The Marquess' Daring Wager (The Duke's Pact Book 2)

by Kate Archer

  At least the dinner was to be a good one, if she could not say the same for the company. Lady Hugh had accomplished nothing short of a miracle. The meal appeared to have been planned for weeks, with every good thing one might wish for—both a white and brown soup, turbot in a sauce, roasted chicken, fricasseed rabbit, a joint of mutton, roasted beef, potatoes au gratin, sautéed green beans, boiled beets, and roasted aubergines, all accompanied by Lord Hugh’s excellent wines.

  “Lady Sybil,” Lord Dalton said, turning to her, “May I presume that Lord Lockwood accompanied Miss Mapleton to her father’s house?”

  The soup turned sour in her mouth as Sybil laid down her spoon. “He did not, my lord. Lord Lockwood left the following day.”

  “Oh, I see,” Lord Dalton said with a little laugh.

  “What amuses, my lord?” Sybil asked with some asperity.

  “Only that my friend is not very subtle,” Lord Dalton said. “What reason did he give for decamping in the middle of a house party? I cannot believe he truly claimed to meet with his mother.”

  Sybil felt her cheeks flush as she said, “Lord Lockwood did in fact claim his mother was to be in York and wished to see him.”

  Repeating the ridiculous excuse was embarrassing, as if they had all been treated like fools.

  “Did he really?” Lord Dalton said, now looking vastly amused. “Lady Gravesley has come to York? How extraordinary that I saw her in London not a week ago and she said not a word about it, though I mentioned my own journey here.”

  Sybil could not go on maintaining a façade of civility. She said, “My lord, we are all perfectly well aware that Lady Gravesley does not come, and we are all perfectly well aware that Lord Lockwood chases after Miss Mapleton in the most pathetic manner possible.”

  “I see,” Lord Dalton said. “So then, his inclination toward the lady is widely known? I thought perhaps his letter to me was a joke or that he had drunk too much wine before putting ink to paper.”

  Sybil felt her heart speed until it raced along like any horse given its head. Lord Lockwood had written a letter. About Poppy.

  “A letter?” she asked casually.

  “It seemed a bit of nonsense, really,” Lord Dalton said. “Though I thought my friends and I ought to come and see for ourselves what went on. After all, to so suddenly receive a communication from a man who has no intention of marrying anytime soon and find it filled with trite phrases of love and how he will die if she does not have him? It seemed preposterous.”

  Though her heart had been beating faster than it ought, it now seemed to suddenly still. She had been right. Lord Lockwood was besotted by Poppy Mapleton. Though she knew she had been right all along, having confirmation of it felt like a weight upon her chest. That weight possessed a certain fury that ran through her breast like hot lead.

  “I do not see why you should find yourself so surprised, Lord Dalton. Certainly, you wagered with Lord Lockwood to send him into this house in the first place.”

  Lord Dalton appeared momentarily taken aback. Sybil found some small satisfaction that he should have thought that he and his friends were so clever, and now been apprised that they were woefully transparent.

  “Do not look so shocked,” she went on. “You must consider us rubes to imagine we would not divine Lord Lockwood’s real purpose. He invents a distant connection to Lord Hugh and invites himself here? Then he spends all his time following my father around and heaping compliments upon him? We guessed instantly that there were at least two wagers—make the acquaintance of the beauty of the north and win over Lord Blanding.”

  Lord Dalton stared at Sybil. “You have discovered us,” he said smoothly. “Very well, it was a stupid sort of thing. We certainly did not anticipate Lockwood would fall for the lady.”

  “It seems to me,” Sybil said darkly, “that you gentlemen are never very skilled at anticipating what might happen. Cassandra Knightsbridge can certainly attest to it. She may have chosen to forgive Lord Hampton, but I can assure you the Hayworths have a longer memory.”

  Lord Dalton had the good grace to flush and turn to Lady Hugh.

  Sybil was then forced to attend to Lord Grayson, though she hardly attended him at all. Her speculations had been confirmed. Lord Lockwood had come to Yorkshire upon a wager and was now violently in love with Poppy Mapleton. He was probably at her father’s house now, as he most certainly was not waiting on his mother in York.

  It should not matter to her at all. It did not in the least. She was convinced that her roiling feelings were only to do with her humiliation over thinking she was preferred and discovering her mistake.

  And then, Poppy was such a dear girl. Should she not be saved, or at least warned, about the gentlemen of the pact and their shameful machinations?

  But perhaps Poppy could not be worked on by Lord Lockwood. Had she not voiced her condemnation of him and his friends’ treatment of Cassandra?

  Lord Lockwood might find himself very disappointed.

  Alas, that did not affect the lack of Sybil Hayworth’s attractions.

  “My friends and I are most charmed to see you,” Lord Grayson said to Sybil.

  Sybil looked up at him and said, “Do stop, my lord. Your hollow compliments are irksome.”

  She found herself satisfied that Lord Grayson did stop, and that he stopped with two bright pink circles on his cheeks. She was well aware of his reputation. It was said that many a young lady had ended a season in tears, convinced Lord Grayson had paid them marked attention and then going home with nothing conclusive being said. No engagement was to be forthcoming. He toyed and sported with women and thought very well of himself in the doing of it. He had been a fool to imagine his shallow charms could work on Sybil Hayworth.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’ve had another letter,” Richard said to his valet.

  They had settled into rooms at the Queen Anne and ordered enough food for ten men. Or, in the alternative, two men, and one boy who appeared to have hollow legs to store it all in. Richard was not inclined to order separate dinners, one for himself and one for his servants, as when there was nobody else about, he and Kingston had always lived very casually. Especially since the war. As they were all to be camped at a hotel for a few days, formality seemed even less necessary. He had heard descriptions of the boy’s insatiable appetite from his appalled valet and ordered accordingly.

  The four trays overloaded with food had methodically disappeared under Charlie’s careful attention. The lad had worked his way through heaps of boiled potatoes, stacks of mutton chops, a basket of rolls, a bowl of butter, and half a Savoy cake as Kingston looked on in disgust.

  “My mother writes that she is delayed and will be here by evening on the morrow,” Richard said. “As is her nature, she does not bother to explain the delay or apologize for any inconvenience. Dash it, I could have stayed on at Dartsfell Hall and delayed my journey for another day.”

  Charlie leaned against a bedpost, though Kingston had scolded him a dozen times for forever leaning on things like an urchin holding up a lamp pole. “That’s more good luck than not,” he said. “I been poking around the place, speakin’ to various fellas to get the what’s what round here.”

  “I told you that you are not to make yourself a nuisance in this establishment,” Kingston said. “You’re likely to get thrown out on your ear and I won’t help you if you do.”

  “No worries, pal,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Ain’t nobody throwing me out by my ear. They’re growin’ fond of me, as people generally do.”

  “Pal? Pal!” Kingston shouted, his face growing an alarming shade of red. “I am not your pal. That term is banned immediately and forever!”

  Charlie shrugged. The list of sobriquets that had been banned immediately and forever had so far included: mate, chap, brother, old sot, my good fella, soldier, pet, cub, gent, and even velote, which was, apparently, “old man” in Portuguese.

  Richard laughed and said, “Come now, Kingston. We are at loose ends
at the moment. We might as well hear the what’s what of the place.”

  “It’s like this, my lord,” Charlie said in a confidential tone. “Seeing as how you are in a pickle with that boat race, I made inquiries. Seems there’s a lake not so very far from here and a boat that may be had for three shillings an hour. You catch the drift?”

  At inquiring if his master “caught the drift,” Charlie was promptly smacked on the head by the valet. The boy was entirely unmoved, as this had become such a regular occurrence that it was no more alarming than if Kingston had patted him on the shoulder.

  “I might practice,” Richard said with enthusiasm. “I might figure it all out before that blasted regatta.”

  Charlie folded his arms. “The drift, exactly. Now, I’m also thinkin’ you’ll need crew. There’s too much to keep track of, what with the wind direction, and the sail flying about, and the tiller that’s to go one way when you want the other way, and that board in the center we ain’t sure what to do with.”

  Kingston appeared to go green over this idea. Charlie laughed and said, “Not you, friend. You’re too big, you’ll weigh the thing down.”

  “I am not your friend,” Kingston said in a low voice. “Banned!”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Richard said thoughtfully. “And the centerboard only comes up when we go downwind. We know what to do with it, we just do not know why.”

  “And there’s cork jackets to be rented at a shilling a piece,” Charlie said.

  “Cork jackets. My God,” Richard said, “can’t you swim?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Charlie said. “The closest I’ve got to swimming is those wretched baths your man keeps throwing me into. I can’t say I favor it.”

  *

  Lady Montague had the brandy decanter brought into the drawing room. There was much to discuss after the dinner at Dartsfell Hall.

  After James had poured and closed the door, she said, “Well? How did you get on?”

  Lord Dalton took a long swig of brandy and said, “The stars were aligned, Lady Montague. It was almost too easy. Not only does Lady Sybil believe that Lockwood has gone chasing after Miss Mapleton, but she’s been ranged against him from the first over some idea of there being wagers afoot. As if that were not convenient enough, she still carries the torch of condemnation over that little incident that occurred with Miss Knights—er, Lady Hampton.”

  “What sort of bets does she speak of?” Lord Cabot asked.

  “She thinks there was a wager between us concerning making the acquaintance of Miss Mapleton and, even more strangely, another to win the approval of Lord Blanding. I cannot even think what that one is about. I suppose it matters not, what she does not think is that Lockwood pushed his way into the Hughs’ house party on her account.”

  “My God,” Ashworth said, laughing. “He broke out of your house in pursuit of Lady Sybil, and Lady Sybil thinks he’s been all the while attempting to win a bet regarding Miss Mapleton.”

  “And another bet on Lord Blanding,” Lord Dalton said drily.

  Lord Grayson smiled. “If Lockwood has been attempting to woo Lady Sybil, I would say he’s done a remarkably bad job of it. Though, considering the lady’s temperament, I am not certain who could do a good job of it.”

  Lord Ashworth said, “I suspect Lady Sybil does not find you as charming as you find yourself, Grayson.”

  Lord Grayson shrugged.

  “I believe our friend Lockwood is safe from the evils of marriage,” Lord Dalton said.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Lady Montague said, “it is all well and good to rescue your friend from an ill-favored match, but you must not think marriage is so very bad.”

  “Remind me, where is Lord Montague just now?” Lord Dalton asked with a small smile.

  Lady Montague, not accustomed to being teased, took the question on its face. “I banished him to the dower house, do you not recall?”

  “Precisely,” Lord Dalton said.

  Lady Montague looked quizzically at Lord Dalton.

  Lord Cabot said, “Well, it seems our work is done here.”

  “Indeed not!” Lady Montague exclaimed. “While the seeds are firmly planted, they will need tending. We will attend both the regatta and Lady Hugh’s ball, and the regatta dinner if I can manage it. There, we will reinforce every idea that has been neatly buried in the soil, we will water them all and watch them grow. I need only write to Lady Hugh and say you wish to be her guests. She dare not refuse.”

  *

  Sybil curled up in a chair by the fire. Betty had urged her to get into her bed, but she could not sleep. She was as restless as a cat. It was a cold and damp evening and her maid had kindly built up the fire so she would not catch a chill and then brought in a cup of hot milk punch to soothe her into sleepiness. The punch tasted perhaps too liberally dosed with brandy, but Sybil doubted it would make her sleepy.

  What a strange circumstance—to know a thing, and then to really know a thing. Lord Dalton’s revelations had stunned. Lord Lockwood had taken the time to write his friend a letter. A letter filled with his love for Poppy Mapleton.

  Knowing of the letter made everything Lord Lockwood had said and done feel different. He’d asked if he could do any little errand for her in York which had seemed a weak cup of tea. She’d been sure his thoughts were all of Miss Mapleton. But to know that his heart was nearly bursting with love for Poppy! That he was so overcome he must write his friends of it. That was, somehow, very different.

  Sybil balled her tiny fists and beat the sides of her chair. It was so unfair! Why should Poppy Mapleton be so blessed and she be so cursed? If God were kind, would he not have spread the beauty out more evenly? Or would he at least have opened her eyes to herself long before this late date? It would have been far better to have known herself as she truly was all along.

  She was amusing, she supposed, but then a lady like Poppy came on the scene and Sybil was no more interesting than a discarded toy.

  Poppy might just marry him. After all, her father was likely to favor the match—his daughter would become a duchess.

  And then, Lord Lockwood could make himself so pleasant and he was so very handsome. Might that not get over whatever Poppy’s feelings were about his involvement in the scheme against Cassandra?

  Sybil had been leaning forward, staring into the fire as if the blaze held some vital information. She sat back. Of course Poppy would forgive him. Cassandra had forgiven Lord Hampton and she’d been the very victim of the plot. Poppy had not been anywhere near the scene, she’d only condemned it in the general way of things. In any case, Poppy Mapleton was not a Hayworth. She likely forgave people all the time, as seemed to be the fashion.

  They would marry. Of course they would.

  “It is not right,” Sybil said softly.

  She closed her eyes. She could not precisely say why it was not right, until an idea bloomed from her heart that was so horrifying that her mind instantly dismissed it.

  “Do not be ridiculous, Sybil. You have no particular feelings for Lord Lockwood. Your pride is stung, that is all.”

  Her mind was very firm on the opinion and directed her heart to stop talking nonsense. She drained the hot milk punch and hoped that Betty had put as much brandy in it as possible.

  Her eyes settled on a letter on the side table. It was from Penny Darlington and Sybil had thought she’d wait to read it until after the vile dinner. She’d thought she might write back to Penny about all the things that had been said and done.

  Now, she certainly would never write down the real facts of the evening. She did not even wish to think of them, much less document them. Nobody must ever know of her humiliation. Nobody must ever know that she’d been so prideful as to think herself preferred, and her discovery that she was not.

  Sybil tore the letter open and scanned the contents.

  Dear Sybil,

  I know I ought to have waited until you had responded to my last letter, but a rumor so bizarre is making the rounds tha
t I could not wait. It is said that Lord Lockwood was pursued across the countryside by his friends. Some people even say that Lord Dalton had him under lock and key and he escaped. They say Lord Lockwood was in pursuit of a lady and that his friends were very much against it. Now, my dear Sybil, we come to the most alarming part of the tale. There are those who are convinced that Lord Lockwood stays with the Hughs! If he is there, you must know the real circumstances—has he come in pursuit of you? If he is not there, I would be pleased to correct the unfounded gossip going round like a forest fire. Please do write and tell me whatever you know of this peculiar story. As your friend, I hope I discover that you know nothing about it, as I remember your meeting with Lord Lockwood at Lady Hathaway’s ball and your determination to have nothing to do with him.

  London is hot, but my father has got on well in founding his stud club. I have never seen so many fine horses and even finer pedigrees in one place. I have convinced Mr. Jellington to sell me a fine grey, her name is Bella. Lord Cabot was here, though he seems to have disappeared and people are convinced he is one of the party chasing Lord Lockwood. A shame, as I’d hoped to see his horse Excelsior once more. Oh dear, how I do run on about horses…

  Yours,

  Penny Darlington

  Sybil laid the letter down. How was she to answer it? If Lord Lockwood had evaded his friends in such a strange and incomprehensible manner, then his motive was certainly not Lady Sybil. If she were to answer Penny truthfully, she must say that Lord Lockwood did indeed come to the Hughs’, but it was not in pursuit of her. In fact, she would need to own knowing Lord Cabot’s whereabouts too—he and his friends had come to see about their friend. It seemed everybody was on the move, going hither and thither, and not one jot of it concerned Sybil Hayworth.

  Sybil’s throat caught as she imagined whatever of society was left in London speculating on the idea of Lord Lockwood’s pursuit to the north. She could practically hear the drawing room chatter—

  ‘Oh no, my dear, it was not Lady Sybil he was after, she just happened to be in the house. I have it on good authority that a Miss Mapleton from Yorkshire was the real quarry.’