Miss Delacourt Has Her Day (16 page)

Blowing out her candle and pulling the bedclothes to her chin, Ginny decided it was all very troubling, and she was too tired to think on it before morning. It was as she was falling into a light doze that she remembered a crucial event. Lady Derby, in those few moments of amicable conversation earlier in the evening, had mentioned that a number of gentlemen from White’s had taken out wagers with regard to a fight. Her manner was catty and her meaning clear, though Ginny had refused to believe it. Anthony would never agree to a fight over her honor and say nary a word to her about it.

Or would he?

Not again!” Anthony moaned aloud in spite of the fact that he was breakfasting alone in his Jermyn Street rooms. “What could the old man possibly want now?” The note had arrived on the same tray as his breakfast and the contents quickly scanned just as Anthony was plying his fork to tuck into a steaming dish of avidly anticipated plum cake.

Now the tea and cake would go untouched, for his uncle, the duke, had requested yet another interview. Not only would Anthony have no time to eat before dressing to meet the demanding standards of his uncle, he also found, to his dismay, that his appetite had all but fled. His boxing match was scheduled for that afternoon, but rather than using the morning to his advantage, there was nothing for it than to stand in front of a mirror while his valet turned his master out to perfection.

“Conti!” he roared loudly enough to be heard in the next room as well as those above and below.

Conti, the valet, presented himself in a trice, his arm bearing evidence of an uncanny prescience in the form of a stack of freshly ironed neck cloths.

“My lord? How might I be of service?”

“Surely you needn’t me to tell you,” Anthony said, glancing meaningfully at the snowwhite cloths.

Conti hung the neck cloths over the edge of a chair and sniffed.

“If you insist,” Anthony said, flinging the note to the table and landing it, willy-nilly, in the plum cake. “It would seem I am to present myself to my esteemed uncle before my appointment at Mr. Jackson’s. What he could possibly add to his previous admonishments, at this, the eleventh hour, I cannot say.”

“Very well, my lord,” Conti murmured, coaxing his master into a standing position and leading him to the nearby pier glass. “As usual, I shall strive to ensure Hees Grace has no need to puncture your pride with a diatribe on the state of your appearance”

“Any other day, Conti, and I would say the devil with the tie of my cravat,” Anthony attested, despite the recoil of horror his words produced from the valet. “However, I mustn’t allow the duke to undermine my confidence, not today of all days. Not only do I have a boxing match to win against my own instructor, but I have a carriage race to plan for tomorrow.”

Conti made no reply, but Anthony took note of how the valet rolled his eyes behind him in the mirror.

“Out with it then, Conti. I know you well enough to suspect you have an opinion on the matter.”

“Si. I do!” he replied, pulling the first of what promised to be one of many ruined cravats from about his master’s neck with a snap. “It ees thees. You are a fool!”

Gazing into the mirror, Anthony saw his eyebrows jerk up in surprise but refrained from scolding Conti before he heard what the man had to say on the subject. He attempted to gauge the valet’s expression but was denied a view of his face, as he had turned to procure another cloth. No doubt this would be tied as well as the last but would be rejected in favor of some elusive notion of perfection present only in the mind’s eye of the fussy Italian.

Impressed as much as he was baffled by the loquacious Conti’s restraint, Anthony measured his words. “If indeed I were a fool, I doubt Miss Delacourt would have agreed to wed me. Unless, of course, you deem her a fool, as well?”

“No! She loves you. Love ees never foolish. As always, eet ees you who ees the fool. Was eet not I who informed you of the buono qualities of Mees Delacourt so many moons ago, si?”

“Yes,” Anthony agreed on a sigh. Would Conti never leave off throwing that into his face? And would he ever be satisfied with his third or even fourth attempt at tying a decent cravat? “Nevertheless, I believe I am still at a loss. How is it that I am a fool?”

“Ah! That ees an easy question to answer,” Conti said with a wave of his finger. “Thees fight, eet ees all wrong!”

Anthony bit his tongue and silently counted to ten before formulating a reply, a strategy he found himself employing often when conversing with Conti. “Let us go over the facts, shall we not? You have long averred that Miss Delacourt is the woman for me. Is that not so?”

Conti, busy tying his latest attempt, nodded.

“And is this fight not a demand of the duke? Am I not his heir? Am I not obligated to satisfy his deathbed request?” Anthony demanded, thrusting the valet’s industrious hands away from his neck in exasperation. “In short, Conti, does this boxing match not elicit enough of a romantic notion to please even you?”

“But of course!” Conti insisted, catching hold of the dangling ends and resuming his work. “It is far more romantico than the duello last week with that effeminato!”

Anthony closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of the scene that would no doubt ensue if Avery, the effeminato in question, were present to hear the valet’s insult, however well aimed. Taking a cleansing breath, he started over. “So, I am a fool with regard to this boxing match. Why?”

“Because, my lord, you can never win! Eet ees above all things foolish to think you can best the premier pugilist in all of Eeengland! You might have had half a chance of beating him eef, perhaps, you had spent more time at hees establishment these last few years rather than riding and racing and, oh!” the valet said with a slap to his head. “The shooting! Eet is always the shooting!”

As this same argument had occurred to Anthony more than once and had kept him awake the better part of the night, he found he had no means of defense. It was just as pointless to claim that his time shooting had been time well spent in light of his having won the pistol duel with Avery only late last week; the guns had not been loaded.

“What, then, do you suggest?”

“Ah! Now you ask thee right question, my lord!”

“Conti, your ability to tie a cravat pales in comparison to your capacity to tie up a conversation in hopeless knots!”

“Grazie, my lord,” Conti replied with a bow. “Now that your appearance ees satisfactory, I shall present to you my plan.”

“I only pray the revealing of your plan takes less time than it did to ruin a dozen perfectly acceptable neck cloths. My uncle is waiting, and there is still my coat to don,” Anthony pointed out.

“My lord,” Conti said, hastening to produce the coat, “Hees Grace insists you fight a boxing match in order to win hees approval for your marriage to the bella Mees Delacourt. However, he did not say with whom you must fight”

Anthony was impressed but only with the wrinkle-free perfection of the coat as it slid over his arm. “In other words, I need only find someone who will agree to lose, and the deed is done. But who? I can hardly ask any of my friends to sustain an injury on my behalf.”

“Agreed! Besides, eet must be someone who ees not a threat, my lord,” Conti cautioned as he smoothed the fit of the coat over his master’s shoulders.

Anthony gave his valet a dark look. “I am assuming by that you mean no one who merely appears to be a rival for Miss Delacourt’s hand. Indeed, that would cause a great deal of talk.” Fishing his quizzing glass from his jewel box, he hung it around his neck and proceeded to tap it against his lips in contemplation of the issue at hand. “Should I fight Gentleman Jackson, there would be no scandal. Why, it is done every day. Even the Prince Regent boxes against Jackson! However, should I fight anyone else, it will give credence to the rumors freely spilling about with regard to Miss Delacourt’s honor. Therefore, I must fight a nobody.”

“Precisamente! I am at your service, my lord,” Conti said with a deep bow.

“You, Conti? I had no idea your regard for Miss Delacourt went so deep!”

“Eet does! Eet goes very deep, indeed, but my pockets do not,” he said with a little sigh. “In fact, they are, at the moment, quite deplete.”

Anthony was astounded. “Conti, even you could not have been so wise!”

“Yes, my lord, I am afraid eet ees so. The bets are made. I have arranged mine through the valet of the kind Sir Hillary, who has placed my wager in the book at White’s in his own name.”

Anthony pinned his seemingly omniscient valet with a gimlet eye. “Surely you are to lose this match. You have bet against yourself?”

“But of course, my lord! Eet would be a dishonor to Mees Delacourt should her betrothed fall to a mere valet.”

“I see your concern for my honor can be measured only in the length of my shirtsleeves,” Anthony said dryly.

“Si, my lord,” Conti said, his eyes rounded in question. “What else?”

Not for the first time, Anthony longed to elucidate on the obligations a valet owed his master, but the fear of a lecture from his uncle with regard to the virtues of promptness tempered his tongue. It would no doubt prove to be a fruitless conversation, in any case.

“Just be to Bond Street by two of the clock this afternoon, and I shall cry pax”

In no time Conti was through the door to his flat irons and boot blacking with a bow and a saucy smile. Anthony had dismissed valets for less, but Conti’s penchant for anticipating a gentleman’s every need was far too elusive a quality to disdain. This line of thinking left him with little to do but let himself out the door and be on his way to Hanover Square. However, just before the door latched behind him, he remembered something that gave him pause.

Hadn’t that villainous Lady Derby said something to Ginny last night about bets? At White’s? He had wondered more than once if Ginny had gotten wind of the boxing match but had finally decided she would have been unable to remain silent on the subject if she had. After all, Ginny was not one to keep her own counsel. True, she had said something about having a full schedule today. Could she know about the match? Could she even, in her adorable naivete, be planning to attend?

Stepping back into his room, Anthony pulled out his ink pot and penned a note urging Ginny not to worry in the case that she knew about the fight and to under no circumstances go anywhere in the case she planned to make her way to Bond Street. Then he sanded, folded, and sealed it with a hearty congratulations for himself on doing it all in less time than it took to tie but one of the simplest of cravats.

“Conti! See that our Miss Delacourt gets this, pronto!” he called as he once again shut the door behind him.

The journey to Bond Street from Jermyn Street was a pleasant hour-long curricle ride, but Crenshaw House was that far again in the other direction. He would be three hours on the road, and all because his uncle refused to pay the frank for a letter. And why should he, when he could debase someone to his face? Anthony hoped the duke would be quick about it, as he had precious little more than three hours left before the scheduled match at Jackson’s.

Lack of time was only one of many reasons Anthony was relieved when he was made to wait outside his uncle’s bedchamber but a few moments rather than the usual half an hour. Another was the lack of life to this part of the house. Indeed, there was only shadow spilling its way along dark wood and cold marble. Perhaps, when he and Ginny were expected to make Crenshaw House their home, he would manage to convince the servants to allow him the use of his old room in a sunnier wing of the building. It was with this thought in mind that he was ushered into his uncle’s presence and precisely why he was staggered to see the window draperies thrown back, allowing light to fall on every corner of the room.

“Crenshaw! How good of you to come!” the duke bellowed.

“Why, Uncle,” Anthony asked in genuine surprise, peering into the shadows created by the voluminous bed hangings, “is that you?” Surely he hadn’t so much color in his face the last time Anthony had seen him. And surely he had been lying nearly prostrate the last time he had seen him, as well, not lounging about as if he had been awake and alert for hours. Gad, the man was even dressed! In spite of his astonishment, Anthony couldn’t help but notice the very fine cut of his uncle’s shirt and the fact that his cravat was tied almost as well as his own.

It was with a little jolt that Anthony realized that, in spite of his uncle’s poor health and wasted appearance, he was not as ancient as Anthony had always supposed. As the older brother of his own father, it would be safe to assume that the duke could very well be on the windy side of forty, and fifty could not be far off. Anthony had friends who were nearly as old and had not yet become fathers or even wed. It was an astounding thought.

Most puzzling of all was the leather valise on the night table in which the papers scattered along the counterpane had doubtless recently reposed. Curiously, it looked as if his uncle had been hard at work.

“Have I come at an inopportune time?”

“Oh, this?” the duke asked with a wave of his hand. “I’m just looking over my will. There might soon come a time when I will find it needful to change the contents, but that is neither here nor there”