not made your acquaintance these past months.’ Penwick continued his riposte, a drop of perspiration trickling into his right brow with the swift movement. Still, the wood-panelled walls grew closer with each of his strikes. Another moment and Allington would have no retreat, his back to the wall, the match won.
‘I assure you I have many sides, as faceted as the gemstones my father offers to the wealthiest clientele throughout England and beyond. Do not play the fool and neglect opportunity. An earldom is an expensive undertaking.’
Allington sounded winded. Too much talk and not enough skill. Penwick’s stamina remained banked.
‘I appreciate your concern, though I’ve taken every precaution to secure my future with wise investment. I stand to lose more than profit, were I to accept the offer. Your sister would believe I courted her to gain favour with your father or, worse, possessed an ulterior interest in the family mines, valuing the property’s worth more than her beauty and poise.’
‘Beauty and poise age and fade away, unlike money, which grows more valuable and attractive the longer one keeps it. You did not answer my question.’
Allington’s boot heel hit the floor moulding. His brows narrowed, aware there was no retreat, and he assumed a combative stance, at once attempting an envelopment to seize Penwick’s blade and rotate their position, but his lack of control versus Penwick’s superior strength guaranteed failure.
‘Which question would that be?’ With an accelerating lunge, Penwick knocked the sword from his opponent’s grasp.
Allington leaned against the panelling, catching a breath before he slid down to sit hastily on the floorboards. ‘Hell, your skill is unmatched. I would do well not to cross you.’ He glanced upward, an expression on his face that reflected a mixture of acknowledgement and defeat. ‘At least not with a sword.’
‘You presented an excellent defence.’ Penwick extended his hand and hoisted his friend upward. ‘I’ve had more practice, ‘tis all.’
‘Perhaps.’
They walked to the side of the room where two glasses of water waited beside fresh towels.
‘I’m serious in regard to your investing in Father’s diamond mines. For clearer understanding, I’m not suggesting you travel beyond England. The mines are located in some godawful region of the world where even I wouldn’t venture a visit. There the stones are unearthed, cleaned and prepared before they ever reach our soil. Once in England, Father chooses the best gems, commissions the cut and sells them or designs the best into unique pieces. It’s all done quite easily. Money in, money out, except we’re profiting at such high margin, it would be against all honour not to urge you to partake of a share, most especially now that you’re betrothed to Claire. What profits you will provide for her lifestyle.’
‘Concerned I can’t support my wife?’ Penwick attempted to ease the mood with jocularity, though his mind spun with questions. Why did Allington press the subject? It never failed; whether drinking at the club or fencing in the ballroom, the subject of his investing in the Allington jewellery business always surfaced. ‘All jests aside, I’ll consider the notion.’ A change of subject was in order. ‘How is the mare you purchased from my stable faring? You haven’t mentioned her since the transaction.’ Horseflesh – a common enough topic for any gentleman and another on which he was considered an expert.
‘The animal needs a firm hand. I despair if all your livestock is as unmanageable.’ Allington followed the cut with a gruff chuckle and replaced his glass on the table.
‘The white Abaco Barb? It’s one of the calmest breeds imported to England and this mare in particular is my finest. I almost couldn’t sell her to you, wanting to keep the prize. She’s obedient, reliable and perceptive of her rider,’ Penwick responded with an austere shake of the head. No one could accuse the horse of unruly defiance. He’d named the mare Decorum because she combined dignity and regal presence whenever they rode.
‘Aha, now I have identified the truer problem, one bigger than the horse of which I complain. As a breeder you regard the horses as equals, when any fool is aware to command an animal’s respect one must prove to be the master.’ Allington clasped his hands together to punctuate his assertion.
The critical remark was stated with outright arrogance and an uncomfortable silence smothered their otherwise brotherly palaver. There wasn’t more to say after that and, once Allington took his leave, Penwick bathed and changed his clothes. His schedule presented a busy day ahead and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Some unresolved sentiment lurked below his consciousness to cause him unrest.
At least his appointments would end on a high note with his dance lesson at four o’clock. He’d already decided he would not choose Claire’s ring today. The subject of diamonds seemed overstated of late. He could always stop at the club on the way home, though. Two fingers of expensive brandy might be the exact prescription to assure a night of fitful rest.
Isn’t it peculiar how our letters cross in the post only for us to discover, when they arrive, we’ve asked each other the same questions? Perhaps it indicates we are of like mind. In answer to your queries, I enjoy reading, although my sister’s love of poetry surpasses my interest in novels. I’d much rather attend a gathering than spend time within the pages of a book. I have a passion for flowers, yellow roses in particular, and favour candied orange peel above all sweets. The most embarrassing situation I’ve ever experienced occurred during my best friend Esme’s birthday celebration. We were chattering away until I developed a ridiculous case of the hiccups. Esme suggested I inhale ground pepper to restore my breathing pattern but the result produced a sneeze so large my spectacles landed in the ratafia bowl. To this day, whenever we recall the incident, we laugh until our sides ache. Thank heavens no one else noticed. I’ve never told another soul.
Penwick folded the letter with care and replaced it within his breast pocket. How foolish to continue to live in the past and yearn for a woman who had disappeared without a trace or reason. Didn’t she owe an explanation to their friendship?
Friendship.
What a farce. Over time, he’d developed feelings, a deep emotional connection that, were he to allow it into the light of day, would consume his soul. The emotion hadn’t mellowed as time passed, but fermented in potency and grown in strength so that it barely fitted within the portion of him where he crowded his most precious memories.
Preparing for his dance lesson had proven a weakness he now regretted. Filing through Lavinia’s letters to find this one, a favourite, where her voice spoke directly to his heart, and then, subsequently, choosing to carry it with him, had proved pure idiocy.
He’d need to do better. He was to be married in less than a fortnight to a woman who cared for him and would soon vow to produce his children and provide an amiable home life.
He crossed his hand over his chest, the letter beneath the thick wool of his coat, the words against his heart. What had happened to Lavinia? Why did she suddenly vanish? He had no answers. Worse, his world had upended soon after, the responsibilities of the earldom consuming all time and energy. When he had tried to find her and travelled to the address on the letters, he’d ended up leaving Shropshire with more questions than answers. Why had fate brought them together only to leave their relationship unfinished?
The carriage rocked to a stop and
