The Marriage Wager

by Ashford, Jane

  Arabella stood staring at the door long after Emma had disappeared through it. She simply could not comprehend Emma’s position. Given any chance to reenter society, Arabella would have snatched it without a thought of consequences. To throw away the opportunity to marry into a fortune and a title seemed to her an act of madness. And not only for Emma. For if her young relative did marry St. Mawr, Arabella would have a connection to him as well, and who knew what chances for an escape from her current dreary existence?

  A mulish expression settled over Arabella’s pale features. She was not going to sit by and see her chances ruined once again. She had been helpless when her wretched husband had run off—taken by surprise and thrown into confusion. But matters were quite different now. She would not let this man—and all he might do for her—slip through her fingers. Going to her own chamber, Arabella sat at the writing desk and spent twenty minutes chewing on a quill pen and composing a note to Baron St. Mawr. When she was finished, she folded and sealed it, then sent it off with strict orders that it be delivered at once, no matter where the baron might be. Finally, she gave her maid certain instructions, and then retired to await events.

  ***

  An unearthly shriek rang out in the opulent bedchamber of Catherine, present Baroness St. Mawr. The shattering sound brought her dresser, her butler, two housemaids, and a footman at a dead run and left them jostling one another in her bedroom doorway in a most undignified manner. The dresser, a superior female with extraordinarily sharp elbows, won through first. “My lady?” she said, straightening her cap and trying not to pant from exertion.

  “My salts!” cried the baroness, clutching her throat. “Brandy. Send for the doctor. Send for my daughter.”

  As the large group of servants dispersed to fulfill these requests, their mistress continued to recline on her bed in a welter of pink silk pillows. A discarded breakfast tray, a hand mirror, and a scattering of morning mail lay around her. The Morning Post was a crumpled mass on the carpet, as if she had wadded it up and thrown it there.

  Though past fifty, Colin Wareham’s mother was still very attractive. Her son had inherited his dark hair and violet eyes from her. His size, and the stern lines of his features, had come from his father, however. Her face was much softer. Indeed, her entire figure was gently rounded without being in the least fat. She had small, plump hands and cheeks like a squirrel. The delightful cupid’s bow of her mouth had excited many young gentlemen to raptures thirty years ago. Everything about her appearance encouraged observers to conclude that she was a placid, pleasant little person whose deepest thoughts would be devoted to gossip, shopping, and dress. In short, she was a total and utter deception. For the baroness was a sharp, determined, and decisive woman who managed her own investments, took a keen interest in politics, and terrorized much of her family with her acerbic opinions and interference in their lives.

  Her servants were well aware of her true nature, and did her bidding speedily and efficiently. In a very few minutes, the respected physician entrusted with the baroness’s health was knocking at the front door, and her daughter, Caroline, Countess Wrotham, was stepping into her fashionable barouche to go and call upon her mother.

  “Have you seen it?” the baroness cried as soon as her daughter appeared.

  “What, Mother? Are you ill? The footman said you had taken a fit.”

  “The Morning Post,” was the reply, emphasized by a dramatic gesture toward the crumpled newspaper on the carpet.

  “I haven’t yet had time to read it. The nursery was in an uproar this morning, and I have had to—”

  “Well, do so,” snapped her mother, abandoning her languishing pose and brushing the doctor aside.

  Sighing, Caroline went to retrieve the paper. “Was there something in particular that you…?” she began as she smoothed it out.

  “Indeed! Look at the engagements.”

  Obediently, Caroline leafed through the pages until she came to the announcements. Her expression impatient, she started to read. “The Merton chit caught Harriman,” she commented. “I didn’t think she would. Oh, Amelia Franklin is engaged. I am so glad. She…” Caroline’s jaw dropped.

  “Now you see,” said her mother triumphantly.

  “Colin?”

  Having gotten the effect she wanted, the baroness waved her servants and the doctor away. “Go, go. I am perfectly all right.”

  With a sigh, but no surprise, the doctor packed up his bag and departed. The housemaids scattered. Only my lady’s dresser, experienced in the ways of her mistress, waited behind. Her prescience was rewarded when the baroness said, “Bring the blue merino. I’m going out in a little while.” With a small, tight smile, the dresser went to prepare her ensemble.

  “What can this mean?” asked Caroline when they were alone.

  Her mother looked at her. Even more than Colin, her daughter resembled the late baron. She had the same high slanting cheekbones and cleft chin, along with her father’s auburn hair and pale blue eyes. Even the spray of freckles, which she was continually trying to eradicate with exotic lotions, was exactly like his. She ought to have been a formidable woman. But for some reason, she had not inherited any of her parents’ keen intellect or incisive manner. She looked impressive, but she was simply a nice young woman wrapped up in her growing family, with an annoying tendency to dither under pressure.

  “It means that some wholly unsuitable female has trapped Colin into offering for her,” snapped her mother.

  “Trapped Colin?” Caroline looked astonished. She was rather in awe of her older brother.

  “She must be exceedingly clever,” acknowledged the baroness.

  “But who is she?” Caroline consulted the Morning Post again. “Tarrant? Do you know the family?”

  “Oh, yes. They are a pack of wastrels who have gambled away more than one fortune at the tables and the track. I don’t know precisely which one this is, but I shall soon find out. And I shall let her know that Colin is not a pigeon for her plucking.”

  “Colin?” repeated Caroline. She frowned as if working out a difficult mathematical problem. “But no one can fool Colin.” Her brother’s coolheaded omniscience had been a dominant feature of her youth.

  The baroness felt a moment’s doubt. She herself had tried more than once to… not trick, of course, but guide Colin into marrying a suitable girl. And none of her very clever schemes had had any success. Her irritating son saw through them immediately. And what was most exasperating, he would go along with them for a while, allowing her to hope that this time she had succeeded. And then a moment would come when he would meet her eyes with a sweet, gently mocking smile and slip effortlessly out of her toils. A woman who could succeed where she had failed must be clever indeed. “She may have resources which others do not,” she concluded grimly.

  “What do you mean, Mama?”

  “Colin is, after all, a man,” was the reply.

  Caroline looked puzzled. “Of course he is, Mama.”

  “And men are susceptible in… certain ways. No doubt this creature took advantage of that weakness.”

  “Weakness?” It was the last word she would apply to her brother.

  “Caroline, do stop repeating everything I say like Sara Clarington’s parrot,” complained her mother. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  Her daughter continued to frown as the baroness started to dress. She had donned her gown and was sitting at the dressing table having her hair arranged when light finally dawned. “Mama! You don’t think…?”

  “I shall find out,” answered her mother. “But the first thing we shall do is see Colin and ask him about this nonsense.”

  “I… I ought to go home,” attempted Caroline. “Nicky has a cold, and—”

  “I’m sure Nurse can look after him. I need you with me.”

  Drooping a little, Caroline conceded. She disliked rows, and
it was obvious that a very large one was looming ahead. If only she had taken Nicky into the country as she had considered doing, she might have avoided what was rapidly developing into a major family wrangle.

  ***

  Robin Bellingham turned his gleaming chestnut mare through the gates of the park just at the fashionable hour for the promenade. He was feeling extremely pleased with himself. His new dark blue coat was from Weston, and it fitted his slender form to a nicety. His buff pantaloons showed nary a wrinkle, and his tall Hessian boots gleamed. His neckcloth, while not aspiring to the complexities of the Mathematical or Oriental tie, was quite credible. His beaver hat sat jauntily on his silver-gilt locks. All in all, he thought, he looked the picture of what he longed to be—a true pink of the ton.

  “Robin!”

  Turning, he found himself hailed by a group of his cronies, young men he had known since his first years at Eton, who were now making their bow to society together. His best friend, Jack Ripton, was among them, and Robin urged his mount in their direction, going slow enough to give them ample time to admire his new rig.

  “You’re in prime twig,” was Jack’s comment.

  Robin took this, as it was meant, for a compliment. “Weston,” he couldn’t resist saying.

  “The devil you say? Top of the trees, ain’t we?” Jack responded, his grin lighting a rather homely face and transforming it into warmly attractive lines.

  The small group began riding along the path, one eye out for pretty girls strolling the lawns or in carriages, the other evaluating the men they passed, judging their own style and manner against those of the leaders of society.

  “Say,” said Jack after a while. “I nearly forgot. Appears felicitations are in order.”

  There were murmurs among the others, and Robin found they were all looking at him. “What?” he said.

  “Odd part of it is, I didn’t know you had a sister,” complained Jack. “I mean, I think a fellow would mention a thing like that. You know very well that I’ve got two.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Robin.

  “You’ve met them,” Jack continued accusingly. “That time you stayed with us for the hunting? Played silver loo with Amelia.”

  “Jack,” said Robin.

  “All these years, and not a word about a sister,” his friend marveled. “I can’t understand it.”

  “Jack, what are you talking about?” demanded Robin through clenched teeth.

  “Sister’s engagement,” replied Jack, as if it must be obvious. “Saw it in the paper this morning.”

  “My sister? You must be mistaken.”

  “It was in there, plain as day. Wasn’t it, fellows?”

  The others agreed.

  “But… but…” Robin stammered over his father’s long-standing orders that he was never to mention Emma. “My sister’s abroad,” he settled on finally.

  Jack looked at him kindly. “Can’t be, if she’s going to marry St. Mawr, can she?”

  “St. Mawr?” The baron’s questions came back to Robin, and his forgiveness of a large debt in exchange for answers. A frown settled over his handsome features. Something very queer was going on here, he thought.

  “Good match,” said another of the group laconically.

  “Good?” said Jack Ripton. “It’s beyond good. My mother would have crawled down Bond Street on her knees to get St. Mawr for Amelia. Fellow’s got fortune, family, position. Girls have been setting their caps for him in droves.” He contemplated this interesting position, wondering what it would feel like to have all the prettiest debs giving him the eye. Then he remembered his grievance. “But Robin,” he continued, “why’ve you kept mum about your sister? She must be a diamond of the first water to have caught St. Mawr. Might have given the rest of us a chance, you know.”

  “She’s a good deal older,” offered Bellingham, knowing the excuse was lame. His father might have said something, he thought bitterly, prepared him a bit. It was no wonder the old man had been so pleased with himself this morning, if this was really true.

  “Older. Abroad. We’re making scant headway with this mystery.” Jack Ripton shook his head. “Come now, Robin. We’re all friends here.”

  What had happened to Edward Tarrant? Robin wondered silently. How had Emma ended up at Barbara Rampling’s house, where few respectable ladies went? And why had St. Mawr engaged himself to her? It was beyond unexpected; it was an incredible match.

  “One good thing, you might get a hand with your debts,” Jack went on. “I hear St. Mawr’s a pleasant fellow. All the go, too. I daresay he might advance you a few hundred, and your father can stick his head in a bucket.”

  There was general laughter. All of the young men were familiar with Robin’s troubles with his father. Universally, they characterized him as a tightfisted old killjoy.

  For a moment, Robin was distracted by his own problems. His father seemed to have no conception of what it cost to be on the town these days. One needed the proper rig-out and some blood cattle to drive, which was dashed expensive. Most of all, a man had to show himself ready to play the tables or wager something on a race. He couldn’t be always drawing back because of a few losses. He certainly could not tell anyone he was forbidden to gamble by his father. Might as well say he was still in short coats and couldn’t go out alone. But even so, Robin didn’t care for Jack’s suggestion about St. Mawr. The scene with him yesterday had left a bad taste in Robin’s mouth, as if he had committed some social solecism. He’d go to the moneylenders before he asked St. Mawr for funds.

  “So when can we meet this sister?” asked Jack. “I warn you I won’t stand for any more mystery. I want to see her, and I want to see her soon.” The others added laughing agreements.

  “I, er…” He would have to speak to his father, Robin thought, wheedling information out of him when he should have been told in the first place. He wished he had the nerve to blow up at him about this. Sometimes, it seemed as if his father thought he’d never left the nursery. The thought filled him with a familiar sullen resentment.

  “There’s the Boyntons’ carriage,” said Jack.

  The others’ heads turned like a pack of hounds catching a scent. Sally Boynton was one of the acknowledged beauties this Season.

  “Come on,” urged Jack, leading the group over to pay its respects. Robin, lagging behind, wondered what other surprises might be in store for him before he found out what the devil was going on.

  ***

  At seven o’clock that evening, Colin Wareham, still in morning dress, entered the small shabby drawing room of Arabella Tarrant’s home. Outwardly, he appeared calm, perhaps even a little bored, but his appearance belied considerable inner turmoil. He had spent the day at Cribb’s Parlor, his club, and several other all-male establishments where he could not be accosted by any female relative. But that had not prevented his mother from pelting him with outraged written summonses, or his great-aunt Celia from inquiring in an acid note whether he had lost his mind. He had also been the target of felicitations of varying sorts from men he knew. Some had been appalled, others amused, and a few even sympathetic, as if he had contracted some embarrassing, fatal disease that it was best not to mention. All of them appeared to believe that he had been lured into lifelong captivity. He had not foreseen this emotional storm that was breaking over him, along with the fever of curiosity roused throughout the ton, when he had considered marrying Emma Tarrant. And only considered, he reminded himself bitterly; it was her blasted father who had roused this furor of shock and speculation with his notice to the paper. That man had much to answer for.

  He looked around the room. When he had finally received the note informing him that Emma was staying here and asking him to call, he had at first been relieved, for he wanted nothing more than to talk to her. But now, examining the threadbare carpet and draperies, the worn chairs, he felt wariness descend.
He had found out a great deal more about the Tarrant family in various conversations today, and he wondered if this Arabella would fit the descriptions he had received of heedless, grasping individuals who cared for nothing but games of chance.

  A loud voice from another room interrupted his thoughts. “Where are my trunks?” it demanded. “You cannot have misplaced anything so large. Everything I possess is in those trunks. You had better find them. Now!”

  Colin smiled slightly. He recognized Emma’s accents and the outraged tone. She certainly was a spirited woman. There was a clatter from the rear regions of the house, and then a deep male voice let loose a spate of incomprehensible words. They sounded like curses to Colin, and it was obvious they came from Emma’s odd foreign servant. Some domestic upheaval, he thought, but for some reason this knowledge did not fill him with the desire to flee. He recalled the flash in Emma’s eyes when she was angry, the color in her cheeks and the animation of voice and gesture. The picture was as far removed as it was possible to be from the meek debutantes who had been paraded before him for the last few weeks. He had to marry, Colin thought. It was his duty to his family and title, and he always did his duty. But what if he could have a woman who challenged and interested him rather than a frightened little mouse? Despite the gossip and annoyance, it was still an interesting concept. It was, he supposed, the main reason he was here. He was about to follow the sounds and find Emma when a small, thin woman burst into the room, her hands pressed to her pale cheeks. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” she said.

  Colin examined her. Her garishly colored gown had a streak of dust along the hem. Her graying brown hair was coming out of its pins on one side. With her eyes darting nervously about the room and her rather prominent front teeth, she looked like a cornered rabbit.

  “My lord!” she gasped. “So sorry. Things are a bit… I have been trying to keep her here, you see, until you… but Emma is so… forceful. I am afraid I have made her angry.”