The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  At once, Rebecca lifted her skirts and stepped away. De Villars lay as before, giving no indication of having regained consciousness.

  “Lud!” gasped Letitia, terror-stricken. “Is he dead?”

  Fortescue had already dropped to one knee and was easing the wounded man onto his back. He felt for a pulse. “No, he ain’t dead, yet,” he said, and began to unwind the sodden handkerchief from de Villars’ arm.

  “Nor are we safe, yet,” Kadenworthy warned as Letitia appropriated her brother’s handkerchief and knelt beside de Villars. “He must be got upstairs.”

  “How?” said Ward helplessly. “We cannot carry him!”

  “Could pretend he was foxed,” Fortescue suggested. “But—he’s all blood. Anyone sees him and we’re properly dished.”

  De Villars sighed, and opened his eyes. For a moment he stared up at them blankly. Then, sitting up, he asked, “Am I not arrested yet? Or—do I dream this?”

  “You are free for the moment,” said Lady Ward. “Thanks only to Mrs. Parrish, without whose courage you would be on your way to the Tower!”

  De Villars’ tired eyes turned to search Rebecca’s pale face, but he said nothing.

  “If I might venture a remark, sir,” said the butler, who had watched the dramatic interlude in silence. “The guests will be coming for the Ruler, at any second!”

  Wringing her hands, Rebecca half sobbed, “Oh—I could not g-go out there just—just now. I could not!”

  “Of course she could not!” said Ward. “She has risked enough!”

  “Crown me Queen!” his grandmother suggested. “I’ll go out there!”

  “And right bravely,” Fortescue agreed with rare tact. “But we shall need your nursing skills to help Treve, ma’am. If only we can smuggle him abovestairs.”

  The butler said, “Sir—were I to get another costume, could Mr. de Villars climb the stairs?”

  “’Course I can climb the stairs,” de Villars asserted. “D’ye think I’m foxed, Greywood?”

  The butler smiled and, not waiting for his employer’s consent, slipped into the hall.

  Fortescue helped de Villars to his feet. Assuring them rather threadily that he was “much better now,” the injured man took one tentative step and sagged weakly. “Confound it!” he groaned, clinging to his lordship’s arm. “I—I imperil you all! Perhaps you should—render me up, Peter!”

  His own voice strained with nervousness, Ward snapped, “To die? For doing no more than—than any one of us would have done?”

  Kadenworthy said a contemptuous, “If you really believe that, Ward, you are a fool. I, for one, would not have taken such a risk. No more, I doubt, would you.”

  Rebecca scarcely heard them. Not until de Villars had staggered into the room had she known how ghastly was the taste of pure terror. It was almost inconceivable that the vital arrogance of him could have been so swiftly reduced to this helplessness. And just as inconceivable the fact that he—the man who had sneered at the folly of aiding a fugitive—should have been the very one to commit such gallant folly. She heard again Anthony’s childish voice: “I found out that his eyes say different to his words.” Those eyes were fixed on her now. They were strained and tired and full of pain, but faint and familiar came that quirkish twist of the white lips. An undeniably suggestive wink was directed at her. She fought tears. The wretch was teasing her because he had recovered consciousness and given that outrageous tug at her undergarments! Blinking, she thought, “There is no propriety in him! He is the outside of enough!” But she also thought him exceeding brave, and his irrepressible grin gave her the strength she needed.

  Her chin tossed upward. She took a deep breath and stood away from Lord Kadenworthy’s supporting arm. “I am better now. I thank you, my lord.” She summoned a quivering smile. “Shall we go, Sir Peter?”

  He stared at her, pale and obviously panicked. His grandmother glared at him, and he recovered sufficiently to go and offer his arm. “Are you sure it will not be too much of a strain for you, Mrs. Parrish?”

  She looked up into his handsome, concerned face. And she knew he would have stood by and allowed his best friend to be delivered up to a cruel and shameful execution, and lifted not a hand to help. He was trying now, because the rest of them had stood firm, but he was very frightened. The last scales fell from her eyes. Handsome Peter Ward had been her dream—her knight in shining armour. But the dream was false, and although someday she might wed him, the deep respect and admiration she had felt for him were gone forever. Sadly, she said, “Quite sure, I thank you.”

  As they walked past The Monahan, that lady bowed into a deep curtsey.

  Rebecca glanced at her in surprise.

  Delilah murmured, “Bravo!”

  CHAPTER

  14

  There was a good deal of noise and confusion when Rebecca and Ward returned to the ballroom. The guests were milling about angrily while soldiers searched behind draperies and furnishings, but also narrowly scanned the room’s occupants.

  “As though,” protested one indignant dowager, less outlandishly than she could know, “we had Jacobites concealed about our persons!”

  The major-domo conferred with Sir Peter, then announced from the dais that The Scarlet Signorina was definitely the Queen of the Midsummer’s Eve Ball. A loud, defiant cheer went up. The orchestra began the introduction to a country dance, which Rebecca and Ward led. Gradually, the guests began to forget their pique, and soon the ball was in full sway once more.

  Dancing, chatting, smiling, flirting, all were mechanical for Rebecca. Her mind was occupied with two things. Firstly, her dread that Trevelyan de Villars would be at any moment dragged forth by the soldiers and taken to meet a ghastly death. Secondly, Snowden. Again and again her eyes searched the crowd, but at length she was forced to the admission that her brother must not be here. And if he was not here, whatever had become of him?

  She lost track of time and was able to maintain a happy manner only by virtue of the knowledge that she dare not deviate from her normal untiring ability to dance the night away. And it seemed that every gentleman present wished to dance with her. Kadenworthy claimed her for a quadrille and, when they came together during the movements of the dance, told her he was lost in admiration and begged leave to call upon her—a favour she gladly granted since she felt a kinship with the peer, if only for the danger they shared. Mr. Melton won a country dance and whispered that her aunt was abovestairs assisting with Mr. de Villars. “We dressed him as a footman, ma’am, and I wish you might have seen how haughtily he stalked up the stairs, and then collapsed in Lady Ward’s bedchamber.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Rebecca. “Whyever did they take him there?”

  “It had already been searched. Do you know, I believe we may bring him off safely, yet. Is a fine gentleman, Mrs. Rebecca, but I’ve little need to tell you that, I am very sure!”

  That last remark was somewhat puzzling, but she was too weary to attempt to make sense of it. The events of the evening had taken their toll, and she was deeply grateful when Graham Fortescue begged that they pass his allotted time in sitting on the terrace, rather than dancing. Once they were alone in the cool evening air, she hissed, “Are they all gone, Forty? Are we safe at last?” A trooper, looming up through the dimness, answered that question, and Rebecca gave a trill of laughter, rapped his lordship’s knuckles with her fan, and advised him he was “such a naughty boy!” Fortescue was amused, but the soldier loitered about so obviously that they were unable to speak of anything but commonplaces. Leading her back inside, his lordship breathed softly, “If de Villars is spared, Mrs. Rebecca, it will be only because of your courage. Salute you, ma’am, and all that sort of—er, bilge.”

  Rebecca’s heart was warmed. It was truth, she reflected with a stirring of pride. And de Villars was much too good a man to end with his head on a pike! The thought of that cynical grin so hideously impaled turned her bones to sand, and she had to concentrate with determination on th
e gentlemen who rushed to surround her.

  At three o’clock a large rabbit was flirting persistently with her in the refreshment room when Sir Peter came to claim her. Instead of leading her into the ballroom, he took her by way of a rear corridor to the stairs. He seemed quite restored and announced jubilantly, “Well, we’ve done it, ma’am! De Villars is undetected, and our bounty hunters are gone at last!”

  Rebecca uttered a little cry of relief. “Thank God! Is Mr. de Villars’ arm broken?”

  “Fortunately not, but my grandmama says the musket ball may have scored the bone, for it came very close. He has lost a deal of blood and is in much pain, but Lady Ward says he will do. If you are not exhausted beyond bearing, poor girl, he begs that you will look in on him. I would not ask it, but he is becoming feverish and cannot seem to rest without he thanks you.”

  She nodded and went with him to his grandmother’s chamber. Inside, Lady Ward was seated at a round table, engaged in rolling strips of linen for bandages. Lord Kadenworthy, who had been leaning against a chest of drawers, straightened respectfully when Rebecca entered. Most of her attention however, was fixed upon the astonishing sight of her brother, clad in rumpled riding dress, bending over the bed to grip de Villars’ hand.

  “Snow!” she gasped. “Where on earth have you been?”

  He spun to face her, his comely face mirroring guilt. “Not as usefully employed as you, m’dear!” He strode to give her a buss on the forehead. “Jolly well done! Dashed if I ain’t proud of you!”

  He was proud of her? For protecting someone he despised and had sworn to fight again at the first opportunity? And why had he been shaking de Villars’ hand as though they were the best of friends? Was there any understanding the erratic rules by which men lived? She wrenched her bewildered gaze from her brother. De Villars was white and haggard, yet looked oddly youthful lying in the great bed. He reached out eagerly, and she went to him at once and took that unsteady hand, only to be shocked by the dry heat of it.

  De Villars saw alarm come into her face. “Do not be put about, ma’am,” he said with a twinkle. “This time you are quite safe. I am genuinely indisposed.”

  She smiled, but said earnestly, “I honour you for that indisposition. ’Twas nobly done, sir.”

  A flush stained his pale cheeks. “Do not refine on it, I beg you. A stupid impulse of the moment, only—that should not have been heeded, since by it—I—I think I have contrived to ruin you.”

  Lady Ward agreed tartly, “You would have, save that word of your escapade must never leak out.”

  “Since all our lives are at stake, including your own, ma’am,” said Kadenworthy in his dry manner, “I rather fancy ’twill be the best-kept secret in England. Speaking of which”—he turned to de Villars—“who is this confounded rebel for whom we all are at risk?”

  For a moment he was not answered. De Villars, his hand still clasping Rebecca’s, was gazing at her with an awed expression, and she, smiling compassionately down at him, was aware of no other.

  Kadenworthy said, “Treve?”

  Rebecca gave a gasp and hurriedly reclaimed her hand.

  “Eh?” said de Villars blankly. “Oh—the Jacobite you mean, Kade? I am not—acquainted with the gentleman.”

  Rebecca looked at him sharply. His expression had not changed, but his good hand was clamped tightly on the coverlet.

  Lady Ward had also noted that jerkily interrupted utterance. She poured a glass of barley water and walked up to scowl at her patient. “Paying a high price for your quixotic folly, are you?” she said sourly. “Well, I’ve no laudanum to give you and I’m sorry for it. I admire courage. Lord knows why, for ’tis a pretty mess you’ve plunged us all into.”

  “I know…” said de Villars, humbly. “And I am most deeply grateful.”

  Snowden said a defensive, “And a man’s life is saved, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps, indeed!” snapped my lady, rounding on him. “From what Trevelyan said, the rebel was hurt and totally exhausted. He’ll likely be taken again, and soon. And—then what? How if he tells who aided him?”

  Rebecca cried, “Oh, but he would not! What gentleman would give so treacherous a return for chivalry?”

  “A man may do anything is he put to the question,” muttered Kadenworthy.

  They looked at one another in new horror, even Lady Ward, having succeeded in frightening herself as well as everyone else, appalled by the prospect.

  “Well, our poor fugitive will not do anything so craven,” said Boothe defiantly. “He is safely bestowed and shall not venture forth again till he is well enough to be smuggled out of the country.”

  Astonished, Rebecca turned to him. He saw the question in her wide eyes and grumbled, “Fiend seize it, I’ll say no more! Ward, should you not rejoin your guests?”

  “Before he does,” said my lady, “he can help raise de Villars. Boothe, pray slip the extra pillow behind him so he may sit up.”

  This painful operation being completed with as much gentleness as possible, de Villars drank gratefully, then leant back against the pillows, his right hand gripping his arm and his eyes closed, his “Thank you, my lady,” very faint indeed.

  Kadenworthy said, “He’s properly knocked up. Let him rest,” and walked to the door.

  “What about you, Boothe?” asked Sir Peter. “Do you mean to stay?”

  De Villars opened his eyes. “You’d better establish your presence, Snow.”

  Boothe nodded thoughtfully. “I will, if Ward has suitable raiment for me.”

  Albinia came in, carrying a pile of clean linens. “Hello, my love,” she said, with a fond smile at Rebecca. “What an adventure we are having!” Ward having divested her of her burden, she began to extricate from it the various medical supplies she had concealed there, then produced some neatly folded garments of green satin. “Mr. Melton supposed you might need a costume, Snowden.”

  De Villars gave a croak of laughter. “Boothe—a footman? By God! You’ll never carry it off!”

  “Devil a bit of it!” Boothe held up the tunic with a grin. “Try not to expire tonight, Treve, and I may serve you breakfast on the morrow!”

  De Villars said, “Wouldn’t miss that for the world!”

  * * *

  It was almost dawn before Rebecca crawled between the sheets and she was asleep the instant her head touched the pillow. She awoke, refreshed, when the curtains of her bed were drawn back, and was surprised to see her brother dozing in a chair beside the windows and already fully dressed.

  Millie plumped her pillows while she washed, and when she got back into bed put a breakfast tray across her lap, then went over to waft a cup of hot chocolate under Snowden’s nodding head.

  “What?” he exclaimed, leaping upright. “Millie—you saucy wench! Give me that.”

  She chuckled, gave him the chocolate, dodged the affectionate pat he aimed at her broad hips, and went out.

  “So you’re awake at last, are you?” Boothe yawned. “Thought you meant to snore all day.”

  “You know perfectly well I do not snore. And— Good lord! I’d forgot! What o’clock is it? Is Treve—I mean, is Mr. de Villars—”

  “It is nigh eleven o’clock. And he is downstairs, having breakfast.”

  “Down … stairs? He must be mad! He was in no condition to—”

  “With that confounded Holt,” Boothe finished, his eyes grim.

  “Dear God!” Rebecca put down her toast with a trembling hand. “Never say he suspects?”

  He scowled. “He suspects something, but how much of the truth he has there’s no guessing.”

  “Then … then all our lives are in de Villars’ hands!”

  “Never mind the dramatics, my girl! Treve will do his possible. It ain’t him I tremble for, but your bird lover!” He came to his feet. “I’d best get down there before Ward faints dead away!”

  “No—wait!” Rebecca put the tray aside and leaned forward, regarding her brother tensely. “I must know the truth of it.
Snow, am I wrong, or are you involved in this?”

  He stared at his cup, not replying at first. Then he said slowly, “Only to the extent that I was with de Villars, and—”

  “With him? But—oh, if I could but comprehend all this! Snow, you mean to fight de Villars! Why on earth—”

  His head lifted. He said with steady emphasis, “Trevelyan de Villars is a rake and a rascal. And he is also one of the finest gentlemen it has ever been my honour to know. I discovered it rather—late, is all.” He raised his right hand to silence her astonished indignation, and the lace fell back to reveal the bandages about his wrist. Nodding to them, he continued, “This confounded sprain almost brought me to Point Non Plus last evening, I can tell you!”

  Rebecca flung back the bedclothes, stepped into her slippers, and pulled a wrapper about her. Snowden put down his cup and returned to his seat resignedly and she drew up the nearest chair and sat close to him.

  “We are not discussing boxing the watch, Snow. Or outrunning the constable. You and I, and many others, could yet stand accused of treason. I’ll have the truth, if you please.”

  A twinkle came into his eyes. With a touch of admiration, he said, “You can be surprising regal at times, did you know it, Becky? Oh, very well. I will tell you as much as it is safe for you to know.”

  “Snow—den!”

  “And that is all!” Boothe glanced to the door as though four troopers pressed their ears to the far side, and drew his chair even closer until he was almost knee to knee with his sister. “Firstly,” he began, low-voiced, “I did not go up to Newcastle in Forty’s behalf. An old and dear friend—I’ll name him Jason—was, I knew, engaged in a desperate attempt to come south.”

  “A Jacobite gentleman?”

  He nodded. “Poor fellow was badly wounded at Culloden, and it had taken weeks for him to recover to the point he dare venture from his place of concealment. He sent word to me that he dreaded lest the people who shielded him be discovered, and so he meant to strike out alone and would try for the home of a friend in Newcastle. I went up to help as best I might. Failed miserably. You will be thinking me a fine weakling to have involved Forty in it all. Truth of the matter is, he also knows our rebel and wanted to help.”