The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  “Nothing dreadful, ma’am,” Rebecca asserted with a meekness that further alarmed her aunt. “Merely an invitation. But I shall tell you all about it later on. Hush! Here is Mrs. Monahan!”

  * * *

  When Mrs. Boothe and Rebecca returned to the deck, the tables and benches had been folded and stacked along the sides, the musicians were tuning their instruments, and a minuet was about to begin. Sir Peter came over to the two ladies at once, all anxious solicitude for the “Fair Fisherwoman” who was, he averred, “the belle of the boat.” Rebecca’s heart lightened, and optimism increased when he solicited her hand for the dance. Moving through the measures, she was the recipient of many smiles, and if she met also with teasing, there was little evidence of censure. Hilary Broadbent said merrily that she had given the guests a good laugh, which could but endear her to them; de Villars’ eyes glinted at her, and he murmured that there was no telling what she might catch did she but use the right bait; and when she rose from her fourth curtsey to her partner, Sir Peter said with his charming smile that thanks to her this was the very jolliest party he had ever hosted. During their next pause in the stately dance, he asked eagerly, “Have you by chance spoken to your aunt as yet?” She shook her head and, as they paced along together, imparted the word that she meant to do so this very night, but would be unable to give him a definite answer until her brother had been approached in the matter. His grip on her hand tightened. Facing her, his bow was the essence of grace, his smile approving. “Very properly,” he said. “I shall await with the greatest anxiety.”

  Elated, Rebecca knew that somehow she would persuade her aunt to acquiesce. And tomorrow—oh, how quickly the time was passing!—tomorrow, she would be very good, and do nothing even remotely hoydenish.

  CHAPTER

  5

  “I … will … what?” Mrs. Boothe fell back against the pillows of her bed, her eyes all but starting from her head. “What have you done? Oh, my poor heart! Only moments ago I awoke and thought ’twas a glorious morning! And now— Had ever a dutiful aunt so mischievous a niece? Oh, but I shall faint! I shall suffer a spasm! I shall—”

  “You shall make a perfectly splendid chaperon, dearest,” cajoled Rebecca, perched on the side of the bed, and chafing one of her aunt’s limp hands. “Only think—to spend the rest of the summer on this beautiful estate! It would give me a perfect opportunity to—”

  “To weep as you watch them lower me into the ground,” moaned Mrs. Boothe, clutching her brow. “Oh, that it should come to this! To be sold into bondage! At my time of life, too! I thank God I was too sleepy last night for you to tell me of this wretched new Plan of yours, else I’d not have slept a wink!”

  “But, dearest of aunts, you are so splendid in matters of dress and deportment. Miss Ashton will be—”

  “A lump!” prophesied her aunt mournfully. “A stodgy, ill-featured girl. With pimples, belike, a neighing voice, and a sour disposition!”

  “Were she fat as a flawn, turned in her toes, had a squint in each eye, and teeth like tombstones, you could make her into a beauty, love! And only think what a challenge it would be.” Mrs. Boothe regarded her glumly but with a little less of tragedy and, pursuing this small improvement, Rebecca bribed, “Sir Peter has taken a prodigious liking to Mr. Melton and told me he means to invite him to the Midsummer Festival. It might be quite … enjoyable, were we all together.”

  Mrs. Boothe brightened, but protested that she had never been a chaperon, that she knew nothing of being employed, and—whatever would dear Mr. Melton make of it all? She rather spoiled the effect by next asking, “What Midsummer Festival?”

  “I am not perfectly sure why, but it seems there has been a costume ball on Midsummer’s Eve at Ward Marching since time immemorial. It is said to be a very festive occasion. We could have such fun, dearest. Oh, ’twould be heavenly, but—of course, if you feel I ask too much of you…” Rebecca bowed her head, though continuing to watch her aunt from beneath the ribbon frill of her pretty cap.

  Indulging a little dreaming of her own, Mrs. Boothe envisioned a summer night with a great full moon, and Mr. Melton … “Well, never look so heart-broke,” she sniffed. “I must make the sacrifice, I expect. For you, and dear little Anthony.”

  She squeaked then, vowing her ribs were being crushed by the power of her niece’s gratitude.

  * * *

  De Villars left early that afternoon, so as to escort the coach of The Monahan back to Town. He wore a coat of dark blue; a sapphire glowed amidst the snow of his neckcloth. With one gauntletted hand carelessly resting on his thigh, the jewelled scabbard of his sword glittering, and his top boots mirror bright, he was an impressive gentleman, and watching his magnificent black Arabian dance down the drivepath, Rebecca was forced to own that the man had a splendid seat. She waved her handkerchief as the other ladies were doing. He turned at that instant. His eyes, she would swear, looked only at her. He removed his tricorne and bowed low and gracefully. He did not wear powder today, and the sun awoke bright gleams of auburn amongst the thick brown hair.

  Miss Street sighed, “Oh, were I but ten years younger.”

  “Is a something notorious gentleman, ma’am,” said Rebecca, rather startled.

  “The attractive ones always are,” Miss Street replied. “And—what an air! What a leg! What a merry humour ’neath all that assumed cynicism.”

  They walked back into the house together, and Rebecca echoed curiously, “Assumed? Do you indeed judge it so? From what I’d heard there is nothing gentle about the man. Rather, he is all steel, and his heart as merciless.”

  “But then, a man who is struck by such a tragedy when he is little more than a boy can scarce be expected not to carry scars. Such a wicked tale. You are familiar with it…?”

  “He told me a tale. I fancied there was little of truth in it. Indeed,” she chuckled, “I do trust there was not, else theirs must be a most odd family.”

  Mr. Street approached at that moment, to announce that they also must leave. “Those clouds,” he said, glancing eastward, “look rather—”

  “Ominous,” his sister finished. “Perhaps we could—”

  “Travel with Mrs. Parrish and her aunt,” he said. “Sir Peter is not to return to Town, and it would be our very great pleasure—”

  “To escort you,” beamed Miss Street.

  Rebecca smiled and thanked them, but she felt saddened. So soon, this lovely idyll was over. Now she must return to London’s noise and heat, and to bills and worries. And to Anthony, of course, and dear Snow. Her heavy heart lifted. How silly she was! And how glad she would be, to see their loved faces again!

  And besides—she would be coming back.…

  * * *

  “Is enough, ma’am,” panted the wiry abigail, her knee in the middle of The Monahan’s back, and the corset laces gripped firmly in each hand.

  “Non … sense…” Clinging to the bedpost, Mrs. Monahan whispered, “I almost can … sigh. Tighter … Annie.”

  And so Annie gritted her teeth, hauled and strove and, at last triumphant, summoned the parlourmaid, who watched with hands fast gripped and eyes big as saucers, to put her finger on the knot whilst the bow was secured. For a moment, The Monahan could not move, then, one hand clasped to her tiny middle, she tottered around the bed and was assisted into her long-legged camisole. A soft scratching was followed precipitately by the opening of the door, and an elegantly powdered head appeared. The parlourmaid uttered a small squeal and fled. The abigail frowned. Glancing to the door, The Monahan managed, “Come in, if you must, Treve. My wrapper, Annie.”

  Annie presenting a cloud of cerulean taffeta and net, Mrs. Monahan slipped into it and seated herself at her dressing table.

  Trevelyan de Villars held the door wider, bowed, and ushered the abigail through. Annie bestowed a curtsey and a frigid stare upon him, and he closed the door after her and moved to the dressing table, chuckling to himself. Coming up behind The Monahan, he viewed her vivid beauty in th
e mirror, bent and pressed a firm kiss upon the curve of her lovely neck, followed by another … and another. She shivered and closed her eyes, but the kisses ceased and, looking up, she watched him for a moment, then shrugged and took up her patch box. “Well,” she murmured, “we had a lovely time.”

  “Ward’s party, do you mean?” He took a long, flat leather case from his pocket and laid it on the vanity, bending once more to slide his lips down into the hollow of her throat. When he straightened, she had not touched the case but was still watching him in the mirror, a speculative look in her green eyes.

  She said, “No. I did not mean Ward’s party. But I’ve not seen you since.”

  “Until—last night,” he reminded, kissing the top of her ear.

  She jerked away with a petulant movement and picked up the box. The necklace was of small diamonds, graduating to a larger stone at the centre, and each suspended from a baguette. It was a dainty thing, and sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow as he took it from her and fastened it about her throat. He did not kiss the clasp once it was secured, and, very aware of that small omission, she asked, “A farewell gift, Treve?”

  One of his high-peaked brows lifted. “I have been clumsy about it, have I?”

  She smiled rather sadly. “No—not clumsy.” She touched the necklace, watching it gleam as she turned her head from side to side. “You always had good taste, I’ll give you that.”

  “I chose you,” he agreed, knowing the remark was expected of him.

  “And choose now to discard me.”

  A troubled look came into the grey eyes. He argued gently, “Let us say rather—it is a mutual decision. It is, you know.”

  “Thank you. Though mine was not as final. Nor as honest, perhaps.” She met his steady gaze in the mirror and said with brutal candour, “She’ll not suit you. She has neither poise nor dignity.”

  Something in his eyes stilled. She knew that look and knew that he had withdrawn, and her heart sank.

  “There is not an ounce of affectation to her,” he corrected, making no attempt to pretend puzzlement.

  “Save where Ward is concerned,” she snapped, irritated. “In that direction she is all coquette.” De Villars was silent. She set a patch under her right eye, surveyed it critically, received his approving nod, and advised, “She wants Ward. You have no chance with her. Unless you mean to force her.”

  He wandered to the window, half sat against the sill, and scanned the busy London morning. “I have never forced a woman, Rosemary. As well you know.”

  Her eyes travelled his profile. His nose was too hawkish for beauty, his chin too pronounced. The mouth was delicately sculptured but down-trending, and, although it could curve into a smile of great sweetness on occasion, that particular smile was seldom seen. Still, the high forehead, the deepset grey eyes, the lean planes of the face had, for her, a rare charm, an appeal that sent a sudden pang through her and caused her to leave the dressing table and run to him. He stood at once and held out his arms, and she came into them. For a moment he hugged her tight, then he put her from him, but still holding her, smiled down at her sad face, and this was the rare and very special smile that she and some other ladies before her had found so captivating.

  “Only think, my dear,” he said kindly, “we have had a wonderful relationship this year and more. We part best of friends. How many husbands and wives can say the same?”

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. She leaned back in his arms, searching his face. “Lud, Trevelyan! You never mean to wed the chit?”

  He laughed softly. “Heaven forfend!”

  “I think,” she said with a thoughtful frown, “you’ll not have her, else.”

  “And I know she’d not have me to husband, Rosie, even were I of a mind to it—which I ain’t. Gad, what woman wants a spendthrift with small expectations?” The laughter faded from the grey eyes. He asked lightly, “Would you, for instance?”

  Even more shocked, she gasped, “Do I hear aright? Are you offering?”

  He chuckled. “Now, lovely creature, you very well know we would not suit.” She scowled and pulled away from his embrace. He went on, “But—suppose I had been—more to your heart’s delight. Would you have accepted me?”

  She bit her lip, hesitating, for she was deeply fond of him. Then, “No,” she said, and went back to her dressing table and took up the hare’s foot. “I am too expensive. I could not endure poverty.”

  “I do not envision poverty, exactly,” he demurred, one slim finger straightening the Mechlin ruffles at his waist. He looked again into the street. “You have another caller, I see, so I’ll be off.”

  He came towards her with his lithe, lazy stride. She suffered another pang and so said in anger, “Your Little Perish is no better than am I!”

  “Perish—is it?” He grinned. “’Tis not like you to unsheathe your claws.”

  Paling, she spun around. “Is not an idle name, I think. Oh, Treve!”

  His eyes narrowed. Placing quieting hands on her shoulders, he asked, “What is it? Another of your ‘funny feelings’?”

  “Yes! She spells danger for you! Death, belike! I know it! Oh, Treve—have a care. She’s not worth it. She wants Ward, I tell you!”

  “And loves him, think you?”

  “Loves him! If she loves anything ’tis that boy of hers, and money. She makes it very plain she means to catch herself a rich husband!”

  “Yes, but then, she does it so charmingly, my dear.…”

  Her head tossed up. “Whereas I—”

  “Mr. Snowden Boothe,” announced the lackey, fortuitously swinging wide the door.

  Mrs. Monahan flirted an irked shoulder and turned her back on de Villars. “Snow,” she cried, holding out both hands to the newcomer. “How kind in you to come and cheer my loneliness.”

  Striding briskly into that feminine chamber, Boothe checked and regarded de Villars with dismay. “Oh—er, de Villars,” he said lamely.

  “You are very acute,” drawled de Villars. “Which is more than could be said for our blockheaded lackey. Well, Boothe, do you mean to finish it?”

  “Finish what?”

  “Your entrance, my dear fellow. I believe you should next say, ‘What a surprise to find you here,’ or something as inane.”

  Boothe reddened, frowned, then laughed. “What a hand you are!” He bestowed a kiss on the fingers of The Beauty, and enquired, “Am I de trop, m’dear? Shall I come back later? Since you both are here, I should like to— But if it ain’t convenient…”

  “Good God,” murmured de Villars. “One might suppose you to have caught us sans apparel.”

  Snowden gave a gasp, and his blue eyes became very wide indeed.

  As white as he was flushed, The Monahan said with acid finality, “Mr. de Villars was leaving.”

  De Villars bowed and turned to the door. “Give you good day, dear lady. You also, Boothe.”

  Snowden, however, requested Mrs. Monahan’s permission to leave her for a moment while he walked with de Villars to the front door. She gave an indifferent shrug and returned to her dressing table.

  In the hall, de Villars warned, “That was unwise, Boothe. Rosemary is very angry with me. You would have done well to stay and comfort her.”

  “And that would not—ah, vex you?” asked Snowden carefully.

  “Mais non. The lady has told me she has—new fields to conquer, as it were.”

  “Jupiter!”

  One hand on the stair rail, de Villars flashed his cynical grin. “Oh, I think not. I doubt even Rosemary aims at such Olympian heights.”

  Boothe frowned, baffled, then uttered a shout of laughter. “I—I meant only that I was surprised to hear she had turned you off,” he imparted gleefully.

  Watching him, his face expressionless, de Villars thought that there was little wonder several ladies of his acquaintance sighed for this handsome young man. And he thought also that one could see much of his sister in him. But he said only, “Surprised? Why? We enjoye
d a delightful—friendship. But sixteen months is, frankly, longer than I had expected her to endure me.”

  “Sixteen months? Egad, but—her husband was alive then, I’d have— Oh, damme! Y’r pardon! What I mean is—”

  With a soft laugh, de Villars said, “You know, you really put me very much in mind of your sister.”

  Boothe gripped his arm. “Have a care, sir! I’ll not have Rebecca spoken ill of by any man!”

  De Villars put up the glass that hung from a carven ivory chain about his neck. Surveying the younger man, he asked, “Do you tell me it is an insult to compare your sister to yourself? The devil! I’d no idea you was such a reprobate. Tell me why you are seeing me off the premises.”

  The glitter in Boothe’s eyes faded to a gleam of mirth. “What a flat you must think me!” Slipping his hand through de Villars’s arm as they continued down the stairs, he explained, “I really came to see Mrs. Monahan, for I knew she was at that accursed party of Ward’s, and I hoped to discover— But you was there also and can tell me. De Villars, what the deuce is this ridiculous rumour that is sweeping Town?”

  “I have heard no new rumour. But then gossip bores me, for it has been my experience that nine-tenths of it is fabricated by the lurid fancies of those who circulate it.”

  Boothe slanted an uncertain glance at the aloof countenance beside him. “Oh, quite. Couldn’t agree more. As a rule. Trouble is—well, I am the head of my house, d’you see, while my brother is on the Continent. And Rebecca’s such a trusting chit.…” He faltered into silence as de Villars turned eyes of grey ice upon him. Boothe felt transfixed by that chill gaze, and stammered, “I—er, had told her ’twas convenable for her to go, but Jonathan—my brother—will have my ears have I encouraged her to—er … She’s so dashed naïve! If she’s made a cake of herself, he is sure to hold me responsible, and—”

  “Do you doubt your sister’s morals,” de Villars interpolated coldly, “one might suppose you would speak to her yourself.”