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Simon crossed one leg over the other, opening the contents as he took yet another sip of his coffee. “The Cursed Rake,” he continued, “the same title for two days on the trot? I’m deeply unflattered.”
“It seems they are growing to appreciate your penchant for consistency.”
The boldness of Richard always brought a slight smirk to Simon’s face. “It seems they’re speculating on who will be on my arm for my next public outing. Some speculate the Italian opera singer, others think it a Lady of the ton.”
“If they knew you, Your Grace, they would know you’re never seen with the same woman twice,” Richard said as he offered him a linen cloth.
“And that I have a strict rule about ladies of status.” Simon shrugged. “So, anything else I need pay mind to before I leave this hellhole for the rest of the day?”
“Well, the West Wing—Madeleine’s old chambers, shall be cleaned this following week.”
“And I’ll make myself scarce when the time comes,” Simon responded.
Richard shook his head quietly. “Forgive me for saying, Your Grace, but is it not good to—”
“Richard. This has never been up for debate, you know this,” Simon scolded, visibly frustrated with having to spend more time than necessary on that matter.
“Of course, Your Grace. There is also the matter of the stables falling to rot, and the slight issue of the Kensington horse breeding business.”
Simon shook a hand dismissively. “I’ll attend to the stables when I have the time, but an issue with one of my business ventures? I say, how is it getting along?”
“Disastero—eh, I mean marvelously,” Richard corrected.
Simon chuckled. “Now you’ve got it, old chap. Splendid.”
In truth, Simon did not care for the affairs of the ton, the prosperity of his business ventures, or even the truth for that matter. All he cared for was the stable routine of daily life, untouched and unchanged. Leaving every morning, arriving late at night; a ghost to Richmond Castle. Taking a final sip of coffee and leaning his head back in his chair, Simon breathed in the ordinary air of just another Wednesday. He found a profound appreciation for the same places, same furniture, same routine, and same faces. Speaking of which…
“Three…two…one…” As if Simon had just evoked the sound himself, the entrance door banged three times. “And that would be Lord Skeffington.”
“Simon!” his friend, Colin, called out as he barged inside the entry hall. The hint of slur in his voice, along with his brusque footfalls, told Simon all he needed to know. It was evident he had been drinking once more. Colin had an issue with alcohol, or how he called it, a ‘predilection’. He tended to drink with liberty, refusing to heed any advice.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Simon said as he briskly wiped his hands and stood up from the chair. “Richard, be so kind as to offer him some cold milk. He needs to sober up before we leave.”
The chilly wind was a shock, as the sheen of ice sheets coated the woodlands; December had just arrived, and the threat of snowfall loomed. The sky was tinted a dark hue of orange, the clouds drowning out the early morning sun. All in all, a terrible day for Fox hunting. But every Wednesday, at precisely nine o’clock, Simon and Colin would partake in such senseless activity as their fathers did before them. And well, truthfully, it served as a form of meditation away from business affairs and mistresses, so it was something Simon absolutely cherished.
He clutched the rein’s tighter, encouraging his horse to stride faster along the boscage. Colin was following closely behind him. Their hounds could be heard racing just up ahead, following behind a fleet-footed fox that managed to hurdle any obstacle that came its way, when suddenly, Colin’s steed came to a sudden halt, and Simon turned his head, slowing down his pace too.
“Good God, you must have drowned in a pool of port last night,” Simon commented upon seeing his friend panting against the mane of his steed.
“A pool of port, eh? Don’t give me any ideas now, Simon.”
“On a Tuesday too? It isn’t like you, Colin, what’s going on?”
It wasn’t an ideal time for a deep conversation, but Simon cared for his friend. He had always been heavy on the bottle, that wasn’t anything new, but he had never been so melancholic.
“I just—I think I’d rather not say,” Colin admitted. After a long pause, he spoke again. “Are you coming to the Winter Season ball?”
Simon shook his head. “I say, good friend, I no longer feel thrilled for such shindigs. Besides, I have a meeting with this new actress. They say she’s Prussian—now that’s intriguing.”
“You’ll only meet with her the one time, why does it matter?” Colin asked. He dismounted his horse, taking a sip from his water pouch.
“The thrill is lost on the second meeting. My rule is simple, never—”
“...sleep with a woman more than once. I know. I’d wager every somebody South of Scotland knows. But I’m serious. It’s the annual masquerade ball, it’s sure to be a fiasco as always. Last year, the Earl of—” Colin’s words trailed off with the wind, reflecting Simon’s distaste for gossip.
Simon was no recluse. He was the opposite, in fact. He made sure to spend as little time in his castle as possible. But balls were no longer an intriguing prospect, not least by the wiles of ladies who would follow him around waving about dance cards.
“A masquerade ball, you say?”
Colin nodded.
He scratched his clean-shaven face, giving it some thought. It had been a few weeks since he had last been to a social, so perhaps it wasn’t that horrible of an idea. No one would know who he was, so he wasn’t at risk of being hounded around the ballroom—again.
“It’s tonight?”
“Aye…so is that a yes?”
“Ah, blast it. I do feel adventurous today.”
