Wicked Wager

by Beverley Eikli

  ‘We must choose our moment, Xenia. We must be careful. Shall we join the others?’

  Chatting companionably, they reached the carpet in front of the fire as the door opened and the butler appeared, bearing what looked to be a hastily folded parchment upon a silver salver.

  ‘For Lord Peregrine,’ he said, when Xenia put her hand out to take it.

  Surprised, Perry picked it up. Who would want to reach him at this hour? His first thought was that Miss Rosington needed him, but he quickly dismissed that for she’d not know his whereabouts. He certainly hoped she didn’t.

  ‘It’s from Charlotte,’ he said, in answer to Xenia’s question, having scanned the few lines of the hastily scrawled note.

  ‘And what does Charlotte want at this hour?’

  Xenia indicated to Sir Samuel, who’d just risen from the card table to refresh her drink.

  Perry frowned and tapped the parchment with his forefinger. ‘Apparently,’ he said with some bemusement, ‘Harry has come home.’

  Xenia clapped her hands. ‘Why, that’s marvellous news. So Charlotte has seen him then? Is he prepared to atone for his scandalous treatment of her and set a new wedding date? Forget my words of before. Charlotte is deeply in love and Harry is a marvellous catch. You must ensure he does the honourable thing, Perry.’

  Peregrine frowned. The note suggested that achieving such an outcome would not be so straightforward.

  Xenia quickly realised this, too, after snatching the note from his loose grip and reading the brief few lines.

  ‘Why, he’s not even seen her,’ she said, handing it back with a gasp of outrage. ‘Charlotte writes that he was observed arriving at his aunt’s premises like a thief in the night, entering by the servant’s door. You must go over directly, Perry, and hold him to account.’ She swung round, the swish of her skirts causing the cards to stir and the players to look up in some angst.

  Perry raised his hands, palms outward. ‘I don’t see what I can do.’

  ‘You owe it to Charlotte, as her brother, to defend her honour.’

  It was true, he conceded, that only Harry was in a position to tell them the truth behind his mysterious flight.

  ‘You’re not coming with me, Xenia,’ he warned, turning at her soft tread behind him. ‘You can’t possibly leave Miss Morecombe alone, unchaperoned.’

  She pouted. ‘Very well then, leave me to make your apologies, though I’ll expect a full reckoning the moment you’re done with him.’ In a change of tack, she put her head on one side, and was smiling at him when he turned at the door. ‘Come back here afterwards, Perry.’ Her tone was hushed and suggestive. ‘I don’t mind how late you are.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  By God, he was ready to have a woman to warm his bed again, but it wasn’t Xenia he wanted.

  An image of Celeste’s pure face and sweet smile intruded. The idea of a marriage to a woman who embodied beauty, truth and purity was so very much more desirable than remaining unwed or chasing after experienced and jaded creatures like Xenia.

  Chapter Eleven

  The night was dark with no moon, so the carriage had to travel slowly through the cobbled streets, which put Perry into a fever of frustrated irritation. Damn the wretched man for ruining his sister’s life. He’d once liked Carstairs, a mild-mannered, almost shy fellow, he’d thought. Unremarkable in every respect, really, but for the fact he was an only son possessed of a sizeable fortune, thanks to his recent unexpected inheritance.

  Peregrine supposed he was handsome enough in his way. Certainly Charlotte seemed to find his long white fingers, his slightly protuberant cow’s eyes and his quiet intense manner to her satisfaction. She’d been overjoyed by his unexpected marriage proposal just before he’d set sail for Jamaica to attend to his business interests. During the five months she’d awaited his return she’d spoken of little other than the new life she was anticipating as Harry’s wife, and as mistress of his country seat in Hampshire and Harry’s Jamaican estates.

  Then something dramatic had happened and Miss Rosington’s virtue had been compromised in her quest to rescue Harry.

  Well, now that Harry Carstairs had returned, Perry needed to confront him, not least so a satisfactory resolution that took account of Charlotte’s feelings and her dignity could be found.

  Perry signalled to his coachman to stop a little distance away from the townhouse where Carstairs was reputed to be staying. Stealth and discretion were required, which meant a quiet arrival through the servants’ quarters, not a loud and angry demand at the front door.

  Perry was not unfamiliar with such clandestine operations. He’d once paid a series of similarly secretive visits to a young widow who put on a creditable show of mourning during the day and took a wildly passionate interest in Perry during the nights. Her lady’s maid and the kitchen staff were well-paid accomplices who knew their continued employment relied upon their discretion.

  The right coin could win anyone over, Perry knew, as he contemplated how much it would cost him to gain entry if Carstairs was in no mood to see him.

  He checked himself. Carstairs certainly would not see him at this late hour and Perry was not particularly in the mood for confrontation.

  However, without knowing the reasons behind the man’s disappearance, he could not risk Harry eluding him again. He owed it to Charlotte, though it was Miss Rosington’s need for the truth that motivated him more. Her reputation had been tarnished by the mystery surrounding Carstairs and the erroneous implication she and Carstairs were lovers.

  After he’d negotiated entry to the dark and cavernous kitchen, Perry allowed himself a brief smile. Hadn’t he reached the age when cloak-and-dagger antics belonged to greenhorns, or fiery youth pulsing with the restless energy to prove themselves?

  The gasp of a small, skinny kitchen skivvy brought him back to the present. ‘Hush, I won’t hurt you,’ he reassured the girl, pressing a coin into her palm as he slipped by, ‘as long as you don’t say a word.’

  It was not very chivalrous, he reflected, to threaten violence he did not intend to helpless young women. Miss Rosington knew the rumours that swirled around him. She should have run at the first opportunity, and yet she’d been as intrigued by him as he was by her. That was sufficient for him. Already he felt himself being divested of the mantle of crusty irritability and world-weariness, ready to delight in indulging her girlish whims. What a refreshing change.

  The scullery maid sleeping on her pallet by the kitchen range leapt up as he passed, bringing him back to the here and now. If he was to ensure that his dear Charlotte enjoy the same peace of mind and future of domestic felicity as he was intending with Miss Rosington, he must concentrate on gaining entry without anyone becoming aware. Peregrine must approach with the greatest of caution.

  When the scullery maid beheld the shiny gold coin he’d given her, she offered him a lit taper after he told her that her master was expecting him for some secret business no one must know about. Clearly his expensive suit of clothes reassured her.

  The reception rooms on ground level were in darkness but the taper Perry carried threw enough light for him to navigate his way to the stairs that led to the sleeping quarters.

  It appeared the household had only recently retired to bed, for he could hear servants still at their work in an adjoining room. To his surprise, several sconces of candles lit the passage along which the bedrooms were located. Snatching one up as he trod the stairs, Perry began his search for the chamber that contained Harry Carstairs.

  The first was empty and obviously unused, but then, it was not well positioned. Seizing upon the most likely room for a single gentleman to occupy in terms of location and positioning, Perry quietly turned the doorknob and thrust open the door, holding his sconce of candles high to throw the light.

  His patience and forethought were well rewarded, for with a cry of indignation the man who’d so cruelly abandoned Perry’s sister at the altar leapt into a sitting position in the bed, his eyes
wide in the glow.

  Perry was surprised to see that Carstairs wore no nightshirt or nightcap, and for a moment he was transfixed by the man’s pale torso, lightly dusted with reddish hair. He looked weak and insignificant, prompting the fleeting wonder as to whether Carstairs really had the capability to satisfy his sister over a lifetime of intimacy.

  ‘Lord Peregrine—!’ began Carstairs in outraged tones, but Perry heard the puling fear behind them, and his lip curled as he advanced. By God but he was going to extract vengeance for dear Charlotte.

  And then as he drew closer he saw that Carstairs was not alone.

  Was this the reason for his defection? Another woman? Was Carstairs cuckolding his sister?

  ‘Get out, my lord!’ Carstairs shouted as the woman, apparently hitherto sleeping, raised herself onto her elbows and blinked at Perry with fright and confusion.

  Perry opened his mouth to assure her that his argument was with her paramour. Her tumbled dark hair was not confined by a nightcap while her nakedness suggested she was not Carstairs’ legal wife. Well, if Carstairs had a mistress it did not preclude the man marrying Charlotte, if that’s what his sister wanted, and now it was Perry’s duty to salvage Charlotte’s honour, regardless of how he achieved that.

  This reflection took a mere second to assimilate, and it was just as he opened his mouth to speak that a piercing shard of cognisance shattered his preconceptions as to what was before him.

  He stilled, a poisonous disbelief turned dread permeating his bones.

  Good God, what indeed was the demonic scene before him? Suddenly the entire ghastly miscellany of the devil’s lair appeared to have conspired to make a mockery of every hope and dream Perry had entertained.

  ‘Miss Rosington!’ Her name was torn from his lips just as the kindness and the softness that had taken occupation of his heart—on account of her—was ripped out of his chest cavity; so that he stood, pulsing with pain and anger and no, not disbelief, for he could not disbelieve the enormity of what was so plainly before his eyes.

  The woman he’d fully intended to make his wife the very next day was lying naked in bed with the man who’d abandoned his sister at the altar; the man Miss Rosington had persistently claimed she’d been merely ‘helping’ the night they were apparently caught in a compromising situation.

  By God, but Perry had been duped. Cursing himself for a credulous and lovesick fool, he advanced menacingly towards the bed and hauled back the bedcovers.

  Violence had never been his immediate answer but he was ready to do violence to Harry Carstairs in this moment.

  ‘Don’t hurt him!’

  Perry halted at Miss Rosington’s distress and turned his fulminating stare upon her. Her mouth was open and her eyes wide with horror.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened. I don’t know how I got here!’ Her voice was faint and she looked terrified.

  Well, Perry had no room for her play-acting now, though he did drop the covers with a contemptuous snort as he focused on Carstairs’ far from impressive manhood and his own pride writhed in agony.

  It was painful even to breathe.

  ‘Please my lord, I don’t understand any of this.’

  He cut her off with a snarl. ‘And you were going to entertain me later this week! You do have a busy schedule, Miss Rosington.’ He turned on his heel and headed for the door. ‘Carstairs, you may run and hide but I will know where to find you and I will have my revenge,’ he flung over his shoulder.

  He turned the doorknob as a fresh wave of anger rose in his chest. Or was it devastation? Either way, it was so painful it nearly felled him on the spot and his words sounded rasping as he felt compelled to add with pointed irony, if only to anoint his own grievous wounds, ‘I hope you have great joy of her, Carstairs. A poisoned chalice is what she is.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The slamming door reverberated through Celeste’s head like a death knell. Her shock was so great she could barely formulate anything that made sense. Not that, in fact, anything did make sense. For one thing, what was she doing in this strange bed? Her breathing ratcheted up with each fresh realisation of her increasingly perilous situation. For perilous it was, indeed.

  Who, for a start, was this strange man? Then she remembered it was Harry Carstairs. He’d apologised before she passed into oblivion once again.

  She’d woken to find Lord Peregrine standing at the foot of the bed, his face black with thunder, his scorn like a scalding lance.

  What could she do except offer the truth?

  ‘Please my lord, I don’t understand any of this,’ she’d managed, after pleading for the safety of the man beside her, who looked set to be plunged through with a rapier if the fulminating look in Lord Peregrine’s eye was anything to go by.

  She couldn’t abide the idea of violence but that’s exactly where this was going, she feared.

  Her head felt woolly and she couldn’t call on those reserves of clarity that usually came to her aid, even when woken from the deepest sleep.

  She’d reached out her hand to Lord Peregrine to help her; tried to say the words to explain, to elicit his aid, for she was a captive and he did not know it. He had the power to whisk her away from here before anything worse happened to her. She ran her hands over her naked body, experimentally, in case there were some evidence that she’d been violated. She didn’t think she had, but what about now? What about the rest of the night? What would become of her?

  ‘Lord Peregrine!’ Though she felt as weak as a kitten, she managed to shriek the words which came from the depths of her soul as, disgusted, he turned on his heel to quit the room, his parting words knifing her to the bone.

  But he did not come back. Instead she heard the soft, running footsteps of what turned out to be the older woman who’d been so kind to her earlier this evening.

  And when Celeste looked up, Harry Carstairs was standing by the bed wearing his banyan, a nightcap upon his head and a worried look upon his face as he turned to the older woman. ‘Aunt Clarice, I think she’s taken another turn. I heard her shouting. Is there more of that calming elixir which so benefited her last night?’

  Protesting, Celeste was spoonfed the strange tasting concoction by the woman while Harry Carstairs held her down. And soon her fear and horror melted away as the drowsiness that had earlier begun to recede resumed its insidious march upon her defences.

  ***

  An evil gnome was wielding a pickaxe in the recesses of Celeste’s brain. The consistency of each well-aimed stroke made her writhe in an impotent attempt to find peace and solace, and her body was slippery with sweat.

  She awoke with a pounding headache and a sob escaped her before she even opened her eyes, for she knew she was a captive and that she’d probably been ruined forever. Without a reputation she was a condemned woman, unable to marry.

  And Lord Peregrine? He’d seen her but he’d not rescued her? No, he’d formed his own opinion. Or had she been dreaming when she imagined him staring with disgust from the end of the bed?

  Perhaps everything from the moment she’d last spoken to Raphael had all been a dream, for the scent of bluebells and the warmth on her face did not accord with the musty cold of the chamber into which she’d believed she’d been thrust last night.

  ‘Hush.’ The voice that spoke was soothing, as was the gentle grip on her hand.

  Tentatively Celeste opened her eyes, the sunlight that streamed through the window painful, though not as painful as her thoughts. What was truth and what was fiction?

  What was Lord Peregrine thinking now?

  What struck her most forcibly, however, glancing around the room, were the familiar comforting crimson curtains that surrounded her bed. She was in her own bedchamber and Raphael was sitting on a chair by her bedside, holding her hand.

  She tried to speak but the words dissolved into sobs. It must have been a dream. Here she was in her own bed and, extraordinarily, Raphael was stroking her hair. Perhaps she’d been terribly ill.
>
  ‘Dearest Celeste, do not cry.’ She was aware of his awkwardness but that was hardly surprising. Where had he found her? What had happened to her? Or had she been here and delirious the entire time?

  He cleared his throat. ‘I blame myself but you’re safe now. You’re home and in your own bed and for the rest of our married life I’ll make sure no one ever harms you again.’

  No! She wanted to scream aloud. So it had not been a dream?

  When she’d she mastered her emotions and kept at bay the sobs, she could only stare at him. Finally she forced out, ‘Do you know what happened to me, Raphael? If you did, you’d never speak to me so kindly.’ This time the shuddering sob wracked her whole body as she choked on the inability to articulate her shame. ‘But how have I come to be here now? I remember so little, and yet I know I was a prisoner … And it was not a dream?’

  Raphael tugged at his lace cuffs, clearly weighing up his words. He glanced at the door as footsteps passed, perhaps waiting to ensure they’d not be disturbed by servants or Aunt Branwell. ‘You’ve been here a couple of days now, Celeste. I’ve been so worried. I’m glad to see you rallying.’ He smiled, and even in her dazed condition she realised he’d not looked at her with such kindness in many years. It was extraordinary. ‘My dearest Celeste, you have been badly used and I will forever blame myself. I just thank God we’re leaving in three days for Jamaica, where you’ll not have to encounter the cruel whispers and the blackballing that would be your lot were you to remain in England.’

  So her reputation was in ruins, she realised dully. ‘I don’t understand,’ she croaked. Her earlier words had been more taxing than she’d realised. ‘I don’t understand any of it. Have you seen Harry? Did you find me …’ She shook her head, unable to complete the sentence: in Harry’s bed?

  Raphael averted his gaze. ‘My love, you have been used as a pawn in a cruel and terrible hoax. Perhaps to punish me, though I don’t know.’ He stroked her hand, his expression sorrowful. ‘I had no idea that when I requested that you get closer to Lord Peregrine he would use you so shamefully. That he would in every way live up to his reputation as a cruel and conscienceless philanderer.’