Chapter Ten
Tristan loped into Cribb’s Parlor in the center of a throng of friends from the Four Horse Club, all still whooping over Tristan’s victory in the curricle race moments ago.
“Barrett’s buying!” Appleton shouted.
Tristan shrugged. “I suppose, considering all I’ve won, I can at least buy the first round.”
This announcement brought on another roar of cheers, and he settled in among his friends as he told his victory over again amidst interruptions of the others telling what they’d seen. As the night went on and the conversation dissolved into a dozen tangents, Tristan sipped his brandy. He looked down at his glass—still his first one, while the others already gulped down their third round. Strange, but he rather liked his clear-headed focus instead of stumbling through a drunken fog. Something must be wrong with him.
The others swayed in their seats and some made a game of trying to pinch the rump of the serving girl as she passed. The girl looked alarmed instead of flirtatious.
Tristan swatted away the hand of the fellow next to him. “Leave her alone, Palmer. Can’t you see she isn’t interested?”
Palmer made a face. “You aren’t any fun, Barrett. What, are you getting all respectable on us?”
“Keep your hands off the girl,” Tristan said, anger edging his voice.
“Ah, leave off,” Appleton slurred, “Barrett’s right. Go after greener fields or shomething.”
Palmer let it go, but the longer Tristan sat there, the more he wanted to leave. His friends’ language turned more and more bawdy. Instead of joining in like he used to, Tristan wanted to apologize to anyone who might overhear them.
Repulsed, Tristan stood. “I must leave you, gents. Have a grand evening.”
A few including Appleton called out farewells, but the rest were too deep in their cups to notice. Palmer laughed raucously at something and swayed so hard he almost fell off his seat.
Tristan stepped out of the pub and adjusted his hat. Night had fallen since they went inside, but it had hardly passed the dinner hour. What to do with the rest of his evening? His empty bachelor rooms waited with nothing but the promise of loneliness. Perhaps he could catch Richard at White’s. He often went there after a day at Parliament before going home to his wife.
Tristan arrived in White’s in the middle of a high-stakes game of faro. Richard stood watching, his arms folded, his expression grave. When Tristan walked in, Richard’s gaze flitted to him, then he motioned him over.
“Someone is about to lose a fortune.” His searching gaze revealed his curiosity at seeing Tristan in the respectable Tory club for the second time this Season. “Come, join me in a drink.”
They took a seat away from the game, but Tristan waved off the drink. “I’ve already had enough for tonight.”
Richard’s brows shot up but he made no comment. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No. You?”
“I’m going home to dine with Elizabeth soon. How goes your search for Leticia’s future husband?”
“I’ve introduced her to several but she doesn’t seem to show a preference for any of them. Other men are starting to take note of her.”
Richard swirled his drink in his glass as if debating with himself. “Have I introduced you to Lord Bradbury?”
“No. Why?”
“Rumor has it he’s looking for a wife. Something about pressure from his father to continue the family line.” He gestured with his chin to the table where the game took place on the other side of the room. “He’s the one wearing the silver-and-green waistcoat. This is the first game I’ve seen him play in a long time.”
“So, he’s not a frequent gambler.”
“Not that I know of.”
The man Richard indicated wore an expensive suit. A fashionably lean gentleman of perhaps thirty, he sat taller than most of the other players at the table. With mahogany hair and patrician features, he epitomized the type of gentleman ladies found attractive.
Tristan continued to study him. “Do you think she’d be interested in him?”
“The ladies seem to like him. He doesn’t appear at many events, but when he does, there’s always a flock of tittering females nearby, peeking at him from behind their fans.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Not well. He strikes me as intelligent, articulate, and well-mannered.”
Tristan asked the most important question, “Womanizer?”
Richard shook his head. “Clean reputation.”
At the table where the game took place, Lord Bradbury tossed down his hand and stood. “Too rich for me.”
A chorus of ohs followed this pronouncement. The winner let out a gleeful chuckle and the crowd broke up.
Bradbury wrote out his vowels on a slip of paper and handed it to the winner along with a calling card. “Call on my man of business tomorrow to settle up.” He strode toward the door.
“Bradbury,” Richard called out. “Come, let me buy you a drink.”
Bradbury’s gaze searched for the voice and his face relaxed as he veered off his original path and took an empty seat at their table.
As Richard made the introductions and ordered Bradbury a port, Tristan sized up the man. Confident, poised, serious. Tristan mentally went through Leticia’s checklist, uncertain if the lord met her criteria. A decided gulf separated the lord’s status and Leticia’s, but not insurmountable.
“Not your night at the tables, eh?” Richard said.
A brief, wry smile touched Bradbury’s mouth. “So it seems, which is why I seldom play.”
Not a frequent gambler. Good.
Bradbury met Tristan’s direct gaze with one of his own. “Have we met?”
“No, I think not.”
Richard smiled. “My brother and I look enough alike that people often say that.”
Tristan let out a mock sound of outrage. “We look nothing alike; I’m charming and you’re stuffy.”
“I’m responsible and you’re dissipated,” Richard shot back, though a smile lit his eyes.
Bradbury cleared his throat. Richard and Tristan ceased their banter. A waiter set down a glass in front of Bradbury. The lord sipped as he took measure of Tristan.
Bradbury turned his attention to Richard. “I received an invitation to your subscription ball. I suppose that’s your lot now that you’re a married man.”
“Will you come?” Richard asked. “It’s for a good cause.”
Bradbury traced the edge of his glass with a finger. “I suppose I should.”
Tristan and Richard waited, but he didn’t elaborate as to his reasons.
Richard’s lips twitched. “I’d be indebted to you if you would attend as well as help me with a project of my wife’s. We are having a bid for the pleasure of the supper dance with certain ladies, the proceeds of which will go toward her foundation. May I count on your participation to help get things started? I’ll be bidding, of course, and my brother here, and a few others, including Suttenberg and Pemberton, but in case there are a few in attendance who are reluctant to join in, your involvement may help tip the scales, and get things moving along.”
Bradbury nodded. “I see what you mean. Very well, then, count on me.”
“Much obliged.”
Fascinated, Tristan fingered his signet ring as he watched the lord. He’d never met someone whose mannerisms and deportment reminded him so much of Richard. Leticia would find it hard to resist such a perfect replica. Tristan must find a way to introduce them.
Bradbury’s gaze swung to Tristan. “Have you made up your mind about me yet?”
Tristan started. “Excuse me?”
“You seem to be trying rather hard to take my measure. Have you come to a conclusion?”
Tristan gave him a cocky grin. “No, but I might if you would be so kind as to join me and a group of friends on an excursion to Vauxhall Gardens Wednesday.”
Bradbury said nothing for a moment—a methodical man, perhaps even cautious. Did the man do anything spontaneous?
“I haven’t been to the gardens in some time,” he said at last. “I admit I would like to see them again. It’s been deuced strange weather we’ve had this spring, though, so you may not have any cooperation on that front.”
“Then I suppose I shall have to make a request for fair weather,” Tristan said. “I’ve heard of tribal rain dances; surely there’s a sun dance, no?”
Bradbury smiled at Tristan’s quip, transforming his serious visage to one of a younger, more approachable man. “I’ll leave the sun dancing to you, but I’ll pay homage to the sun goddess, if it would help.”
A man of humor. Tristan mentally checked off another requirement on Leticia’s list.
A waiter brought Tristan his meal and as he ate, he asked careful questions and exchanged pleasantries, more and more certain that Leticia would like him, and yet, not sure he liked Bradbury—too much a stuffed shirt. Tristan couldn’t see Bradbury steeple chasing or flirting with barmaids, which boded well for Leticia. Very well, he’d make the introductions and see what happened. If the man proved unworthy of her in any way, Tristan would intervene.
After Bradbury left, Tristan finished his meal and eyed Richard. “You seem thoughtful this eve.”
“Elizabeth is worried. Leticia was insulted in public, and Elizabeth fears their involvement in the school may make Leticia seem unsuitable to potential husbands.”
A surge of protectiveness welled up inside. “Insulted by whom?”
“Petre and his dragon of a mother.”
Anger boiled in Tristan’s gut. “I should go give that pompous bore a piece of my mind.” Or a challenge to a duel.
“That would fuel his argument. We must expect opposition from the small-minded.”
“I won’t stand by while people besmirch Leticia’s reputation.”
Richard’s mouth curved into an indulgent smile. “Ignore small minds.”
Tristan quoted Alexander Pope, “‘At ev’ry word, a reputation dies.’”
Richard raised a brow. “I haven’t heard you quote poetry in some time.”
“Come to think of it, I haven’t read poetry in ages. Perhaps I should pick it up again.”
Odd, how past interests seemed to be returning. Perhaps this quest to marry off Leticia had put him in that frame of mind. Or the time he spent with a childhood friend resurrected old behaviors.
There was something liberating about returning to his former, more natural self.