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

Chapter Ten

B ea went to see her father after they returned from their walk. She collected his usual morning tray from a footman who was approaching the door at the same time and allowed him to open the door for her.

“Beatrice, my dear,” Papa greeted her by rising from his chair. “Have you come to take tea with me?”

“I came to ask you for something, Papa. But I would like to join you for tea. I shall send for another cup.”

She put the tray on Papa’s desk before requesting an additional setting from the footman who was waiting outside. She returned and settled into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Did you enjoy your walk on the beach?” Papa asked.

“I did. I think Ellie—Lady Eleanor Fairweather—is becoming a good friend, and I learned more about Lord Lucas and Mr. Redhaven.”

“Ah.” He inclined his head before asking, “I assume young Redhaven showed you the second clue?”

“Yes,” Bea admitted. “How did you know?”

“He asked me if it was against the rules. It is not, but I wonder if you have a reason for favoring him in this way.”

Bea could feel herself blushing. “He is the one who has made the most effort to get to know me, Papa, instead of assuming I am a paper cutout of a fashion doll. Also, he’s the only one who has asked for my advice on his clues.”

“And you like him,” Papa commented.

It was a statement, not a question.

The footman arrived with the other cup, and Bea stood and busied herself preparing the tea. It gave her something to do, rather than meet her father’s eyes. He might have read her thoughts. Yes, I like him, but what has that to say to anything, Papa? I have committed to choosing from the men who win the trials. Who is to say he will be one of them?

It had been her choice, she reminded herself. And for good reason. She needed a husband, and soon, so he had time to learn what Papa could teach him.

Perhaps Papa did read her thoughts, for he said, “I wish I could give you more time, Beabea. Time to go to London or to a few house parties. Time to choose for love instead of practicality.”

She put his cup down beside him and gave him her hand. “I know, Papa. I understand. I hope you have more time—doctors have been wrong before. But we cannot take the risk. We need to safeguard Claddach.”

He clutched both her hands and kissed her on the forehead. “I am very proud of you, Beatrice Elizabeth Meave Collister.”

“I love you, Papa.”

He gave her hands a squeeze, let them go, and picked up his tea. “What did you wish to ask me?” he asked.

Bea returned to her seat and, following his example, picked up her own cup as camouflage for her feelings. “The boxing tomorrow, Papa. I wanted to ask if you would change it for another activity.”

“This is about Redhaven again,” he deduced.

“Yes, it is about Mr. Redhaven.” Bea heard the irritation in her own voice and deliberately calmed it again. “He was injured in the shipwreck, Papa. He was exhausted by the end of the steeplechase. He almost fell from his horse. If he is hit in the head again tomorrow—Papa, we cannot take the risk.”

“A sensible young man would stand down,” Papa commented.

“There cannot be very many sensible young men, then,” Bea suggested, thinking of the men she knew, all of whom would rather die than admit to a weakness.

Papa laughed. “You have a point. Very well, Bea, I shall make a bargain with you. I shall change the activity tomorrow to something more within the capacity of the young man.”

Bea gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Papa.”

“And in return, Daughter, you will spend an equal amount of time with all your suitors and give them a chance to show you who they really are. Agreed? I want you to have as wide a choice as possible, not to set your heart on one man at the beginning. And it will do Redhaven no harm to have to work for your esteem.”

Bea thought about it for a moment. “I accept your bargain, Papa,” she said.

*

“May I have your attention?” Lord Claddach said to the family and house guests, all of whom were gathered in the drawing room. Colyn had found Alaric and alerted him of the time to be here. He assumed the others had all received such invitations.

“My lords, my ladies, and gentlemen, the next trial I wish to announce is a charity fête in two days. The fête will be held in the grounds of the castle and will be open to anyone who wishes to come.”

He looked directly at the younger gentlemen. “The role of the suitors will be to take over the organization and run the event. You are not starting from the beginning. Mr. Maddrell has a list of merchants, peddlers, and entertainers who have agreed to participate in the fête, and Mr. Whittington has a list of local parishes and other groups who will also have stalls or assist in other ways with the fête’s events. A schedule has been posted. You will have plenty to do, but it should be possible in the time.”

His smile was somewhat predatory. “You have forty-eight hours, gentlemen. The fête starts at two in the afternoon on the day after tomorrow. I suggest starting you repair to the green parlor and get started.”

Was Alaric ever going to have time to think about the latest clue? But then, did the others? He supposed he wasn’t the only one whose time to think and explore was compromised by this current task. Perhaps time management was one of the trials. He shrugged and left with the others.

The first few minutes of the meeting were a waste of time. Beverley insisted that he would be in charge, as he had the highest rank. Luke scoffed and asked whether he had ever organized a fête, which Alaric thought was a good point. “A ball? A Venetian breakfast? Any event more complex than a drunken night in a wine cellar?”

Beverley, who had been admiring his reflection in the window, turned at that and drew himself up, lifting his chin. “I’ll have you know I was born to command,” he insisted. “I shall be an earl one day.”

What a pillock Beverley was .

Luke pointedly ignored him and turned to look at the rest of the group. Beverley scowled, probably put out that no one was admiring him in the window—or out of it—either. “Has anyone any actual experience of organizing a fête? Or anything to do with a fête?” Luke asked.

Fairweather put up a tentative hand. “I run the children’s races each year at my father’s harvest fête,” he offered.

“Make a note of that, Maddrell,” said Luke. Maddrell, predictably, had chosen a seat at a writing desk and had access to paper and quill. As Lord Claddach’s secretary, he was the obvious choice of notetaker in Alaric’s opinion, though the grumbles moving swiftly around the group argued otherwise.

“Who put you in charge, Versey?” demanded Beverley.

“Yes, Versey,” agreed Dashwood. “Who?” And Howard nodded his agreement.

Alaric had had enough. “Gentlemen, please remember that the earl said our role is to organize and run the event. The suitors. Collectively. No one is in charge. We work as a team. The only way for us to win this trial is together. The only way to lose is to refuse to contribute.”

He let his gaze move from one person to another.

“See, Versey?” Dashwood said, smugly.

“To get all the work done in the time available,” Alaric pointed out, “we shall each need to take charge of a particular aspect. Luke has made a start on chairing this meeting, and an excellent start. I propose he continues to do so. Please indicate by raising your hand if you agree.”

Only Beverley and Dashwood refused to raise their hands. Even Howard agreed, after a cautious look around the room at the others.

“Right,” said Luke. “Motion carried. And I would like Maddrell to make notes. If you don’t mind, Maddrell.”

“Not at all,” said the secretary, with a shallow bow.

“Who normally organizes your father’s fête?” Luke asked Fairweather.

“My mother and my sisters,” Fairweather replied.

“The same with ours,” Luke said. “We do one at midsummer, but Mother is in charge. I’m usually a marshal, managing all the carts and carriages so nobody is blocked in, and escorting important guests to Mother or Father.”

Alaric commented, “Another important thing to remember. Make a note of that, please, Maddrell. Gentlemen, we have two lists to consider, as I understand it. Shall we try to organize those in some way, and then see what the gaps are?”

“Good,” Luke agreed. “At our fair, we have the charity stalls mixed up with the local merchants and the traveling peddlers. You, Fairweather?”

“The same,” Fairweather agreed. “Oh. That reminds me. Put security on the list of things to do. I don’t know how many thieves and pickpockets there are on Claddach, but they’ll all be at the fête.”

“They all have to come through the gates in the outer walls,” Maddrell offered. He explained that the fête was to be held in the jousting grounds—a long flat patch of land outside the inner walls that enclosed the castle at the top of the bluff, but within the outer wall. “Security on the gates, and a few people patrolling the wall should be enough.”

After two hours, they had a set of lists, and everyone had taken responsibility for a particular aspect of the fête. Even Beverley had volunteered. It would be his task to find and look after the judges for the competitions that were a feature of Mr. Whittington’s lists—best jam, largest bull, fastest runner, strongest man, and the like.

Alaric was running the actual contests. His job was to make sure the contest spaces were pegged out and set up, that contestants found the right space at the right time, that the contests were run fairly, that the prizes were on hand for the judges to hand out after they’d selected the winner, and that he’d arranged everything else required for things to run smoothly.

It came as a relief to him, and no doubt to everyone else, that they were only expected to organize and oversee. And even most of the organization was already done. The army of servants and volunteers who would act under their direction had already been working on this for months. Alaric would make sure to ask for their advice at every turn.

With that in mind, he had some calls to make, some at the castle, and some down in the town.

*

As he moved around the castle on his errands, Alaric kept an eye out for carvings of roses. At some point during the previous day, it had occurred to him that mansions had walls inside as well as out. If the rhyme referred to a piece of wall or ceiling decoration, then a carved, or perhaps painted, climbing rose should lead him to the other parts of the clue.

But he realized before long, the problem was not finding roses. The problem was that the castle seemed to be full of them, and he couldn’t see how any of them fitted the rest of the rhyme.

The search had to take second place to preparations for tomorrow’s fête. He and the other suitors had met yesterday evening, and again this morning, to report on progress and problems. Even Howard and Beverley were pulling their weight.

Howard had, with the help of Claddach’s groundsmen, located the marquees, tables, and other items that would be used to set up stalls and had checked them off against the list of stallholders. He and the butler—probably mostly the butler, but Alaric didn’t fault Howard for that—had selected the grooms and footmen who would be their labor force and written a schedule for what needed to be done tonight and then tomorrow morning to set the stalls up.

Beverley had been interviewing judges and had ridden out immediately after the meeting this morning to visit the remaining experts on his list.

Alaric also had a list and had been talking to some of the same experts to make certain he knew exactly what each contest comprised and how it worked, so that he could carry out his tasks.

It wasn’t the fête that bothered him, or even his search for something that would help him figure out the second clue. It was that Bea had partnered Fairweather into dinner, had played the piano after dinner with Howard to turn her pages, and had gone riding with Meadowsweet this morning.

When Alaric asked to escort her for a walk in the garden, she had refused. A polite refusal, but still! Had he offended her? Been too pressing in his attentions? And yet, he had been certain she returned his growing affections.

“Sir!” It was Colyn, his borrowed valet. “Sir, you must come with me. I will show you where the pall-mall alley is.”

“The pall-mall alley?” Why did Colyn want to show him to the pall-mall alley?

“For the game, sir,” Colyn said.

Oh. That’s right. Colyn had mentioned it this morning with a list of other activities that Lady Claddach had organized for the house guests. “I thought I’d skip the game,” Alaric replied.

“I think you should play, sir,” Colyn told him, his eyes intent, as if trying to send him a message he would not put into words.

Alaric narrowed his eyes, a suspicion occurring to him. “Is it a trial, Colyn?”

Colyn didn’t reply—he just stared at Alaric with pained eyes.

“Am I straining your loyalties, man? Very well, I won’t insist on an answer.” Though his refusal to answer was answer enough. “Show the way, then, Colyn. Pall-mall is a trial? I wonder what he is testing for?”

The questions were for himself, but Colyn replied, “It was to have been boxing, but Lord Claddach ordered the change yesterday afternoon. No one knows why.”

“Just as well,” Alaric said. “I doubt I’m up to a boxing match just yet. Mind you, I haven’t played pall-mall in years. I have no idea how I’ll fare.”

Lady Claddach was dividing the participants into teams of two as they arrived at the alley. It had been built on a terrace, with one long side formed by the side of the hill into which the terrace had been cut and a high wall on the other side. Bench seats had been built into the slope above the terrace, so spectators could watch the play. “Half of you shall play in the first set,” she said, “and half in the second. Then the top players of each set shall play in the third. Ah. Mr. Redhaven. There you are. You shall be paired with Miss Bryant.”

Alaric had automatically sought out Bea when he and Colyn arrived. She, it seemed, was paired with her cousin Beverley. Alaric took some comfort in the fact that she didn’t look happy about it. He walked over to where Miss Bryant was standing with Miss Radcliffe and Dashwood. “Miss Bryant. Miss Radcliffe. Dashwood. Miss Bryant, I trust I do not let our partnership down. It has been at least three years since I last played the game.”

“Christina is pretty good,” Miss Radcliffe claimed.

Alaric bowed to his partner. “I shall do my best,” he promised.

They were in the second set, so they walked up to the benches to watch the first. The players with their mallets began at one end and took turns to hit their balls toward the other. Each hit counted as a point, and the winning pair would be the one with the lowest number of points.

The run ended when all of them had put their balls through the iron ring at the end of the alley. It was suspended on a long rod four feet above the ground, and the end of the run was delayed as one of the players had to make five attempts before finally succeeding in putting his ball through the ring.

They then played back up to the first end, where another iron ring waited. Each set would comprise five runs, and the scores for each run would be added together to create the final score for the set.

Servants moved along the benches with drinks. Most of the older members of the house party were watching the game, too, but Lord Lewiston and Lord Claddach were supervising the servants who were keeping score down on the court.

During the second run, Alaric was watching Bea, so he missed when Beverley hit his ball into Howard’s, but he turned at the gasp. A ball shot backwards, farther from the ring, ending up against the wall where swinging the mallet made for an awkward shot. Beverley’s ball ricocheted from the impact, landing closer to the ring and right in front of it.

“An excellent roquet,” Miss Bryant noted. “Beverley is well-placed for his next strike, and Howard will have trouble getting away from the wall.”

Beverley’s next strike—his prize for the roquet—sent his ball soaring through the hoop, making him the first to complete that run, and he lounged against the wall out of sight waiting for the others, with Howard coming last.

Beverley made two more roquets in the next run, even though the second one, on Fairweather’s ball, was mere spleen, since it didn’t win him an advantage. Quite the contrary, since the partnership of Fairweather and Miss Howard teamed up to roquet him in return. This time, Beverley and Bea were the last two to complete the run, since the other pair targeted her ball, as well.

“Beverley has good mallet skills,” said Miss Bryant, “but he is not a good player. He is not working in concert with his partner. He has forgotten that, in pairs’ play, the overall score is what counts.”

“Also,” Miss Radcliffe commented, “the second roquet in that run was not necessary, and Fairweather and Miss Howard have punished him for it. And poor Bea, too, whose only fault was being assigned as his partner.” Alaric could only agree. Again, he wondered what this trial tested. It would be interesting to see what Lord Claddagh revealed.