His Lordship's Last Wager

  “Too early for that,” the duke said, much amused.

  “Not besotted. Like her is all, she’s smart. And pretty,” Clun mumbled and flushed to his raven roots. “Why the devil snarl at us?”

  “Yes, Seelye, why so snarly?” Percy chirped with grating cheer.

  “I am at a stand. Men are gun-shy of La—” he bit back her name. It wouldn’t do to mention her in public. “You know who. And now I know why. She has the heart of a lioness and the self-control of a Viking berserker.”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, man. Gird your loins. Put hammer to anvil,” Ainsworth said. “Nose to grindstone.”

  “Neck in noose?” Percy asked puckishly.

  “Quiet you,” the duke said and turned to Seelye. “Have I made my point?”

  “Redundantly.”

  Of course, he knew what Ainsworth meant. He slumped in the saddle, aggravating his bruised ribs.

  “Don’t worry, someone will take her with a little managing on your part,” Clun told him.

  Seelye knew that, too. It bothered him is all.

  Out loud, he said, “A little managing? Pushing her up a nave to an altar would exhaust Sisyphus and promises no happier outcome. You’ve no idea what the lady is capable of.”

  “He who wants the rose must respect the thorns,” Percy intoned.

  “If only it were thorns, I’d rejoice,” he grumbled. “There is a shocking want of refinement in the lady. Especially as regards her use of firearms. But I won’t discuss it out in the open.” He indicated an unused bridle path leading from Rotten Row. “Shall we?”

  They turned their mounts as one. Martial habit reasserted itself whenever they rode together.

  “What do I hear, friends? More outrage and frustration. I say Seeyle has met his match,” Percy said. “And I, for one, shall relish his suffering and yours, when the time comes.”

  “Cork it, your gloating is pointless,” Seelye said. “It’ll never happen.”

  For a blessed moment, all he heard was the familiar clop of horse hooves and the creak of saddle leather.

  Then Percy had to go and cut up his peace: “And there it is—more denial.”

  “Is not,” Seelye said, growing angry.

  “Hold there, Seelye. Didn’t you tease Ainsworth and Clun when they suffered similar moments of distress?” Percy asked. “Perhaps you’re too close to see the obvious but I can. The dinner gong has sounded. Time to sup on what you’ve served others. It’s only fair.”

  “Fair? Their situations were farcical. Anyone would’ve taken a duke, for God’s sake. It was hilarious that the one lady Ainsworth wanted needed so much convincing.”

  “Hilarious,” the duke mumbled.

  Seelye went on, his feeling of ill-usage gathering momentum, “And Clun betrothed himself to someone sight unseen only to reenact Foxes’ Book of Martyrs when he discovered how well he liked her. Who but Clun would do that?”

  “I wasn’t all that bothered,” grumbled Clun.

  His big gray horse snorted, too.

  “Their situations do not compare to mine, Percy, for the duchess and Lady Elizabeth are females with whom one may reason,” he said. “Whereas I must rein in an untrammeled hellion and see her married off to someone acceptable to the family. Oh, and I must perform this loaves-and-fishes miracle in mere months.”

  “He’s awfully tetchy about her,” Clun moped to his grace. “If Percy’s right—”

  “Don’t panic, just an off day. Hit in the face after all,” Ainsworth said to Clun. He leaned forward to add, “We can depend on you, Seelye.”

  “No, you can’t,” Percy said in a treacly sing-song, “he’s lovestruck.”

  “Say that again and I will end you—” Seelye paused, “well, I would if I hadn’t vowed not to kill anyone after the war.”

  “Always said it was an odd pledge, that,” Clun said. “Who’d you want to kill anyway?”

  “Footpads. Percy. You’d be astonished how often I’m tempted these days. But it has nothing to do with Lady Jane.”

  “And that, my friends, was another pathetic attempt to deny,” Percy summarized.

  “Mmm, was pathetic,” Ainsworth agreed. “Note the flaring nostrils.”

  “Noted. If Percy’s rrrRight—” rumbled the baron. “I’ll be damned if I’ll go around lisping because of you, Seelye.”

  “Gentlemen,” Percy said, “prepare yourthelveth for the wortht.”

  “I am not denying, wallowing or lovestruck,” Seelye said impatiently. “I should have never promised to help. Besides, I’ve already bollixed it up for the lady says she won’t marry at all.”

  Taken aback, Percy shifted in the saddle and asked, “Has she?”

  “On the upside, we win the bet,” Clun said.

  “I won’t have her spinsterhood on my conscience,” Seelye said.

  “She didn’t mean it,” the duke reassured him.

  “So I thought. Then like a prize nincompoop, I told her that and put up her hackles. She’s so damned contrary, she’ll follow through just to prove me wrong.”

  “She’ll come to her senses,” Clun said. “Leave her be for a while. Let the dust settle.”

  “I would but the lady must be relaunched successfully this Season for my great aunt’s sake. Lady Abingdon dangled the challenge before me, told me I couldn’t pull it off, and like a trout striking a fly, I argued the point—”

  “Pride goeth before the fall,” Percy said.

  “She bet me I couldn’t do it. I tried to refuse but she suffered heart palpitations. What choice did I have? If she wants Jane settled, so she will be. Besides, Jane’s not—” Seelye hunted for the right words, “altogether unlikable.”

  “Lips may lie, flushed cheeks tell all,” Percy informed the others. “And won’t his great aunt be aux anges to discover our friend is in love with the ‘not altogether unlikable’ lady?”

  Seelye directed his most toxic, heavy-lidded look of disdain at Percy and said, “I will not dignify that with a response.”

  “No need,” Percy replied, “you’ve proved my point.”

  “I need brandy. You?” Clun asked Ainsworth morosely.

  “Mmm,” the duke said.

  Chapter 14

  In which our heroine waves a red flag at a bull.

  Richard Martin spoke eloquently against man’s cruelty to animals at the Berry sister’s spring salon. He declared that the once rare ‘sport’ of bearbaiting was about to be revived for the amusement of the Hellfire Club.

  To Jane’s disgust, some of the club’s membership openly discussed it at subsequent balls in happy anticipation of the event. In particular the bear-baiting’s sponsor, Earl Rostand, congratulated himself for its arrangement without a care for who overheard him.

  On the spot, Jane resolved to prevent it. And for the first time in months, her life had a worthwhile direction and purpose.

  She would convince Rostand to cancel it. True, she had history with the man, but she was confident he could be made to see reason.

  The next day before the fashionable hour, John Coachman the younger drove her into Hyde Park, where she bade him position Bath’s phaeton across the earl’s customary path.

  A creature of habit, Rostand rode promptly at five o’clock every day as if to demonstrate that nothing could make him cede the ground to her after her blistering rejection two years before. Unfortunately, riding each day to make this point also kept the humiliation fresh in the earl’s mind, as Jane discovered.

  Promptly at five, Rostand trotted into view astride an equally proud gelding.

  How to work on such a man? She chose an oblique approach though subtlety was not her strong suit.

  She began, perhaps inadvisedly, by saying, “A fine bay, Lord Rostand.”

  She received a grudging “Thank you.” And as if to continue an argument, he added, “A smooth gait, this one. Rock-steady nerves, too.”

  “An exemplary horse in every way, I congratulate you,” she said to flatter him bef
ore undertaking her task. “Actually, I am not here by chance. I heard a distressing rumor and would speak to you, if I may.”

  “Rumor of what?”

  “I cannot credit the possibility of it, it is so vile. There is talk of a bear-baiting. And more scurrilous still, your name is connected to it. I hope you will deny it so I may silence the gossips spreading it about.”

  “No rumor, ma’am, fact,” he replied emphatically. “A rare amusement for my club and no simple thing to arrange, I might add.”

  “Well, you must cancel it,” she said. “It is most objectionable.”

  “Nothing to object to,” he said, reddening. “It’s legal sport.”

  “It’s not sporting to set dogs on a bear. That’s slaughter for one or both.”

  The earl pinched his pouty lips and squinted his beady eyes at her with marked disfavor.

  “It’s hardly appropriate for you to concern yourself with my amusements,” he said. “If, say, I were married and my wife had a strong aversion to such entertainment, I might be swayed. But I am free to enjoy myself without suffering anyone’s officious interference.”

  Evidently, subtlety was lost on the man. Jane felt her own choler rise and opted now for barely-veiled threat, something at which she excelled.

  “I only thought to prevent you from doing something that—well, if word of it should circulate—must make you repugnant to the ladies of my acquaintance,” she said. “Every one of them.”

  “Don’t distress yourself, ma’am. It’ll be over soon enough,” the earl took malicious delight telling her. “It’s much too late to change plans for tomorrow. The animal’s already on its way to be here tonight.”

  “Please, won’t you let me see the bear—”

  “Have I misunderstood you?” he cut in. Eyes popping, he pantomimed astonishment. “Do you want to see the creature beforehand? I’d let you, ‘pon my word I would, but a Bankside dog pit’s no place for a paragon of propriety such as yourself.”

  “I meant to say let me see the bear safe from savagery,” she enunciated. “In a menagerie.”

  “Call it what you will, but it ain’t savage if it’s legal,” he sniffed. “Ah, here’s Whitcombe now.”

  A small man in a low beaver approached the earl diffidently and said, “Your lordship, I am glad to find you here.”

  Rostand boomed, “Lady Jane, may I present my estimable man of affairs, Mr. Whitcombe? This fellow can find a needle in a haystack. Or a bear, should I request it.”

  She ignored Whitcombe but said, “How fortunate you are to have him, Lord Rostand.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord. There is a matter in Yorkshire that requires your attention. It will not wait. I regret the interruption, my lady,” Whitcombe apologized to her with suitable obsequiousness.

  * * *

  Lady Jane Babcock never looked his way, never so much as offered a nod, Whitcombe thought and took offense. This, after the earl himself introduced him. A humble man of affairs didn’t merit the Ice Maiden’s acknowledgement.

  And to think, month after month, his employer ranted about losing out on her. Money aside, she was no loss. The earl was fair-wise plump himself.

  Meeting her like this made Whitcombe glad he didn’t have to answer to her now, not for anything. By the earl’s loud voice and florid coloring, she was close to inducing one of his lordship’s spleenful fits.

  “Surely, your man can wind up the details,” she was saying, heedless of her effect on his employer, “if only you would cancel it.”

  “The lady objects to the bear-baiting, Whitcombe,” the plum-faced earl said. “She would have me tell you to undo all your preparations at the dog pit. What say you?”

  Reading his master’s mood, Whitcombe took great pleasure answering, “I will do as you wish, my lord, but it’s too late to cancel the refreshments. Or the bear. What would her ladyship have us do? Eat it?”

  The lady narrowed her eyes to slits at him. He had offended an important member of the aristocracy. If he’d misread his lordship, Whitcombe knew how he would suffer.

  She turned to Lord Rostand, waiting for the rebuke Whitcombe himself half-expected.

  Instead, the earl roared merrily, “Eat it! He’s right! Nothing else for it.”

  His horse danced at the unexpected crack of his rider’s laughter.

  The earl kept his seat and said, “That’s my man Whitcombe! Capable and clever. Eat it.”

  “Yes, hm hm,” she said, unamused.

  The earl laughed his fill while his man of affairs took care to disguise his own satisfaction.

  “Don’t get yourself all pinched-faced. Deepens wrinkles,” his lordship said loudly. “A pretty lady of a certain age cannot squander her most valuable resource indulging in the sulks. Now, Mr. Whitcombe, follow me in a hackney. Good day to you, Lady Jane.”

  To end the interview, he slapped the horse’s hindquarter with his quirt. It launched forward with a start and nearly unseated him. Whitcombe followed on foot.

  * * *

  Jane sat in disbelief, outwardly placid, inwardly smoldering. Her mind raced to evaluate options. Those who heard the exchange cast sidelong glances, which she ignored.

  John Coachman the younger recognized her distraction and said, “Looks like rain, milady. Perhaps you’d like to return.”

  She agreed in a state of abstraction.

  Blind to the park’s developing spring beauty, she began to plan: Too late to prevent the bear’s delivery. But it would have to be delivered where the event will be held, sometime after the last dog fight. The likely place was the Bankside dog pit that catered to the carriage trade. Malcolm would know it.

  But how could she stop a bear-baiting? Call the watch? No, it was legal. The earl wasn’t wrong about that. Could she steal the bear somehow? (Out of the question. Besides, stealing was against the law.) Or take away the venue? A reckless idea came to her: start a fire, close it down. It was no less than he deserved. (No, a duke’s daughter must not indulge in arson, however righteous her cause. And there was the bear’s safety to consider.)

  She grew more desperate the closer to Grosvenor Square the carriage rolled. To treat an innocent animal like another item procured for a party disgusted her. Staging its death to entertain boors like Rostand sickened her. But a bear was no stray dog to be bundled into George’s second best town carriage with Malcolm’s help. Anything but a cub would be large, likely disoriented, and dangerous outside a cage.

  Her mind snagged on an idea.

  Rostand himself wouldn’t wait at the pit to take delivery of the animal, one of his flunkies or that vile little man, Whitcombe, would.

  Who’s to say she couldn’t obtain the bear honestly with a better offer to the seller. Or bribe the earl’s man to let her have it. He would set a high price to betray his master, but she’d pay it gladly. One month’s pin money was more than most men earned in a year. She could also pay whomever delivered the beast to bring it to George’s back garden instead.

  With Mammon’s help, she would rescue a bear tonight. She relaxed against the squabs to evaluate her plan.

  George retired early with his duchess these days due to Gert’s indisposition. They wouldn’t know if she slipped out in the wee hours. Or notice what she housed temporarily in the potting shed until she found a suitable menagerie. It was still too chilly to recreate in the garden so the family was safe. And by now, Myrick the gardener knew better than to fling open the potting shed door without first looking in. Or sniffing the air.

  With a little luck and enough money, she would donate the bear to the Royal Menagerie in the Tower.

  “John, to Half Moon Street,” she said.

  She would ask the Berry sisters to contact Mr. Martin. He’d know how to formalize such a donation by act of Parliament. After that, if the earl and his friends wished to see the bear, they would have to pay to see it live out its natural life safely behind bars.

  In the wee hours, Jane slipped from her brother’s townhouse with Malcolm, George
’s most imposing footman. John Coachman the younger drove them in the duke’s un-crested carriage across Westminster bridge to the seamy part of town.

  Chapter 15

  In which our heroine wins over our hero. Sort of.

  Grosvenor Square

  George and Gert so enjoyed London over the winter, the duke decided to hold a card party for those arriving early for Parliament’s opening session. Jane insisted Gert invite her brother particularly.

  True, she hadn’t laid eyes on Lord Seelye since the day trip to Richmond Hill and the two—well, three—bouts of ‘battlefield relief’ that he blamed on her. Jane avoided him on several occasions when she called in Portman Square. She learned from Skeaping his lordship was already with her godmother and withdrew rather than cross his path.

  After her clandestine sortie to Bankside, however, she could no longer indulge her discomfort. Lord Seelye was essential to her plans because, despite everything, he was the only man she trusted to help her. For all his offenses, and they were legion where she was concerned, she nevertheless believed that he would still champion the vulnerable.

  Five days later, Fate delivered Lord Seelye, or so Jane concluded when the foursomes formed for cards.

  She invited him to join her table for whist at a shilling a trick. He did and more fool he.

  He drew the high card and dealt. Seated to his left, Jane led the first trick, took it, and never looked back. Over the course of three games, he suffered what could only be described as a catastrophic run of bad luck, whilst she enjoyed equal good luck at his expense.

  Lord Seelye became focused, impatient, and finally irate with himself, which made their partners ever more uncomfortable. Jane said little and the ‘charming’ Horseman said even less.

  Gert hovered. At the first opportunity, she ‘suggested’ the players pause to refresh themselves. Their partners took the hint and fled, which left Jane seated with Lord Seelye.

  Her grace leaned close. “Brother, behave yourself. And smile.” Straightening up, a smile lacquered on her own lips, she swept away.