His Lordship's Last Wager

by Miranda Davis

  At the session’s conclusion, he agreed to take Bibendum for a constitutional very late. He looked forward to it in the hair-raising, heart-pounding, risk-taking sort of way he perversely relished.

  There was nothing like derring-do to focus the mind and make one feel alive.

  It was a moonless night, or rather, morning by the time Seelye set out. The unseasonable chill thickened London’s soupy sea fog enough to dim the waxing moon and whatever it might’ve illuminated in the metropolis’ favored quarter.

  The duke and duchess had long since retired. Little Caro and her nurse were three stories away. And it served any randy footman right, if he were so thick as to arrange an illicit tryst in the duke’s own back garden.

  Jane met him at the mews gate, where she handed him a fistful of horehound drops and the muzzled bear’s leash.

  She saw them off with a cheery, “Have fun.”

  He hurried the bear down the mews, looked furtively in all directions before they crossed Park Street, and proceeded on Upper Brook without encountering a pedestrian, watchman, or hackney cab. Jane’s luck was certainly holding bear-wise.

  Inside Grosvenor Gate, he led Bibendum left and made for the gravel pit by the reservoir. The beast waddled along, happy to match Seelye’s hasty pace. Thanks to a brisk breeze, he smelled springtime with the merest top notes of bear and wintergreen.

  On the darkest, remotest bridle path he knew of, budding thickets crowded the way to provide excellent cover for a bear mucking about in new surroundings.

  Soon after, Seelye encountered Percy and ‘had fun.’

  “Hallo, that you?”

  Seelye almost jumped out of his skin.

  Percy acknowledged him in the muzzy way inebriates do after evaluating thoroughly the quality of port on offer at a gaming hell like Crockford’s West End place. Or perhaps he was taking a shortcut back from the Foot Guard’s barracks south of the park.

  Seelye quickly assumed a world-weary boredom while standing half-swallowed by shrubs along the shadowy path. He endured his friend’s bleary, over-deliberate scrutiny from head to foot. Percy took in his disheveled coat, his waistcoat daubed with viscous goo, and his buff stirrup pantaloons soiled with what looked like regurgitated leaves from the previous autumn. His unmentionables also displayed splats of what Seelye hoped was mud and not fresh bear scat.

  “Percy, what’re you doing here at this hour?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

  “Same as you, postprandial walk. Rather well to live, I must admit. Should’ve eaten more,” Percy confided. “Or drunk less. Or retired sooner.” He blinked and listed in the direction his head tilted. “Why you wearin’ all that escarole?”

  Seelye ignored the noises behind him. He wasn’t about to explain anything to Percy. Drunk or no, information was a dangerous weapon in his friend’s possession and there was no telling what he’d do with this.

  Percy peered owlishly past him. “Say, what have you there?”

  Seelye shifted to block his view. The undergrowth shuddered and made louder snuffling noises. He wrapped the end of the red leather leash around his hand twice. The other end disappeared waist-high into the dense thicket behind him.

  His friend grinned with satisfaction and said, “You’re walkin’ Attila for Ainsworth, ain’t you? Lose a bet to him?”

  “No, it’s a long story of no interest to you.”

  “You’d be wrong there, I’m always interested.” Percy chuckled vaguely and reached out to flick at the smears on Seelye’s waistcoat. “Up to somethin’ havey-cavey if you’re wearin’ mulch, m’ friend. Can’t be hornswoggled, even in m’ cups.”

  “You’ve had a great deal, I hope.”

  “I am pleasantly disguised,” Percy allowed. “Never be a three-bottle man. Broached a second, made some progress but couldn’t finish it off. Thought to clear my head and here you are with—”

  “Bibendum.”

  “Ah.” Percy bowed to the bushes. “Berbeedum, y’ servant. Is it a nice dog? May I join you?”

  “I don’t suggest it,” Seelye replied. “But if you insist, don’t make a fuss no matter what.”

  “Odd thing to say,” Percy said, swaying. “Dog can’t be that ugly.”

  “I mean it, not a sound.”

  “My lisp’re sealed,” Percy slurred with finger to lips.

  Seelye tested the leash with a light tug. A few clots of dirt flew, splattering his fawn-colored pantaloons at the knees.

  “Damnation,” he groaned.

  “You there, baaa-aahd dog,” Percy belched lightly. “Goin’ to stand there an’ let the cur dust you that way? Haul it out of there, why don’t you?” He peered down at his chest and flicked away a fresh clot he found there. “Bloody hell, Seelye, I’d rather not wear the filth it’s kickin’ up.”

  In a firmer voice, Seelye said, “Bibendum, come.”

  The thicket quivered but nothing trotted out.

  “Oh, give it a proper yank, will you? Let’s be on our way,” Percy huffed impatiently, grabbed the leash’s slack, and pulled hard.

  The bush made ‘pogh-pogh-pogh’ sounds. But Percy dug in his heels and pulled harder. Both men heard the guttural rumble. Percy looked up and staggered back.

  The shrubs were chest-high but behind them rose a taller, solid shadow rumbling deeply.

  Finally, Percy gave voice to his well-marinated wonderment: “Izzat a bloody bear?”

  “Bibendum,” Seelye said in a steady voice pitched low, “come.”

  Percy whispered, “Does it bite?”

  “Of course it bites, you idiot,” he said under his breath. “It’s a bear.”

  “Bloody hell!” Percy cried. “That yours?”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “Then whose is it?” his friend demanded.

  “Lady Jane Babcock’s,” he bit out the five syllables.

  “Well,” Percy said, miraculously restored to good humor, “that beats Lady Millicent’s pet monkey by a mile. Won’t she fuss when she hears of it.”

  “Lady Millicent will never to hear of it. No one will,” he said and peeled Percy’s fingers from the leash. “Now, be quiet.”

  “Ah, secret. Good at secrets,” Percy whispered, still transfixed. “Does one flee or play dead?”

  “Bi-ben-dum, come,” Seelye said firmly and slapped his thigh.

  The head dropped out of sight. After which, the branches parted with a cacophony of snapping and the bear lumbered out. He stopped, fixed beady eyes on the wavering drunk, and growled low.

  “Sorry,” Seelye said under his breath before crying, “Percy, bad boy!”

  When his friend swung round to frown at him, Seelye delivered a loud slap across his face and hoped for the best. Percy stumbled back, hand to cheek, looking less well-to-live.

  The slap silenced Bibendum but he trundled straight at Percy, who lifted his arms as if wading in high water. He—Percy, not the bear—made anxious noises through his nose while Bibendum made his acquaintance in the way of bears.

  When satisfied, the animal left him to butt Seelye’s hip with his head affectionately, smearing the remains of whatever he’d been eating on Seelye’s lower person. “You rotten bother,” he said and patted the bear’s broad head.

  “No one’ll notice if you button your coat.”

  “Over this mess? I will not. This was a favorite—” he censored himself. Why had he worn a good frock coat for this errand? In a syllable: Jane.

  Best not mention that to Percy either.

  Unhelpful thoughts of Jane followed. He was glad he’d worn decent clothes to their brief rendezvous because she’d looked as ethereal as a fairy queen, bareheaded and dressed in ice blue. A need to protect her nearly overwhelmed him—but he’d be an idiot to admit any of this out loud.

  Bored with the humans, Bibendum waddled down the path, towing Seelye behind him by the leash.

  “Come on then,” he called over his shoulder, “he likes you.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Percy sa
id and walked mostly straight to catch up. “What’s the lady goin’ to do with it?”

  “She has a plan.”

  The two men walked in pensive silence behind Bibendum.

  Eventually, Percy said, “There’s a collection of animals in the Strand at the Exeter Exchange, y’know. Might take a bear there.” Then lapsed back into silence.

  “She’s already decided against the Royal Menagerie,” Seelye said.

  Finding Bibendum a safe haven close by was more appealing than one far away but how to persuade her?

  At their walk’s conclusion, the bear waddled into the duke’s walled garden, made a circuit to empty the slug traps, then retired to the potting shed. Seelye removed his leash and muzzle and shut him inside, then rejoined his friend in the mews.

  “I’ll be damned,” Percy said in wonder. “It walks well on a lead. Minds your commands, too. Wonder if Astley would want him.”

  “That’s it! Bibendum does all sorts of tricks. He’ll never be bored or go hungry,” Seelye said and pounded him on the back. “Even squiffy, you are a brilliant problem-solver.”

  “Much obliged,” Percy replied, “comin’ from a clever fellow like you, et cetera.”

  Chapter 19

  In which one must beware heroes gifting bears.

  Unbeknownst to Jane, Seelye called at Astley’s Amphitheater later that morning, hoping to find her bear a new situation before he did something unpardonable to his benefactress.

  Wait.

  Since when had Jane’s habit of referring to it as ‘he’ rubbed off?

  Having become better acquainted with Bibendum, Seelye accepted that the creature had too much personality to be reduced to an inanimate ‘it.’ Evidently, that habit had overtaken him in the same, sneaking way other inappropriate inclinations had.

  For one, he must stop seizing on any pretext to embrace or kiss a certain lady. Danger was no excuse when Jane flung herself in harm’s way constantly. He must rise above whatever the provocation. This, he repeated to himself during the hackney ride to Westminster Bridge.

  At Astley’s, Bibendum would exercise daily under the benevolent eyes of expert animal trainers and before thrilled audiences. At one fell swoop, he could guarantee the beast was safe, well cared for, and someone else’s problem. More important, once the bear was given away, he could help Jane without any more heart-pounding adventures or untoward reactions to them. Life could return to normal.

  He’d be bored but able to exercise more self-control.

  At the amphitheater, Seelye asked for Mr. John Phillip Astley, the founder’s son and current owner. He was directed to two men standing by the proscenium stage across the large, central ring where equestrian spectacles took place. He stepped through the wooden barrier and strode across the sawdust-strewn floor toward them, too focused on his purpose to bemoan the debris clinging to his top boots.

  “Gentlemen,” he called out. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Astley about an opportunity.”

  “And you are—?” the younger man asked.

  “Lord Seelye Burton. Mr. Astley?”

  The closer Seelye strode, the more teeth this man’s smile displayed. A promising sign.

  “I am John Astley, my lord. This is an unexpected honor,” he said cordially and introduced the other man, Andrew Ducrow, trainer and famous equestrian in his own right.

  “Dare I hope the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse want to ride for old time’s sake? Needless to say, I’d be delighted to play host,” Astley said.

  “No, no such thing,” Seelye said, “but unique in its own way. Would you have time to discuss it?”

  “Of course! May Mr. Ducrow join us? I rely on his excellent advice.”

  Seelye agreed readily, encouraged by the warm reception. Astley led them behind the stage, down a corridor of dressing rooms, and into his office.

  Seelye declined his offer of port and began, “I know of a performing bear in need of employment. Would you be interested?”

  “I have toyed with the notion of a trained bear to add excitement in certain pageants,” Astley said eagerly. “Mr. Ducrow, your thoughts?”

  “His trainer’s looking to bring him here?” Ducrow asked.

  “His original owner is no longer available,” Seelye said. “He’s free if you’ll agree to undertake his upkeep and guarantee he’ll be treated kindly.”

  Astley found the offer more appealing than Ducrow. His gaze snapped from Seelye to his right-hand man.

  “Milord,” Ducrow began deferentially, “a bear without its trainer ain’t something I’d care for, free or no.”

  “He was raised from a cub and tamed properly, I understand. A bitch reared him and so forth,” Seelye said.

  “But bears ain’t domesticated,” Ducrow said, “What little I know, there’s nothing so dangerous as a bear what’s lost its natural fear of humans.”

  “Couldn’t another trainer work with him?”

  “Depends entirely on the bear. There’s a bond a cub forms with its warden. It does as it’s bid because that’s who raised him. No telling who the bear’ll mind now, or what it’d do if it don’t like someone. Bears like who they like and not others. And their opinions can change. I’ve heard a few tales about that over the years.”

  “I see.” Seelye shuddered to think of Jane’s ‘Bad bear, slap!’ training method.

  “Have you a gun?” Ducrow asked.

  Seelye nodded.

  “Put it down. That’d be the humane thing to do. Certainly the safest. If it were up to me, I’d want a trainer with a yearling cub he raised himself. There’s the public’s safety to consider.” Ducrow turned to his employer and added, “That’s only my opinion, Mr. Astley, but there it is.”

  Seelye’s early optimism evaporated.

  Ashley grew thoughtful. “Much as I’d like to oblige you, I must rely on Mr. Ducrow’s experience.”

  Seelye felt like a defendant in the dock reacting to a verdict he’d thought possible but unlikely.

  “I understand,” he replied and stood to leave. “No harm asking.”

  “Such a pleasure to meet one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Astley said and stood to pump Seelye’s hand in admiration. This was a vigorous exercise that loosened Seelye’s shoulder joint and made his ribs ache dully. “Should you and your famous comrades wish to—”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Seelye replied. “May I ask Mr. Ducrow a few more questions before I go?”

  “Be my guest,” Astley replied and opened the door for them.

  In the corridor, Seelye began, “Could you tell me the danger signs to keep in mind when handling a bear?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard,” Ducrow said. “As I recall, bears cough, you might say, that’s a warning. Then there’s a rumble. You don’t want to hear that, nor especially a growl. Good rule of thumb, the louder they get, the worse off you’ll be. Nor would you want him charging. If he stops short, it’s a bluff. But he might not and you’ll be mauled. No telling which it’ll be until you find out.”

  “How does one know when a bear’s happy?”

  Ducrow considered this and said, “Never came up in conversation, milord.”

  Good God.

  He’d been coughed at—the ‘pogh’ sound did resemble a cough—and growled at, after which he’d walked that beast in Hyde Park on the end of a leash. Then there was Jane, who cuffed him like a mama bear.

  Seelye thanked Ducrow and left with nerves jangling. He rushed first to Gower Street to load the only shotgun he owned. Next, he took a hackney to Grosvenor Square. It was late in the afternoon when only dearest friends called on one another but needs must.

  He arrived on the Duke of Bath’s doorstep with gloves and hat in one hand, firearm in the other.

  With no outward sign of trepidation, Wymark accepted Seelye’s engraved calling card and went to the drawing room to inquire if her ladyship was at home. She was, to the butler’s dismay. He thought to mention his lordship’s weapon but was shooed off
too quickly.

  Given the in-laws’ previous contentious interactions, Wymark considered disarming his lordship in the foyer, but one look from Lord Seelye quelled him.

  The butler led him upstairs, announced him in a voice of doom, and left the door ajar with a silent prayer. Lady Jane’s maid sat near her and he took some comfort in that before excusing himself.

  Seelye strode in.

  “Is that meant for me?” Jane asked, frowning at him over her embroidery hoop.

  She sat demurely on a settee, needlework in hand. What she wore on her head brought him up short. It was prettier than most lace caps worn by matrons and spinsters at home, but it was an abomination.

  “What’s that on your head?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” she asked. Delicate color suffused her cheeks.

  “Everything. Makes you look—”

  “Dare I ask why you have brought a shotgun to call on me, Lord Seelye?”

  “It’s not right, Jane.”

  “A cap is perfectly proper, if not mandatory, at my age.” She kept her eyes downcast. “But is a weapon really necessary? Perhaps I’ve underestimated my reputation.”

  “You’re too young for a spinster’s cap.”

  “I’ll be two-and-twenty this autumn, Lord Seelye. Married or not, females my age wear caps at home,” she explained and stabbed the needle into her work.

  “Decorum be damned, remove it.”

  He heard Sutter sniff nearby.

  “I won’t,” Jane said and waved him to a seat facing her. “Isn’t there something more urgent you wish to discuss? Something involving grouse?”

  “You know it’s not grouse,” he spoke low, so as not to be overheard by Sutter, “but that thing on your head is derailing my train of thought.”

  He went to the chair she indicated, all the while feeling the reproach of that frilly cap. He set aside his hat and gloves and leaned the gun against the chair arm before snatching his coat tails apart to sit. He stopped mid-way, leaned forward to whisk the offending cap from her head, and tossed it behind the settee.