His Lordship's Last Wager

by Miranda Davis

  He felt her eyes on him and challenged, “Yes?”

  “Was it so bad?” she asked quietly.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just now, you looked,” she hunted for the right word, “bereft.”

  “My apologies” was all he could manage through a bilious throat. He schooled his features into nonchalance and raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

  “You needn’t act a part for me,” she said. “The courage of your foursome is proverbial. Everyone knows you’re unflappable—except when overdramatizing some point to me. You fought with honor—”

  “Oh, Jane.” Seelye laughed once, harshly. “But you’re right, no need to overdramatize as is my wont. I survived and so did my friends.”

  “You say that as if you deserve censure for it.”

  “If only war were as clear-cut as life or death,” he said. “In reality, it’s a series of compromises made for the right reasons that nevertheless make one feel like a scoundrel.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not today, Jane. You say that war has changed me and imply for the worse. You’ve already taken my measure, I needn’t elaborate.”

  She stared at him with welling eyes.

  “Waterworks never work on me,” he said coldly. All the same, he was comforted.

  “Tell me or not, as you will. I won’t plague you. I only wish to help you feel less sad.”

  “Guilty, not sad. I did what I had to, but I’m no gentleman if I condone it.”

  “How can that be?”

  “It’s one of the many amusing paradoxes of war.”

  Jane stood. He prayed she would leave. She pointed to the empty space beside him. He knew he shouldn’t but nodded anyway. She sat down.

  “May I?”

  His misgivings multiplied but he nodded again.

  She slipped an arm around his waist. He encircled her shoulder with his. She fit as neatly to him as a puzzle piece when she consoled him with a hug. And, God forgive him, he let her keep at it.

  “I am sorry you had to do things at Maguilla you disapprove of,” she murmured, “but I’m grateful you did them. And so are many others: Clun, Elizabeth, Ainsworth, Mr. Percy, not to mention everyone on the baron’s estate who depends on him. Only imagine if you hadn’t.”

  “Yes, only imagine.”

  “War is savage.”

  “Among officers, there’s a code of conduct. You wouldn’t understand,” he said but longed to explain himself to her. Shame silenced him.

  “Someone must lance the boil if you’re ever to heal.”

  “That may be, but I will not have you poking and prodding me, Jane.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” Jacob came to warn them. “Half mile to Devizes.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to go,” Jane said and rose to her feet.

  “But you must.”

  He was grateful for the reprieve. A confession had been on the tip of his tongue.

  She slipped into the cabin. He stayed on deck in a daze.

  Heavy traffic at Caen Hill slowed the narrow boat’s progress through the bustling market town. Seelye studied the commercial buildings along the canal at his leisure. He noted the Black Bear Inn and its public house. There was still time to put memories out of mind before he met Percy there.

  The Invictus left Devizes’ center to enter a wider channel where narrow boats waited before the steep two-mile stretch downhill. Their flyboat moved to the front of the westbound line. Plimpton explained that the Caen Hill flight had sixteen locks like stairs. One right after another in a row. Eastbound traffic would keep coming uphill two at a time till the lock master signaled a change in direction.

  Having no pocket watch, Seelye squinted at the town clock tower in the distance.

  “I’m off to meet Percy,” he called down to her. “I’ll buy us some food at the tavern so long as you stay out of trouble.”

  She appeared in the hatchway to say, “Please do! I am famished for real food.” She flushed and added, “Not that I haven’t thoroughly enjoyed the potatoes. They’re very filling.”

  Good God.

  All he’d fed her was roasted potatoes, a few eggs, burnt bacon, and a meat pasty or two since she’d come aboard. He was accustomed to an army’s plain daily ration, but she wasn’t, poor girl.

  “You’ve been awfully good about the meals, Jane. I can’t blame you for wanting something else.”

  “Anything else,” she said eagerly.

  “Dost thou think there shall be no cakes and ale?’” he declaimed with a theatrical sweep of his arm toward Devizes. “Just thou wait and see.”

  She gave him a standing ovation and an unforgettable smile that puffed him right up. Nothing like making a woman happy to make a man happy with himself.

  * * *

  Amusing that the most convenient tavern to the canal in Devizes was at the Black Bear Inn, Percy thought and consulted his timepiece. His meeting with Seelye wanted less than a quarter hour.

  Upon entering the public room, he bespoke a meal, a pint of ale, and a corner table away from the bar. The taproom had few tipplers. Just the same, he sat, as always, with his back to the wall to examine the other patrons.

  Just then, a stocky man wearing a low-crowned beaver strode in and approached the publican.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Might I have a word? I am Mr. Stoker of Bow Street,” he said quietly, but his voice carried in the uncrowded room.

  Percy snapped to attention.

  “My spirits is strictly legitimate, Mr. Stoker. No cause for a runner to come ‘round here.”

  “Officer. Bow Street officer,” he said stiffly. “Not an exciseman. I’m here to inquire after a barge with peculiar cargo. Thought perhaps you’d seen or heard of it.” He leaned in to whisper, “A bear in a large wood box.”

  This disclosure alarmed Percy a great deal more than the bug-eyed tavern owner or the room’s other occupants.

  “Ain’t no barges never, sir. Only narrow boats on the K&A. Too many to account for. An’ I’m not one to stare out the window when there’s thirsty people. Can I get you something? On the house, of course.”

  “Ale wouldn’t go amiss.”

  The landlord pulled a pint and set it before the runner.

  After a long sip, Stoker looked right then left, and leaned in to ask, “Have you seen a young lady here, blonde, likely to stand out in a man’s memory.”

  He fished a gilt-framed miniature from his coat pocket.

  The barkeep peered at it and shook his head. “No, sir, I ain’t.”

  His firm denial reassured Percy to a degree. His first question was whether or not Seelye would keep Jane out of Devizes. Given the lady’s recklessness so far, she might insist on coming with him to the rendezvous. Indeed, she might show up against his wishes to be seen by anyone, including this stubby officer from Bow Street, with uncertain consequences.

  Percy evaluated what he knew: the runner asked after a bear but did not pursue it. He seemed more focused on finding Lady Jane. One might conclude therefore he’d been employed to return the runaway to London.

  The Horseman ate little when his food was served. He was too preoccupied watching the taproom door and weighing the pros and cons of helping the runner find Jane.

  There might be an unseemly scene featuring the willful lady along the canal. But wouldn’t her departure be more convenient? Her removal would make the bear’s transportation simpler.

  The argument against handing Jane over, however, proved more compelling because he preferred to win his bet than make the export of a bear easier. Besides, he’d already devised a forfeit for his friends so diabolical, it surpassed all other deviltry to date. And he was not above using every happenstance to ensure a desired outcome.

  From what he’d seen so far, she and Seelye were well matched and his attraction to her unmistakable. Her intelligence was weapon enough to parry his lordship’s own rapier wit and disarm him. The more time they spent together, the better his own odds of winning. So
after a little deliberation, he concluded Lady Jane must remain undiscovered.

  On the hour, Seelye sauntered in alone.

  “Or perhaps you’ve seen this gentleman,” Stoker said, setting aside his empty glass. He unfolded a piece of newsprint and added. “One of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, famous hero, Lord Seelye. He’s known as Beau Burton these days. Complete to a shade, as they say.”

  Seelye stumbled in Percy’s clogs. He stared at the stubby man who’d mentioned him and backed toward the door he’d just entered.

  The runner glanced up at the clatter.

  Instantly servile, Seelye tugged his forelock and grinned like a yokel. Stoker gave him a desultory up-and-down without acknowledging him, and turned back to the barkeep.

  Percy motioned Seelye over. He kept his head down and shoulders slumped to shuffle across the taproom floor.

  “Who in blazes is that?” he breathed, sliding into a chair. He pinched an untouched piece of beef from Percy’s plate with his fingers.

  “That fellow’s asking after a bear, a pretty blonde lady, and you,” Percy said under his breath.

  “Heard the last bit.” Seelye popped the meat into his mouth and chewed, saying, “Devilish tangle. What do we do?”

  “First, we close our mouths while eating,” Percy said with a grimace. “Fortunately, you look nothing like yourself, what with your hair, beard, and barnyard manners.”

  “Bad as all that?” he managed past the cud and scratched his jaw unselfconsciously.

  “Appalling,” Percy assured him.

  “Careful or you’ll wound my vanity,” Seelye joked and swallowed his mouthful. “Had a thought. Feel obliged to mention it.” He reached for the plate again but out of nowhere Percy poked Seelye’s hand with his fork.

  “Ow!”

  “Speak first then eat my food, if you please,” he said and set the utensil aside.

  “If it were up to me, she’d go to Bristol but perhaps it’d be best if we—” Seelye leaned closer and mouthed, “help him find her.”

  Percy studied his friend’s expression and concluded Seelye said what he ought, not what he wanted. Meanwhile, his own underdeveloped conscience wrestled feebly with an ambition more robust and ruthless.

  “The runner seems most interested in the cargo, from what I heard before you came in,” he fibbed. “What if he’s Rostand’s hireling? Daresay the earl and the Hellfire Club resented the loss of their entertainment. Perhaps he’s meant to nose about and stir up trouble.” Percy tried to look concerned. “Or threaten scandal to force her to give it up.”

  “That’s dastardly but possible.” Seelye glanced surreptitiously at the short man standing at the bar. “But no runner can extort her. That’s illegal—”

  “May not be a runner at all,” Percy twisted the knife. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man hired to do a dirty job lied to get it done.”

  “Whoever he is,” Seelye said with dangerous deliberation, “he best not threaten the lady or her cargo.”

  “How chivalrous of you,” Percy purred. “I’ve a plan but you’ll have to hurry.”

  Chapter 32

  In which plop goes the weasel.

  When Seelye said, “I’ll buy us some food at the tavern so long as you stay out of trouble,” Jane’s stomach rumbled. She’d had her fill of potatoes and hurried to the hatch to ask for real food.

  Hearing her own lack of gratitude, she babbled, “Not that I haven’t thoroughly enjoyed the potatoes. They’re very filling.”

  “You’ve been awfully good about the meals, Jane,” he said and looked rather sheepish, too. “I can’t blame you for wanting something else.”

  “Anything else,” she blurted.

  With a wave toward Devizes, he declaimed, “Dost thou think there shall be no cakes and ale? Just thou wait and see.”

  She applauded him and cried, “Bravo! Lots of cakes!”

  He grinned down at her and teased, “Your appetite is going to beggar me, my lady.”

  It was her turn to look heavenward and beseech Him, “Do men expect us to subsist on morning mist and tea? Fresh air whets the appetite, as does sunshine and the exhilaration of adventure. I think he should give thanks to You that I’m not wasting away, don’t You?”

  And it was his turn to clap slowly in appreciation of her theatrics.

  They were smiling at each other when Mr. Plimpton cleared his throat to say, “We’ll be here till the boats at the brick works come up. Could take hours to clear the flight, sir. You’ll hear the lock keeper’s horn when it’s time.”

  “I’ll listen for it and return immediately,” he told the skipper. He winked at her and leapt ashore.

  After he strode out of sight, Jane disembarked. She took a few faltering steps to follow him before thinking the better of it.

  Devizes lay on the main coach route between London and Bath. With the Season underway, any number of people she knew would be heading up to London for the re-opening of Parliament. Or their mothers might be en route to take the waters in Bath. Such repairing excursions were common after one too many of the early crushes crushed the delicate constitutions of matrons who, having fledged their own chicks, found the Season less scintillating.

  Better to walk away from Devizes and Seelye to clear her mind.

  Why must he linger so in her thoughts? There was no use denying the truth. She found him devilish attractive. He had become more man than gentleman to her. Disheveled, he was ruggedly handsome. His dark blonde beard roughened his sculpted jaw and cleft chin. His long, less-than-civilized hair lent him a dangerous air. Loose canvas trousers and the boatman’s shirt he wore made her acutely aware of his long, muscular limbs. The recollection of how he’d held her sent primitive desire shimmering through her.

  But his animal magnetism wasn’t the principal source of her problem. Not by a long shot.

  How inconvenient.

  If she indulged in such rumination, she reminded herself sternly, the walk would be wasted fretting over him. She wanted real exercise, not an exercise in futility. If these were to be her last few days of freedom, she’d rather revel in the fair weather, in blessed anonymity, and in the long, easy strides her pasty-selling skirt permitted.

  In that fortified frame of mind, she strolled down the towpath to take in the countryside and put a certain someone out of mind.

  At the crest of Caen Hill, the descending locks looked like a hellish steeplechase. The hillside fairly bristled with lumber, and its tow path was crowded with horses plodding uphill. From this angle, its sixteen locks seemed mere yards long, though in reality each was more than a boat’s length.

  Jane started downhill past the terraced holding ponds that supplied the locks with water. Mallards and other water fowl paddled in them jauntily. From her new perspective, the locks’ true dimensions became obvious.

  Taking anything, or anyone’s, true measure depended on one’s perspective, she thought.

  She walked into a meadow dappled with wildflowers and lay down in the tall grass to let the sun warm her. She ignored the inner voice nagging about ‘lethal freckles.’

  In time, her mind sorted itself out. Unfortunately, it returned to him.

  The man was much more than he first appeared to be, more than the young man she adored as a child and more than Beau Burton, snide arbiter of fashionable inconsequence. The better she knew him, the more she valued his character. And compassion. (How else would Bibendum be on his way to sanctuary? Or she to Bristol for his send-off?)

  No other man of her acquaintance possessed his empathy or forgiveness. Only consider Freeman’s Marsh. Her ill-conceived threat made him angry at the time. He called her names. And yet, when he’d asked about it afterward, he believed she never meant to drain the canal. In fact, he seemed to know that she was not at all what she appeared to be.

  He gave her the benefit of the doubt. And since her first Season, he’s been the only man to do so.

  And he was still kind. Who but Seelye would make peace with a ges
ture so endearing that she smiled whenever she thought of eggs and bacon?

  Then there was Bibendum. She approved how he managed the bear—like an indulgent parent—with good-humored, if grumbly, affection. Indeed, he’d quickly eclipsed her in Bibendum’s eyes. So much so, the bear looked to Seelye for direction when out of the crate.

  Yet, this same man had done something so unspeakable during the war, he was too ashamed to admit it. What could it be?

  During her meditation, she must’ve dozed. When a horn blew in the distance, she woke with a start. The locks were empty. The last two boats had reached the hill’s crest. She leapt to her feet and rushed back to the Invictus.

  Mr. Plimpton complimented her fine timing and the boat was drawn into the first lock beside another to start the descent.

  In the distance, she spied a frowning boatman and recognized him. Scowl or no, her mood lifted with Seelye’s return.

  He jumped aboard from the bank side.

  “Jane, a word?” was all he said in the open air.

  She preceded him down into the cabin, braced for a lecture about telltale meadow grass in her hair.

  “Have you brought Bibendum’s special tonic?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Don’t ask. Where is it?”

  She slipped past him to retrieve the small brown glass bottle.

  Before handing it over, she cautioned, “You’ll need some for the crossing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pocketed it and returned to the hatchway. “Won’t be long.”

  * * *

  Seelye returned hotfoot to the public house. Percy palmed the brown bottle under the table and sat intent as a cat at a mouse hole. Seelye paid for steak pie, tarts, cheeses, fruit, bread, and an assortment of fresh cakes, and asked the cook to wrap everything and set it aside.

  The town clock rang with ponderous gongs. More patrons arrived. Coach passengers without the means for a private parlor found seats at tables. Boatmen off the canal leaned on the bar.

  At the landlord’s urging, Stoker accepted another free drink but excused himself to use the convenience outside. The publican set out the fresh pint and shooed encroachers from the man’s prime spot.