Page 18 of Gentleman Jim

“And I suppose you realized that, when you hinted at that fact in the middle of a crowded gaming hell, he might be provoked into calling you out?” Allendale didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, you’ve paid this country nobody back quite handsomely for whatever small offense he’s given. For the next month, he’ll be hard pressed to raise his spoon for soup let alone his pistol or his reins and whip. Are you satisfied now? Indeed, I hope you are, sir, for you’ve fought your first and last duel in England.”

St. Clare met his grandfather’s burst of ire with silence. The same silence with which he’d endured the earl’s explosions of temper many times before.

“One month! That’s how long we’ve been back. Have you no self-control, man? No sense of purpose? What were you doing in a blasted gaming hell in the first place?” Allendale’s face reddened with anger. “Do you think I’ve wasted all of these years with you so that you could go the way of your father? The Earls of Allendale have descended in an unbroken line for over two hundred years! Straight down from Ivo Beresford himself! Do you imagine I’ll allow that line to be broken? That I’ll allow the title to pass to that idiot son of my second cousin? I tell you, sir, I will see us both damned first!”

St. Clare poured out a cup of coffee, and without a word, pushed it across the table to his grandfather.

Allendale scowled but nonetheless lifted the cup and took a sip. After a moment, the redness receded from his face. “I told you when we left Florence that the time had come to do your duty. There’s to be no more mucking about, my boy. You’ll find yourself a wife and get yourself an heir. It’s what you owe to the title. It’s what you owe to me.”

St. Clare didn’t argue. He knew very well the duty he owed to the title. For years, his life had been one long, grueling exercise in preparing for his role as the next Earl of Allendale. Anything his grandfather thought he should learn, he had learned. Any skill that had to be mastered, he had mastered. In time, St. Clare’s own ambitions had receded, dimmed by the constant need to prove himself. To excel at every challenge set before him.

And he had excelled. No study had been too difficult for him. No sport too daring. He’d grown—by his grandfather’s own admission—into a fine figure of a gentleman.

But they weren’t in Florence now, nor in Paris, Cairo, or Bombay. They were in England.

“I’m not insensible of my duty,” St. Clare said. “I’ve done everything you bid me.”

“Not everything,” Allendale snapped.

St. Clare continued unperturbed. “I’ve engaged a new tailor and bootmaker. I’ve set up my stable. I’ve joined the right clubs and attended the right balls and parties. I’ve even been forced to endure the company of those very men who once ostracized my father.”

At that, Allendale frowned deeply. “Jackals, every one of them,” he muttered. “A pack of bloody jackals. They drove him to his death.”

“As I’m well aware.”

St. Clare’s father, the late James Beresford, Viscount St. Clare, had in his youth engaged in countless affairs of honor and had earned for himself a reputation as an excellent shot. But when, as a result of a foolish dispute over a carriage accident, he’d dueled with and killed the youngest son of the Duke of Penworthy, the ton had accused him of taking advantage of a weaker opponent.

The viscount’s honor had been tarnished. His friends, such that they were, had deserted him.

His father had deserted him.

It was a fact that Allendale never mentioned—and one that St. Clare could never forget. The late viscount had needed Allendale’s protection, and Allendale—a man who had valued familial pride over his actual family—had thrown his son to the wolves.

Facing arrest, St. Clare’s father had fled to the continent. It was there he’d lived out the remainder of his short life, dying in his thirty-third year of an insidious wasting disease.

“Your father was a damned sight too trusting. Fell in with the wrong sort of people. But you… You know better. I believe you don’t trust anyone.”

St. Clare’s mouth hitched in a half smile. “Nonsense. I have a great deal of trust in my valet and my groom.”

“There’s a lot to be said for loyal retainers,” Allendale agreed, temporarily diverted. “But you won’t distract me. I want your word. Your word as a gentleman. You’re to leave off dueling until you’ve secured the title. If you’ve got a disagreement with someone—confound it, I don’t see why the devil you should have, but if you do—sort it out some other way. From this day forward, your sole purpose is to marry some suitable female and get yourself an heir. By gad, I’ll choose the gel myself if it comes to it.”

“I’m obliged to you, sir,” St. Clare said. “But I shall choose my own wife.”

An image of Margaret Honeywell sprang into his mind.

He recalled the way her face had looked in the firelight, shadowed and beautiful. The way she’d felt when she’d fainted into his arms. A shapely scrap of femininity—altogether too weak and frail. He’d had an overpowering urge to gather her close. To hold her and never let her go.

She’d been ill, that much was plain.

It shouldn’t matter. He had no patience with delicate, swooning females. But Miss Honeywell’s late-night visit had upset the balance of his mind. She’d left him restless and unsettled. His thoughts were full of her.

Indeed, he was sorely tempted to call on her at the Trumbles’ residence in Green Street. Later that day, after his grandfather finally left him in peace, he even made several attempts at writing a note inviting her to take a drive with him in his curricle.

Dear Miss Honeywell. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me—

My Dear Miss Honeywell. Please put me out of my misery and consent to join me—

None of his impulses seemed appropriate. He hadn’t been properly introduced to her. Showing up at her door would be extremely bad ton. And a personal note from an unmarried gentleman to an unmarried lady was borderline scandalous.