Wedding Wagers

by Donna Hatch

  Not that Victor was any sort of saint. But the art of gambling was just that: an art. Common sense had to prevail, and that meant rules. And the first rule was to never bet what you didn’t have.

  Half an hour later, Southill was down one hundred pounds, and Victor was up two hundred and fifty. Nothing surprising there, but Southill looked stunned as Victor collected his winnings.

  “It was nice visiting with you, Southill,” Victor said. “Why don’t you join your friend Ludlow now? We’re about to play another round.”

  Southill slapped his hands onto the table. “Deal me in.”

  “I said one game.”

  Southill reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. “I’ve got the money, and I want to play. Deal me in.”

  Victor estimated that Southill gripped at least three hundred pounds in his sweaty hand. It wasn’t a small fortune in the grand scheme of things. Hundreds of pounds exchanged hands each night at White’s.

  “Keep your money,” Victor said. “It sounds like you’ve been on a losing streak, and certainly you have responsibilities at home to take care of. A wife? Maybe a child?”

  “Only my sister, but her dowry will keep her husband’s hearth plenty warm once she marries.” Southill’s blue eyes narrowed. “It’s not about the money, Locken. It’s about beating you.”

  This surprised Victor. “Why me? We haven’t seen each other for ten years.”

  Southill laughed. “Of course you would say that. What you did to me ten years ago affected everything—my entire future. The fact that you can sit there acting like you’ve forgotten only makes me more eager to wager against you.”

  Victor exhaled. “Pranks between schoolboys hardly signify ruining anyone’s future.”

  Southill leaped to his feet. “You almost got me expelled! My father nearly disowned me!”

  Victor stared at the man, then he slowly rose. If they’d been nose to nose, Victor would have towered over Southill by a good foot. Fortunately, a table separated the two tempers. “It was a prank, Southill. How was I supposed to know you were really cheating?”

  Southill’s face darkened a shade. “Don’t ever call me a cheat again.”

  Victor curled his hands into fists. Being a gentleman was hard work, hard because the only thing he wanted to do was punch Southill in the face. He and Southill had been about fifteen when Victor had tired of Southill’s constant bragging. He excelled in grades and athletics and always had a following of other brats. Victor could hold his own and was of higher station in society, but he kept to himself more than not.

  Victor wasn’t sure what had possessed him, perhaps it was resentment, but one morning, after hearing Southill once again brag about his test scores in mathematics, Victor had scrawled across the classroom wall four simple words: Southill is a cheat.

  It was a prank, a joke, and as predicted, when the boys all entered the classroom to begin their lessons for the day, there was laughter.

  But their headmaster, Beckington, didn’t find it amusing because he’d already suspected the perfect grades of Southill weren’t without fault. Beckington had ordered a complete search of Southill’s room and papers, and sure enough, damning evidence had been found when previous assignments from older students were discovered. Southill had been copying the answers and passing them off as his own.

  Until the discovery, Victor had had no idea there had been any truth behind the prank. And now . . . Victor understood why Southill stood across from him, his face red, his blue eyes like ice, and his chest heaving.

  A man of the gentry might gamble, drink, and womanize to his detriment, but cheating was akin to losing all honor.

  Lord Hudson stood. “Enough of this,” he commanded. The man was in his fifties, but as a former army colonel, he exuded authority wherever he went. “We are all reasonable men here.” He pointed at Southill. “You were guilty of cheating in school, so the failing is upon your head, not the person who exposed it.” Then he pointed at Victor. “Let the man play another round, if only to defend whatever honor he’s managed to scrape together the past ten years.”

  Southill’s face darkened an even deeper red. “He knows? Who else knows?”

  Victor refrained from scoffing. “Everyone knows. It’s one of the most famous legends at Eton.”

  Southill seemed to mull that over, then said, “I guess we’ve all got a reputation for something.”

  Victor refused to acknowledge that comment. His father had already made him feel guilty enough for being born in the first place. Because of Victor’s difficult birth, his mother had lost too much blood. She never recovered, and his father had lost the one person he’d ever cared about in the entire world.

  Victor lowered himself into his chair. Guilt was a useless emotion that never led to any good, but it was damned near impossible to get rid of. Guilt had made him miserable for nearly thirty years. Guilt was driving him to propose in the next few weeks to a woman he didn’t love in order to fulfill his duties as the future Duke of Wycliff. And guilt riddled Victor’s memory of his prank at Eton against Southill.

  Guilt guided his next words: “Sit down, Southill. Let’s play.”

  Chapter Two

  Lady Juliet Baldwin wanted to throw something. Anything. A collector had just come to her home, claiming that her brother owed a great deal of money to a London tailor. And the Mr. Peregrine something-or-other said he’d sent several notices that had gone unheeded to their London townhouse. Now, he’d had the audacity to make the two-hour carriage ride to Southill Estate to bring the debt notice himself.

  Juliet had been receiving quite a bit of mail for her brother over the past few months since their mourning period had ended. She hadn’t opened any of the letters, but she’d guessed they were from creditors. Now, Mr. Peregrine had confirmed that her brother was racking up debts and not paying them.

  Three months ago, she might have ignored a debt notice. Three months ago, she would have never imagined that her brother would go on a spending spree. Three months ago, she’d thought that losing her last surviving parent was the worst thing that could ever happen to her.

  Now she knew better.

  Juliet crossed the threadbare rug of the drawing room, picked up an embroidered pillow that had taken her weeks to create, and threw it as hard as she could at the cold hearth. The pillow landed with a soft thump. Hardly satisfactory. She picked up the next pillow—this one created by her mother—and Juliet paused. How had she stooped this low? Throwing pillows in a house that was falling apart?

  Her brother, Southill, had promised, promised, to see to the remodel her father had started before his long illness that had resulted in his death. Southill had then begged off until the mourning period was over. And Juliet had understood, she truly had, because everything had changed with her father’s death. Life was more urgent. Decisions more pressing. Not only did Juliet need to reconcile herself to making a marriage match, but she had to face leaving the home she’d grown up in and loved with all her heart.

  Who her husband would be, she did not know. At nineteen, she’d missed two London seasons already due to her father’s long illness and then the year of mourning that followed his death. Soon, she’d be on the shelf, but right now she didn’t care. Right now, she wanted to strangle her brother.

  Juliet set the embroidered pillow down, deciding to treat her mother’s needlework with the respect that it deserved. She left the room and made her way to her father’s library—well, now her brother’s. Not that he was ever home to spend time in it. Regardless, the moment Juliet stepped inside the dim room, she was overwhelmed with memories of her father. His cigar smoke lingered, and she envisioned him sitting in the chair behind the mahogany desk and raising his head when she walked in.

  She missed his smile. She missed his rumbling voice and booming laughter. “Papa,” she whispered. But no one answered.

  She blinked back the threatening tears and straightened her spine. She’d shed a year’s worth of tears o
ver her father’s death already, and it was time to be strong. She was the lady of the house, and there was a crisis to deal with. Taking out a quill and paper, she began to write to her brother.

  Dear John,

  This morning, I was greatly surprised when a Mr.—

  No. She had to be sterner.

  Dear Southill,

  It appears you have neglected our finances, and matters have reached a critical nature.

  She stared at the words, and despite her resolve, the tears came anyway, dripping onto the paper. She picked up another sheet and began again.

  Dear Southill,

  You are a careless and cold-hearted man. When I see you again, I will—

  The door to the library creaked open, and Juliet looked up, blinking away her angry tears.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Campton, stood there, her hands folded in front of her and worry lines creasing her forehead.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting, my lady, but I’ve used the last of the kitchen money for this week’s shopping. And now the egg boy is at the door, asking for payment. I put him off last week, so I don’t feel like I can put him off a second week.”

  Juliet didn’t move for a moment. Then she set down the quill and rose to her feet. Stoically, she walked with Mrs. Campton to the back door of the kitchen where young Ernest waited. Juliet reached into the sewn-in pocket of her dress and handed over the required coins. Ernest grinned his gapped-tooth smile, then bobbed into a half bow. “Thank you, m’lady.”

  Before Juliet could reply, he’d taken off running through the gardens and out the back gate, his bare feet pounding the damp spring earth.

  “When will the master return?” Mrs. Campton asked.

  It was the housekeeper’s way of asking when they would have funds again. She hadn’t been able to make the full salary payments to the household staff, the gardener, and the coachman on quarter day at the end of March. “I am writing to my brother today.”

  Mrs. Campton bobbed her head. “Very well. Dinner will be ready by six. Would you like it in the dining room?”

  “Of course,” Juliet said. Though she was the only one inside the house right now, she didn’t want to give in to the temptation to take her meals in her bedroom. While her brother was away, she was mistress, and she would keep up the appearance that all was well for as long as she could.

  Mrs. Campton returned to the kitchen, and Juliet kept her gaze on the back gardens for a few more moments. They needed to hire an additional gardener for the summer season. Last year, the lands had fallen into disrepair while her brother toured the continent, claiming he wanted to travel to places that their father had enjoyed in his memory.

  Juliet had remained behind, so she’d spent the better part of the past year on her own. She’d grown used to eating alone. Tonight would be no different. Juliet kept her chin up as she continued through the house and into the library. It was time for her brother to come home and set things to rights. The mourning period was over, and debts needed to be reconciled.

  She had just settled back at the writing desk again, ripped up her first attempts at letter-writing, and begun anew, when someone knocked at the front door. Juliet spilled a drop of ink and quickly blotted it. Mrs. Campton’s footsteps echoed across the wooden floors as she made her way to the front of the house.

  Juliet rose from the desk and hovered on the threshold of the library, listening to the conversation.

  It was a man, and he didn’t sound happy.

  “If Lord Southill isn’t at home, might I speak with Lady Juliet?”

  Mrs. Campton murmured something. There was no more reason for Juliet to delay the inevitable. She strode out of the library and into the main hall. Standing in the front entrance was Lord Stratford, their closest neighbor, a viscount, and a widowed man of indeterminable age. His two daughters were grown and married, off living somewhere with their own families.

  “Ah, Lady Juliet,” Lord Stratford said, his voice rising in pitch as he spotted her. He took off his hat and smoothed the thinning hair on top of his head. His next words were accompanied by rapid blinking, something he did quite often when he spoke. “It is a pleasure to find you at home.”

  His use of the word pleasure sent a rash of cold goose pimples across her skin. Juliet had never been bothered much by Lord Stratford’s tendency to ogle her—but that was before her father passed and before her brother left. Now, the longer she was left to her own devices, the more it bothered her.

  “I’m in the middle of writing my correspondence,” she began, but he cut her off.

  “This won’t take but a moment.” He turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Campton, won’t you bring us a spot of tea in the drawing room?”

  Juliet froze. How dare he order Mrs. Campton to bring tea? Lord Stratford used to visit with her father frequently, and they’d talk for hours about the horses that Stratford bred. Since her father’s passing, Juliet had avoided him as much as possible.

  Perhaps he was a harmless middle-aged man, but she resented how his gaze frequently rested in the area of her bosom.

  Resigned, she led the way to the drawing room.

  “Have you been riding lately?” he asked, as he took a seat. “I haven’t seen you about.”

  “I haven’t been since the last rainstorm.” In truth, she’d sold all their horses but two older mares. Another concession she’d had to make in order to procure more funds. Her brother didn’t even know since he hadn’t been home to notice. “Have you been riding?” she asked Lord Stratford. She at least had to speak with him until the tea came. After that, she could usher him out.

  Rather than answering her question, he said, “How does your brother fare?”

  “He is well, I am sure,” Juliet said, making her voice falsely cheerful. “I was composing a letter to him when you arrived.”

  “I hate to bring such a delicate matter to your attention, but I have been expecting payment on a pair of horses he had me send to him four weeks ago.” Lord Stratford shifted in his seat and blinked several times. His gaze surveyed her clothing, then returned to her face. “Your brother promised payment within the week, and nothing has come.”

  Anger flared inside Juliet. Her brother had recently purchased a pair of purebred horses while Juliet had been forced to sell most of what they had? She opened her mouth to reply that she certainly didn’t have any information on her brother’s financial agreements when Lord Stratford lifted his hand.

  “There have been rumors going about the village as well.” He cleared his throat. “I think you are grown enough to face the reality of what people are saying about your brother, as much as it pains me to be the bearer of delicate news.”

  Juliet went very still. “Continue.”

  “I am only repeating what I have heard, mind you,” he said. “Know that I have not spread any of the information. Right here in your drawing room is the first I have spoken of it.”

  Juliet folded her hands together, clenching her fingers.

  “It is rumored that your brother has been frequenting gambling halls over the past year,” he said in a slow and careful tone, “and in that time, he’s gambled away a good deal of his fortune.”

  Juliet stared at the man seated across from her. The gray hairs threaded through his sideburns were nearly white now. Why she was noticing such a detail at this time, she did not know. He also breathed loudly, as if he were the one to receive shocking news. And then Juliet realized that it was her breathing she was hearing.

  “How much?” she whispered.

  Lord Stratford’s mouth turned down, and he seemed to be considering whether he should answer her question.

  “How much?” Juliet asked in a louder, clearer voice. “How much has he lost?”

  Stratford exhaled and blinked before speaking. “I do not know an exact number, but he has not paid any creditors in over six months. If I had known, I would have never sent him my horses.”

  Juliet nodded. “I thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
She felt as if she’d been hollowed out. She hoped to high heaven Lord Stratford was misinformed, but the emptiness spreading through her told her that he was not far off the mark.

  “If there is anything I can do for you,” Lord Stratford began.

  She lifted her hand. “Say no more. I will write to my brother directly and ask him when he intends to pay for your horses.”

  “If it won’t be too much of a burden.”

  It was too late to worry about burdens—they were already upon her.

  His gaze again dipped, although she was wearing a highly modest dress. “Lady Juliet, for some time I have been wondering if you would be opposed to a match between us.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but no reply came out. Was he . . . proposing marriage? She could not fathom what to say to this man in this moment.

  He blinked rapidly as he smiled. “I see that I have startled you. There is no hurry to make a decision, and I would have to speak with your brother in any case. I run a profitable estate, and I will give you a comfortable life.” His smile broadened, turning almost greedy. “If we have a son together, then all the better.”

  Mrs. Campton came into the room, carrying a silver tea tray.

  Juliet stood and clasped her trembling fingers. “Lord Stratford was just leaving.”

  If he was shocked at her rudeness, he didn’t show it. Lord Stratford simply stood, bowed before her, then said with a suggestive wink, “I look forward to your reply.”

  Embarrassment burned through Juliet.

  Mrs. Campton stared after Lord Stratford as he left the room, then she looked at Juliet. After a moment, the housekeeper set the tea tray on the low table without another word.

  When Mrs. Campton had vacated the room, Juliet crossed to the windows. The clouds were heavy, and sure enough, rain sprinkled the road leading to the house. She needed to finish the letter to her brother right away to make the afternoon post. But right now, she felt numb all over.

  She didn’t know which angered her more: a marriage proposal from Lord Stratford or the news about her brother’s imminent ruin. If she weren’t a woman, she would make the trip to London herself to hunt down her brother. As it was, she was well and truly stuck, dependent upon a brother who was apparently gambling every bit of their money away. And Lord Stratford’s offer brought her no comfort. She’d rather be a spinster than marry him.