Eight
Quite late that night
The man who marries your eldest ward gets Something Wanton? In truth?’ Mayne exclaimed.
‘There were only four offspring of Patchem in all the British Isles,’ Rafe confirmed. ‘And my lawyer just told me that each of my wards has one of those horses as her dowry. Something Wanton, as the eldest Thoroughbred, is Tess’s dowry. The other three are foals — two fillies and a colt.’
‘A horse as a dowry,’ Lucius commented. ‘A peculiar provision. This Brydone must have been an eccentric man.’
‘He could have ordered the horses sold, and the proceeds converted to a dowry,’ Rafe said. ‘But the will very clearly states that the horses are the dowry. I can only gather that he wanted his children to marry men who were as mad about horses as he was.’
‘There’s nothing to stop a man of poor moral character from marrying one of the girls, and then selling the horse at auction,’ Lucius pointed out. ‘Any of the four would bring at least eight hundred guineas at Tattersall’s. And since Something Wanton almost won the Ascot last year, he’d fetch even more.’
‘The lucky man is not allowed to sell his wife’s dowry for a year,’ Rafe said, looking back at the documents in his hand. ‘But, of course, you are right.’
‘Something Wanton!’ Mayne said. And then, with a broad grin: ‘Were you gentlemen aware that I am looking for a wife?’
‘I will confess that the thought had occurred to me that perhaps I could persuade you or Lucius to marry my eldest ward,’ Rafe said. ‘Teresa – Tess – is a beautiful woman.’
‘Exquisite,’ Lucius said briefly.
‘You and she would be perfect for each other,’ Rafe said, looking at Lucius. ‘She’s remarkably intelligent, and unlikely to serve you up tantrums. And you haven’t, as far as I know, any serious female interest at the moment.’
‘This is a most improper conversation,’ Lucius observed.
‘Oh, don’t be so damned gentlemanly,’ Rafe retorted. ‘If you don’t want to tie the ribbon, just say so.’
‘You’re in luck, Rafe,’ Mayne said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m considering it. But in truth, what is there to consider? She’s good-looking – not as gorgeous as Annabel of the golden curls, but pretty damn beautiful. My sister is forever nattering at me to find a wife. And here is a perfect wife: beautiful and endowed with a horse.’ He swallowed another gulp of brandy. ‘She’ll need a bit of training in social niceties; those girls don’t seem to have spent overmuch time with a governess, but if she’s that intelligent, she’ll catch on quickly. I’ll do it.’
Rafe narrowed his eyes. Mayne had been possessed of a wildness ever since he was rejected by a countess whom he wished to make his mistress. ‘Do you think to love her?’ he said, finding the words queer on his tongue, even as he said them. But he was a guardian now; presumably this was the sort of question guardians asked prospective spouses. Or brothers asked men who wished to marry their sisters.
‘Love … that I doubt,’ Mayne replied, peering at the wallpaper through the golden film of brandy clinging to his glass. ‘But there’s no need for love between us. I shall be faithful, and if not, discreet, and Tess shall probably be faithful, and if not, discreet. We shall enjoy each other’s company on a regular basis until I am pitched from a horse into a ditch somewhere.’
‘Precisely as her father did,’ Lucius put in, a warning in his voice.
‘Most likely.’
‘Or shot by an irritable husband?’ Rafe inquired.
‘Always a possibility.’ That prospect didn’t seem to bother Mayne either.
Rafe stared at him. He didn’t know how to help his old friend, who appeared to spend all his time flitting from the bed of one married woman to another. Mayne never stayed long enough to break a heart: that was all that could be said of his night-time activities. He was getting an edge, a sharp, twisting tongue, and a dissolute gleam in his eye that Rafe didn’t like.
And had no idea how to solve.
‘If you hurt her,’ he said, surprising himself yet again, ‘I’ll do you an injury, Mayne, for all you’re my friend. I know you think I’m a lazy — ‘
‘Lazy?’ Mayne interrupted, arching a mocking brow. ‘No. Just slowed to a genteel stroll by brandy knees.’
‘You know what I’m saying.’ Rafe turned to Lucius again. ‘Are you quite certain that you don’t wish to make an offer for Tess’s hand?’
‘I would almost venture to guess that you’re showing prejudice against me,’ Mayne interrupted, turning his glass again and again in the golden light.
‘I am,’ Rafe confirmed. ‘I think that Lucius would make Tess an admirable husband.’
‘Stubble it!’ Mayne said sharply. ‘I’ve offered for her, and Lucius doesn’t want her. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Why don’t you start brokering the lovely qualities of whoever’s next in line? Imogen is a raven-haired beauty. You do have three more girls to get off on the market, Rafe. No rest for the weary.’
‘Why are they all unmarried?’ Lucius asked. ‘It seems peculiar, given their ages. There’s three of them in their twenties: virtual spinsters, from an English point of view.’
‘The Scots are all gelded,’ Mayne said. ‘I loathe the entire country.’
‘Perhaps there were deaths in the family that postponed their debut?’ Lucius asked, ignoring Mayne. ‘When did their mother die?’
‘My understanding is that their father never had the money to bring them out,’ Rafe said. ‘According to my secretary, Wickham, the estate is in a terrible way. Wickham stayed for a few days helping the new viscount, who’d been living off in Caithness and hadn’t seen the estate in Roxburghshire for years. Apparently it was grim. All unentailed land that might have brought in rents had been sold years ago. The house was a monstrous pile, and falling about their ears. The new viscount was beside himself when he found that the horses were willed to the girls: all the money made on the estate in the past ten years had been poured into Brydone’s stables.’
‘Brydone spent all his blunt on horses?’ Mayne asked.
‘He wasn’t niggardly with the girls. It’s just that there wasn’t anything to give, unless he were to sell one of his horses. From what Tess told me at supper, it seems he was counting on some big purse to bring them to London for a season.’
‘And until that moment arrived, his four daughters were left to moulder unmarried in a tumbledown house?’ Lucius asked.
‘He undoubtedly didn’t live up to your standards of gentlemanly behaviour,’ Rafe said, draining his glass. He had a fierce headache coming on. Too much brandy: one of these days he was going to have to give up the drink, for all it made life tolerable. The splitting headache seemed to come on earlier and earlier.
