The Trials of Alaric (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #8)

Chapter Six

A ll the unmarried gentlemen were present in the drawing room at noon the following day. Alaric, who was one of the last to arrive, took up a position leaning against the mantelpiece from which he could see and hear the others but was not part of any group. Maddrell and Whittington hovered to one side, talking neither to each other nor to anyone else.

Beverley was holding forth to Ambrose Howard and Sir Henry Dashwood about how he was certain his cousin would choose him. “She has always admired me,” he boasted. “I will exert myself to charm her, and the job will be done.”

Dashwood snorted. “She doesn’t respond to charm,” he claimed. Which meant Dashwood had tried, Alaric noted.

Beverley was not impressed. “She will, to mine.”

“You still have to pass Lord Claddach’s trials,” Howard pointed out.

“I am a master of any gentlemanly skill,” Beverley declared. “Foils, pistols, boxing, riding, driving. I have no concerns.”

The other three of the original suitors were closer to Alaric, so he heard Lord Lucas Versey’s response to that boast, which was pithy, vulgar and—in Alaric’s view—entirely apposite.

“Ignore him,” Martin Fairweather advised. “He’s all mouth.”

Francis Meadowsweet nodded. “True. I have seen him box.”

Perhaps Beverley heard them. If so, he did not feel inclined to challenge the three.

Instead, he addressed Alaric. “Don’t you have other places you ought to be, Redhaven? You just turned up in the storm, they tell me.”

“I have no urgent engagements,” Alaric replied, resisting the urge to point out that Beverley was another person who had not been invited.

Lord Claddach spoke from the doorway. “I have welcomed Redhaven to my home and to the trials, Beverley.” He crossed the room to his usual chair. “If you are unhappy about my decisions, you are not obliged to stay.”

Beverley flushed red, and the sore look he sent Alaric behind his uncle’s back promised retribution.

“I take it, gentlemen,” Lord Claddach said, “that you have all decided to enter the trials?”

He waited for a chorus of murmured agreement. Except for the secretary and the chaplain, they all expressed their intention of competing in the trials.

“Very well. A short while ago, your valets were given your first clue in a treasure hunt. I expect the hunt to take several days—perhaps the full two weeks remaining of the house party. You will therefore be undertaking the treasure hunt while completing other trials and continuing to please my lady wife by entering into her planned activities in the house party, any one of which might, or might not, be a trial. As to the treasure hunt, you will be given a new clue every time you bring me evidence you solved the last one.”

Clever . Those who decided the known trial needed all of their own attention might be neglecting an unknown one. Indeed, Alaric would not be at all surprised if one factor in judging the trials would be whether a contestant failed to take Lady Claddach’s feelings into account when setting their priorities.

Alaric wondered how many of the others had figured out that every one of Claddach’s servants would probably be feeding information to their master to help him judge each trial. Every servant? Every islander, more likely.

Colyn’s gossip had made it clear they were all anxious about the choice that Lady Beatrice must make. Whatever local custom and Claddach’s last will and testament said, and whatever papers the lady’s groom might sign before the marriage, in a court of law, a husband had absolute power over his wife. Even if, as in this case, he would not hold the title of earl when Lady Beatrice became countess, he would still be his wife’s legal guardian, and anything she owned in her own right, rather than as countess, would belong to him, as would the children she bore.

Of course, every islander would care about the trials, and would tell the earl anything they observed.

“That is all,” Lord Claddach said. “May the best man win.”

The gentlemen stampeded upstairs to ring for their valets. Alaric did not bother to run. Given Claddach’s words, he fully expected Colyn to be waiting for him. Gilno had returned to his regular footman duties, but always had a smile for Alaric when he saw him.

Sure enough, Colyn was waiting patiently in Alaric’s bedchamber. “Did ye enter the trials, sir?” he asked, as soon as Alaric entered the room.

“I did,” Alaric said.

Colyn grinned, broadly. “Well, then. That’s good. I have a clue for ye, sir. For the treasure hunt.”

He handed over a piece of paper that, when opened, proved to have a short piece of doggerel written on it.

“Watch time crawl by with leaden feet.

The son of night reigns, as is meet.

But hark, young man, as time takes flight.

Beneath, a picture of delight.”

The son of night was the god of sleep—Somnos in Greek mythology or Morpheus in Roman. He couldn’t make head or tail of the rest of it. Unless… “Colyn, do the grounds have any sundials?”

“Yes, sir. Four. No, five, for there is one at the top of the southern watchtower.” Colyn explained where they could be found.

It had to be sundials. Or clocks. Clocks mark time as well.

“I suppose there are many clocks in the castle,” he said.

“That there are, Mr. Redhaven, to be sure. The one in the drawing room. The one in the great hall. Her ladyship has one in her private sitting room. There’s one in the kitchen, too, and in the butler’s pantry, so he can make certain the meals are on time.”

He was counting on his fingers as he stared into the middle distance, his eyes half-closed. “The earl has a clock in his study. Does the stable block count? The tower of the stable block has a clock.”

Alaric supposed he would have to work his way around them all, and hope he saw something that triggered another idea. He hoped he didn’t meet all the other contestants doing the same thing.

“This afternoon, sir, will be an archery contest,” Colyn told him. “Luncheon will be served at one o’clock, and the archery contest will be at two.”

So much for an immediate tour of the castle’s timepieces . Still, Alaric would surely be able to look at the clocks in the drawing room and the great hall on his way to the dining room, and he’d find a way to take a look at the stable clock and the sundials before sundown.

“Thank you, Colyn. Am I presentable?” He spread his hands and stood still for Colyn’s inspection.

The footman/valet brushed at some invisible dirt and mused out loud about whether Alaric’s cravat should be retied or even changed, but when Alaric said he wanted to investigate clocks for the treasure hunt, stopped his fussing and wished Alaric luck.

But neither of the clocks Alaric found gave him any bright ideas. Except that none of the other suitors gathered in the parlor next to the dining room were showing any interest in the clock. Was he the only one to think of time devices after reading the poem? Did that mean he was wrong?

Or was it possible they all had different clues? Alaric wouldn’t put that past Lord Claddach, though it would take a great deal of work. Not work he could give his secretary, either. Not if the young man had been permitted to enter the trials.

Beverley was monopolizing Lady Beatrice, ignoring everyone else who was in the group where she had been standing. Lady Beatrice kept trying to bring others into the conversation, but Beverley kept talking over them, addressing all his remarks to the lady of his choice, and ignoring everyone else. What a knob-head the man was.

Lady Claddach and Lady Lewiston strolled into the room together and almost immediately, the butler announced that luncheon was laid out in the dining room. “We will serve ourselves,” said Lady Claddach. “Delightfully informal. And you may sit anywhere for this meal. Beverley, will you take me in, dear?”

Beverley looked furious to be drawn away from Lady Beatrice, but he obeyed his aunt, however reluctantly. Alaric moved quickly across the room. “Lady Beatrice, may I have the honor of escorting you to the dining room?” he asked, offering his arm.

“Thank you, Mr. Redhaven,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Shall I escort you to a seat and fill you a plate, my lady?” Alaric asked, as they made their way through the double doors. “Or shall I hold a plate for you while you select what you prefer from the sideboards?” He’d noticed that no servants remained in the room, so his bright idea of co-opting a footman to carry a tray would not work.

Lady Beatrice shot him a look of startled appreciation. “The second,” she said. “Can you hold a plate for each of us, Mr. Redhaven? And I shall serve you and myself.”

Lord Lucas and Lady Eleanor had followed their example, Alaric noted, as Lady Beatrice filled their plates while he followed faithfully behind her. The other gentlemen had led their ladies to chairs at the table and were roaming the sumptuous selection of cold meats, salads, fruits, pastries, breads, and other delights, either balancing two plates or filling one with the intent of going back for another.

Alaric saw Lady Beatrice to a pair of chairs and assisted her to sit. “What will you have to drink, Lady Beatrice?”

She chose an ale, and Alaric collected a jug and two glasses and returned to find Beverley had taken the seat next to Lady Beatrice, having abandoned her mother, whom he had led into lunch and seated farther up the table.

Alaric put the jug and glasses before Lady Beatrice, smiled at her, located an unused chair and brought it over, squeezing in between Lady Beatrice and Miss Radcliffe, who obligingly moved her chair to make more room.

“I say,” Beverley said. “You cannot squeeze in like that.”

“Evidently,” Lady Beatrice noted, “Mr. Redhaven has squeezed in. So, I take it you meant to say he may not, rather than he cannot.”

Beverley glared at her. “His manners are outrageous,” he told the table at large. “No wonder he was sent home in disgrace from the British Embassy to Brazil.”

He sneered at Alaric, triumph in his eyes. “I remembered this morning where I had heard of you. Sent off to Brazil to make a career in the diplomatic service.”

Uh oh. Alaric supposed it was inevitable that news had reached London. It was too much to hope the toffee-nosed prawn hadn’t also heard of the former scandal. The one from before Brazil.

Did Beverley just remember the gossip this morning? Possibly. But certainly, he had waited for the largest possible audience.

“Funny. He left London in disgrace after a fight with his brother at his brother’s wedding. You are that Alaric Redhaven, or you not?” He raised his voice to be heard around the table.

“I am,” Alaric replied. He met Lady Beatrice’s eyes with a rueful smile. “One does wonder at my father, does one not? Thinking I was cut out to be a diplomat?”

“You must have had a reason for fighting your brother,” Lady Beatrice said. It was not quite a question, but one was implied.

Alaric said, his voice quiet and his answer for her alone. “It was more that he fought me, but yes, there was a reason. I am afraid I cannot share it, however. It is not my story alone, you see.” Tarquin had punched Alaric in the nose. For an insult to Tarquin’s wife, he had said. Alaric assumed Eloise had denied she had been the one to jilt Alaric. And the fight at the wedding was nothing to the explosion the following morning, when Tarquin involved their father. Truly, Alaric could not altogether blame his twin. Falling in love did terrible things to a man’s judgement. Another reason for him to eschew the emotion altogether.

“I daresay,” sneered Beverley, who had leaned closer to hear Alaric’s reply. “How convenient that honor prevents you from telling us the reason for such dishonorable behavior.” The rest of the company had hushed to hear the scurrilous hound. “I suppose the same excuse applies to your ejection from Brazil. It was over a woman, I heard.”

My, my. How stories grow in the telling. Though technically, the rumor was correct. “There was a woman,” Alaric conceded. “But not in the way you imply.” He made an instant decision to be open about the whole debacle. Undoubtedly, rumor had painted his actions every shade of black, whereas the truth was farcical rather than villainous.

He addressed his next remark to Lady Beatrice, though in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear. “There was a slave. Though she was heavily pregnant, she was serving drinks after dinner at the home of one of the aristocrats of the Portuguese court in exile. I was present, as were other members of my embassy. She slipped in a pool of wine and fell, splashing the wine she was carrying on a young Portuguese gentleman. He kicked her where she lay. In the stomach. When he went to do it again, I punched him.”

“Good for you,” said Lady Beatrice. “And the ambassador sent you home for that?”

Alaric shook his head. “Sir Edward, the British envoy, sent me away from the party for that. He said I should have left it to the Portuguese to deal with the matter. In his opinion, her status as a slave made my reaction unworthy of an international incident.”

“A fine tale,” Beverley said, in a voice that implied he believed none of it. “And I suppose you will tell us you were not thrown out of Brazil at all? Or perhaps you went down to the marketplace and freed all the slaves waiting for auction?”

“Nothing so grand,” Alaric conceded, grinning at Beverley as if the man had made an amusing joke. Bullies found such a response very confusing, he had found. He glanced around the table. Everyone was waiting for him to speak. “I was thrown out of the diplomatic mission and sent home from Brazil,” he admitted. “Sir Edward said my inability to smile at a villain or a knave for England meant I was not cut out to be a diplomat, and I believe he was absolutely right. To be fair to Sir Edward, the final straw was by no means the first time I had shown my incompetence in diplomacy.”

“What was this final straw?” The question came from Lady Joan Collister, Lord Claddach’s sister.

“It was at another reception, my lady,” Alaric explained, speaking over Beverley’s claim that no one was interested. A clear bouncer since the room was silent while Alaric spoke and indeed Lady Joan was leaning forward with an intensely rapt expression on her face. As were the rest, he noticed.

“A few days after the incident with the slave, at a different reception. Dom Duarte, the slave kicker, made aspersions. I ignored him, as I had been instructed to do. He then pretended to trip, so that his wine splashed all over me.”

He met Lady Beatrice’s eyes and chuckled, hoping she would see how funny it was. “I probably should not have picked up a nearby bucket of icy water—we had drunk the wine that was in it. And, I definitely should have checked that nobody else was within range when I threw it.”

He spread his hands and shrugged. “Duarte ducked. The Bishop of Rio de Janeiro did not. The bishop was not pleased, and neither was the king. And so, Sir Edward sent me home and told me to find another profession.”

There was, of course, a great deal more to the story. But some of it needed to be kept secret and none was for public consumption. Perhaps, too, Alaric had done the wrong thing. Or several wrong things. Sir Edward had certainly thought so. But, he reminded himself, Alaric was not one to accept cruelty to anyone, and especially not to someone of lower status by someone of a higher status—in society’s eyes. He found such a tendency appalling and was content in the knowledge that he was the better man—at least in character—than the man he’d punched or even, the bishop. If that meant he’d failed at his task, so be it. Hang anyone who cherished status over sympathy. He had no use for them.

“A member of a diplomatic mission cannot go around disobeying the laws of his host country, Redhaven,” Sir Edward had said, “however appalling those laws might be. Sometimes, it is our duty to tolerate, or at least ignore, an injustice for the sake of king and country. You are an honest man, my boy, and that is to your credit. It makes you a bad diplomat. A pity, for your habit of making friends wherever you go would be useful, if you could just learn not to make just as many enemies.”

Alaric did not set out to make friends any more than he tried to make enemies. “I just try to be honest, sir,” he had told Sir Edward.

The envoy had nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed. Just remember, though, that honesty, when carried to extremes, is a kind of arrogance.” Alaric had thought a lot about those words during the long journey back to England and had still not come to any conclusion. Sir Edward had a point, but was Alaric’s honesty of that type? He didn’t think so, and he didn’t want to be in a profession where he would feel disgust at himself.

For now, Beverley’s plan to ambush Alaric had backfired. That was obvious from the approving looks Alaric was receiving. It was obvious to Beverley, too, for he was scowling. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his uncle said to him, “You came in with your mother, I believe, Beverley. It is the custom on Claddach to sit with the lady you escort into the dining room. That was still the practice in London last time I was there, I believe?”

I should watch my back , Alaric thought, as Beverley made his grudging way around the table but not before he shot Alaric a look that boded nothing good. Predictably. But then, Beverley had been disposed against Alaric from the first, so nothing had changed.

Miss Radcliffe asked a question about Brazil, and for the remainder of the meal, Alaric’s part of the table engaged in a lively discussion, starting with the places he had been and the things he had noticed, and moving from there to the travels of others.

When the meal was over, Alaric asked Lady Beatrice if she would excuse him, as he planned to walk in the garden before the archery, though in truth, he was on a hunt for sundials. Lady Beatrice declared herself ready for such a walk, and what could Alaric do, other than express his delight in her company?

By the time they were strolling out through the garden door, he had decided to show her the clue and tell her what he was looking for. He was sure she could be trusted, and if she couldn’t? Then she was not the wife for him.

“I would like to see as many sundials as I can before two o’clock, my lady,” he said.

She looked puzzled, but she pointed to a diagonal path that led from the little courtyard outside the door. “This way, then.”

Alaric obediently set off down the path with Lady Beatrice on his arm. He said, “I have my treasure hunt clue, and I have an idea of what it might mean.” He took the clue from his pocket and handed it to Lady Beatrice.

“Should you be showing this to me, Mr. Redhaven?” Lady Beatrice asked, not opening the folded paper.

“I am not competing with you, my lady,” Alaric pointed out. “Why shouldn’t I share the clue with you? And what I think about the clue?”

“You do not fear I will tell the other suitors?” she insisted.

“I do not,” he assured her. “For two reasons. First, I judge you to be trustworthy. Second…” He shrugged. “If I win, my lady, but do not have your regard, there will be no marriage, nor should there be. I do not believe you will lose my regard, my lady, but if you did, a marriage between us would be a mistake. If you prefer another suitor, then I wish you the very best.”

“How delightful,” Lady Beatrice commented. “A trial of my very own.”

For a moment, Alaric was concerned his frankness had offended her. He was relieved to see her chuckling. Just in case, he added, “I do not mean any offense, my lady.”

“None taken, Mr. Redhaven. I find your honesty refreshing, as well as your trust in my…” she paused a moment, “my intellect. In spite of the fact that I am a woman.” She pursed her lips in a scowl that didn’t fail to be pretty. Alaric reminded himself to focus on that intellect and not allow himself to be distracted by her appearance, for that would set him apart from the other suitors. “Let me read this clue, then tell me what you are looking for. Hmm. Yes, I see why you are looking at sundials. Or clocks, perhaps?”

“The first couplet seems to say that, when things are boring, you’ll sleep,” Alaric offered. “That is, assuming the son of night refers to the god of sleep in the Greek pantheon.”

“When time drags. Yes, I see. But what of the second?”

Alaric had no idea and said so. “I am hoping something will occur to me when I see the correct sundial. Or clock. As you said, it could be a clock.”

Such a moment of epiphany did not occur with either of the sundials they were able to examine before they needed to go to the north lawn, where the archery butts were set up and some of the other guests were already selecting their bows.

On the other hand, Alaric had, he thought, made significant strides in winning Lady Beatrice’s esteem.