The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  “I am so sorry,” gulped Letitia. “I never thought I would … would give way like this.” She dried her eyes with a hand that shook. “I was all right, driving up here. But—oh! If I should … lose … both of them!” She began to tear at the fine cambric and lace of her handkerchief.

  Rebecca thought in a numb, detached fashion, “So she does love Snow. Poor girl. She has no least chance with him!” Impatient with such digressions, she said, “I’ll admit I had feared that. Do you know how it happened? But I suppose you could not—gentlemen are so ridiculously secretive about their savageries.”

  Letitia gripped her hands tightly, as though striving to overcome her emotions. “I was not meant to know,” she quavered. “Indeed, I discovered it quite by accident. I chanced to encounter my brother when I was leaving a dinner party last night. He was coming out of Brooks’ Club, and detached me from my friends, saying he had something to discuss with me. He walked home beside my chair, but said nothing other than the merest commonplaces. I was never more astonished than when he took me to the front door and said his goodnights. When I asked him what it was he had wished to speak about, he gave me some nonsensical answer about having a lot of work to do.” The troubled grey eyes lifted; Miss Boudreaux said earnestly, “Fitz is Chaplain to the Duchess of Waterbury. She is the dearest old thing and has never made the least demand of him that would cause him to work late at night.”

  “Did you tax him with it?”

  “No, for he seemed to brighten, and went off quite cheerfully. I went to bed and tried to read, but I could not overcome the fear that something was very wrong. At last, I put on my dressing gown and went downstairs, meaning to send a note round to Trevelyan and ask him to call on me. You can imagine my surprise when I went into the drawing room and found Fitz in there with my cousin. I was so astonished that I stood quite still without speaking for a moment. They had not heard me come in, and by the time I collected my wits, I had heard enough to know what was about.” Her hands wrung. Biting her lip, she scanned Rebecca’s intent face, then faltered, “You—you will not like what I must tell you. It seems de Villars had made a—a very vulgar wager with—with someone regarding … yourself.”

  “Good … God! And Snow learned of it?”

  “Yes. He was incensed. I’ll own he had every right. He rushed to Brooks’ and—and—”

  “Knocked de Villars down, unless I mistake it!”

  Letitia nodded.

  Struggling to sound calm, Rebecca asked, “When do they meet? De Villars must have choice of weapons. Heaven grant he did not choose pistols?”

  “Swords,” Letitia said dully. “They meet early tomorrow morning. That much I heard before they saw me, else I would not have learned of it, but—” She gave a cry of alarm and threw her arms around Rebecca. “Oh, my poor soul! You are faint. Rest here, and I will run for assistance.”

  “No.” Rebecca managed a wan smile. “I am better now. It is only—my husband was … was killed in a duel.”

  Appalled, Miss Boudreaux stared at her, then bowed her head into her hands. “My God! Oh, my God!”

  There was a heavy silence. Letitia sat down again and each was lost in her own apprehensions. With devastating clarity a face came into Rebecca’s mind’s-eye. Not her brother’s handsome features, but the cynical mockery of Trevelyan de Villars. As unwanted, and as clearly, she saw him laughing as they had played bat and ball that happy day—just last week. And his so different expression when they had been walking home across the fields; he had looked younger, happier … with little Patience held on his shoulder and his thick hair all rumpled and askew because of the clutch she’d had on it.

  Turning on her companion she said fiercely, “How dare they do this to us! Had your horrid cousin a vestige of decency he might have made an attempt to apologize!”

  “He did! I swear. When I had learnt as much as I was able, I was frantic and flung every accusation imaginable at him. He said nothing until I was done. But I had shaken him, for then he snarled at me that he had apologized, in front of all the gentlemen in Brooks’! And my brother said that Treve had told your brother not only that he was fully to blame, but that he would not meet him. I gather Mr. Boothe remarked to the effect that Treve had to meet him because he had knocked him down, and—oh, you know my cousin’s way! Treve laughed, and said he fancied his reputation would survive. Mr. Boothe likely thought he was being insulted, and flew into a passion and—and struck Treve again. Treve had been lifting his glass, and the wine splashed all over him. There was—nothing he could do after that … don’t you see?”

  Rebecca knew this to be truth. No gentleman could refuse a meeting once he had been struck. But, struggling against that admission, she exclaimed, “Stuff! He is an experienced duellist, and not only a finer swordsman, but years older than Snow! He—”

  “Four,” sniffed Letitia, dolefully.

  “He could have—” Her attention arrested, Rebecca said, “What? Only four? But I had thought…”

  “I know. Trevelyan looks older than five and thirty. I fancy it is because … oh, never mind that. Mrs. Parrish, whatever are we going to do? If Mr. Boothe dies…” She pushed back her hair in distracted fashion. “Or—if my cousin … Dear God! What are we to do?”

  “It must not happen,” thought Rebecca. “Neither of them must die.” She said slowly, “I think I may know how to stop them.” She stood, and Letitia sprang up, searching her set, pale face with new hope.

  Rebecca smiled at her; a calm smile, having behind it a budding and highly dramatic scenario for the resolving of this deadly predicament. She took the other girl’s arm. “It is time for that cup of tea.”

  * * *

  Opening the door of the impressive house on Berkeley Street, the equally impressive butler said in mild surprise, “Miss Letitia! Dear me. The master dines from home this evening, and Cook has not—”

  Rebecca was startled by such presumption, but Letitia recognized it for one of her cousin’s diversionary tactics and, suspecting Treve had left instructions that she was to be denied admittance if possible, said breezily, “That is perfectly all right, Linscott, we will wait.” The butler blinked but necessarily retreated as she ushered Rebecca into the foyer, while asking, “Is my cousin from home?”

  “He is upstairs, miss. Changing into his evening dress.”

  The girls exchanged a quick, relieved glance.

  Letitia said with assumed lightness, “I’ve a small surprise for Mr. de Villars. Would you please ask that he come down for a moment? Oh—pray do not mention I have a friend with me.”

  The butler, a gentleman with a balding head, a kind heart, and four young daughters, slanted an oblique glance at the friend in question and thought her one of the loveliest confections he’d ever laid eyes on. Whatever the surprise, it could not be too outlandish. Therefore, allowing his professionally disdainful features to relax into something reminiscent of a smile, he said, “As you say, miss.” And having sent a footman scurrying to light candles in the book room, he made his own sedate way up the stairs.

  Going with Letitia towards the rear of the house, Rebecca glanced about in no little surprise. She had expected a comfortable flat. The size, location, and magnificence of this abode did not at all equate with the polite penury in which she had imagined de Villars to exist. The matter was of little importance, however, besides which, many gentlemen hovering on the brink of financial disaster still contrived to appear very well to pass. She turned her thoughts to the crushing urgencies of the moment. Her plan to avert the threatened duel had seemed so cut and dried when she had conceived it in the gardens of Ward Marching. She had known this morning exactly how she would handle the situation. But now, it did not seem cut and dried at all. Now it loomed as a frightful ordeal, and her knees shook so at the thought of what she must say to The Murderous Wretch that she was inclined to think she would swoon long before she said anything at all.

  The sun was going down, but, obedient to Rebecca’s request, Letitia bl
ew out all but one branch of candles in the large, comfortable book room.

  “Am I tidy?” Rebecca asked urgently. “If your cousin finds one least thing to sneer at, I shall be quite undone!”

  There was nothing at all to sneer at, Letitia judged, scanning her critically. On returning to Town, they had gone first to John Street, where she had begrudged the time it had taken for Rebecca to change her clothes. Now, she could appreciate the strategy of it. The little widow looked very lovely in the wide paniered gown of blue silk, with Brussels lace foaming beneath the deep scallops of the overskirt and at the elbows; a simple rope of pearls about her throat, and her curls powdered and piled high on her head. What gentleman could fail to be enchanted by so fragile and appealing a lady in distress? Especially a gentleman already captivated. Whether it was Rebecca’s intent to dazzle or denounce her cousin, she had no least notion, for beyond saying that she would try to bring them all off safely, Rebecca had refused to divulge her plan.

  Admiring her courage, Letitia also knew her cousin, and thus said, “You look adorable, dear ma’am. I know not what you mean to do, but—but Treve has something of a temper, and if he is still in the humour that he was last evening, I fear—oh, I dare not leave you alone with him!”

  “You must. I thank you for your concern, but if you stayed I would be too nervous to say a word.” Rebecca darted a glance to the door. “He will come? If he does not wish to talk with you, might he not just go out and—”

  De Villars’s voice, upraised in exasperation, put an end to her worries.

  “Linscott? Where in the deuce have you hidden Miss Boudreaux?”

  Rebecca grabbed weakly at the chair beside her, and her knees fairly knocked together.

  “Oh!” Letitia paled, and ran to a door at the rear of the room. Glancing back, she cried distractedly, “You are quite sure…?”

  “Yes! Yes! Hurry!”

  The door closed, and Rebecca was alone. She bit her knuckles, subdued a panicked impulse to run away, and made herself stand very still, praying de Villars would not notice in this dim light that she was much too small of stature to be his cousin.

  She heard a quick, firm tread in the hall and closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath.

  The door was flung open.

  “Where in the devil have you been, Letitia? Uncle Geoff has—”

  Trevelyan de Villars, striking in blue and silver, stalked to face her, broke off, and recoiled. The very sight of his shocked disbelief lent Rebecca courage. Her chin tossing higher, she said scornfully, “Does the sight of me cause you to know guilt, sir? Lud, one scarce could wonder at it!”

  He seemed momentarily too stunned to reply. Then he went over to swing the door closed, and returned to bow low before her. “You honour my home with your presence, ma’am,” he said, pulling up a chair for her.

  Rebecca ignored the gesture, continuing to stand with head high, and eyes blazing with contempt. “I am not come for a sociable cose, Mr. de Villars.”

  “What a pity. I should like that of all things. But—since it is not proper for you to be here at all, I cannot but wonder why you are come.”

  “You know very well! Oh, never look so innocent, sir! It ill becomes you!”

  De Villars leaned back against the desk, folded his arms, and regarded her with the vestige of a frown. It was almost dark outside, but the candlelight fell upon his face, and Rebecca saw that one side of his mouth was cut and swollen. She thought, “Snowden struck hard!” and strove unsuccessfully to feel triumphant.

  “I admit that I can think of only one thing that would bring you to my house in such headlong fashion,” he said thoughtfully. “But it is beyond belief that even so careless a fribble as Boothe would have told you of—”

  “Of your contemptible wager?” she put in, her voice sharp with disgust. A flush darkened his cheeks, and she went on, “Well, he did not! I learnt of your reprehensible conduct from—another source.”

  “Did you now? And—er, dare one enquire as to the nature of that knowledge?”

  “I know that you have fouled my name abominably!”

  “Yes.” He stood straighter. “I have apologized to your brother, and I now apologize to you, most sincerely. Although, you know, lovely one,” he added musingly, “I never made any secret of my hopes, or of how desirable I find you.”

  “Your hopes were disgraceful, sir! And I did not dream you meant to bandy my name about! To make me the—the laughing-stock of all London!”

  “No more I did,” he denied with a touch of anger. “Only two gentlemen were involved in the conversation, and—”

  “A conversation in which I was discussed as though I were a piece of Haymarket ware!” The sudden dance of laughter in his eyes told her that she had rushed into another impropriety, and she hastened to add with assumed regret, “I had not thought you so base, Mr. de Villars.”

  He bowed. “You are very good, ma’am. And I am more than grateful that you endow me with godlike qualities. But—you must not. I am, alas, full of faults, and not above entering into a stupid and tasteless wager concerning a very lovely lady. Nonetheless, I would have you believe that same wager was a private matter. Knowledge of it should have gone no further than the two of us. That it did was—”

  “That it did,” she intervened stormily, “indicates your crass friend to have been incapable of even so small a vestige of chivalry as to have kept his tongue between his teeth! Be so good as to give me his name, sir, in order that I may thank him.”

  De Villars became absorbed with straightening the lace at his cuff. “I think you know him not at all,” he said slowly. “But I assure you that he is a gentleman, and was aghast when he learnt of this.”

  “When he learnt? Did he not know what he had done?”

  His eyes lifted to hers, a faint, quirkish grin curving his mouth. “Again, my thanks, dear lady. I take it you had not considered that I might have been the one so indiscreet as to have gossiped it abroad.”

  She was confused, because that notion had not occurred to her. “True. But you will forgive me if I fail to be grateful for that, when my dear brother lies dead at your feet!”

  De Villars’ head jerked up, and sudden wrath lit his eyes. He said impatiently, “My God! Did the young fool tell you of our meeting also? I wonder he does not publish the entire affair in The Spectator!”

  “Do not seek to lay the responsibility for this ugliness in Snowden’s dish! Had you not made your revolting and ill-judged wager in the first place, my brother’s life might not now be at stake!”

  “Jupiter! What a Cheltenham tragedy you enact me! I own the fault, but for Lord’s sake, child, do you fancy I mean to kill your brother over so trite a thing?”

  “T-trite?” she exploded, her eyes wide with rage.

  He gestured his irritation and, with one hand lightly resting on the hilt of his dress sword, paced across the room, saying, “Stupid, then. Vulgar, crude, vainglorious, if you will. But not vindictive, ma’am! Oh, do not mistake—I’ve no thought to mitigate my guilt, but if vindictiveness was brought to bear, it was in the heart of the lady who wheedled out the tale, deliberately embellished it, and carried it to where it was sure to cause the most harm!”

  “A charming lady, indeed,” she said acidly.

  “Most charming,” he reiterated, pausing to fix her with a level gaze. “But she chances to have a score to settle. With me.”

  “Which offers me a wide assortment from which to choose, I fancy.”

  His frown eased into a grin. “Touché. And you have my pledge that the lady in question will breathe not another word in the matter.”

  “Oh, my! You—you never mean to—”

  “What else?” Her obvious trepidation restored the sardonic gleam to his eyes. “I shall visit her tonight, take her lovely neck and choke the life from her, and then bury her ’neath the floorboards.”

  Her chin went up. She said, “How can you jest at such a moment? Have you no understanding of what this means to me?�
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  “I understand that you are saddled with a hot-headed young fool for a brother, who, having come upon an admittedly vexing rumour, chose not to handle it with tact, but to bungle it into a full-fledged scandal. But I do not hold that against you, I assure you.”

  Rebecca gasped, “You—you do not hold it … against … Oh! You are—”

  “Dastardly, dishonourable, and depraved,” he supplied helpfully.

  She stamped to him, her small jaw set. And with her nose under his chin, she ground out, “I fail to find it laughable that my beloved brother might be slain in just such another ridiculously ‘honourable’ confrontation as that which killed my husband!”

  His hands went out at once to clasp her arms. A tender sympathy banished the mirth from his face. “Now may God forgive me! I’d not considered this.” He gathered her to him very gently and, stroking her hair, murmured, “Poor, sweet girl. How you must have worried.”

  Hate and rage melted away. Rebecca clung to him, her eyes blurring with tears, and whispered, “I knew it! I knew that—if you cared for me as you claimed, you could not serve me so.”

  De Villars was quiet for a moment. Then he put her from him and gazed into her dewy eyes and pale cheeks; at the tremulous, sweetly curved mouth, and resolute little chin. Truly, an adorable creature, The Little Parrish. A small pucker tugging at his brows, he asked, “What would you have me do?”

  “Draw back! Oh, I know it would be difficult, but—”

  “Au contraire. It would rather be quite impossible, m’dear.” He removed Rebecca’s gripping hands from his ruined cravat. “I am sorrier than I can say for having triggered this deplorable fiasco, but I cannot in honour draw back.”