Page 87 of One Night with a Rake

He knew better.

They treated him as though he were merely an appendage of themselves, as if his accomplishments were theirs. And as if his failures somehow redounded to them as well. Oh, how they made him pay when that happened.

But as Roger moved through his awkward boyhood, he found his own ways of taking control. He found that he liked it.

Craved it, even.

Of course, when his parents found his little experiments with power, the skinned frogs and singed cats, they’d tried to threaten him into stopping. Once his father had even beaten him, but when Roger gutted his favorite hunting dog the next day in a way that made it seem as if the hound had run afoul of a wild boar, the threats and beatings stopped.

His parents walked warily around him after that.

They should have known better than to try to deny him, so he’d simply wrestled it from them.

Control.

And now that his parents were dead, he was the one who held all the power in his life.

Finally.

Roger studied Lord Gobberd over his cold coffee. If he didn’t understand how vitally important it was to have absolute control over every aspect of one’s life, Roger couldn’t explain it to him. Gobberd was content to bobble along through life like so much bloated flotsam.

Not Roger. He’d do one better than control his own life. He’d make certain of the fate of those around him as well. It was the “only” thing to do.

“Not much doing here this morning. I don’t see any of the regulars,” Roger said.

He’d hoped to run into Lord Nathaniel Colton again, without Lady Georgette at his side this time. Though the man had technically done him what others saw as a “good turn” when he paid for his care that day Roger had stumbled into White’s, it grated on Roger’s nerves that others thought he was beholden to Colton in some way. He’d never surrender that sort of power to another. Colton needed to learn that.

“Why is this place so dead this morning?” Roger asked.

Gobberd glared at him over his paper, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Probably because there’s also a ball for the Duke of Cambridge at Lord Yorkingham’s this evening.” Lord Gobberd flipped to the next page and scanned the headlines. “Didn’t you receive an invitation?”

“Of course,” Roger said quickly. He hadn’t, but Gobberd didn’t need to know that. “Yorkingham’s country seat abuts my own property. Our families have been friendly for years.”

Less friendly since his parents died rather unexpectedly and Roger came into the barony in his own right. But again, that was information Lord Gobberd didn’t need.

“I find it odd that it requires an entire day to prepare for an evening’s entertainment,” Roger said.

Lord Gobberd gave up and laid his paper aside. “According to all reports, this will be no ordinary evening. Odds highly favor that the Duke of Cambridge will make an official proposal to Lady Georgette at the ball. Check the book, if you doubt me. I’ve put fifty pounds on the lady’s nose myself. She’ll be the first filly out of the gate in the ‘Hymen Race Terrific’ if the betrothal and marriage come to fruition.”

White’s ledger of wagers was full of any number of items on which its members might hazard a bet. Whether or not Lady Georgette Yorkingham would become a royal was high on the current list, just under whether or not a horse named Blanchington’s Fancy would throw a shoe during its race on Saturday next.

“Hmm, I would have said the lady was taken with Lord Nathaniel Colton, not the royal duke,” Roger mused. He’d noticed the way Georgette and Colton sneaked glances at each other at the Daventrys’ musical evening and drew his own conclusions. “They’ve been seen together in public quite a bit.”

“Doesn’t signify. He’s only serving as an escort because of his past relationship with the family.” Gobberd shook his head, setting his jowls swaying, and resumed reading his paper. “But if Colton has feelings for the lady, he’s in for a rough evening.”

Wonder if there’s a way I can make it rougher, Roger mused as he bit down on one of the biscuits. The shortbread was stale and he pushed aside the rest in disgust.

“Speak of the devil,” Gobberd said, lowering his paper. “Or should I say ‘devil-ette.’”

Lady Georgette strolled past the large window at White’s, accompanied by her maid. The girl was chattering happily and Lady Georgette seemed to actually be listening.

As if a servant might possibly have something worthwhile to say.

“That maid seems an insolent bit of baggage,” Roger said. “I require mine to be seen only when absolutely necessary and heard not at all.”

“An old-fashioned view, I fear. Nowadays, women confide a good deal in their maids. Almost make companions of them,” Gobberd said with a derisive snort. “Were I a betting man—and I am—I’d lay odds that Lady Georgette takes that young chit to the palace with her when she marries.”

“Surely not. The royals undoubtedly have plenty of servants already.” Roger squinted at the maid and recognized her. “Besides, I have it on good authority that the young woman used to sell herself in Covent Garden.”