Rachel blinked several times before she decided she could finally share the information. If he recognized she was related to the Marquess of Reading and therefore illegitimate, then perhaps he would take his leave and she could get back to working on her mother’s ledgers. “Roderick. Rachel Roderick.”

  Mark said, “It’s very good to meet you.” Then his eyes widened. “Lord Reading is your father?”

  Inhaling softly, Rachel finally nodded. “He is.”

  “I went to school with your brother, Randolph,” he claimed with some excitement. “Or I should say ‘Sir Randolph’,” he amended. “He’s a knight now. Earned his title for service to the Crown.”

  Rachel’s eyes rounded as she once again mentally sorted which brother Randolph was. “He’s the oldest,” she said, not adding that she had seen him just that day but hadn’t known it was him.

  “Oh, yes. I suppose there are others,” Mark murmured.

  “Three others, yes. That I know of.” Sure Mark would take his leave now that he knew the truth about her, Rachel inhaled deeply and glanced down at the ledger.

  “Have you even met him?” Mark asked, his query filled with concern.

  Rachel shook her head. “I haven’t met any of my brothers. I understand I have six now.”

  Mark’s head bobbed once before he said, “Randolph is an honorable man. Widowed now, you must know—”

  “I just learned of his loss earlier today,” Rachel murmured. “He’s not that old,” she added, remembering almost immediately that his wife had died in the childbed.

  “Has a boy. Sees to the Reading stables here in London, and he trains horses, too,” Mark went on. “Sold a pair today at Tattersall’s for a very good price. I would have bid, but...”

  “Your man of business stole all your funds?” Rachel teased, a grin brightening her face.

  “Now see here,” he said with a matching grin. “Just for that, you have to come with me for a ride in the park,” he demanded.

  “It’s terribly dark out there right now. Won’t we be accosted by footpads?” she asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Ha ha,” he said with a grin. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Sir, you’ve just learned I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I rather doubt you wish to be seen with me.”

  “You’ll have to wear warm clothes, of course,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Is there... someone I need to speak with to gain permission to take you? Your father, perhaps?”

  For a moment, Rachel understood why so many of the young women with whom she had attended finishing school carried around vinaigrettes in their reticules, for at that moment, she thought she might require one.

  She might faint at any moment.

  “Perhaps,” she finally acknowledged.

  “I’ll come for you at two—”

  “Four.”

  “Four?”

  Rachel was relieved to hear him repeat a word. “Half-past three. I must pay a call on my dearest friend, Lady Dunsworth, on the morrow. I expect I’ll be at Bradley House about two o’clock.”

  Mark nodded his understanding. “Shame about Dunsworth. They were the best of friends, I hear.”

  Well aware of Xenobia’s relationship with James Dunsworth, Rachel struggled to refrain from telling Mark what she knew about Baron Dunsworth. Keeping secrets was easy when she’d been in Switzerland. For the past few years, none of her fellow students had even met Xenobia. They had no idea who her mother was or anything about the man she had married.

  “They were very good friends, yes,” Rachel acknowledged.

  The space between Mark’s brows narrowed. “But you were not friends with him,” he said in a voice suggesting he thought there was some horrid reason for her dislike of the baron.

  Rachel shook her head. “I never met the man.”

  “But you didn’t like him.”

  Her mouth dropping open, Rachel stared at Mark. “I admit that my poor opinion of him was based only on what Xenobia wrote about him in her correspondence.”

  Mark seemed to think on her response for a long time before he finally said, “I’ll come for you at half-past three o’clock.”

  “What if my father doesn’t give you permission?”

  He inhaled slowly as if he was giving her question a good deal of thought. “Then I shall still pay a call to let you know of his decision.”

  “What if I don’t have a horse?”

  A raucous laugh escaped Mark’s throat.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked in dismay.

  Mark broke out into laughter again before he sobered. “Forgive me, but I find it very amusing that the daughter of the Marquess of Reading doesn’t own a horse,” he said, his voice filled with humor. “I shall bring one for you,” he promised. “A beast who is not too large and is as gentle as they come.”

  “You don’t even know where to call on me,” she argued.

  “If not here...?”

  Rachel gave him the address in Piccadilly Street for the private residence, secretly glad he didn’t seem to recognize it was the back of The Queen of Hearts.

  He stood up and reached for her hand. “I look forward to it,” he said before he kissed the back of her bare hand, lingering over it a moment longer than was polite. He pointed to the ledgers. “Do give my offer some thought.” Then he bowed deeply and took his leave of the office.

  Staring at her hand for several seconds after he left, Rachel wondered how a simple kiss could leave her entire arm tingling in delight.

  Chapter 18

  Mixed Metaphors

  Still in the parlor at Bradley House

  Timid filly?

  It was Xenobia’s turn to wonder at their strange conversation. Was the term in reference to a horse? Or to her? As far as she knew, no one had ever called her a timid filly.

  Rachel had secretly called her a skinflint due to her hesitance to buy things she could easily afford.

  Her husband had called her “Dear Heart” whether he was pleased or vexed by her.

  Her mother called her “Bea” when she’d had too much to drink.

  Her cousins sometimes referred to her as “Lady X,” although never in public.

  So what had Julia said to this man?

  “I do not own a filly,” Xenobia stated. “Both of my shires are old and gelded,” she added, her mind racing with how she might gracefully dismiss Mr. Roderick and then hide in her bedchamber for the next decade.

  But she noted the change in his expression, as if he had just realized exactly what she had just come to believe.

  Julia Comber had obviously played a trick on him.

  And on her.

  “Forgive me, but I am left with the impression you think me something I am not,” he said quietly. When Xenobia turned her gaze on him, as if she expected him to say more, he added, “I am not a... fancy man for hire, my lady.”

  Lady Comber had obviously given her that impression.

  When he noted the look of confusion that crossed the widow’s face, he dipped his head. “I will admit, that once, a very long time ago, before I was married, of course, I accommodated a widow who was looking for a tumble. And I escorted a baroness to the theatre. Once.” He paused, remembering Lady Dunsworth was a widowed baroness. “She was old enough to be my grandmother and was in want of another man in her box in order to even out the sexes of those whom she had invited that night.

  “But I am nothing like my father once was,” he quickly added.

  When he watched her for what appeared to be signs of approval, as if he hoped her estimation of him had gone up just a fraction, her steady gaze gave away nothing of her thoughts.

  Xenobia finally blinked twice, deciding for certain that she had completely misunderstood Julia. Misunderstood why her friend had insisted she meet this Mr. Roderick. He probably thought her a Merry Widow, fresh out of widow’s weeds and in search of a man to warm her bed every Tuesday and Friday night.

  And why would he assume she knew anything about his father?

  Who was his father?

  “I must apologize, Mr... uh, Sir Randall, did you say?”

  “Randolph,” he replied, a wince crossing his face.

  She allowed her mortification to show in her expression. “I am so sorry, but I think my cousin Julia might have...” She allowed the sentence to trail off as she considered how to save face with the young man. “She may have misrepresented my situation when she asked that you pay a call. With you as well as with me.”

  Instead of appearing annoyed as he had every right to be, Randolph allowed a wan grin and then sighed. “I had just come to that very conclusion as well, my lady.”

  “Oh, dear. I feel awful. I’ve taken your time—”

  “It’s not your fault, my lady,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “I plan to be very cross with Julia when next I see her,” she said. “I cannot believe she would do this. May I... may I at least offer you compensation for your time? Or... or arrange for a coach to take you home, or wherever you would prefer to be? Your club, perhaps?”

  Randolph stared at her. “No. No, my lady. That’s not necessary. My coach is parked just down the street.” He moved to get up, but saw how agitated she appeared. How tears were on the verge of falling from her bright eyes. “Please, don’t cry.”

  “You must think me a... a wanton.” She dropped the book she was holding onto the adjacent side table and fished a hanky from inside the sleeve of her gown.

  Settling back into his chair—hard—Randolph stared at her. “Hardly,” he said. “Lady Comber obviously made me out to be something I am not when she spoke of me with you, and then led me to believe you were in possession of a timid filly. A terrible trick for which I shall take a whip to her when next I see her.”

  As he expected, Xenobia’s eyes widened as she gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

  He allowed a smirk. “Of course not. But her husband might once I tell him what she’s done,” he argued.

  “Oh, please don’t,” she begged her eyes still wide.

  His brows furrowed at how frightened she looked. At least tears no longer brightened her eyes. “You are not angry with her?”

  The air seemed to leave her all at once. “Ever since my husband died, Cousin Julia—Lady Comber—has been one of the few who has continued to pay calls on me. To ensure I haven’t joined my husband from the sheer boredom of mourning,” she explained with a sigh. “So, yes, I will be cross with her, but I will ensure we will still be friends once she has heard my complaints.”

  Randolph considered her words and allowed a sigh. “Comber wouldn’t raise a hand against her, nor a whip,” he murmured. “He loves her too much.”

  “But he will be cross with her,” Xenobia said with a grin, rather liking his last comment. “Until she reminds him that she’s carrying his child, and then all will be well.”

  Chuckling, Randolph said, “Much like my father would be with his wife, I suppose.” He remembered his father’s mention that he thought another babe was on the way. “For the very same reason.”

  Xenobia noticed the change in her guest’s expression, how he seemed unsure of how he felt when speaking of his father. “Pray tell, is there a chance I might have been introduced to your father or mother?”

  Randolph dipped his head. Lady Comber obviously hadn’t mentioned his relationship to the couple who lived just down the street. “I suppose there’s a chance,” he replied. “Lord Reading. Are you acquainted with him or... or with his marchioness?”

  The word ‘Reading’ had Xenobia blinking. There was only one man she knew of that went by that moniker. “Your father is the Marquess of Reading?”

  Randolph nodded. “He is.”

  The Rake of Reading, Xenobia almost said out loud. At least, that had been the man’s reputation before he had finally, at the age of five-and-thirty, married Constance Fitzwilliam. That reputation as a rake had been well-earned. Four bastard sons by four different women, although Randall Roderick had seen to it all were raised by good families.

  She had only ever met the daughter. Despite the four years’ difference in their age, she and Rachel had become fast friends over their similar circumstances.

  “I am the oldest,” Randolph said, as if he could read her thoughts.

  Xenobia blinked. How had she not realized he looked like a younger version of Randall Roderick? No wonder he seemed so familiar! His father lived only ten doors down in Curzon Street. Before her husband had died, Xenobia had been a guest in the marchioness’ parlor many times. She had even visited the nursery. Held the babes and remarked on how much she wanted one of her own.

  Then she realized why his coach would be parked just down the street.

  Not because he had thought to save her from gossip, but because he had probably come directly from the marquess’ townhouse.

  “Were you at Reading House this evening?”

  Randolph wasn’t sure if he was relieved or bothered that she was familiar with his father. Given her age, it was unlikely Xenobia had ever had an affaire with the marquess, but given Reading’s reputation as a rake prior to his marriage, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities.

  “I was there, yes,” he admitted finally. “I had dinner with him and his marchioness, so it was not at all an inconvenience to pay a call on you.” Despite his opinion of Constance having changed considerably over the past year, he still found it impossible to refer to her as his stepmother in conversation.

  Xenobia wished she still held the book. She desperately wanted to hug it to her chest—hold it before her as if it was a shield. To pick it up from the table now would only draw more attention as her expression displayed a look of horror. “Oh, dear. I’ve just now realized Lady Comber was playing at matchmaking.”

  For a moment, Randolph wished he had accepted the offer of a brandy. This was the one night during the week when he could imbibe and not be concerned about whether or not he got too drunk. “Has she been led to believe you want another husband?”

  Stunned, Xenobia held back a rebuke and considered how she might answer. The question would come up the next time she took tea in someone else’s parlor—if not directly, then in some roundabout fashion that would no doubt leave her embarrassed. “I don’t know that I wish to marry again. At least, not so soon,” she finally admitted.

  “If not marriage, then what would you like to do next, my lady?” he asked. From her manners, he knew she hadn’t given a thought to the life of a Merry Widow. She was far too meek.

  Too timid.

  When she seemed confused by his query, he said, “Your status as a widow allows you a good deal of latitude.” When her eyes widened, as if she intended to scold him, he quickly added, “You can travel, for example. Move to a different town, or live in the country. Take a holiday to Brighton, or enjoy the waters in Bath.”

  From the way he had qualified his question, Xenobia knew he did not ask what she wanted in order to satisfy his own curiosity, but rather to suggest she think about what she wanted for herself.

  “Companionship at first, I should think,” she blurted. “Before I would consider traveling anywhere.” At seeing his gentle nod, she added, “A friend. Someone with whom to attend the theatre or a soirée. Someone to invite for dinner.”

  “So, the death of your husband has left you... lonely?”

  She nodded. “He was my best friend. For nearly my entire life. But after we married...” She allowed the sentence to trail off.

  “Not so much?”

  Xenobia once again looked as if she might cry. “I found him annoying. The boy I knew hadn’t grown into a man but rather into a... a fop,” she whispered. “There were nights he was far better dressed than me, in shoes far more ornate than mine.”

  Randolph regarded her a moment as he considered his own situation with Barbara. Although he hadn’t known her his entire life—or hers—he had thought the two of them were well suited when he proposed marriage. He had thought they were happy together. To discover Barbara had not shared his sentiments had been both a shock and a disappointment.

  Given her pregnancy, he had hoped she might grow fond of him once the child was born.

  He hadn’t considered the alternative.

  Remembering something of what he had said at the beginning of their conversation, Xenobia said, “You mentioned being married.” She held her breath, hoping the floor would open up beneath her.

  Surprised by the sudden sadness that had him clearing his throat in order to reply, Randolph said, “I was. My wife died shortly after giving birth to our son, Charlie.” He winced at hearing the harsh words spoken aloud, and then swallowed hard as he tried to avoid his hostess’ look of astonishment.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Xenobia replied, her words at odds with the sense of relief she felt just then. At the thought that she had already met Charlie. Held him, in fact. “A friend, too?”

  He nodded. “She was a good friend, and yet I still thought it remarkable that she agreed to marry me knowing I was illegitimate.”

  Xenobia struggled to maintain an impassive expression. “But your father has recognized you as his own, has he not?”

  Then she remembered how he had introduced himself. Sir Randolph Roderick. As a bastard, it was doubtful he was a baronet. The only other means of acquiring his title was if he were a knight.

  “Oh, he has,” Randolph replied, and then because he was feeling rather peckish toward the man—especially because he had seen him leaving The Queen of Hearts the afternoon prior—he added, “Me, as well as three other bastard sons. From the day we were born.” When she didn’t react—he was sure he had scandalized her with the comment—he dipped his head. “Barbara seemed fine with it, but after a time—”

  “Society reminded her.”

  Grimacing, Randolph angled his head to one side, as if he was about to say something. Instead, he finally nodded. “Every day, it seems. I could not change what I am, and Barbara seemed less inclined to accept the situation for what it was.”

  “And then she died,” Xenobia murmured.

 

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