The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  The judges had reached a decision! Sir Peter came to his feet and raised one hand. The room hushed. “Third place,” he called, “goes to a very enchanting—Delilah!”

  Cheers rang out. The Monahan curtseyed with superb grace and moved to stand to one side of Ward.

  There was much cheering again when Ward said, “Second place to that authentic rogue—the Great God Pan!”

  Pan bowed his thanks. Straightening, his eyes glinted at Rebecca from behind his mask.

  Her knees shook. Surely—surely they would not name her?

  “And the first place,” Ward’s voice rang with excitement, “goes to—The Scarlet Signorina!”

  The storm of acclaim drowned Rebecca’s moan. A sea of faces looked up at her with delighted approval. On the dais, the Viking Princess glared her frustrated fury. A faint smile touched the mouth of Delilah. Pan was grinning widely. Ward was at her side.

  “Queen of the Midsummer’s Eve Ball! Our two hundred and fiftieth Ruler! Lead us in unmasking. Who are you, lovely one?”

  His hands were unfastening her mask. She said desperately, “Sir Peter! You must stop this. I cannot be—”

  But the mask was drawn away. A roar went up. “The Little Parrish! It is The Little Parrish!”

  De Villars’ name for her. How widespread it had become. In desperation, Rebecca turned to him. Pan raised a fine-boned hand and removed his mask. Her heart thudded into her slippers. She was gazing at a lean, amused face she had never seen before. She heard Ward laugh and exclaim, “Kadenworthy! You rascal!” She thought, “Kadenworthy? The man Treve almost killed? Here?”

  Everyone was unmasking. Amid the hubbub and laughter, Rebecca was not surprised, of course, that FitzWilliam Boudreaux was the lord justice, or that Delilah was indeed The Monahan. She managed a smile upon discovering that one of her judges, the Dutch farm wife, was Letitia Boudreaux, but she had not the acquaintance of the gypsy fortune teller, who was a Countess somebody or other; neither did she recognize the well-preserved elderly gentleman who was Don Quixote tonight. She’d had not the faintest suspicion that the rotund Chinese mandarin would turn out to be a well-pillowed George Melton, and she was thoroughly astounded when the tattered chimney sweep was revealed as her brother’s immaculate bosom bow, Lord Graham Fortescue.

  “Forty!” she gasped, as overjoyed as she was surprised. “I didn’t know it was you!”

  He blushed and said with simple pride, “Bet Snow a monkey I’d fool you!”

  “Oh, is he here? Forty, I am in the most dreadful—” She broke off in consternation as Sir Peter dropped to one knee before her and took her hand between both his own in the ancient oath of fealty.

  Her eyes sparking with wrath, Lady Ward cried, “One moment, if you please!”

  There was no doubt of what she was going to say.

  “Please!” said Rebecca firmly, overriding her ladyship and withdrawing her hand from Sir Peter’s clasp. “I cannot accept such an honour!”

  “Hah!” exclaimed my lady. “So I should hope!”

  Dismayed, Sir Peter stood. “What? Whyever not?”

  “Oh, Lud! What a gapeseed!” grated his grandmama, sotto voce. “Are you totally blind, Ward?”

  The consternation among the watching crowd died down, and there was a tense silence as they all waited to know what was happening.

  Rebecca said clearly, “I am more grateful than I can say. But I must decline the honour you do me. This gown, you see, is—”

  She was interrupted by a cluster of sharp, staccato sounds. To her, they seemed like so many brittle tree branches snapping, but several gentlemen, obviously alarmed, sprinted to the terrace doors. Someone shouted, “Jacobites!” and another cry was heard, “Poor devils! Blasted close by!”

  This set off a flurry of alarm and silenced Lady Ward, who had seized the opportunity to address a few pithy remarks to her grandson.

  A footman came quickly to the dais and spoke to Ward in an urgent undertone. Sir Peter nodded, made an imperative gesture to the musicians, and shouted a cheerful, “On with the dance!”

  The music struck up. Over it, Colonel Shephard demanded indignantly, “But who is to rule us, Ward?”

  Sir Peter replied with smiling composure that the judges and the six finalists would adjourn to another room to thrash out the problem.

  “I wager a monkey it will be Delilah!” offered a demon, and was at once surrounded by eager bettors.

  The major-domo called a minuet. The ominous interruption was forgotten, and the guests prepared happily for the dance.

  Lady Ward rasped, “I shall come, too!” and took her grandson’s arm, leaving the dais after raking Rebecca with a contemptuous stare.

  Following, her hand trembling on Fortescue’s arm, Rebecca whispered, “Forty, my gown is borrowed from Sir Peter’s Hall of Effigies upstairs. Is that very bad?”

  “Not if you truly wish to wed old Peter,” his lordship replied.

  She thought, “Yes, but I did not mean to entrap him so blatantly as this!”

  They had passed into the hall, and lackeys were swinging wide the door of a blue and gold ante-room. Judges, contestants, and a militant Viking Princess went inside.

  No sooner had the doors closed upon the curious servants than Sir Peter turned to Rebecca. “Now, ma’am,” he said kindly. “What is all this foolishness?”

  “Gad!” his grandmother snarled at the ornately plastered ceiling.

  “I quite understand that your gown is borrowed,” he continued with a smile. “But it certainly has never been worn to greater advantage, and I fail to see—”

  “Then you are a simpleton, sir!” his relation interpolated wrathfully. “You surely must realize what gossip would make of—”

  A commotion on the terrace was followed by a fumbling at the outer doors which burst open suddenly, causing the heavy brocade draperies to billow inward. A small scream escaped my Lady Ward as a dishevelled figure staggered into the room and stood blinking around at the startled group.

  All evening, Rebecca had been battling a ridiculous sense of ill-usage because Trevelyan de Villars had ignored her. Now she knew why, for he very obviously had not been at the ball. He stood swaying before them, clad in simple riding dress. His dark hair was wildly disordered, his pale cheeks were scratched, and mud streaked one side of his face. His right hand clutched a limply dangling left arm bound with a handkerchief that showed wet and crimson.

  “Good God!” cried The Monahan, impulsively starting towards him. “What on earth has—”

  From outside came shouts, the male voices harsh with excitement. “Did he go into the house?” … “Which room?” … “This way, men!”

  One hand flying to her throat, my Lady Ward eyed her favourite and gasped, “De Villars! Never say you are a—a Jacobite traitor?”

  “If he is, he’ll not drag me down with him!” growled Kadenworthy.

  At that, into every mind came the horror of the rope, axe, and block, and the nightmare of public dismemberment. The Monahan paled and shrank away from the wounded man.

  De Villars gasped out, “My apologies … Ward. I—I’d not have come here but … they gave me little … choice.”

  Rebecca, who had stood in stunned silence, cried, “Never mind that! Quickly! We must hide him!”

  “Where?” wailed Lady Ward, wringing her hands in anguish. “There is no cupboard in this room, gal!”

  “Under the furniture! Anywhere!”

  “And incriminate us all?” Kadenworthy snarled, “Are you gone insane, ma’am? This is High Treason! You may not value that pretty head of yours, but, by God! I’ve no wish for mine to adorn a spike on Tower Bridge!”

  “You are no Jacobite, Treve,” quavered Sir Peter, white to the lips. “You have only to tell them they mistake the matter, and—”

  “Unhappily,” said de Villars faintly, “I was—was seen, Peter.”

  “Doing what?” Fortescue demanded, with an unfamiliar air of authority.

  “Aiding some �
� stupid damned fugitive onto … my mare.”

  “Good heavens!” moaned Lady Ward. “How could you, de Villars? Is Peter’s mare! Now you have involved my grandson!”

  “No.” De Villars stumbled towards the door. “I’ll go and throw myself on … their mercy.”

  “And get none!” Kadenworthy glared at him. “Curse you! How could you have been so stupid?”

  Turning back, de Villars peered at them blindly. “Peter? I cannot … seem to … so—you … you must hand me over. Do not … risk…” And he sagged like a rag doll and lay in a crumpled heap before them.

  They all stood as if frozen.

  The hall door burst open. Rebecca all but fainted with terror. The butler hurried in and cried an agitated, “Soldiers are searching the house, sir, and—oh! My God!”

  As though released from the paralysis which had gripped them, Boudreaux sprang to swing the door shut. “We must do something!” he said urgently.

  “We cannot!” said Ward, his face twisted with grief. “I must think of—er, the rest of you! To aid a fleeing rebel is treason, even as Lord Kaden—”

  “No!” Turning on him like a tigress, Rebecca cried, “Have you no loyalty to your own? Do you think he would turn his back on any one of us in such a tangle? De Villars is innocent of anything save kindness! We cannot condemn him to so hideous a death only to spare ourselves!” Ward stared at her in silence. She stretched out her hands pleadingly. “Oh—hide him! For the love of God! Help him!”

  But it was too late. Military footsteps were marching along the hall. A brisk, cultured voice called, “The library, you two fellows! You three—this way!”

  Rebecca thought in a numb, detached fashion, “It is Hilary Broadbent.”

  “Alas, dear lady,” groaned Sir Peter. “I am sorrier than I can say, but Treve has brought it on himself. We cannot—”

  With an incoherent snarl of impatience, Rebecca ran forward. While the rest of them watched, flabbergasted, she lifted her skirts, careless of the expanse of lace-trimmed bloomers that was revealed above her neat ankles. Turning carefully, she draped those wide, luxurious skirts over the insensible form of The Wicked Rake.

  Lord Fortescue uttered an admiring exclamation and ran to lift one limp and bloody hand and shove it beneath the sheltering farthingale. The Monahan, leaping pantherlike to the candelabra, blew out as many flames as she might. My Lady Ward hurried to the credenza and extinguished the lamp there, so that only one branch of candles on the mantelpiece remained lighted.

  “You are all run mad!” hissed Kadenworthy.

  Letitia Boudreaux, who had neither moved nor spoken during all this, now recovered and moved to Rebecca’s side.

  “God bless you!” she gulped. “What can I do?”

  “Pray he does not move, or cry out! And put on your mask—quickly!” Replacing her own mask, Rebecca called softly, “We are part of the collection from upstairs!” She barely had time to tie the mask and place one hand on Letitia’s arm, before the door opened.

  Major Broadbent strode in, three troopers following.

  “Are they not realistic?” murmured Lord Fortescue, surveying the “effigies” with enviable aplomb. “I vow, Ward—”

  “Sir Peter,” the major interposed curtly, “I pray you will believe that I mislike what I must do. There is a Jacobite loose in the vicinity. We know he is winged, and suspect he sought shelter here. The house is being searched, and I must ask your co-operation, in the King’s name.”

  Standing motionless, praying, Rebecca slanted a glance at Kadenworthy. He was watching the major, his face cold and calculating. He had good reason to hate de Villars. If he spoke…! She fought back a sob of fear, and struggled not to tremble. Poor Letitia’s arm was cold as ice under her fingers. Peter Ward was like a ghost. He had vowed he would aid any Jacobite friend who asked his protection. The man lying so limp and helpless beneath her gown was his closest friend. Surely, surely, he would not betray them?

  His voice strained, Ward said, “Pray do search! Who is he, do you know, Broadbent?”

  “We know only that two fugitives broke through our lines. One of them got away, but the other was shot. We followed him here.”

  “But—why here? He must know my home is full of people! He would be seen!”

  “And hidden, belike,” said Broadbent cynically. “There are Jacobites throughout Britain where one might least expect to find ’em, Ward!”

  Behind the military men, a slow grin spread across Kadenworthy’s lean visage.

  “You men,” Broadbent ordered, “search this room thoroughly.”

  The troopers hurried about, upending chairs and sofas, peering behind the curtains, and requiring guests to move so that they might look behind chests and under tables.

  “Damned impertinence,” drawled Kadenworthy, removing his hips from the credenza in response to a terse request that he do so. “D’you expect to find your fugitive in one of the drawers, you dolt?”

  Lady Ward uttered a shrill titter.

  Broadbent said thoughtfully, “You’ve brought down some of the effigies, I see, Ward.” He marched forward.

  Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face and thought she must faint as he halted before her.

  There was an absolute, horrified silence.

  Dropping to one knee, the major reached to grasp her skirt.

  Choking with fear, her heart hammering, Rebecca leaned down and soundly boxed his ears.

  Uttering a startled yelp, the major jumped back to sit sprawling on the floor before her.

  “How dare you, sir!” she said, managing somehow to dimple roguishly at him, as she took off her mask.

  “By … by Gad!” gasped the major, leaning back on his hands. “You like to scared the wits out of me, Rebecca!”

  The guests laughed convincingly, though many of the knees in that perilous room were weak as water.

  “For shame, Broadbent!” said the Reverend Boudreaux sternly. “You stand sadly in want of respect, sir!”

  Unhappily aware of the wide grins on the faces of his troopers, the major clambered to his feet. “I thought—I thought the ladies were effigies, sir,” he stammered, very red in the face.

  “Disgusting!” snorted my lady.

  “No, really, ma’am.” Rebecca laughed. “’Twas what we strove for, after all. You see, Sir Peter? Hilary was convinced. Now own we fooled you, also!”

  Ward shrugged and said wryly, “In this light, ma’am, I’ll admit it was most effective.”

  The major drew out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “I beg you will believe that you fooled me, ladies.”

  “There!” Rebecca clapped her hands, but her eyes grew round as an unseen hand tugged at her bloomers. She had thought to have stepped on something when she boxed Hilary’s ears. She must be crushing de Villars’ fingers! She moved her foot, and the farthingale swayed heart-stoppingly. “I win my bet, Sir Peter!” she cried, a little too gaily. “You must pay me at once, sir!”

  “I shall do more,” he said, bowing. “You are undeniably the Queen of our Ball! Eh, Grandmama?”

  With a tight little smile, Lady Ward inclined her head. “Hail to the Queen!”

  The declaration was taken up and repeated lustily. Broadbent hesitated, watching as they all crowded around Rebecca. He could not know that for several of the ladies, tears were very close behind their rather shrill laughter. He was miserable in a task he loathed and thought that these people presented anything but the picture of a group of terrified conspirators.

  “I would suggest, sir,” sneered Lord Kadenworthy, sensing his indecision, “that you withdraw before word of your—”

  Captain Holt intervened from the doorway, “Do you require assistance, sir?”

  Rebecca’s heart leapt with fright. Holt would know at once this entire scene was ridiculous, for he had seen her with Ward and would be aware there was no likelihood of Ward mistaking her for an effigy!

  “Thank you—no,” said Broadbent, his dislike apparent in h
is cold condescension. “Have you finished with the kitchen quarters?”

  “We have.” Advancing into the room, the captain said suspiciously, “If there is any difficulty with these people…”

  “Perhaps,” murmured Fortescue, “we should explain the nature of the difficulty. The captain might be able to tell us if it is customary to—”

  The captain, Broadbent was bitterly aware, would be delighted to report an incident that, however innocent, might be interpreted as misconduct. He intervened sharply, “We waste time here! Holt, take your people upstairs!”

  Holt frowned, but beckoned to his men and retreated.

  “Peter,” drawled Kadenworthy, “I saw your dear friend de Villars at the unmasking. He and I have an—ah, matter to discuss. I am becoming bored. If you will be done with the judging, I’d as soon return to the party.”

  Broadbent scowled at him resentfully, but he saw laughter brimming in the eyes of The Monahan and, beyond her, the stiff, disapproving countenance of the Viking Princess. “Dear God!” he thought, and led his troopers from the room.

  Rebecca felt suddenly weak and giddy. As the door closed, she clapped both hands to her mouth and closed her eyes. Letitia began to weep softly. Boudreaux hastened to her and, sprinting forward, Kadenworthy slipped an arm about Rebecca. “You’re not going to faint, m’dear,” he said, a new warmth to his voice. “Jove, but if that was not the bravest thing I ever saw!”

  “Indeed, it was!” admitted Lady Ward, her own voice shaking.

  More practically, The Monahan said, “Do we not tend Trevelyan’s wound, he’s like to bleed to death.”