One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(12)

“I am. And yes, I knew your brother.”

“I thought so. He mentioned you in his letters, always spoke of your bravery. Were you …” Her voice trailed off. “Were you with him, at Waterloo?”

“No, not at the end. He served in a different battalion. But I can tell you he was a fine man, and an excellent officer. Admired by those who served under him, well regarded by his superiors. A credit to his family and country.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Amelia seemed satisfied, but to Spencer’s ears, this speech was flat, unconvincing. Rehearsed. As though Ashworth had spoken those exact words many, many times. He probably had. Perhaps to him, tonight’s errand—notifying a young lady of her brother’s untimely death—was nothing but routine. It would explain this new gravity in his demeanor. Spencer didn’t remember him being so solemn, before.

Not that they’d spent much time conversing at Eton. Difficult to chat while throwing punches.

“Where is his body?” Lady Amelia suddenly asked. “Leo’s, I mean.”

“At my home,” Bellamy answered. “My men are keeping watch until he can be brought to the undertaker’s.”

“Lily will want to see him.”

“No, my lady. She won’t.”

“She will, I assure you. No matter what his injuries. I …” Her voice broke. “I would have given much, for the opportunity to see Hugh. His death would have been easier to accept, I think.”

In that moment, Spencer became extremely—there was no better word for it—aware of Lady Amelia d’Orsay. His team of blacks hied left, pulling the carriage around a sharp corner, and she fell against him. Soft, warm. Her lavender scent was richer than it had been earlier. As she righted herself, a drop of moisture landed on the strip of exposed skin between his glove and his sleeve.

She was weeping.

Weeping, in absolute silence, presumably too proud to ask for a handkerchief after she’d pressed hers on Spencer in the garden. His hand strayed to his side pocket, where her precise, cheerful stitches secretly decorated the black satin lining. It was her own fault she was without it—he hadn’t wanted the thing in the first place.

But now, perversely, he didn’t want to give it back.

“That settles it then,” said Bellamy. “Morland will marry her.”

Spencer said, “I refuse.”

“You can’t refuse.”

“I just did.”

Bellamy leaned forward. “It’s in the Stud Club code. Neither Ashworth nor I are suitable prospects, as you’ve heard. If you hadn’t so methodically reduced the number of our members over recent weeks, there might be other candidates. But you did. And as you are now seven-tenths of the club, the burden of responsibility falls on you.”

“I don’t understand,” Lady Amelia said. “How can one man be seven-tenths of a club?”

“It’s the tokens, my lady,” said Bellamy. “You see, Leo purchased an exceptional stallion some years ago. Osiris was once the finest racehorse in England. He’s too old to race anymore, but still valuable as a stud horse. Many gentlemen were asking the favor of breeding rights, and Leo devised the Stud Club scheme as a lark. If you knew Leo, you know how he loved a good joke.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “When he and my brother were boys, they once stole the clapper from the church bell just so they could sleep in on Sunday morning.”

Bellamy smiled. “Yes, that sounds like Leo. Which brother of yours was this? Lord Beauvale? Or Jack?” When she did not immediately answer, the man added, “Or—God, I’m sorry. Not the one who died in Belgium?”

“No, not Hugh. None of those, actually. This was my brother Michael. He’s an officer in the Navy now.”

“Good Lord. Just how many of you are there?” Spencer regretted the question instantly. What had possessed him to ask it? Why the devil should he care?

The longer Lady Amelia went without answering, the further the accusatory hush spread through the carriage: Badly done, Morland. Badly done. Truly, he was capable of civil conversation. Just not at any time before, during, or for several hours following a ball.

At last, she answered. “There were six of us, once. Now only five. I am the only daughter.” She paused, perhaps waiting to hear what rude-mannered question would be hurled at her next. When none came, she prompted, “Please continue, Mr. Bellamy.”

“Right. Leo had ten tokens fashioned from brass and distributed them to close friends. Possession of a token entitled a man to send mares to Osiris to be mated. But as a matter of club code, the tokens could never be bartered, purchased, or given away. They could only be won in a game of chance.”

“At cards,” she said.

“Cards, dice, wagers of any sort. That handful of misshapen brass tokens became the most coveted currency in London. Everyone wanted a share of Osiris, of course. But more than that, they wanted to be a part of the club. The fraternity, the camaraderie … there’s a certain cachet now, among gentlemen of our set, to calling oneself a member of the Stud Club. Not many clubs can be so exclusive as to permit only ten members, and winning a token meant that luck or wits, or both, were with you.” Bellamy shot Spencer a cutting look. “Then Morland here came along and ruined the fun. He’s collected seven of the ten tokens now. The remaining three belong to me, Ashworth here, and Leo, of course.”