Page 71 of Managing the Major

“Very good.” Richard turned to Alastair. “I’ll see you shortly, then?”

“Certainly. And thank you for a very enjoyable afternoon, Richard.”

“It was my pleasure. Octavia, shall I escort you to your room?” She cast one last look over her shoulder at him and followed her brother.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Precursor to the Race

Alastair arrived early for dinner and took a seat next to Lord Hope, whom he had met but didn’t know very well. The younger man proved genial company. Evan—which he preferred to Lord Hope—was also an advocate of country life, though far more of a sportsman than Alastair, and passionate about shooting and his spaniels. They had enough in common, however, for a lengthy conversation.

He also remembered listening to Genevieve’s stories at Fairfax about her husband’s love of foxhunting, and a question or two elicited the exchange of several entertaining tales about the hunt. The Hope estate was not too far from Seldon, Richard’s impressive holding, and Alastair learned that Octavia and Genevieve had met after the Hopes married and became fast friends.

The earl soon entered the dining room, in conversation with a florid man with gray whiskers whom Alastair guessed was Lord Ehnes. Evan confirmed this, and after introductions were made, the four men sat with a fine pitcher of ale from the King’s Head’s own brewery and exchanged pleasantries.

Alastair looked over in surprise when Richard opened up the subject of the proposed soldiers’ hospital.

“Major Fairfax and I are in discussion regarding the establishment of a hospital dedicated to serving England’s fighting men. We are all aware of the surfeit of injuries sustained in the recent conflicts both abroad and in our colonies. The major brought to my attention the sad fact that most doctors treating our soldiers at home are ill-equipped to meet the specific demands of their recovery. Civilian doctors, not surprisingly, must also deal with issues of mental philosophy and a widespread need for prosthetics.”

“Indeed, Lord Seldon?” Lord Ehnes leaned forward. “My son served with the Hussars in France and thank God, returned unscathed. Come to think, several of his friends weren’t so lucky. I suppose you have encountered many such cases firsthand, Major Fairfax?”

“I have, Lord Ehnes, and nothing has pained me more than the loss of my men, except to see them come home and struggle in their recovery. As most of you may know, I suffered grave injuries in Rangoon. Fortunately, I had the means to seek proper care, but that is not the case with the vast majority of our soldiers.”

Richard filled his glass, swirling it contemplatively. He set it down firmly and regarded the other men. “I’ve been turning over the idea of forming an endowment, of which I would hold the trust, to make this idea a reality. Major Fairfax has garnered support among current and retired military leaders, and I intend to reach out to my peers. I think there are many like-minded men to support such an institution. And after some thought, I propose we offer the purse in this race as a donation to the enterprise.”

“Hear, hear!” Evan raised his glass.

Lord Ehnes nodded in approval, and Alastair could scarcely believe his ears and good fortune. Richard Merrick had accomplished what months of struggling had failed to do for Alastair in less than an hour. And that the earl took it upon himself to lead the effort practically guaranteed the odds of success for his project.

“Well done, gentlemen. I’ll pull in Fellingham after dinner, and we can discuss some details later,” Richard said. As Richard and Lord Ehnes moved on to the particulars of tomorrow’s race, Rafe escorted Octavia and Genevieve into the dining room.

The gentlemen stood at once, and Evan declared the ladies a welcome diversion from the business at hand. Octavia glowed in her preferred watered silk of deep rose, and ostrich feathers ornamented her deep chestnut curls, while Genevieve’s powder-blue gown set off her fair looks to perfection. She sat beside her husband, and to Alastair’s chagrin, Octavia settled next to her. There would be little chance for anything but the most general interaction.

Conversation and wine flowed freely during the excellent dinner, served á la française, with two removes. The topics broached were as diverse as the current state of politics and foreign affairs, moving to a debate whether the poetry of young Alfred Tennyson would replace Wordsworth’s in popularity. After Genevieve happened to ask if the new Italian soprano at Covent Garden was worth seeing, a spirited argument between Rafe and Lord Ehnes ensued regarding her merits.

The Marquis of Fellingham finally made an appearance, and as he caught up to the food and wine, he revealed shocking news about Lord Crenshaw, a gentleman Alastair didn’t know, but the others recognized immediately. Apparently, the young man gambled away his entire fortune in one night at Crockford’s and threw himself into the Thames, only to be recovered still conscious by the river police.

Lord Hope broke the somber atmosphere by sparking a lively discussion about the rumored exchange of state secrets in one of Countess Lieven’s legendary salons. Genevieve proposed to investigate and report back, since she and Octavia were to attend a lavish dinner party at the countess’s home on Thursday.

At ten o’clock, the ladies excused themselves for dessert and coffee in the parlor, followed by a game of vingt-et-un. Meanwhile, the servers in the dining room changed the wine for port and brandy, and laid the table with custards, fruits, and cheeses.

Inevitably, talk settled on the race, and then discussion on the hospital resurfaced, bringing Lord Fellingham up to speed. The marquis announced his support and agreed to turn over the purse to the enterprise. By the time Alastair excused himself and headed to his room, it was nearing midnight, and the parlor was empty.

Perhaps it was the excess of alcohol, but he made his way rather despondently upstairs to the dimly lit hallway, having lost an entire evening with Octavia, although he most probably had gained a hospital. They hadn’t the chance to finalize any plans for walking in the morning, but most likely, he would wake with a blistering hangover anyway.

Upon opening the door to his room, something on the floor caught his eye: a square of folded paper. He stood by the fireplace and opened the note, written on hotel stationery. Octavia would meet him in the morning at eight o’clock, with her maid following from a discreet distance. When Richard’s valet knocked a bit later to help him undress, Alastair’s mood had improved greatly.

The next morning, he planned to be downstairs quarter to eight. But it was not an easy task. On rising at six o’clock, he fell back with a groan, holding his head and cursing loudly. When able to rise without feeling fishy about the gills, he called for a tub of the coldest water available and submerged his entire head several times until it cleared, a useful trick he picked up in the army.

After liberally splashing water over his body, he dried off and summoned the valet to shave and dress. Stopping at the mirror one last time, he straightened the olive Newmarket coat and smoothed back his blond hair, which had tousled stubbornly as it dried.

So now he paced the foyer, nervous as a boy at his first dance. Most likely, everyone would wake in the same state he did and rise slowly. He calculated they could safely linger until ten. When Octavia descended the stairs dressed in a striped gown the color of daffodils, his heart jumped awkwardly.

“Good morning, Miss Merrick.” Her maid, a diminutive young woman with auburn hair, followed not far behind.

“And to you, Major. Did you gentlemen keep late hours last night? Richard woke me when he stumbled over the doorstep into his room next door and then cursed Stephen roundly for helping him up.” Odd, Alastair thought randomly; the earl showed no signs of being foxed like the rest of them.

“This is Marie,” Octavia said.