by Amanda Scott
“Ah, yes,” he said, “you mentioned your father’s penchant for odd wagers with his uncle. ’Tis from that you got the notion for the straw against the pot of gold, I suppose, but it will not serve. Their stakes cannot have been so uneven as that.”
“Well, they were certainly as ridiculous, sir, for my father staked the Highgate hatchment against his uncle’s brewery. You will recall that I told you about that brewery. At the time their disastrous wager was entered in the betting book, it was once again on Crosshill land and had been there for some years.”
“Wait a bit,” protested Mr. Lasenby. “Did you say he staked a hatchment against that brewery? A hatchment? The bits of black ribbon on a coat of arms that one puts above one’s door when a member of the family cocks up his toes?”
“Just so, Mr. Lasenby. Papa’s wager, made some time before her death, was that the Queen would outlive the King. When his majesty became so ill last summer, Papa was in alt because he believed the income from the brewery would eliminate his most pressing debts.”
“I can understand that,” Mr. Lasenby said feelingly.
Nell smiled. “Then you will also understand his distress when the King survived. In any case, the wager was nearly forgotten—by Papa, at least—when Reginald was killed in a hunting accident in mid-November. Papa was deeply affected by his death, so you can imagine his shock when Jarvis arrived at Highgate the afternoon following the announcement of the Queen’s demise, a fortnight later, to declare that he had come to collect on the wager. What was even more shocking was his insistence that, according to Reginald, Papa had staked Highgate itself against the brewery, not merely the stupid hatchment.”
“But surely the estate is entailed,” Manningford protested.
“No, for Papa was heavily in debt when Nigel came of age, so the entail was broken then by mutual agreement in order that Papa might sell off a few acres. He intended to resettle, of course, as soon as he was able, only through one cause or another, he had not yet done so. But he would never have staked it in a wager! In fact, he knew he had done no such thing, and he said Reginald must have been joking, for he was a great jokesmith.”
“Easy enough to prove,” Manningford said. “You mentioned a betting book. One had only to journey to London to look at it.”
“Oh, not even so far as that,” Nell told him. “I ought to have mentioned that the bet was made here in Bath. Reginald and Papa were both members of a club known as the Bee Hive—at least, I believe that is what the place is called.”
Manningford said, “’Tis called many things, but I know the club you mean, for ’tis practically the only one of its kind still active in Bath. I am a member, and my father, as well. The club boasts a large membership, in fact, though there is rarely anyone there anymore. ’Twas formed in the middle of the last century to sidestep what were then the new gaming laws, and has successfully done so, except for a brief scuffle with the authorities just prior to the turn of the century, when the two men who owned it were charged with keeping a gaming house and placed under a distraint for failure to pay their fines. They sold out, and the place has remained respectable ever since. Its members call it the Bees. Their detractors, knowing that most of the younger set avoid the place, call it the Bees-waxers’ Club.”
“Bees-waxers?”
Mr. Lasenby, who had settled back comfortably in his chair, chuckled sleepily. “Means ‘old bores,’ ma’am, and ’tis an apt description, I believe. Bran and I looked in there one evening last week, thinking to find someone to oblige us with a game of cards or dice, don’t you know, and I thought the card room was littered with corpses, for nearly every chair was occupied by an old stick slumped back with his eyes shut. Dead asleep, every one of them. Devil a game did we see!”
Manningford smiled. “I remember that my brother-in-law Axbridge said much the same thing several years ago when we recorded a wager in the club’s book. I was showing him where the Regent, as Prince of Wales, had once inscribed a bet. There are any number of notable names in the book, for ’tis the club’s greatest claim to fame and well nigh a historical document. Prinny, you know, practically never comes to Bath—and Bygrave, the club secretary then, though he died last y—Why, what is it, Miss Bradbourne? You are as white as a sheet.”
“Mr. Bygrave was killed in a duel, I believe,” Nell said in a tight voice.
“So he was, right there in the club, by a fellow who fired before the signal was given.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “The fellow disappeared, and as no one seemed to know who he was, the whole business came to nothing. I shouldn’t have thought such a tale would have reached your ears, ma’am.”
“The fellow’s name was Bradbourne, sir, but I can tell you that even in his cups, my brother would never have done such a dastardly thing as to cheat in a duel. Mr. Bygrave had recorded my father’s wager with Reginald, you see, so it was logical that Nigel should seek him out to ask him to support Papa’s claim. To Nigel’s shock, however, Mr. Bygrave refused to do so, insisting that Highgate had been the stake all along, that my father was merely attempting to renege on his wager. Nigel flew into a passion, violent words were exchanged, and the result was a duel between the two. Had their tempers been given time to cool, that must have ended it, but Bygrave himself pressed Nigel to settle the matter at once, there in the club. It will not surprise you to hear that what few witnesses there were, were the worse either for sleep or for drink, except Jarvis, who insisted that Nigel had fired before the signal. Jarvis assured Papa and me that he had managed to get Nigel safely out of the country, but the shock of hearing such a dreadful tale so soon after Reginald’s death and his own apparent loss of Highgate to Jarvis was too much for my father. He retired to his bookroom and shot himself.”
“So it is your cousin who owns Highgate now.”
“No, for, most surprisingly, he did not claim the estate after Papa’s death. To be sure, I thought he intended to do so, since that had seemed to be his purpose. But he was all concern, all sympathy, and said he would do naught to pursue the claim, that instead, he would look after Highgate in Nigel’s behalf until Nigel himself might dare to return. Now, however, he speaks of taking the wager before a Court of Chancery.”
Mr. Lasenby said casually, “You know, ma’am, the wager must be what they said it was, for a betting book, you know, is quite sacred. Well, stands to reason, it must be when so much depends upon it. Still, shouldn’t be at all surprised if, under such circumstances as you describe, your cousin might not find it difficult to find a court willing to uphold his claim. Dashed particular they are now about such things. Time was when a fellow could lose a fortune gaming and there was naught to do to reclaim it. But the law being what it is now—forbidding extravagant stakes and all—”
Manningford said, “A gentleman still honors his debts, Sep, whatever they may be, and his heirs are bound to honor them.”
“To be sure,” Lasenby said hastily, with an apologetic look at Nell. “I was not intending to imply that either the late Lord Bradbourne or the present one must not have felt obligated to do so, but dash it, Bran, the whole business sounds havey-cavey.”
“It does, indeed,” Manningford agreed.
“Perhaps so, but it is perfectly true,” Nell told them, “so surely, Mr. Manningford, you will no longer insist that this plot is absurd. To be sure, the facts are not identical, for Sir Mortimer knew nothing of the wager or the duel. I added those bits. Not that that signifies, since I doubt you will have induced him to accept any sort of meddling from me.”
“Well, you are out, ma’am, for he has agreed to reserve his opinion,” Manningford informed her with a teasing look. “He will judge what you have written, and if it meets with his approval, allow you to continue. I won’t say I had an easy time of it, or that he did, but I did not lose my temper, nor did he.”
It took a moment for her to take in the full meaning of what he had said, and when she did, she didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. She said only, “He wants me to rea
d it to him?”
“He does. He pointed out that the book will, of necessity, be somewhat delayed, but there is no getting ’round that, so Borland is to write a letter, purporting to come from the Lady of Quality and informing Mr. Murray of the fact.”
“I see,” Nell said, her mind still awhirl. “What if Sir Mortimer does not like what I have done?”
“Then we will put our heads together again. But aside from such irregular details as your description of a gentlemen’s club, the tale seems entertaining enough so that I have no hesitation in asking you to read it to him. He can discuss with you—as well as he is able—such details of character and plot as he desires, and make whatever suggestions he is moved to make, so that the two of you can be comfortable with the fact of the book’s being at least a collaboration between you. He must do no dictating, however, and you will see him only when it is necessary to do so. Can you agree to that arrangement?”
Nell frowned. “I do not know, sir. I have no confidence in myself, you see, and ’tis of no help to learn that my description of the club is incorrect, for only last night I found myself unable to describe a simple ball. My aunt suggested that I attend some function at the Assembly Rooms—thinking, you know, that actually to see the setting would help me imagine what balls there must be like—but while that might answer well enough in one instance, I certainly cannot visit a gentlemen’s club.”
“Sep or I can describe one to you well enough,” he said with a smile. “In fact, you must make a list of any such places that have been included, since I daresay that living out of society as you have, you will not know much about them. And my father, you know, though he mixed enough when he was young, cannot know much about modern social functions. For both your sakes, I daresay you ought to get about more and see some sights, but we must do it rather quickly, because I received a letter in this morning’s post from my sister Axbridge, who informs me that she and Ned will soon be with us. Borland wrote to her when my father first became ill, of course, but thanks to the vagaries of the mail once it gets beyond England, it was my letter, written later, that reached her first. I am to tell her friends she will be here only a few days, but knowing her formidable habit of taking command, I don’t doubt that we may look to see her running things in the Royal Crescent for weeks to come, which will leave me with nothing more to do than to take myself off again, I suppose.”
He did not sound as though the idea appealed to him particularly, but Nell had to bite her tongue to keep from protesting against the very notion of his departure from Bath any time in the near future. “When her ladyship arrives,” she said hesitantly, “she will no doubt have her own notions about how to manage your father’s novel.”
“No, she won’t,” Manningford said.
“But surely—”
He grimaced, saying, “My father forbids me to mention his books to her. Says they are none of her business.”
“Then how can you think of leaving, sir, when you have said you will see the thing through?”
He looked at her, and at first she thought he did not quite know what she meant, but then he smiled and said, “I cannot, of course. But first things first. You desire to visit the upper Assembly Rooms, so perhaps we ought to see about making up a party for the next ball to be held there.”
“I cannot go to a ball, sir,” Nell said firmly.
He looked at her, taking in her half-mourning. “Well, a ball is a ball, of course, and if you merely require to see the place …” He paused, watching her, and Nell, suddenly able to think of nothing to say, could feel the warmth creeping into her cheeks again. “Look here, you have been to a ball, haven’t you?”
“Well, no,” she confessed, “not a real ball. I have danced, of course, at country parties, but I have never properly come out, you see, for my mother was dead by the time I was old enough and neither she nor my father had any sisters, and Papa didn’t care a string for such stuff.” She smiled at him, adding, “Nigel pointed out to him once that I might make a better marriage if I were offered on the Marriage Mart—the London Season, you know—but Papa said I should be just as likely to make an eligible connection in Wiltshire as in London, only, of course, one doesn’t, particularly if one has no fortune.”
“But what of the Lady Flavia? Could she not have made a push to see the thing done?”
“Well, I confess I did wonder at the time why she did not, but of course, I was too proud to ask her, and now I quite understand that … that it was beyond her power.”
Mr. Lasenby said curiously, “Is she so decrepit, then? I don’t mind telling you, I’d never have guessed it. Seems an energetic old lady, by and large, with a constitution of iron.”
“Of course she is not decrepit,” Nell said. “But it cannot have escaped your notice, sir, that she is not so rich as people believe her to be. There, I have put the thing plainly, have I not? There must be no more secrets between us.”
“I agree,” Manningford said, his tone firmer than she was accustomed to hear from him. “Did you think her wealthy when you came to Bath, Nell?”
“Well, yes, but if you are thinking I meant to hang upon her sleeve, it was no such thing.”
“I didn’t think that at all, so come down off your high ropes. I did think you might have expected her to have such resources as would protect you from your father’s cousin, if he is—as I begin to suspect—the real reason you came to Bath.”
Nell bit her lip. “You see too much, sir. I suppose I did think that. I did not suppose, certainly, that he would never find me here.”
“And has he done so? Is that the reason you said the wicked duke was in Bath?”
“You sound rather fierce,” she said, “but indeed there is no cause. Jarvis is certainly wicked, for no one will convince me that he did not somehow arrange for everything to happen as it did—or if not everything, then a good part of it—but ’tis all done now, and I do not believe he would harm me.”
“Are you so certain of that?”
“What could he hope to achieve?”
“I do not know. What does he want of you?”
Nell flushed bright red. “He desires to marry me, sir, and I remember perfectly well what you said about the wicked duke’s wanting to marry Elizabeth—doing the honorable thing by her—so before you demand to know why that should be repugnant to me—”
“I’ll demand no such thing.”
“No,” Mr. Lasenby said in surprise. “Dashed impertinent thing to do, ma’am. No one would ask such a question. Even if one should wish to know the answer,” he added naively.
Nell smiled at him. “’Tis simple enough, sir. I do not like him. Not only is he wicked but he is too old for me. When I marry, as I have no doubt I will one day, it will be with a man much more nearly my own age.”
“Then Mr. Bradbourne is elderly, ma’am?”
“No, not elderly, but he is nearly twelve years my senior, and I mean to wed a man more nearly my own age.”
“Well, that’s dished us,” Mr. Lasenby said sorrowfully. “Eight-and-twenty, the pair of us, and Bran a year older than that, come December.”
She chuckled. “Have I cast you into the dismals, sir? I do not believe it. And you must marry Miss Wembly, after all.”
“Must I? Oh, dash it, of course I must. Believe I’ll write her that letter, ma’am, and promise to mend my ways? Perhaps if I begin to jot things down, I shan’t forget them so easily.”
“What a very good idea! I am sure she will forgive you.”
“Again,” Manningford murmured.
Nell cast him a speaking look, but when he caught her gaze and held it, she found herself hoping he would not ask her any more questions about Jarvis Bradbourne. It was a forlorn hope.
“I collect that Bradbourne’s desiring to marry you is not something you have deduced, but that he has actually asked you to do so,” he said, still watching her.
“Yes.”
“And you refused him.”
“Yes.”
; “What made him think you might not refuse?”
“Wishful thinking, I expect,” she retorted. “He can have had no other reason.”
“Can he not?”
“No.”
“He holds no sort of authority over you?”
Nell opened her mouth to deny that Jarvis held any power whatsoever, then shut it again. Manningford made no effort to press her, and Mr. Lasenby likewise said nothing. At last, frowning, she said, “I suppose he might have thought that I had no recourse other than to do as he bade me. There is only Aunt Flavia, and since she had never appeared to take particular notice of me, he would have had every reason to discount her. When he announced that he intended to move into the house at Highgate, there was no one to stop him, for Nigel, of course, was on the Continent. It is possible he expected me to marry him to avoid gossip about our living in the same house together.”
“I should have thought he would want to avoid such gossip quite as much as you would,” Manningford said.
“But his attitude was protective, you see, even avuncular, so the pressure would have been applied to me rather than to him. People tend to take him at his own valuation of himself, you see, and since no one at home perfectly understands what happened, or why my father took his life, they would be likely to think Jarvis rather noble for taking it upon himself to look after Highgate and me until Nigel returns. They might also think he was being rather big about it into the bargain—for you can be sure the wager and its result are well known in our county.”
“Had you no one to support you?”
“No. Some of our neighbors have been very kind, of course, but there was no one to whom I could turn but Aunt Flavia.”
“Well, the man appears to be an encroaching knave,” Manningford said, relaxing a little, “but there is nothing in what you have said to prove wickedness or evil. Certainly not on a level with your duke,” he added with a teasing smile.
She blushed. “I concede that the duke bears a slight resemblance to Jarvis. I gave him similar characteristics, which I have since, on my great-aunt’s advice, attempted to disguise a little, but I must tell you, sir, that though I do not really believe Jarvis murdered his own father or mine, I do believe he is responsible for Papa’s death and for Nigel’s exile, and nothing that anyone can say will make me believe differently.”