course he’d never do it. But he could imagine how satisfying it might feel.
Back at home, he found that his mother had heard about the sodden pile of clothing he’d left on his bedroom hearth. She made an unusual fuss about his soaking and insisted he wrap up in a blanket and drink hot tea at her side before an early bedtime. The entire household had developed a sensitivity about chills. Randolph would have objected, if he hadn’t already sent a note to Verity to make certain she was unaffected by their drenching.
The next morning, Randolph was up betimes and in Duke Street right after breakfast. He sent up his card at Lord Carrick’s lodgings and was asked upstairs. Fortunately, as a churchman, he was used to calling on near strangers, not that a parson was wanted in this case.
Carrick was as Randolph remembered him, a handsome young man—not tall but well-set-up, with regular features and reddish hair nearly the color of Robert’s. His ivy-green eyes looked mystified just now. “We met at Salbridge last autumn,” Randolph reminded him. “When I came over to see my brother Robert.”
“Oh yes.” It wasn’t clear that Carrick remembered Randolph.
“And your play.”
Carrick stiffened. His eyebrows drew together.
Shouldn’t have mentioned the play, Randolph acknowledged silently. Not the way it had turned out. Chatting was no good—too many potential pitfalls. “There’s no sense beating about the bush,” he said. “I came to talk to you about the duel.”
“Ah.” Carrick’s expression cleared. “You want to attend? I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you. It’s becoming rather a crowd. Which won’t do at such an occasion, you know.” He smiled.
Randolph’s spirits sank. Carrick’s excitement and enthusiasm and heedlessness were all in that smile. He wasn’t going to be helpful. “It is being talked about. No one’s sharing the cause, I hope.”
Carrick looked haughty. “The honor of a young lady is involved. Of course the reason will not be divulged.”
Which pretty much guaranteed it would be, Randolph thought. And who used a word like divulged in normal conversation?
“There’s a good deal of speculation of course,” Carrick added. “But naturally my lips are sealed.” He was the picture of smug satisfaction.
Rochford trailed a string of dalliances, Randolph thought. There was no reason for anyone to think of Verity, or associate her with any of the parties to the duel. But people would be chattering and trying to dig up dirt. Randolph didn’t trust Rochford’s valet to resist bribery. And there was Miss Reynolds to think of, too. No one seemed to be considering her. Who else knew the details of this ridiculous dispute? “How did the challenge go down?” he asked, pretending to be the sort of fellow who relished such details.
“It was at Easton’s,” replied Carrick, naming one of London’s gaming hells. “Rochford was playing vingt-et-un. Devilish high stakes, too. Charles found him there and issued his challenge, complete with a glove. He said Rochford looked dumbfounded to be brought to book. I must say, I never would have thought it of Miss… But no more on that score.” He put his finger to his lips, his eyes dancing.
Yes, the whole rigmarole would be out before long, Randolph thought. Carrick put a good story above all else; he wouldn’t be able to resist. They scarcely knew each other, and he’d nearly let Miss Reynolds’s name slip. How must he speak to his cronies? Randolph felt a flash of irritation—at Carrick and his smirks, at Miss Olivia Townsend. Sneaking mischief and malice could do more damage than outright attack. He’d seen it before. But it did no good to get angry. “I called to ask you to quash the meeting,” he said without much hope. “Won’t you urge Wrentham to call it off?”
“Why would I do that?” Carrick seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Dueling is never wise,” Randolph tried. “Beyond the danger, it simply draws more attention to the…cause. People who knew nothing about it start trying to guess.”
Carrick shrugged. Clearly Miss Reynolds’s reputation was of little interest to him. “You’re a clergyman, aren’t you? I forgot. I suppose you have to be a wet blanket.”
Rather than a childish care-for-nobody, Randolph thought, fuming. “Dueling is illegal,” he pointed out.
“You wouldn’t lay information?” Carrick glared at him. “You may be a parson, but you’re also the son of a duke. You wouldn’t peach on us.”
Were they schoolboys talking of stolen cakes? But Randolph didn’t want to involve the magistrates. That would spread the story even further.
He gave up on Carrick. He would try Wrentham himself