today?”

“Oh! They’re here? Wonderful. I’ll try on the blue one,” she answered, watching her maid deposit the packages on her bed. “Perhaps a new dress will lift my mood. And mayhap later you’ll be good enough to do something with my hair.”

* * * *

After browsing through the
Times
, Griff rose and went to his room to change and get ready for his appointment at the bank. He stopped by the countess’s bedchamber and knocked on the hall door. It was cracked open by Trent, Agina’s lady’s maid. “Can I help you, Mr. Spencer?” she asked.

“I believe the countess has something for me. I am on my way out, but I will wait for it below in the parlor.”

“As you say,” she said and turned to shut the door again.

Griff paced the small parlor for quarter of an hour.
Dammit! She had better not trick me
, he thought,
or I will be totally hobbled.

Five minutes later, Robert, the upstairs footman, arrived with a sealed letter resting on a small silver tray. “Lady Trayhern asked me to bring this to you,” he said.

Griff nodded in thanks, and swiftly grasped the missive. “Would you be good enough to ask one of the grooms to make a hack ready for my use?”

“Of course, Mr. Spencer. Would you like to ride the late earl’s mount?”

“That would be fine.”

While Robert left on his errand, Griff tore open the wax seal. The countess had sent the draft as he asked.

Griff was soon on his way to the heart of London’s business district. The bustle of carriages, horses, pedestrians, and other traffic glutted the area and spread into the side streets around Piccadilly. London was a noisy city, the rumble of ironclad wagon and carriage wheels and clopping horses’ hooves mingled with the shouts of vendors hawking their wares.

It was up to him to complete his part of the bargain, he thought, patting the countess’s draft where it lay flat in his jacket pocket. He dismounted in front of Westminster Bank with its staid-looking, gray stone façade and multitude of tall windows. Griff swallowed hard. His nervousness wasn’t evident on his face or his comportment as he threw open the entrance door and entered the bank. When he announced himself, he was led into the presence of a portly man of short stature with bristling sideburns and a heavy moustache. Gray hair ringed his shiny pate. He half rose from behind a huge polished mahogany desk which was devoid of files or correspondence. A trimmed quill, a full ink bottle, and a slab of wax were the only objects lying on it. Gold-framed spectacles hung on the end of the banker’s long nose. Griff thought if the banker dared to bend over, the lenses would slide off and land on the carpet.

“Mr. Spencer, I presume?” The banker did not extend his hand, instead sat back down, and folded his hands together in front of him on the desk. “Thank you for being prompt. I do hate latecomers. Now, how may I help you?” The older man’s sonorous voice echoed off the walls of the starkly decorated room.

Griff took the chair facing the man. His throat felt parched, so he coughed once to clear it. “Ahem! Mr. Darby, I’m here about my late father’s estate. I was advised your bank holds the mortgages on it. I’d like to purchase them back.” He forced himself to relax against the slippery, leather upholstery.

“Oh? Is that so? And how do you plan to do that…Mr. Spencer? Have you recently come upon some profitable windfall?”

Upon first meeting, Spencer thought the man looked charitable. Smooth, ruddy skin and bright blue eyes sparkled behind those lenses. But Griff soon learned he was sadly mistaken. After their introduction, the banker was all business, not one to give a man an inch.

Damn. Perhaps, I should have worn my uniform and garnered sympathy as a returned soldier
.

“What are you asking to satisfy the mortgages?” Griff knew he must negotiate as best he could with the only draft he had.

“Your father was a libertine, Mr. Spencer, a drunkard, and flagrant gambler. And, it seems, a poor loser, I’m afraid. He visited me at the bank more than once for loans against the estate. He would have languished in the Fleet and probably died there had he not…er…covered his debts in some other way.” The man’s bushy eyebrows crinkled, meeting above his nose. “When you asked to see me, I investigated you. As a member of the banking community, it was my duty to do so. And I learned…er…several detrimental rumors about Boswell Spencer’s son. It seems you lived…harrumph!…the same sporting life your father led. You
are
the only Spencer heir, are you not?”

“Of course, but…”

“Then I shall have to turn you down, Mr. Spencer.”

“Turn me down? But I haven’t made an offer yet. You can’t just…”

“I’m afraid I can,” the bank official said and straightened up behind the big desk.

Griff realized he had been summarily dismissed, haughtily, with only a blink of a jaundiced eye. He unfolded his long legs and rose to his full height. “Before I go, I wish to know the amount owing on my father’s mortgages.”

The banker squinted at Griff from behind his lenses. His brow furrowed before giving in and finally stated the amount. “I count it in the vicinity of a thousand pounds.” His smile was thin-lipped. “If that is all, Mr. Spencer, I wish you good day.”

“And I wish you to hell and gone, sir,” Griff said, spitting out his reply. He spun on his boot heels and stalked out of the office, plunking his top hat on his head, and yanking his leather riding gloves back on.

Griff was fuming when the bank’s door closed behind him. He needed a drink…badly…to calm down, and put the banker’s refusal to do business with him behind him. He threw a few coppers to the lad who had held his mount for the quarter hour, mounted, and turned the earl’s sturdy gelding, Bravo, back toward the streets of Mayfair.

At this point, he was unsure what to do next. Should he attempt to locate his father’s solicitor? Griff discarded that idea, deciding it would be a fool’s errand. He wasn’t certain his father even sought legal advice. If so, Boswell probably owed the man, and the fellow would then come after Griff for payment. Besides, what good would it do to ferret out the man’s help after his father’s scandalous demise almost four years ago? No, that wouldn’t do.

I’ve got to do better than that,
Griff thought.
Maybe I should make a friendly call on Rand Titus.

Chapter Thirteen

“What ho, Griff! This is a surprise. I was heading out to White’s,” Rand said as he met the ex-soldier at his front door. “How are you?”

“Not too bad. I dropped by to see if we were still friends.”

“Harumph! Why would we not be? I put that business out of my mind weeks ago,” he said with a smile, holding out his hand to grip Griff’s. “Join me for lunch…as my guest?”

Why not?
Griff thought.
This is as fine a time as any to ask the viscount for help.

“Thanks. It’s good to see you again, Rand.”

Rand ordered a groom to lead Griff’s mount to the mews and care for it until he returned. The two well-dressed gentlemen stepped inside the crested vehicle waiting on the curved carriage drive in front of the mansion. Rand tapped on the roof of the closed carriage with his walking stick. The driver flicked the reins and a pair of matched grays lurched into motion

“How is it going with the Dragon Lady?” Rand asked, his blonde brows hooking over his curious eyes.

“Is that what she’s called in Town?” Griff guffawed, his laughter biting and harsh sounding. “I can see why. She’s a dominating bitch, Rand, but she’s leaving me alone for the time being. I’m to court her stepdaughter instead.”

“Eh? Didn’t know the countess had one.” The viscount paused and tapped an index finger against his lips. “So you really mean to get leg shackled, after all, hmm? Do to tell, since I’m close to doing that m’self. What’s the stepdaughter like?”

“Plain,” Griff replied without comment.

“Sorry, to hear that. I hope she has pockets’ full. You did say you wanted a rich wife, and you didn’t care what she looked like, am I correct? She doesn’t have crossed eyes or a wart on the end of her nose, does she?”

“No, she’s not
that
hard on the eyes,” Griff chuckled. “Being fresh from the country, she has a certain milkmaid’s charm. So I haven’t cast up my accounts simply because she lacks stunning beauty. She’s not disfigured, either, just not…umm…exciting to look at. I’m used to women with more flair, those with…er, more interesting attributes…and with some…additional training. If you know what I mean.” He winked slyly at his friend.

Rand laughed. “That so? Well, I can jolly well believe that. You always were a fast goer.”

“I suppose it’s partly the way the countess’s stepdaughter dresses. She’s rather a dowd, Rand, not one bit stylish.”

“Well, I can’t say that about you, Griff. You wangled yourself a fashionable wardrobe from the countess, I see.” Rand worked his eyebrows upward, and continued. “I would have helped you, you know, if you needed it.”

“I rather that you did not that early in the game.” Griff mustered up the courage to ask for a loan from Rand but decided to wait until they got to White’s.

“You’re quite the dandy yourself, Rand. You always dressed up to snuff just like Brummell.”

When they entered White’s, the doorman took their outerwear and directed them into the ambience of the well-appointed dining room. The club sported dark, burled oak walls, burnished by the warmth of many hands during the many years of its existence. Large landscapes hung here and there around the room. A large fireplace took up most of one long wall. Its gleaming brass fender reflected the candescence of numerous lit gasoliers. They threw a comfortable glow for relaxing and discussing business or pleasure within the room’s masculine confines. Snow white damask cloths covered tables that glittered with heavy silverware and gold-rimmed English china. Near the restaurant’s bay windows, overlooking the street, fashionably dressed aristocrats occupied the choice seats, though there was a sprinkling of redcoated uniforms amongst the luncheon crowd.

Griff was ready to approach his friend for a loan, but Rand gave him no opportunity to broach the topic. The viscount seemed enthralled by a young woman to whom he was considering proposing marriage, and he used most of their conversation recounting her various charms.

The day’s hearty fare at White’s consisted of a sizeable steaming pigeon pie. Both Rand and Griff ordered it. They drank a flagon of red Portuguese wine between them to wash down the crusty pie, then rose from the table and meandered out to the clubroom to blow a cloud. Several red-coated officers were standing together when the two men entered amidst the hum of laughter and ribald masculine conversation.

Griff was surprised to see several of his army acquaintances in White’s. He could think of no way to dodge them when suddenly, one swiveled his head and clashed with Griff’s eyes. Two additional officers from his former cavalry outfit also turned to face him. The men threw knowing glances at each other. Griff knew a moment of dead silence, watching their expressions. Then the battle-scared Englishmen walked past Griff and Rand and left without a word. Griff cringed, surmising they weren’t up to soiling their hands by greeting a disgraced friend in the middle of White’s clubroom.

“What was that all about, Griff? Did you know them?” Rand asked when the three soldiers cut Griff without a word or nod of greeting. One even scowled at Griff with a twisted grimace of disdain as he walked by.