Page 97 of A Single Obsession

With difficulty, Anthony persuaded him of the unwisdom of calling on Eliza as soon as they arrived, when she would be exhausted from the exertions of the race and the emotional scene that had followed.

After dining at White’s, they returned to Beau’s lodgings together. As they walked through the door, Carrick handed him a letter. “This arrived for you while you were at dinner, my lord.”

He took the missive from his valet and tossed it aside without even looking at it. He was in no mood to read his mother’s latest recriminations. They could wait until morning. He drank a single glass of whisky with Anthony, and then they both retired to bed.

When he awoke the next day, he felt refreshed, but his anxiety to see Eliza was growing by the hour. He sent his man in to wake Anthony, who was not an early riser, so they could breakfast together.

Beau was already dressed and seated at the table, pouring two cups of coffee, when his friend emerged from his bedchamber wearing an embroidered dressing gown.

“Morning,” he mumbled. “I suppose it is morning? It feels as if it’s only half-way through the night.”

“It’s past eight o’clock.”

“Ah. As I expected—half-way through the night.”

“Stop playing the dandy with me and come and have something to eat.”

“Why the early start? We’re in town—or had you forgotten? You can’t go calling on Eliza at nine o’clock in the morning. It’s not civilised.”

“I thought we could ride.”

Anthony wrinkled his brow in distaste. “Not at this hour.”

After drinking a cup of coffee, Beau poured himself another and started on the toast.

His valet hovered by the table until he looked up. “Yes, Carrick. What is it?”

“Did you wish to send a reply to the note you received yesterday, my lord?”

Beau gave a bark of laughter. “That is not a very subtle way of reminding me I have an unopened letter.”

He took the missive from his man. “What would I do without you, Carrick? Alas, my lamentable memory.”

“I don’t believe your powers of recollection are faulty at all,” said Anthony. “You have a remarkable ability to recall the pleasant and forget what you would rather not remember.”

Beau protested at his friend’s accusation, but although he disclaimed, he admitted there was more than a little truth in them.

He fiddled with the letter in his hand. “Well, I suppose I should open it, as it might contain a happy announcement. I daresay if Frances has given birth to a boy, my mother will blast the news from the rooftops and somehow make it sound as though it is to her credit.”

“Ouch,” said Anthony. “Those are bitter words for breakfast time.”

Beau ignored him and examined the address on the letter with a puzzled frown. “Hmm. This is not Mother’s handwriting, but who else could it be from?”

“You are betrothed. Could Eliza have written to you?”

Could she? Beau turned the missive over and recognised Lord Castleford’s arms stamped in the red wax.

He tore open the seal and devoured the contents, but as he read, the eagerness drained away, leaving him feeling numb.

“You’re right,” he said in a voice devoid of expression. “It’s from Eliza.”

His friend was buttering a slice of toast and did not look up. “Love letters at breakfast. How revolting.”

“It is not a love letter. In fact, you might call it a poison letter. Eliza has ended our engagement.”

Anthony’s knife clattered onto his plate as his eyes shot up to meet Beau’s. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His face said it all.

Beau stared at the letter, as if by staring he could somehow eliminate the hateful words from the page. “But I thought…I mean, I know I don’t deserve her, but I thought…I hoped…that riding Romeo in the race meant something…”