He was an arse he decided – Rook not Jack – Jack was in his bloody element.
They’d talked of the logical science behind gambling on the horses, the resonance of classical mythology in today’s society, (God forbid, thought Rook) and had a ‘rollicking’ discourse on the benefit of a three-legged cat – Clara had adopted one as a kitten.
Rook was seething. He wanted to talk to Clara about how he had once won three races in a row using a statistical template on horses, to hear about her damned cat and, if she really had to, how the myth of Pandora was a lesson to us all.
She was interesting, witty and… mildly intoxicated, he noted, as Jack re-filled her glass again. He topped up his own wine and scowled at the pretty black-haired woman next to him. She was the wife of some viscount who, it was said, was quite happy to let his wife ‘seek her pleasures elsewhere’. He reasoned she may be his masquerade woman, and asked Hestia to rearrange the seating again. His sister had snarled at him that she had better things to do than sort outhislove life, but did it anyway.
Rook rubbed his hand over his face; it wasn’t her either. She was actually…quite nice, and he thought her husband a damn fool. But it wasn’t her – he just knew.
God, he wanted to escape this bloody house party. He felt like a captive in his own house, albeit a captive who ate and drank well, he acknowledged, as the full-bodied Spanish red slid pleasurably down his throat.
“Do tell how you acquired the bruise, Miss Lockwood? Did you and a door have another argument? And did you lose?” The question was asked in amusement, but the tone was catty and sharp: Lady Selina Pinesdown.
Clara had been listening to Jack’s story about the Highwayman, a dog called Roger and his Great Aunt Maggie – Rook had heard it a thousand times – and it never failed to delight the ladies. That he was using it on Clara, made his gut clench. However, it was his heart that clenched when all colour drained from Clara’s flushed cheeks, as Selina posed her question.
“I…I…” she stuttered. Suddenly, it felt like the whole table was listening. All the guests were staring at her, their eyes directed to her lips: they all awaited an answer. She grabbed for her wineglass and it tipped. Jack with his usual quick reactions stopped it falling, and Clara put her shaking hands under the table.
“It was entirely my fault, I’m afraid,” Rook asserted, before he had thought clearly. He saw Jack raise his eyebrows and settle back in his seat with a ‘this will be good’ expression.
When they’d been boys, they had competed to see who could come up with the most outlandish excuse for missing lessons: Rook had lost his voice, a goat had eaten Jack, or even once that Rook had been taken hostage by a band of marauding gypsies. The last one had ended badly: his parents had called every man from the village to search for their boy – he’d been at the river with Jack…
Of course, life had become more serious when Rook became earl, and he wondered if he still held the talent.
The whole table had stopped talking in order to listen to him. Jack was grinning, Uncle Dill was smiling with a twinkle in his eye, and Hestia was smirking. Only Clara still looked rather pale. Rook wanted to rush over, sweep her into his arms and tell them all to go to hell. Instead, he took a deep breath…
ΦΦΦ
“Honestly, Rook.” Jack slapped him on the back. “I have never laughed so hard in my life. Even I believed the tale.”
Rook settled into his chair with a cheroot and a very large brandy. He deserved it.
The ladies had retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their vices, and Rook was going to indulge – heavily.
“And the pig called Dizzy,” Jack continued excitedly, “inspired, absolutely inspired. Could not have done better myself. You had them all eating out of the palm of your hand. I mean, a runaway pink pig, set free and dressed as a bride by the cook’s children, the bucket of swill and cook brandishing a pan – what more could you ask for?”
“Hmmm,” Rook replied softly, as he savoured his brandy. It had been a masterpiece of a tale, in which Clara had only been slightly involved. Everything had been his and the pig’s fault.
“What I cannot understand, is why Selina asked the question in the first place? That was simply bad manners.”
“Well, you rejected her at the masquerade, and I wasn’t paying her much attention tonight. I think she was a little vexed,” Jack reasoned.
“Maybe, but it was unacceptable in company.” He sipped some more of the excellent beverage and closed his eyes to savour it.
“I do like your little Clara, though.” Rook’s eyes snapped back open. He didn’t know which statement to respond to first. That Clara was ‘his’ or that Jack ‘liked’ her.
“Keep your hands off. She’s an innocent – you don’t touch those. And she’snotmine. Hardly had a proper conversation with the girl.”
“Sometimes,” Jack said holding his hand to his heart and pausing for dramatic effect. “Love needs no words.” Rook groaned. “Anyway, you might as well have joined in with us tonight, as you were all-a-gog at our conversation.”
Rook made a rude gesture. “I could hardly compete with the ‘Roger the dog’ story.” He smiled ruefully.
“I don’t know about that,” Jack countered, “I don’t think anyone will ever forget tonight’s tale of Dizzy the pig.” And both men raised their glasses solemnly to Dizzy.
ΦΦΦ
Sitting nervously in the drawing room with the other ladies, Clara waited for the gentlemen to join them – they seemed to be taking rather longer than normal. She gulped some more wine. She was already feeling a little fuddled, but it did help her lip. Tonight had been enjoyable, until the Lady Pinesdown question. Clara did wonder if maybe she felt a little more shaken, than first realised.
Sir Matthew Taylor, Dill told her, had been ‘removed’, and the other guests were informed that he had left to attend to urgent estate matters.
