Oliver Greystock, the new Earl of Saintbury, was brought up and went to college with the understanding that he would be a curate or vicar -- in service to people. When he inherits, he does his best to continue his good works, joining an Association that works with the poor and opening some of the earliest soup kitchens. His work earns him the title of the Saint amongst the ton.
Lord Anthony Harcourt, Tony to his friends, is a young buck about town with a fortune and nothing to do except amuse himself. Still, he is suffering from ennui and can’t shake his boredom until one of his friends suggests setting his sights on the ton’s newest darling, the Saint. Tony decides he’s up for the challenge.
Then Tony gets more than he bargained for on a night with the Saint and Oliver’s kitchen becomes the site of several murders, entwining their lives even further.
Caesar tugged on the bit, and Tony let him go, knowing he had a proud, stylish trot. This was just what he had needed. The weather was fair and it was the perfect day to be out. Although it wasn’t the fashionable hour yet, there were plenty of other riders and drivers. It was a fine time to admire and be admired, for even as he glanced among the crowds for the best horses and riders, he could also feel eyes upon him.
Unexpectedly, his eye fell upon a pairing that was jarring when compared with the usual symmetry he preferred. The animal itself was black, an Irish warm blood, Tony guessed. A fine creature with an excellent stride, but rather too large for the slender figure riding it. The figure was also a fine one, with a respectable seat and perfectly tailored clothing. Tony was quickly beginning to associate the fashionable unfashionableness with one person and he urged Caesar to a quicker trot so he could see if he was correct.
He was, and immediately slowed Caesar to the ambling walk Saintbury was comfortably settled into. As he came abreast, Saintbury glanced over in surprise, but then immediately smiled and touched the brim of what Tony noted was a handsomely-shaped beaver hat. “Lord Harcourt.”
“Saintbury,” Tony nodded in return. “Tremendous animal.”
“He is,” Saintbury laughed slightly. “Indeed, I believe he might be the largest horse I’ve ever ridden. He belonged to the late earl and even though he hasn’t been taken out in some time, he’s most well-behaved.”
That made sense, the late earl had been a large man, although a well-behaved horse was surprising considering his previous owner was renowned for his vile temper. “Not visiting Tattersall’s anytime, then?”
“I see no reason to sell such a good creature,” Saintbury patted the black’s neck, “Although I daresay he’d like more exercise than the Row provides.”
Saintbury’s words caused an unexpected warmth in Tony’s chest, and although it was not the conversation he’d intended to have with the man, he found himself saying, “Richmond Park is just the thing you want. Plenty of space for a fine, long gallop. You’d both enjoy it, I daresay.”
The single dimple flashed. “Thank you, Harcourt. I find myself in your debt again.”
“Again?”
“For inviting me to join you in the Silverdale box. I would have had a very dull evening otherwise.”
“I hope you didn’t find Merivale and Twyford too intolerable,” Tony decided he was tired of niceties. “I had actually been hoping to speak to you privately that night, but my friends made it impossible.” He guided Caesar off the path and onto the grass. It was devilish hard to hold such a conversation on the Row.
As expected, Saintbury followed him. “Privately?”
“Sometimes privacy is best achieved in a crowd.” Tony glanced around. Many pairs or groups stopped alongside the Row to converse. They would not be noted. “Twyford mentioned that he’d heard word of you at Cambridge.”
The dark eyes narrowed as Saintbury drew back. “I’ve heard word of him as well,” he said defensively.
“Here now, there’s no need for unpleasantness.” It suddenly occurred to Tony that if Saintbury the curate had become one of those men who hated what he was, this could turn very unpleasant indeed. “If your ... inclinations have changed since Cambridge, merely say so and I’ll be on my way, never to bother you again.”
Saintbury did not say so. He said nothing, although his lips were parted as if he meant to speak.
Tony decided to take this as a sign of encouragement. “But if you are of the same inclinations, I would invite you to join me at DuQuesne’s Parlour. I can call for you at nine tonight, if that is acceptable.”
The earl drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Until nine, then,” he touched his hat brim again, then abruptly turned his horse back onto the Row at a rapid canter and disappeared into the increasing crowd.
Tony watched him go. So the Saint was a bit shy. That was to be expected and might prove to be most enjoyable.
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