He nodded. “We’ll be in once I’ve put up my gelding.”

“We have grooms to do that,” she said. “I was fortunate that all my uncle’s housestaff stayed on.”

“I always put up my own horse.”

Rafe walked his gelding toward the carriage house for a good brushing down. Whenever he came in from a hard ride—or a hard run, a hard bout—he needed a task like this to calm him. All that energy didn’t just dissipate into the air.

And tonight, he needed a private word with a certain someone. A certain someone who’d just up and declared that his name was Montague.

“What the devil was all that about?” he asked, as soon as Clio was out of earshot. “Who’s this Montague person? We agreed you’d act as my valet.”

“Well, that was before I saw this place! Cor, look at it.”

“I’ve looked at it.”

The castle was impressive, Rafe had to admit. But he’d seen finer. He’d been raised in finer.

“I want a proper room in that thing,” Bruiser said, gesturing at the stone edifice. “No, I want my own tower. I certainly don’t want to be your valet. Stuck below stairs, eating my meals in the servants’ hall with the housemaids. Not that I can’t appreciate a fresh-faced housemaid on occasion. Or, for that matter, a well-turned footman.”

That was Bruiser. He’d tup anything. “How egalitarian of you, Mr. Bruno Aberforth Montague.”

“Esquire. Don’t forget the esquire.”

Oh, Rafe was trying very hard to forget the esquire. “Miss Whitmore’s sister is here. That’s Lady Cambourne. Along with her husband, Sir Teddy Cambourne.”

“So?” Bruiser said. “I know you try hard to forget it, but you’re Lord Rafe Brandon. I have no problem speaking with you.”

“That’s different. I don’t answer to that title anymore. I walked away from all this years ago.”

“And now you’re walking back. How difficult can it be?”

More difficult than you could imagine.

Hell, Rafe was worried about feeling like an imposter, and he’d been raised on these grand estates.

“Listen,” he said. “You’re the son of a washerwoman and a tavernkeeper, who makes his living organizing illegal prizefights. And you’ve just inserted yourself with a class of people so far above your usual world they might as well be wearing clouds. Just how do you plan to pull this off?”

“Relax. You know me, I get on with everyone. And I have a new hat.”

Rafe looked at the felted beaver twirling on Bruiser’s finger. “That’s my hat.”

“At dinner and suchlike, I’ll just watch what you do.”

Wonderful plan, that. Rafe scarcely remembered proper etiquette anymore.

“And then there’s my secret weapon.” With a glance in either direction, he pulled a small brass object from his pocket. “Picked up this little beauty in a pawnbroker’s.”

Rafe looked at it. “A quizzing glass. Really.”

“I’m telling you, these things scream upper crust. You should get one, Rafe. No, I mean it. Someone talks over your head? Quizzing glass. Someone asks a question you can’t answer? Quizzing glass.”

“You honestly think a stupid monocle is all you need to blend in with the aristocracy?”

Bruiser raised the quizzing glass and peered at Rafe through the lens. Solemnly.

The idiot might be onto something.

“Just don’t cock this up,” he warned.

“Oh, I’m not going to cock this up. Remember, I’m your second. I’m always in your corner.”

But this wasn’t a prizefight. It was something much more dangerous.

As a visitor to Twill Castle, Rafe would be out of his element. When he was out of his element, he grew restless. And when he grew restless, his impulsive, reckless nature came to the fore. People got hurt.

He would need to be careful here.

“So when is the wedding planner arriving?” he asked.

Bruiser went curiously silent.

“You did engage the services of a wedding planner?”

“Certainly I did. His name is Bruno Aberforth Montague, Esquire.”

Rafe cursed. “I can’t believe this.”

Bruiser lifted his hands in defense. “Where was I supposed to find a wedding planner? I’m not even certain such people exist. But it doesn’t matter. This is going to be perfect. You’ll see.”

“I doubt that. You know less about planning weddings than I do.”

“No, no. That’s not true.”

Bruiser’s eyes took on that bright, excited glint that Rafe had learned to recognize over the years. And dread.

“Think about it, Rafe. I’m a trainer and promoter. It’s what I do all the time. I find two people, evenly matched. Send out the word. Draw crowds desperate to see them in the same place. And most of all, I know how to get a fighter’s head”—he poked a single finger into the center of Rafe’s forehead—“into the ring, long before fight day.”

“Bruiser.”

“Aye?”

“Take your finger off my head, or I will break it.”

He complied, patting Rafe’s shoulders. “There’s that fighting spirit.”

Rafe brushed down the horse with vigorous strokes. “This will never work. It’s going to be a disaster.”

“It will work. I promise you. We’re going to drape her in silks. Drown her in flowers and fancy cakes, until she’s giddy with bridal excitement. Until she already sees herself walking down that aisle, clear as day in her mind. I’m your man, Rafe. No one knows how to drum up anticipation and spectacle better than me.”