One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(95)

“Oh, it was Claudia. I told her you’d be along in a minute. A shockingly accurate estimate, in the end.”

He gave her backside an affectionate swat as she hopped down from the desk.

“One other thing,” she said, turning at the door. “When the men arrive, you’re to take them angling. I’m counting on fresh salmon for dinner tonight.”

“Here’s another.” With a quick jerk of his wrist, Ashworth snagged a wriggling fish from the Wye.

Spencer congratulated him and recast his own line, once again marveling at his wife’s cleverness. He’d planned this holiday with the intent of disbanding the Stud Club once and for all. But in order to execute his plan, he needed an opportunity to speak with Ashworth without Bellamy present. Amelia had handed him the perfect excuse. Course fishing was a gentleman’s sport, a pastoral occupation. As a child of privilege raised in the country, Rhys would have grown up angling on summer afternoons, as had Spencer.

But Julian Bellamy … ha. This cottage was likely the closest he’d ever come to a river other than the Thames. The more Spencer learned of the man, the more he was convinced Bellamy’s provenance was a direct line back to the gutters of London. His jokes and fashionable attire were enough to grease his way in Town, but not out here in Gloucestershire. Here, he stood out like the impostor he was. He’d balked at the mere mention of angling, making some pitiful excuse about tuning the pianoforte.

Spencer wondered how much Leo had known about the man’s true history. By all accounts, they’d been close friends.

“I need funds,” Ashworth said, saving Spencer the trouble of easing into the topic. “That’s the reason I’m here. Once we’re done, I’ve decided to go straight to Devonshire, see what’s left of my torched estate. I’ll need money.”

“I happen to have money,” Spencer said with nonchalance.

“And I happen to have a token. I’d suggest we make a simple exchange, but …”

“But Bellamy won’t hear of it, I know.” Derision pitched his voice to a drawl. “Heaven forfend we neglect the Stud Club Code of Good Breeding.”

They both laughed a little. Just a little, because the joke was Leo’s, and Leo was dead.

“We’ll play for it,” Spencer said. A nibble on his line stole his attention, but as he began reeling in the line, the catch slipped away. “One of these nights, we’ll convince Bellamy to sit down to cards. There’s not much else to do out here. It shouldn’t take long. Just let me take the lead. I know how to play these situations slowly. When I lose ten thousand pounds to you on one hand, you’ll lose the token to me on the next.”

“I want twenty thousand.”

“Fifteen. That’s as high as I’ll go.”

“You offered twenty to Lily.”

“She’s grieving and pretty. You’re ugly and unlikable.”

Ashworth shrugged. “Fair enough.”

They fell silent again for a time.

“While we’re here, the two of us … I suppose we’re years overdue for a conversation.” Spencer took extra care rebaiting his hook. “About Eton … I wasn’t really fighting you that day.” That was as close to an apology as he could get. After all, he hadn’t started the fight.

A dragonfly buzzed past. Spencer recast his line.

Finally Ashworth said, “I wasn’t really fighting you, either.”

“We needn’t speak of it further.” God forbid they accidentally wade into heartfelt conversation. Spencer cocked his head, wondering if that was the true reason Amelia had sent them out angling. The little minx.

“So if you weren’t fighting me,” Ashworth said, “what were you fighting?”

Spencer sighed. Of course it couldn’t have been that easy. This would have been an opportune time for a fish to bite and remove all possibility of further discussion.

None did.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Fate.”

He’d been miserable at Eton. He was seventeen, and one of the oldest students there, but his Latin lagged behind that of the second-form boys. Then there was his little problem to contend with: breaking into a cold sweat in crowded classrooms. The only boy who’d rivaled him for surliness was Rhys St. Maur—one year younger than Spencer, but already two stone heavier. The two of them had waged a silent competition for the title of Worst Boy in School. Spencer had no idea why Rhys made so much trouble, but on his side, the rabble-rousing was intentional. If he misbehaved enough, his uncle might send him back to Canada. Or so he’d hoped.

Then the letter came that day. It was February and sunny, yet still cold as a bitch. He’d been happy, initially, to be summoned from a Greek lesson to receive the missive. Inside, he found the news that his father had died in Canada, a month before. He’d been an orphan for a month, and he hadn’t even known. And now it didn’t matter how much he misbehaved. There was no going back home. There was no home to go back to.

He’d been devastated. Angry with himself, his father, his uncle, God.

And Rhys St. Maur had picked that day to start a brawl.

“Fighting fate?” Rhys asked. “You never struck me as that stupid. A man can’t win against fate.”

“Perhaps not,” Spencer said. “In the end I can’t say I’m sorry I lost.”