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

by Kate Archer

“And you shall undo it as soon as you inform him that you gambled in his name,” Richard said drily.

  “What?” Kingston said.

  “No worries, my friend,” Charlie said glibly. “We cleaned up and I’ll split the profit with you, seeing as you’d have been on the hook if I’d lost.”

  Kingston shook his head sadly. “Every time I begin to think you make progress—”

  “It’s seventeen pounds in your pocket,” Charlie said.

  “Seventeen!”

  “I suppose the two of you can count your winnings later,” Richard said. “I’ve got other things to think about. I really do not like that Dalton is here or that he schemes with Lady Montague.”

  “What was he on about, anyway?” Charlie asked. “Why was he complainin’ about his horse and his butler and his coat and how you ought to go back to London?”

  “He’s a complaining sort of person,” Richard said.

  “That reminds me,” Kingston said to Charlie, “do not ever stand behind a gentleman and imitate any arm movements you may observe.”

  Richard rubbed his chin. “As well, I’ve still to work out how to soothe Lord Blanding’s battered feelings.”

  “The old boy put a hole in your boat, he ought to feel as battered as a heap of ash,” Charlie said.

  “Yes, of course he should, but more is at stake than a regatta,” Richard said.

  “Lady Sybil,” Charlie said.

  Richard nodded. Charlie said, “In my opinion, you ought to just go ahead and make the deal with her. You’re goin’ to a ball and Betty says there ain’t nothin’ more bursting at the seams in the romance trade than when all the muckety-mucks are throwing themselves around a ballroom floor.”

  Kingston took a swipe at Charlie and missed. “Cease your uncouth phrasings, if you please. Lords and ladies do not throw themselves around anywhere and we certainly do not require Betty’s opinion on any matter.”

  “I only say,” Charlie went on, “that this business of wooing Lord Blanding is going nowhere. Propose to Lady Sybil and have her manage the old sot.”

  Under his breath, Kingston said, “No lord of the realm is a sot! Not while I still breathe!”

  “It would be a possibility,” Richard said, “if Lady Sybil were not such a wonderfully perverse darling of a girl. She’ll defend her father to the end of time. If he’s against it, she’ll be against it.”

  Charlie whistled softly. “It’s well that I got the energy and spirit of youth, as this is gonna go on for years.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sybil had scolded her father into attending the ball with good grace, then she’d scolded herself into it. Whatever her feelings, and they were a mix of disappointed hopes, terror that her father and Lord Hugh would be found out, and both friendship and loathing for Poppy, she was a lady, after all. She had obligations, particularly to her hostess, and she must not fail.

  Betty had done her best to cheer her mistress, believing all of Sybil’s distress emanated from Lord Blanding’s rather bad showing at the regatta. Her chatter had not in the least cheered, for as far as she could gather there was great deal of pity for her family below stairs. A Hayworth considered pity as a sharp slap to the face.

  Her dance card, being brought in by Betty, did not cheer her either. The last thing she would wish to do this night was dance. She would be far happier curled in bed and hoping for sleep.

  Her gown ought to have cheered her. She’d selected it specially to make the journey, as it was both her favorite and bore the Hayworth stamp. It was the palest pink organza lined in white silk with deep pink rosettes around the sleeves and hem—perhaps nobody but her own family would know the roses harkened back to their winding descent from Lady Margaret Beaufort, but she knew it.

  Now, as she descended the stairs, she thought she desperately needed to borrow some of Lady Margaret’s courage.

  “Goodness,” she whispered to herself, “my skirts speak of high summer, and yet my heart is as cold in my chest as a wet stone on a Scottish beach.”

  She heard the musicians already tuning in the ballroom. The guests had been directed to come promptly at eight o’clock, as the awarding of the Yorkshire trophy would be done at half past.

  Jiminy and the footmen ran this way and that, bringing people into the house as fast as they might. It would be no small operation to get everybody inside in good time.

  As she reached the bottom step, Lord Dalton suddenly appeared before her as if he had been lying in wait.

  “Lady Sybil,” he said smoothly, holding out his hand, “may I?”

  Sybil would have dearly liked to say, No, you may not, you intensely tiresome person, but reminded herself of her duty to her hostess. She must not cause talk or any hint of discomfort. In any case, she supposed she could survive one dance with Lord Dalton, though he would find their conversation decidedly chilly.

  She handed over her card. He filled in his name, handed it back, bowed and disappeared into the ballroom. She glanced at it and froze.

  Why would he take the dance before supper? What did he mean by it? Was she to be forced to struggle through an extended conversation with him?

  “Lady Sybil,” a voice said next to her. She glanced up from her card to see Lord Burke, a far more welcome face than the one she’d just got rid of.

  “May I?” Lord Burke asked.

  She gladly handed over her card, and then noted his consternation while he looked at it.

  “Dalton?” he said quietly. “For supper?”

  “Indeed,” Sybil said. “It appears that gentleman is intent on proving himself irksome or is so thickheaded as to have entirely missed my low opinion of him.”

  As Lord Burke filled in his name for the first, he said, “Be careful with Dalton. I do not believe he has your interests at heart.”

  Sybil smiled. “Have no fear on that front, Lord Burke. I am all too aware that Lord Dalton does not have anybody’s interests at heart but his own.”

  Before Lord Burke could answer, Mr. Michaels came to claim a space for his name on her card. Sybil made her way to the ballroom, occasionally being stopped by a gentleman eager to secure a dance. Had she been in better spirits, she might have enjoyed watching her card fill so rapidly.

  The room was already crowded; Jiminy had produced a miracle in getting people out of carriages and into the house as quick as he had. The musicians had done tuning and had moved themselves away from the front of the dais. Lord Hugh, trophy in hand, stood next to Lord Lockwood. Her father, Lord Niemore, and Sir Jeffrey stood to one side. Lord Blanding, though he’d been scolded about showing good grace, looked as cross and churlish as a boy sent to stand in a corner. Lord Niemore seemed no worse for his capsize. Sir Jeffrey appeared shaken, and likely thrilled to be back on dry land.

  As for Lord Lockwood, he had obviously taken great care with his dress. His cravat was starched mercilessly, his navy frockcoat finely fitted over a cream waistcoat. She supposed he would have taken great care—all eyes were to be on him in his moment of glory.

  He caught her eyes upon him and smiled. She turned away, blushing furiously. She had really to stop looking at him! What a humiliation, that he should note it.

  Sybil looked around the room for Poppy. Lord Lockwood might smile in her direction, but Sybil Hayworth would disappear like a puff of smoke once his gaze had settled on his beloved.

  Sybil did not see Poppy anywhere, and her search was interrupted by Lord Hugh.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said from the raised dais. “I welcome you to my house on this night of the seventh Yorkshire regatta.”

  There were ‘hear hears’ throughout the room.

  “As always,” Lord Hugh went on, “it was a desperate sea battle to the finish.”

  Here, Lord Hugh began to lose some of his verve. Sybil supposed it must choke him as much as it did her father that Lord Lockwood would leave with the trophy. He was far more skilled at hiding his dismay, but Sybil did not think he hid it entirely.

  �
��This year, as you know,” Lord Hugh said, “a newcomer in our midst has taken the honor. Lord Lockwood, may I present you with the Yorkshire trophy.”

  Lord Hugh handed over the trophy. Lord Blanding looked determinedly away, as if he could not bear to see it.

  “Speech!” somebody called out. Others took up the proposition. “Speech! Speech!”

  Wonderful, Sybil thought. Now they were to hear from Lord Lockwood. She supposed he was well able to congratulate himself sufficiently.

  “Thank you, Lord Hugh,” Lord Lockwood said. “I thank my host for providing this exciting challenge, and I thank the competitors on the water today. As they are all well aware, I was exceedingly lucky. Lord Hugh, had you not been forced to give me mark room, you would have soundly beaten me. Lord Niemore, the race would have been yours had the wind not gone against you as you rounded the last buoy. Sir Jeffrey, your effort was most… spirited. But it is Lord Blanding I wish to speak of further.”

  Sybil felt rooted to the spot. What was he doing? Why did he seek to harass her father even more than he had done? She did not have high hopes that her dear papa could hold up against it. Already, he was very red in the face.

  “It was Lord Blanding who courageously went off course to avoid crashing into me,” Lord Lockwood said.

  Was that what the lord thought happened? Sybil knew full well it was the other way round. Her father had gone off course in an attempt to run him down.

  “Had he not done so, I am convinced he must have caught and passed me. Nobody of his skill and experience could have failed to do so. As it was, he ended up paying dearly for my own mistake.”

  Lord Blanding looked as if he might burst into flames.

  “Therefore, I cannot accept this trophy. By all rights, it belongs to Lord Blanding.”

  Sybil felt weak in the knees. Lord Lockwood attempted to hand the trophy to her father. Lord Blanding stood staring at it. She was certain he was moments away from knocking Lord Lockwood on the head.

  A loud cheer went up, and then a chant—“Blanding, Blanding, Blanding!”

  The chant seemed to snap Lord Blanding back to himself. He gazed around the room and then quietly took the trophy.

  Lord Lockwood was all smiles. Her father looked entirely dazed. Lord Hugh pressed his lips together in a tight white line. Much to Sybil’s relief, before fisticuffs could break out, the men filed off the stage.

  Sybil watched her father hand the trophy to a footman, holding it out as if it carried the pox. Lady Blanding was soon by her husband’s side and Sybil hurried over as well.

  As she reached her parents, Lady Blanding said, “Come, my dear, let us step out to the balcony for air.”

  Lord Blanding allowed himself to be led and Sybil followed them out of doors. The balcony was lit by oil lamps here and there, but otherwise stood in darkness. An old oak’s branches cast shadows of ghostly arms reaching over the flagstone.

  “What does he mean by this affrontery?” Lord Blanding said, gripping the balustrade. “I did not veer out of his way. He knows perfectly well I attempted to smash him to pieces! I was all determination that we should crash and sink to the bottom!”

  “Of course he knows it, my dear,” Lady Blanding said. “It is just another of that scoundrel’s gambits to win you over. We will have the trophy destroyed; I am certain Lord Hugh will approve the idea. We might even throw it in the lake as an act of supreme disdain.”

  Lord Blanding considered the idea, then said, “Perhaps I will take it home all the same. Lockwood was right in one thing—by all rights I should have beaten him.”

  “Papa,” Sybil said, laying a hand on his arm, “you have shown wonderful restraint.”

  “I certainly have,” Lord Blanding said. “I had the distinct urge to knock his eyes out of his head.”

  “And you must continue with your restraint,” Sybil said. “There would be nothing Lord Lockwood would like more than to see he has rattled you—I am certain of it.”

  “Rattled me, eh?” Lord Blanding said. “We’ll see who is rattled by the end of this.”

  “You must bring all your Hayworth resolve to bear,” Sybil said.

  “Indeed,” Lord Blanding said, always intrigued to hear of Hayworth resolve. “I’ll be cool as a cucumber. Then, I’ll destroy him on the morrow. He’ll not leave here with a pence in his pocket. He’ll feel it, and so will his father. In fact, I’ll go to the library later and experiment with dripping candles—that particular bet is already scheduled for right after breakfast. I have a notion that the whiter the candle the quicker it burns. Then, on to the card game and his final defeat.”

  “Of course you will defeat him,” Lady Blanding said. “For now, though, cool as a cucumber.”

  Lord Blanding nodded just as the musicians struck up. “I must go,” Sybil said. “Lord Burke will look for me.” She kissed her father on the cheek and left her parents on the balcony.

  Lord Burke led Sybil through the changes. When it was their turn to stand aside, he said, “I take the liberty of counting on your friendship to return to what I attempted to tell you last evening after the dinner.”

  “There is no need, Lord Burke,” Sybil said hurriedly.

  “There is a need, though,” Lord Burke said with a hint of exasperation. “I must insist.”

  Sybil could not fathom why the lord seemed irritated; it was for her to feel irritated this night.

  “Lockwood pursued you here,” Lord Burke said. “He was then lured to York by letters purporting to be from his mother, probably sent by Dalton and Lady Montague—”

  “Lord Burke,” Sybil said, interrupting him. “I would ask you to stop, as any lady may ask a gentleman when that gentleman has landed on an unwanted topic of conversation. Speak no further on this matter.”

  Lord Burke seemed almost incensed, but he did stop.

  The rest of the dances felt like a military campaign to Sybil. She was determined to do right by her hostess and present every appearance of enjoying herself. She was determined to show the world that the Hayworths took their loss on the lake in all good cheer. She refused to join in on various speculations over who had put the hole in Lord Lockwood’s boat, though she was rather relieved that the talk had veered toward it being a tenant or neighbor who disliked Lord Hugh. She gave one-word responses to comments about Lord Lockwood handing over his trophy. The lord was meant to be very gallant and noble and a jolly good sport.

  All Sybil could manage was a muttered, “Indeed.”

  Lord Lockwood, himself, escorted no end of ladies through the dances, it seemed he did not sit even one out. It had surprised Sybil no end, as she would have expected him to leave open two or even three of the dances for Poppy now that they were engaged and might dare such a thing.

  Poppy and Sir John had not returned yet, though they had been expected at seven. Sybil wondered that Lord Lockwood felt he might dance the evening away, rather than be at the door, peering out into the darkness in hopes of spotting his betrothed’s carriage.

  It finally occurred to her that he must have received word. Poppy would not come that night. There could be no other reason for his apparent unconcern.

  Now, just as in a military campaign, the final push was upon her. She’d been escorted into supper by Lord Dalton.

  She smiled at the guests seated near her, though the smile felt almost painful on her cheeks.

  “Very exciting regatta,” Lord Dalton said.

  Sybil inwardly sighed. Would nobody cease talking of the regatta? Was there no other subject to be discussed?

  “It really had everything to entertain,” Lord Dalton went on, blithely unaware that she found him odious. “Capsizes, near misses, changing leads, and then of course, the sabotage to Lockwood’s vessel.”

  Sybil stayed silent. The last thing she wished for Lord Dalton to contemplate was sabotage.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the whispers,” Lord Dalton said. “Deuced unfair, and I am ready to say so.”

  Sybil had really heard
enough. “I do not go in for whispers, or hints, or innuendos, or in other words, gossip, Lord Dalton. One wonders that you have not tired of the habit, considering your last misadventure with the sport.”

  Though it was a verbal slap, Lord Dalton did not appear chastened. He said, “Naturally, idle gossip is to be ignored. But when it involves one’s own family, well, then…”

  Sybil froze. What did he mean to say? Was there some idea going round that the Hayworths were involved in the sabotage? She was certain it had been all but settled that it was an unknown neighbor or tenant.

  “If you are determined to say something, Lord Dalton, then I bid you say it.”

  “I’m rather surprised you seem to have not heard it already, as it has been widely spoken of. Lord Lockwood was overheard to tell his valet that he was all but certain your father had put the hole in his boat.”

  “Ridiculous,” Sybil said, ice running down her back. She must save her father from this shame. “Now we are to believe the lord has confidential conversations with his valet?”

  Lord Dalton shrugged. “Kingston was with him through the war. Servant and master relationships became more relaxed under those conditions—I suppose his has remained so.”

  “I’ll thank you to cease repeating this idiocy,” Sybil said, chin up and hoping to portray a defiance she did not feel. “Lest my father discover it and you find yourself on a lonely green at dawn. The Hayworths do not suffer insult silently.”

  “I only thought you should know,” Lord Dalton said with a small smile. He turned to the lady on the other side of him.

  Sybil stared straight ahead. Lord Lockwood knew. He had guessed everything.

  But if he knew the truth of it, why did he hand over his trophy to her father? Was it some sort of low joke with his friends? Award the man who’d tried to sink him?

  Or worse, was there some plot going forward? If her father would appear in a bad light if discovered, an awfully bad light as it happened, might it not be even worse after he’d left with the trophy in hand?

  She could only imagine what would be said about it.