Free Dangerous Dalliance by Joan Smith Page A

the pigeon races,” I said. “I cannot think what else he would be doing with Papa.”
    “Never heard of a Corinthian betting on pigeons,” Bunny said. “Though now you mention it, they do sometimes bet on pigs and dogs and what-not. Bet on anything, really. Thing to do, ask him tonight when he calls. You said he was calling?”
    “Yes,” I replied, with a conscious smile.
    “Flies too high for you, m’dear,” Bunny warned. “Regular dasher. Top o’ the trees. Higher.”
    Far from depressing my intention, this only pushed Lord Fairfield closer to the sun, and increased my desire to attach him. The mutton arrived and was consumed with some pleasure. As we sipped our tea, I said, “I wonder what time Lord Fairfield will call. Perhaps we ought to go upstairs now. We would not want to keep him waiting.”
    Mrs. Lovatt abetted me in this notion. We had often discussed the dearth of good partis at Hythe. We had no objection to a gambling man, so long as he could afford his pleasure, and Lord Fairfield obviously could count on his father to foot any little overdrafts he might accumulate.
    After running upstairs with our dinner still in our throats, we waited a full hour for Fairfield’s tap at the door. When he came, he was thought well worth the wait. Unlike Bunny, he looked stunning in his evening clothes. They fit so well, they might have grown on him. The dramatic black outfit was enhanced by his white cravat, his high coloring, and the brilliancy of his blue eyes.
    As he made his bows, I wondered which seat he would take. When he walked to the sofa and sat beside me, I felt flustered, and insensibly pleased.
    “What was the matter you wished to discuss, Lord Fairfield?” I asked, after a few civilities had been exchanged.
    “I share your late father’s fascination with pigeon racing,” he said, with a somewhat embarrassed look in Smythe’s direction. “Truth to tell, I have come a cropper racing my nags. Pigeons are cheaper. I have heard word along the grapevine that your father had a rare champion, a bird named Caesar, I believe. I do not wish to appear callous, but since your father’s demise, I wondered if you were planning to sell off his birds. I should like to make an offer on Caesar and Cleo, and perhaps some of the others.”
    “So that is how you met Papa!” I exclaimed.
    “Met him?” he asked in surprise.
    “Mrs. Mobley mentioned she had seen you with him, right here at this hotel.”
    He frowned a moment, then seemed to recall. “It is true, I did once approach him last winter. I introduced myself as a fellow racer, but he was rather busy at the time. We just exchanged cards. Your father said he would be in touch, but he never contacted me. I did not like to put myself forward with the country’s most renowned breeder.”
    It seemed incredible that Lord Fairfield should be shy of putting himself forward anywhere, but I was flattered that he had so much respect for Papa. “I do plan to sell the whole roost,” I said, “but the pigeons are trained like homing pigeons, to return to Gracefield. What use would they be to you, milord?” I had not actually promised Snoad to keep the pigeons.
    He hesitated a moment, then said, “For breeding. It seems a shame to let those two prodigies die out. I expect you will have any number of buyers after them. What price are you asking for them?”
    “Snoad would be the one to give us the price. He runs the roost,” I explained.
    “Snoad?” he asked, his brows raised in question.
    “Snoad is the man who helped Papa train his birds. He is very knowledgeable, I believe. He used to be with the Duchess of Prescott, at Branksome Hall.”
    “Trained with the Duchess of Prescott, you say? She certainly has a fine flock. Would it be convenient for me to visit you at Gracefield, after your return?”
    “We would be very happy to see you, milord,” I said, and could not suppress a smile.
    “Has Snoad been with you long?” he asked.
    “For two years,