It had hardly been difficult to suppose this was the man to whom she claimed to be affianced, the man to whom she had not wanted it revealed where and how Benjamin had found her this morning.
If his conclusion was correct, why had the two of them spent the evening a room apart? Benjamin had spent more time at Mr. Cullman’s elbow than Miss Oakes had this night. That seemed odd behavior for a betrothed couple . . . but not as odd as the mixed hope and uncertainty that Benjamin had surprised in the young lady’s gaze every time he’d caught her gazing toward Cullman.
It did not take a genius to divine that her betrothal—if it was real at all—was a secret one, one of which her papa knew nothing. They had to be a room apart, or else reveal their secret despite themselves.
Perhaps emboldened by the rest of the evening’s success, or this insight into Miss Oakes’s state of mind, Benjamin parted his lips to ask how it was that his mercurial nature did not surprise her—but before he could, she excused herself.
“The hour is late,” she said as she placed her cards on the table and rose. All the gentlemen stood as well. “I am for bed. Good night, gentlemen. Papa.”
“Good night, Katherine,” her father answered.
She gathered her winnings from the table, curtsied to the table’s occupants in general, and then surprised Benjamin by making her way directly across the room to Mr. Cullman’s side. Between his play at the cards, Benjamin watched as Miss Oakes placed a hand, lightly, briefly, on Cullman’s arm and spoke to him, saw the man answer. Cullman then gave her a wide smile and took up her hand, the palm of which he pressed to his lips. Miss Oakes took her hand back, her color high but her expression once again buoyed by whatever assurance the man had murmured to her.
As she mounted the stairs, she stopped once and glanced down at the man she had claimed as fiancй, but Mr. Cullman did not look up in return.
She turned away, the angle of her head turned down, perhaps in worry or uncertainty, or perhaps she merely looked to find the next step up. Either way, the angle of that bowed head pulled at something in Benjamin’s chest. Perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, but he thought he saw dejection cross her features, thought she moved with a slow step that owed more to unhappiness or dissatisfaction than to simple weariness.
When Benjamin turned once again to his cards it was with a scowl. He was convinced there was some emotional connection between the two—was he right to think it a secret betrothal? Was it merely that they played at liaisons late at night? Something. But where had been Cullman’s loverlike glance? If Benjamin had wondered at it. Miss Oakes most certainly must have done.
The uneasy sensation did not quite leave him, not even through the next three hours of late-night play. But perhaps that was merely a sensation that came with the advancing of the hour. A glance at the longcase clock chiming in the comer revealed that it was four in the morning. Most of the other gamblers had already called for carriages and retreated home, but Benjamin had deliberately lingered, to be the longer in what company remained.
He had sewn seeds tonight, he sensed it, seeds that well might bloom into a smattering of approval, a slight correction for the better in his reputation, perhaps even an occupation. He would like to work at a government position, in the Home Office, or perhaps in the Courts.
Beggars cannot be choosers, he thought wryly. He would gladly petition for any of the occupations the two men still at the table with him could provide. Sir Lowell was a senior man with the Jockey Club, which society could surely use an inspector or a recorder. And Mr. Markey was in the House of Commons, where another clerk or assistant surely would be welcome.
Benjamin was a dab hand at his numbers, knew his Latin and his Greek enough to have made a decent physician’s attendant, and could read French at least as well as he could speak it. The navy had taught him much about shipping, not to mention a smattering of Italian and Portuguese, and life had taught him to scent a poor deal before he plunged his money after it. He did not come to the trough empty-handed, and were it not for his tattered reputation, he knew he could have asked after a dozen occupations and been at leisure to choose among them.
Now, however, he could not be so cavalier.
He was tempted to ask about employment with these gentlemen who sat across from him, gently drunk on smuggled French champagne—there was bitter irony in that, for smuggling had cost him his capacity in the navy—but it was too soon. Tonight had been for connecting. The next week would be for re-proving himself, for melding into this strata that was the London elite. Later, a week or two from now, he would ask, and he just might be successful.
Sir Lowell and Mr. Markey rose, thanked their host, and tipsily made their way to the hall to await their carriages. Benjamin began to stuff notes and coins into his purse, gently pleased that in the end he had come out ahead by some three pounds this night of gaming.
The guttering overhead candles of a small chandelier provided a tall shadow, one that crossed the table surface. Benjamin looked up to find Cullman had sat down across from him.
“Come then, Lord Benjamin. Agree with me. I’ve done you a favor this night, have I not?” the man said in a pleasant tone as he settled with a smooth grace into the chair.
Benjamin cocked his head, a bit puzzled at the question, for the answer was obvious.
Cullman glanced at the croupier and motioned the sleepy- eyed servant away. “Now you will do me one. I wish to play a hand or two. Between just you and me,” he said to Benjamin as the servant bowed and departed. He picked up the deck of cards the croupier had left behind.
Benjamin fought down the impulse to frown, the scowl a result of a sudden prickling at the nape of his neck. Cullman’s gaze was level, but there was something wrong in the set of his mouth. Was that a smirk?
“Thank you, but the hour is late—”
“You are not afraid of a few turns of the cards?”
“No,” Benjamin said, his tone short and clipped. He allowed the frown to spread and become obvious, pulling at his brows and his mouth. “I am not afraid to play, sir, but I fear you may be foxed, and I should dislike taking advantage of a man in his cups—”
“My worry, Lord Benjamin, not yours,” Cullman said as he began to deal out cards. “I am content enough. Should I lose, I will not cry out tomorrow that I was fleeced because I was drunk. Come now, a hand or two more. What is that? Here then, there are your cards. Let us play.”
In short order, Benjamin had won slightly over a hundred pounds from the other man. He squirmed in his seat. “Truly, Cullman, I should like to find my bed this night—”
“Very well. The hour does indeed grow late. After one last hand, shall we say?”
Benjamin sat back, resigned. He did not sigh aloud, remembering that until this curious interlude, Cullman had done him a large favor this night. “One last.”
“Just so.” Cullman leaned forward, and it occurred to Benjamin that perhaps the man was not as foxed as he’d let on. His eyes gleamed, but not with the glitter of drink, but something darker, deeper. “Since it is to be our last, it must be special, must it not?” Cullman said on a smile.
Benjamin felt his scowl deepening.
“But I insist! I insist, for if you will not give me the satisfaction of one last chance to win back my funds, I shall have to say you are no gentleman and I shall have to withdraw my fellowship. When I, the First Beau, declare you unworthy of gracing my company, your reputation will loom blacker than it did before tonight.”
Benjamin froze. He had the fleeting thought that were Miss Oakes here, she would note a return to his more usual, sterner demeanor, for he certainly felt it creep over his shoulders, pulling him to sit up a little straighter. He looked into Cullman’s eyes, and concluded the man was not drunk, not at all. And Cullman probably did not brag—he probably could taint Benjamin’s already shaky reputation, perhaps beyond all redemption.
“I knew something was amiss between us. I should have trusted the sensation that crawled up the sk
in of my neck,” Benjamin said, his tone as chilled as an icehouse.
“You should have,” Cullman said, and he almost smiled. “But the cards could go your way, you know! I am a good player, but not exempt from fate’s touch. Have you not already won some hundred pounds from me?”
Cullman laughed then, telling the tale: He’d lost to Benjamin on purpose, to draw Benjamin into this moment, this one hand. Even now Benjamin felt the pull of the man’s laughter, some small part of him wanting to succumb to the charming sound of it. The man could spit poison and almost win your thanks for his efforts. A fitting description, for he fascinated even as he dismayed, not unlike a cobra.
“The wager then!” Cullman went on, rubbing his hands together, some dark glee making his eyes glow. “If you win, I will match the entire contents of your purse there and thereby double your ready. How much do you have?”
“Five hundred pounds, more or less,” Benjamin answered, his mouth gone dry.
If he doubled the money, his time in London would be an easy one, allowing him plenty of freedom in searching for just the right position. But if he lost the wager. . . what was the penalty for that?
“Too, if you win,” Cullman proceeded, “I will continue to sponsor you and lend my entree to you. Unless I am much mistaken, there is nothing you want so much as employment to replace the military career you’ve thrown away.”
Benjamin’s jaw tightened, but he did not bother to correct the man: He’d thrown away nothing. His actions had been deliberate. But a snake such as Cullman could never believe that Benjamin had chosen disgrace because the alternative had been even less acceptable.
“—And if I win”—Benjamin’s attention refocused on the man as Cullman’s smirk grew broader—“I take your five hundred pounds, and you agree to become publicly betrothed to Miss Katherine Oakes, thereby ending a secret betrothal I have already made with her. I do not care if you actually marry the hoyden, so long as I am left free to pursue other more ... let us say, profitable associations.”
Benjamin stared. There had been a hidden betrothal between Cullman and Miss Oakes! And Cullman was handing it off, giving away a bride—! More than that even: He was abandoning this other human being into the arms of a near stranger, to him, to Benjamin. As if his fiancйe were less important than a pair of old shoes or . . . words failed Benjamin, as he sat and stared at a smiling Cullman.
He could not have heard right. What kind of a man could wager away a betrothal, let alone do so with such calculation?
“This is a poor jest,” he said, hoping Cullman would laugh, would say Benjamin had caught him out.
“No jest,” Cullman said coldly, his dark humor erased in a moment. He tapped the cards dealt out in front of Benjamin. “Now, play.”
Chapter 5
“I will not play,” Benjamin said, using just the tips of his fingers to push the cards back toward Cullman.
“Unfortunate,” Cullman said, still with that pleasant polish for which he had so quickly become renowned. He stood, seemingly unruffled, but there was a dark light in his eyes. “I hope you enjoy the exile you are about to know, for there will not be a single door open to you when I am through tarnishing what is left of your reputation.” He flicked one negligent finger at a tiny speck of lint on his coat sleeve.
“Damn you,” Benjamin said, feeling his color rise along with his temper. How dare this upstart threaten him?
The answer to that came quick and bitter: The man dared because Benjamin was vulnerable. His birth was superior—but Cullman’s reputation was untainted. He could do just as he threatened.
‘Tell me, why would I be willing to wager the bulk of my purse? If I lose, it is gone and I gain a fiancйe! Why would I risk such a thing? And I cannot believe Miss Oakes would wish to be any part of this. . . this travesty! This is madness. No man would agree to a wager like this!”
“Oh, some man will,” Cullman said, his expression bland, even jaded.
Benjamin stared, feeling a chill creep down through his very center. He shook his head. “Why do you not simply cry off from the girl?” he demanded. A servant glanced their way, absently scratching his chin.
Cullman noticed also. “Keep your voice down, Lord Benjamin. And you know the answer to that,” he said quietly. “No gentleman can cry off from a betrothal. It must be the lady’s idea.”
“Then why not ask the lady to comply?” Benjamin asked from between gritted teeth.
“Perhaps the lady will not. Perhaps she has made up her mind not to change it.”
“No.” Benjamin looked into the other man’s face, then shook his head. “No, it is something else. A betrothal that is a secret between just two people can be broken easily enough—it has to be that someone else knows about the betrothal. Someone important. Someone who would be disappointed if the wedding did not go forward.”
Cullman said nothing, but the angry flush that filled his face spoke for him, confirming Benjamin’s assessment.
“A superior... no. A parent! Your parents have demanded you marry or ... what? What is it, Cullman? Have they threatened to withdraw all funds if this betrothal does not go forward?”
Cullman’s eyes narrowed, but he surprised Benjamin by responding. “As pedestrian as it all sounds, that is the case. With two exceptions. It is only my papa who insists, for my mama has passed on. Secondly, I am to marry someone by the Season’s end. It need not be Miss Oakes, necessarily.”
“Not Miss Oakes,” Benjamin mused, understanding dawning at last, “not necessarily her if someone else can be made to take your place as bridegroom.”
“My papa can scarcely demand I honor my promise to Miss Oakes if someone else publicly claims her affections, now can he?”
“But why become secretly betrothed in the first place?”
“When my father would no longer support my living in Brighton, I was forced to abide in the country,” Cullman said with a shudder. “I had to obtain funding, or perish of ennui. I thought Miss Oakes could provide that funding for my escape. Marriage, I thought at the time, would be the price I must pay.”
“But you found your way to London through other means,” Benjamin made it a question.
Cullman inclined his head. “Some money fell into my hands, yes, enough to bring me to Town.” Cullman sat back and spread his hands. “Now that I am here, I am more than welcome. And I, the First Beau, find the pigeons of London are plumper of pocket than their country cousins.” He shrugged, an elegant gesture. “I would be a fool to continue my betrothal to Miss Oakes. So she must be got rid of, and in a way in which my parent cannot object or insist otherwise. If I win the play tonight, sir, you will make my necessary freedom possible.”
“You are mad.”
“Mad enough to make a game of this entire circumstance,” Cullman said, sitting up once more. “To give you a sporting chance.”
“Again, why would I risk my five hundred pounds? If I am to have the ‘penalty’ of undoing an engagement for you, why would you even ask for my money as well?” Benjamin stared at the other man as Cullman’s mouth slowly formed a very small, very cold smile.
“Because I can,” the dark-haired man said.
Benjamin just stopped himself from pressing a hand to his forehead, feeling stunned as he frantically searched for the idea’s fatal flaw, the one that would turn Cullman away. There must be a way to force Cullman to withdraw the challenge, to make moot his threat to destroy Benjamin’s teetering reputation.
This simply could not be! It was untenable. He wanted a wife—someday. But not while his fortunes ebbed as thoroughly as they did at present. And any wife of his would have to be just the right woman. She’d have to be quiet and calm and easy in her manner, in order to be in accord with his unusual family. She’d have to have the best of ton, to help the Whitbury name recover from tales of insanity and dishonor. In fact, any wife of his would have to be everything he already knew Miss Oakes was not.
Benjamin could not accept this fool’s wager . . . but to r
efuse it was to embrace defeat. He did not doubt Cullman would do as he claimed he would—and the man might not stop there, but also attack Benjamin's entire family.
His thoughts seethed. Very well then, he’d just have to go home to Severn’s Well, pride or no pride. He’d have to admit he was unable to make a place for himself in the world. He’d have to return to his newly married brother’s home and . . . Benjamin shuddered, feeling the edges of savage determination begin to crumble. Not because he thought he’d be unwelcomed at home, but quite the opposite: Gideon and his new bride, Elizabeth,
would be all that was warm and hospitable—and Benjamin would be the proverbially useless fifth wheel. How could he possibly build a life, a purpose for existing from such meager offerings?
He glanced at Cullman—and his heart sank farther in his chest. The dark, amused gaze Cullman returned was enough to convince him the wager would not be withdrawn.
Benjamin shook his head, then looked with a narrowed gaze once more across at the other man, now with loathing. There was no way for him—or Miss Oakes, for that matter—to walk away unscathed. If he abandoned Miss Oakes to this man’s schemes ... he knew what Cullman would do. The blackguard had made it clear he would not surrender his sordid little scheme, that he’d find another dupe.
“If not me, then you will simply find another fellow to tumble to your contrivance,” Benjamin stated with flat assurance.
The Bartered Bridegroom Page 5