Worth Winning (11 page)

“Yes?”

“You seem a little preoccupied, old chap.”

Charles forced his jaw to relax and assumed the pose of a well-behaved guest. He knew that the servants were watching and that they probably distrusted him the way experienced servants always did, with a sixth sense about frauds.

“It’s nothing. I’m just,” he gestured at nothing in particular, “thinking through the list of things I have to accomplish over the next few days.”

Robeson said nothing, and Oliver interjected, “You haven’t forgotten the picnic?”

“Bound to be a bit of a chore,” Robeson drawled, as if bored already, “but I was thinking I would put in an appearance. Nothing else to do in this godforsaken village.”

Even though he had thought almost the same thing a few days ago, and while he still mostly agreed that Munthrope was really as quiet an old English village as you could find, Charles still found himself bristling a little, as if he had some personal stake in the picnic. “I’m sure it will be quite enjoyable,” he said calmly. It wasn’t as though he could allude to their wager in front of the servants. “Billings?”

“Looking forward to it, among other things.” Oliver looked at the piece of chicken he had just lifted from his plate. They had discovered at their first meal here that Robeson served only three courses at dinner, and from the look on Oliver’s face, they were both having equal trouble adjusting to the fare, which was lacking in both quantity and quality.

“It’ll be nice not to be cooped up in the house each day,” Oliver continued, after he’d chewed upon his bite of chicken for quite a long time. Though Oliver, being Oliver, didn’t betray any hint of annoyance and merely sighed soundlessly and continued to eat steadily. Politeness, tactfulness—these were things that Oliver was known for.

“And whose fault is that?” Charles asked, knowing that Oliver was a creature of habit and kept town hours—that is, woke up as late as possible—even in the country.

Oliver pursed his lips and shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, Mr. Alver,” Oliver smiled, seeming to take delight in being able to address Charles so, “but I am prodigiously well liked. Everyone thinks it’s because I’m naturally good-tempered, but the truth is I’m simply too lazy to rise to the bait.”

Charles laughed. It was true: they’d always been friends, and he had always been the prickly one, Oliver the malleable, easy-going one. “Or, when in country, rise at all.”

Oliver chuckled and said, “There simply has been no reason to, my friend. I have no goals to accomplish here, other than to enjoy myself.”

The three men ate silently for a moment, and then Robeson said, pointedly, “You however, have been out each morning. I gather you’re making progress?”

Charles had no intention of letting Robeson know any more than he had to, so instead of answering directly, he cut a bite from the wilted spinach that had been served as a side dish. “I am enjoying my exploration of the countryside, if that’s what you mean.”

Directly to his front and left, Charles watched two of the serving maids exchange a glance and wondered whether his staff had ever been so ill-behaved toward his lesser-ranked friends and guests. Their looks conveyed clearly that, in their minds at least, Charles was not behaving nearly as well as he ought to, given the circumstances.

Robeson, of course, was used to such cavalier remarks from him and even grinned as he asked, “And the mare I lent you?”

“More than adequate,” Charles lied, smiling. He would have donated his prized stables in Derbyshire before ever giving Robeson an inkling of the discomfort he’d experienced, riding that dreadful excuse of a beast. Not that it was the mare’s fault. He deliberately widened his smile and looked up guilelessly. “For that, and your many other hospitalities, well, I wanted to thank you. My trip so far has been, elucidating. There’s an almost pellucid clarity to the air here.”

“Pellucid.” Robeson practically spat the word. “Must you talk like a thesaurus?”

Charles smiled; he enjoyed annoying Robeson. “Would you prefer monosyllables?”

Robeson grunted. “I am every bit as educated as you are.”

Charles said nothing and let the defensive remark hang in the air a moment longer before deciding that it was time to play nice, at least in front of the servants. “Don’t misunderstand. All I’m trying to say is that I am quite, quite appreciative of your invitation.” He held up his wine glass and waited for Oliver and Robeson to comply, smiling as he made a silent toast.

The servants exchanged another glance, and Charles wondered briefly whether he was fooling any of them or only adding fire to what was surely already rampant gossip.

Over the rim of the glass, Charles watched Robeson, certain that the latter would make sure the path ahead was neither easy nor straightforward, and then drank deeply. Like the meal before him, Robeson’s wine was flat and flavorless.

Still, he’d be damned if he let a man like Robeson win anything. And there was absolutely no way that he would be apologizing publicly.

He put the glass down gently, complimented its rather astringent aftertaste, and glanced down at his chicken as a rather confused expression spread over Robeson’s face. No doubt, the latter was trying to remember whether astringent aftertaste was most appropriately considered a compliment or an insult.

Charles had never considered himself a picnic type of man. As a rule, he avoided picnics. He enjoyed his fair share of sports: during the season, he attended the requisite number of balls because it was what was expected of him. During the winter months, he retreated to his country estates to get affairs in order and to see to improvements and tenant complaints.

But for the most part, he avoided the outdoor during-the-day matchmaking extravaganzas that masqueraded as social events. For one, retreat was easier at night, especially during balls with well-stocked card rooms, set aside specifically for like-minded gentlemen seeking a perfumeless reprieve. For another, it was far easier to rendezvous with an interesting woman under the shade of candlelight and in the crush of constantly changing musical numbers and rotating dance partners. So a dance, while inferior in every way to sculling, horseback riding, and other outdoor sports and activities, at least offered a tolerable variety of diversions.

A picnic (or worse, a musicale) was an entirely different matter altogether. It was during the day, which meant that everyone could see, observe, and gossip about everyone and everything. It was outside, but there were rarely any sports or any kind of organized activity, which meant that people either sat, waiting to become mosquito bait if the humidity and climate were right, or milled around listlessly, waiting for someone to suggest
something
.

Which was why, heading into the Munthrope picnic, the foremost feeling Charles had was dread. He smiled as if he were looking forward to it, because that was what he’d gotten used to doing around Robeson and Oliver: pretending that he was enjoying himself and that he had no worries whatsoever about the road ahead. As if he regularly seduced vicar’s daughters for fun and profit!

Charles shook his head; such thinking would get him nowhere. He was not—
not
—going to apologize publicly to a man like Robeson.
He had to win.
It wasn’t about profit: he would have gladly paid for the Rembrandt. It was about pride, which was, not to put too fine a point on it, priceless—one of the few immutable things about his life.

He was the Earl of Dresford, for goodness’ sake. He was
supposed
to have pride.

So Charles waited, outwardly patient, for Oliver and Robeson, who’d enjoyed their normal lazy mornings as if they were still living according to town hours. He didn’t betray, by even the flicker of an eyelash, how annoyed he was by their late start: he had never before been kept waiting. But damned if he’d let Robeson know that.

By the time their entire entourage had been assembled, and they’d finally walked the short mile and a half to the picnic site, the majority of attendees had already spread out their blankets and unpacked whatever snacks they’d brought. Robeson had rather casually suggested setting up on the edge of the main gathering, fairly close to the Morland family: an elderly man with spectacles who exactly fitted Charles’s mental image of an absent-minded, scholarly rector, a well-preserved matron who was a bit younger than the vicar, and an almost impossibly beautiful blonde, who seemed to be holding court to a variety of men, all of whom were either sitting, crouching, or standing in her general vicinity. Julia was sitting quietly to the side.

Charles noted all of this, sparing very little thought for Julia’s stepsister other than to wonder whether she was the reason Julia had been so hesitant to invite him in the other day. All the while, Robeson’s footmen were setting up a tent, a few chairs, and a table. It all felt a bit ostentatious in comparison to the blankets nearby, but at least it provided them ample shade and a small modicum of privacy.

Charles ate slowly, methodically, while brainstorming about ways to approach the Morlands. He was unsure about the exact social rules of picnics; or rather, he was uncertain how much he might be judged now that he was merely Mr. Alver. Being Dresford had always afforded him a certain amount of leeway. When Dresford broke a rule, it was more likely to start a trend than elicit outrage. Now, though, he felt it prudent at least to consider all the possible outcomes and ramifications. He had just decided to ask Oliver to join him in greeting the village rector—for surely, that should have been not only allowed but encouraged—when Robeson observed, “Your bird has taken flight.”

It turned out to be an apt metaphor: Julia, dressed in a pale yellow dress and looking a bit canary-like, was at that very moment walking spiritedly toward the other end of the picnickers. Her pace seemed determined, and she stopped only once to socialize; with her skirts slightly hitched to avoid the mud, she didn’t pause again until she’d joined a small cluster of largely middle-aged women around the pond and as far away as possible while still technically part of the picnic.

Charles frowned. He hadn’t said anything egregiously offending, nor, for that matter, had she. So what was she running away from? Surely not him.

He looked across the table at Robeson’s self-satisfied smile and knew that the answer was in front of him; he thought again that there was more to their history than Robeson had let on. He sighed soundlessly, wondering just how much their past would complicate the present.

But this was neither the time nor the place to pry. He leaned back in his chair and applied himself to enjoying the repast that Robeson’s servants were laying in front of them. There would be plenty of time to chase Julia Morland later. The picnic, by all accounts, was supposed to last hours, and he was certain that within that time, he’d find a way to approach her.

A short hour and a half later, Charles was nearly ready to throw in the towel in defeat. He could see Julia, of course. And he could tell that she was talking. But damned if he could extricate himself from Robeson’s growing throng of supposed admirers long enough to get to Julia and actually talk to her.

Charles had tried to excuse himself no fewer than three times, but it was impossible. They were surrounded by women. And not just gossipy women or sociable women, but tenacious, clutching women who all seemed to have scads of unwed daughters they were just dying to marry off. Which, given the fact that Munthrope really wasn’t that large a village, seemed quite surprising.

First they’d been approached by Sir Jonathan Clark, his wife, and their four daughters. Sir Jonathan was clearly a mild-mannered man who had been ruthlessly browbeaten by his wife for untold years. After reminding Robeson that the two of them had met once, years before, he introduced his wife, who had taken the conversational reins firmly in hand. She’d questioned the men about the upcoming dance, interrogated them about whether they’d be sponsoring any dances, and had, in turn, questioned Robeson, Oliver, and even Charles. Though there were only three unequally ranked men for her four daughters, it was clear that the mother had decided that any number of semi-eligible men was a boon. As it was currently the middle of the season in London, and they were still here in Munthrope, Charles assumed that they did not quite have the funds to support each girl in a separate London season.

After that, she’d paraded her daughters in front of them, instructing each to talk briefly about their hobbies and accomplishments. After he’d heard about Nadine-who-excelled-at-viola, Penelope-the-skilled-pianist, Katherine-who-simply-lived-for-the-violin, and Lydia’s talented-and-devoted-embroidery-making—clearly, the funding for music lessons had run out by the fourth daughter—he’d tried to excuse himself, only to be forestalled by Mrs. Clark, who put a hand on his arm and said that they weren’t done, yet.

Done with what, Charles had never had a chance to ask, for they were joined at that moment by Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton (two daughters) and Mrs. Willoughby (one daughter, and a husband who was feeling under the weather). Another round of introductions later, his departure had once again been forestalled by new arrivals, this time a Mrs. Perry (three daughters, and an unfortunate habit of frequently using what Charles believed was a container of smelling salts that had . . . rocks? . . . in it, rather than hartshorn or ammonia), and . . . well, in truth, Charles had lost track. The past hour and a half had been an endless parade of names and talents.

He still remembered the names of all of Clark’s daughters, but after that, he wasn’t sure. Was it Sonja or Sophia-who-loved-the-harp? Was Jennifer the girl with the pimply face, Jennifer-whose-passion-was-drawing? Or had they said Jessica? He was relatively sure that the nervous girl who kept twisting at the edge of her sleeve had been named Jean, but it was possible her mother had said Jane, Jane-who-sang-like-the-angels.

He gave up.

There were simply too many: all of them dressed in bewilderingly bright jewel shades that would have seemed far more appropriate in a London ballroom than at a small countryside picnic. Their hair piled precariously on top of their heads, their necks auspiciously scented.