The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  “Forty!” exclaimed Rebecca. “So it was you!” She went over to give him her hand. “And why the business of wearing Kadenworthy’s gold livery?”

  Fortescue looked down in apparent bewilderment at the elegant maroon coat and pearl grey satin small clothes he wore.

  Glendenning asked with sublime innocence, “Business, Mrs. Rebecca? I assure you old Kade ain’t a Cit.”

  “You are too good, dear boy,” murmured Kadenworthy. He looked levelly at Rebecca. His eyes held a warning. She felt suffocated. How could she have been so dense? She had thought her part was played, but once again she was involved in desperate deeds. “Oh, I suppose there must have been a faint resemblance,” she said lightly. “I thought Forty was playing one of his pranks.”

  Fortescue protested, “Now that ain’t fair, ma’am! Fact is, I rode my new hunter. Snow found him in Newcastle. Care to see, gentlemen?”

  To these men born and bred in homes where horses were a ruling passion, such a question was superfluous, and they all trooped out to the stable to congregate about a stall containing a very large but unlovely grey hunter.

  There was a moment of silence, Fortescue smilingly expectant, his prize grey munching with closed eyes and sublime indifference, and the assembled viewers solemnly restraining their reactions.

  Lord Kadenworthy, less inhibited than his companions, murmured, “You did say Boothe—er, found him, Fortescue?”

  Surveying the equine through his quizzing glass, Glendenning uttered a muffled snort, but said kindly, “Good shade of grey, that.”

  “He is very…” said Walter Street,

  “—er, large,” his sister finished.

  Anthony, galloping into the stable with his satellite trundling along behind, halted, staring.

  “Oh,” said Patience, and added with the devastating candour of childhood, “What a funny-looking horthy!”

  “He may look a trifle odd,” Fortescue defended, his unfailing good humour unruffled by the resultant burst of laughter, “but he can go like the very deuce. Old Snow thought he had bought a proper slug, so I took him. There was a look about the eyes, y’know. Had a sort of premonition. Jolly glad.”

  Mr. Street asked, “Why would Boothe buy a horse—”

  “—if he thought it was a slug?” appended Martha.

  Fortescue looked stunned, floundered, and threw a frantic glance at Rebecca.

  “It—it was a wager,” she declared brightly.

  “A sort of—who can buy the biggest hay-burner wager,” murmured Kadenworthy.

  Awed, Glendenning said, “Only look at him eat! Your other cattle may well starve, Forty.”

  Rebecca’s attention had wandered during this exchange. From the moment they had entered the stable she had experienced the oddest sensation that she was being watched. She directed a quick look up at the hay loft and caught a glimpse of a powdered wig hurriedly ducking from view.

  Miss Street asked, “Is something amiss, Mrs. Parrish? You are quite pale.”

  “I—I thought,” stammered Rebecca, “I saw a rat!”

  Miss Street uttered a piercing shriek. She had, it developed, a terror of rodents. They left the stable at once, Anthony and Patience running ahead, lured by the prospect of luncheon, and the gentlemen still teasing poor Fortescue because of his gluttonous hunter.

  Striving to appear at ease, Rebecca’s heart was hammering. Her brief sight of the man in the loft had also revealed the sheen of gold satin. Forty had worn the footman’s livery, sure enough. But he had changed clothes, probably in the loft, with the man now clad in those garments.

  For the balance of the afternoon, her nerves were strained, and she dreaded that Hilary or that horrid Captain Holt appear. Not until Kadenworthy’s carriage went bowling down the drivepath was she able at last to breathe easily. Watching it out of sight, she prayed silently for the footman sitting up behind—the one who was a desperate Jacobite fugitive.

  * * *

  Friday was warm and sultry. Millie took the children to the pond after luncheon, and Rebecca sat at the parlour window, her work box beside her, repairing a torn flounce on her pink muslin while pondering gloomily upon how many more years she might be doomed to exist. It was so quiet in the cottage that she jumped when a knock sounded at the front door. She waited for Evans to answer it, but that expert in the art of occasional deafness did not put in an appearance. Rebecca laid aside her work and went to the door.

  Sir Peter stood there, a lackey behind him holding a great bouquet of golden roses. Sir Peter’s coat was also golden.

  “Oh, how lovely,” said Rebecca. “Welcome home!”

  He beamed and, bowing over her hand, kissed her fingers gallantly. “And what a delight to come home and find so lovely a lady—waiting.”

  A few weeks ago that remark would have sent Rebecca into raptures of anticipation. She thought in an interested way, “So he is going to offer at last,” and said calmly, “Thank you. Will you not come in?”

  Evans appeared belatedly and took lackey and flowers into the nether regions, and Rebecca led Sir Peter to the parlour, poured him a glass of wine, and enquired after the welfare of his grandmama.

  “Oh, she is very well,” he said, waiting courteously for her to seat herself before he occupied the wing chair. “I took her down to Cornwall, you know. It is a long journey for the poor soul, but she endured it uncomplainingly.”

  “I am sure of it. And how fortunate that she has so devoted a grandson.”

  He made a deprecatory gesture, and said with a wry smile, “Sometimes I fear I become a trifle impatient. She is not always easy to please, but I do hope you have not taken her in dislike, ma’am?”

  “Good gracious! As though I should! I thought her splendid—especially when she played her part so bravely.”

  He nodded. “She did not let us down, did she?” He set his glass aside, stood, and paced slowly to the window, to stand in silence with hands clasped behind him.

  Rebecca smiled. He was nerving himself. And if he did offer…? She gave herself a mental shake. What nonsense! This was what she had prayed for, was it not? She considered him speculatively. A rich, handsome, charming gentleman. She would be extreme fortunate to secure such a husband. A tiny voice, as disturbing as it was unwanted, whispered, “He will never say, or do, anything outrageous. There will be polite smiles, but no spontaneous laughter. His wealth will protect you against poverty, but when you face a family crisis, he will assure you of his support and then leave you to handle matters as best you may.…” She bit her lip, and, shutting out the painful memory of a cynical grin and twinkling grey eyes full of mischief, told herself firmly that she would not only say a most grateful “Yes,” but that she would try with all her heart to be a good wife.

  “She thinks very highly of you,” murmured Sir Peter, watching the flight of a swallow across the sunny park. “In fact—” He turned about and asked gravely, “But perhaps the memories you associate with Ward Marching are not happy ones? You have known great peril here. Indeed, I wonder your nerves are not completely overset, poor creature.”

  “But I have been very happy here,” said Rebecca with a degree of truth. “It is so beautiful.”

  Obviously pleased, he walked closer, that grave regard still fixed upon her face. “De Villars feels very badly because he spoiled it for you.”

  Her heart giving a tremendous leap, she stammered, “Y-you have spoken with him? He is recovered?”

  “Oh, one does not worry about Treve, he is indestructible. We had a good chat, and he is in fullest agreement with my grandmama. You will be thinking me a silly fellow to mention that, I daresay, but the opinions of those I cherish weigh heavily with me. And in this case, reinforce my own.”

  Rebecca lowered her lashes demurely and was silent. So Trevelyan had given her a good reference. She wondered what Sir Peter would say if he knew that The Wicked Rake had recovered consciousness while shielded beneath her gown and had tugged on her—

  “Wherefore,” said
Sir Peter, coming to stand directly before her, “I have decided they both are perfectly right, dear Mrs. Parrish.” He reached out his hands. She put hers in them, and he drew her tenderly to her feet. “You are the perfect lady to become my wife. Will you allow me the very great honour to ask your brother for the right to pay my addresses to you?”

  It was done. She had triumphed at last. Smiling into his kind hazel eyes, Rebecca murmured, “It is I who will be honoured, sir.”

  Sir Peter pulled her into his embrace and kissed her passionately.

  On the forehead.

  * * *

  “By Jove!” Boothe ushered his aunt and sister into the warm parlour. “I thought the royal coach was rumbling up John Street! Four outriders?”

  “Sir Peter is extreme devoted,” said Albinia with a twinkle.

  “Oh, what a fine blaze!” Rebecca crossed to the fire and sat in the chair the beaming housekeeper pulled up for her. “I am so glad you have a fire, Falk. I vow one would think it November rather than July!”

  Boothe ushered his aunt to another chair, then seized his sister’s hand. “Hey! Falk—see here! Be dashed if this ruby ain’t the size of a pigeon’s egg!”

  The betrothal ring having been properly exclaimed over, he opened the door for Mrs. Falk, then returned to take Rebecca’s hand again and look searchingly into her eyes. “Happy now, m’dear?”

  “Of course I am. Where is Anthony? Had he a comfortable journey with Millie yesterday?”

  “Very. They are gone to the park, but will be home soon, I fancy. How improved the boy is. The country air was good for him.”

  “Yes. Thank heaven, he is quite his old self again.” She tugged at his coat skirt and said fondly, “Do sit down and tell us your news, Snow. How does your suit prosper?”

  Boothe disposed himself on the arm of her chair, watching her with a slight frown in his blue eyes. He glanced at his aunt. Her smile was bland. He thought, “There’s a roach in the rum…” but said cheerfully, “Oh, I gave it up. I’ve decided to remain a carefree bachelor. For the time, at least.”

  “What?” Rebecca seized his arm with a dismayed exclamation. “Oh, dearest! I am so sorry! I knew something had you in the hips. Whatever has happened?”

  “Nothing more than a change of mind,” he said nonchalantly, removing her clutch. “Always better to be safe than—”

  “Stuff!” his aunt interposed with a stamp of her little foot. “Snowden, have you not yet learned you can hoax neither one of us? The truth, dear boy. At once, if you please! ’Twas my Lord Boudreaux! High in the instep, is he? I had half expected it, I own.”

  Rebecca said indignantly, “Why should the man hold us in contempt? Our lineage needs no apology!”

  “It is not our lineage the old boy objects to,” Snowden said ruefully. He paused and moved a bowl of roses so that Falk might put a laden tray on the table. When the housekeeper had left again, he went on, “Your irresponsible here-and-there-ian of a brother just don’t come up to his lordship’s notion of a husband for Letitia.” He sighed. “I ain’t at all sure but what he’s in the right of it, at that.”

  Mrs. Boothe went over and began to pour the tea. “What does he expect? A Prince of the Blood for the girl?”

  “She deserves it, Lord knows. But—” He took the cup his aunt offered, added four teaspoons of sugar, and began to stir absently. “I must own the old boy was decent about it. But he gave me to understand, in his gentle way, that I have no aim in life. I just—skitter about. But then, if you come right down to it, we all do—pretty much.”

  Rebecca sank her teeth viciously into a steaming crumpet, then wiped butter from her chin. “I collect,” she said rather indistinctly, “that were you a coal-heaver, he would approve. Is there no reasoning with the man?”

  “I tried. Don’t mean to give up, you know, but—” Briefly, despair came into his face. “He’s rather—daunting. And it’s—well, Letitia is the worst part of it. She’s heart-broken, dear soul.”

  He looked older, suddenly, and Rebecca saw the same shock in her aunt’s face that she herself had experienced. She said slowly, “There must be something you can do to win him over?”

  “Buy a pair of colours, perhaps. Or get on to an Ambassador’s staff. But there’s nothing I do well that could offset my lack of property and tenants.”

  “Of course there is! We shall have to study it—all three of us. Oh, if only Jonathan were here! He’d know what to do!”

  “Someone’s here!” Boothe put down his cup hurriedly. “Gad, but I clean forgot! There’s a gentleman waiting to see you.” He clapped a hand to his brow. “I’d best go and get the old fellow, or would you care to come? Falk put him in the book room.”

  “A gentleman?” Standing, Rebecca straightened her gown. “Lud! And I’ve not taken time to change my dress! I must look a fright.”

  He grinned. “Well, you do, of course.”

  Mrs. Boothe laughed. “Wicked boy! Who is it?”

  “Dashed if I can recall. Frail-looking old duck. Said his name was Andrews, or Anderson, or—Apperson! That’s it! Mr. Gervaise Apperson.”

  Rebecca excused herself and, en route to their small book room, racked her brains, but the name was completely new to her. When she opened the door she found that a small fire had been lighted on the hearth, which was as well for the room was chill and the elderly gentleman warming his hands before it looked frail indeed.

  “I must apologize, sir, for having kept you waiting,” she said. “I hope you have … not…” The words trailed into silence.

  He had stood at her coming and turned to greet her. His wig was moderate, his clothing neat but certainly not of the first stare of elegance, his manner almost humble. It was difficult to determine his age, for although the face was thin and lined, the eyes beneath the heavy white brows were bright and youthful.

  Rebecca experienced the same breathless sense of excitement that had seized her in the stable at Ward Marching when she had glimpsed the rebel fugitive hiding in the hayloft. This man was old, with a scar down one cheek to disfigure what might otherwise have been a pleasant face. And yet …

  “Have we met … before, sir?” she said hesitantly.

  “Not for—quite some time.” His voice shook. He took her hand, and her heart all but stopped when she saw the glint of tears in those very blue eyes. It was not … it could not be … but—“Johnny!” she screamed. And throwing herself into her brother’s ready arms, she sobbed between kisses, “Johnny! You rogue! How could you so … tease me? Look at those eyebrows! And you are so changed! I scarce recognized … Have you been ill, love? And—this scar on your face! Oh, my dear! My dear!” And hugging him, laughing, crying, and hugging him again, she gradually passed from shock and joy to puzzlement and a presentiment of trouble, while Jonathan Boothe, overcome, could do no more than try to smile at her, even as he blinked away unmanly but very human tears.

  Snowden came in and leaned beside the door, arms folded, and an unwontedly sober expression on his face.

  “Snow,” called Rebecca, “how wicked of you to pretend so! And here is our Johnny, after all this time, and … and … Oh, my heaven! What is it? Why does he look so changed and ill? Johnny? Snow? Tell me!”

  Snowden looked at his brother, but Jonathan shook his head and walked to stand with one hand on the mantel and his back to them.

  Snowden crossed to Rebecca’s side, asking, “How long, Johnny?”

  “A moment only,” Jonathan replied unsteadily. “When I spoke—touched her hand, she knew.”

  “But of course I knew! You are my dear brother, could you doubt? Why? Because of the scar on your face? I am very sorry for that, John, but—”

  Jonathan turned, smiling wryly, and Rebecca gave a gasp. The scar and the bushy white brows were gone. He held out his hand and they lay on his palm.

  “The scar is wax only, dear girl. An actor friend made it for me, and taught me how to apply both it and these brows that age me so well.”

  “But
… why? Oh, John! You are never thinking of treading the boards?”

  He laughed shortly. “’Twould be an honourable career compared to the disgrace I must bring down upon you am I discovered.” He came over swiftly to grip her hands again. “Oh, Becky, with your lurid imagination, can you not guess why I am here and so—changed?”

  Terror rested its clammy touch upon her. Refusing to credit her intuition she said numbly, “No. You have been on the Grand Tour … you could not have been—”

  “A Jacobite? A captain for Bonnie Charlie? Ah, but I was, love. I am! Did he call again, I’d to him in a flash!” His eyes sparked. He declared ringingly, “He is England! Not this German usurper!”

  Snowden said a warning, “Have a care!”

  Rebecca’s knees had turned to water. She swayed dizzily, and both young men leapt to support her. “It is not … truth…” she gasped out. “It cannot be!” But she knew it was truth. It was why Snowden had rushed to Newcastle-upon-Tyne; it was why he had behaved in so strange a fashion that day after the duel. Snowden urged her to sit down. Jonathan offered a glass of wine. Briefly, she clasped her hands to her mouth, her eyes closed, but in a moment she looked up into her elder brother’s face and, dashing tears away, drew him down beside her. “What a frightful time you have had, poor darling! Snowden, why do you not smuggle Johnny out of the country with the other fugitive gentleman? The one who—” Shock silenced her. Snowden looked so grim. With a shaking hand she reached for the glass Jonathan still held, and swallowed a healthy gulp. Choking, her eyes watering, she strove to comprehend. “Then—it was you? All the time? Oh—never say you were the fugitive whom de Villars helped to escape at Ward Marching?”

  Jonathan said quietly, “Is a very brave gentleman. Save for him, I would lie in the Tower this day—if I lived at all.”