His Lordship's Last Wager

by Miranda Davis

  My point is, if there were a fervent, determined animal lover like Lady Jane Babcock, she could’ve done what I propose to save a tamed bear, given her temperament, experience saving and training dogs, personal wealth and contacts. She would have risked scandal, as indicated in the story, but she might have chosen to do so anyway, protected in part by her rank and money and by the wonderful English inclination to tolerate, no, celebrate, eccentrics.

  The question remains: would she have done it as an actual product of her time and social milieu? She does not have a historical or literary precedent from Regency England.

  So, Lord Byron, yes as a matter of historical fact; Lady Anybody, not so likely but possible.

  On the upside, should you care to go there, it’s a premise that hasn’t been trotted out a gazillion times before in Regency romances. On the downside, rolling your eyes a lot can cause vertigo.

  Suspend your disbelief or don’t, that is the pleasure—or dizziness—of reading historical romances. As always, happy reading and very best wishes!

  Miranda

  About the Author

  Miranda Davis has had the temerity to write and self-publish a third Regency romance.

  To the few, the fearless, and the steel-stomached readers who read this in very rough drafts to help the author at critical moments along the way—Jill, Searock, Georgie, Caz and Dorte—the author cannot adequately thank you for your comments and forbearance. (Pun intended.)

  The author has made every effort to get the history right, to devise a fresh premise and plot, and to present interesting characters in a quandary that leads them to a love they both deserve.

  She hopes you enjoyed this. But either way, let her know what you think at mdavish@cybermesa.com or through the usual online outlets.

  And then there was one.

  The following may be an excerpt from a fourth novel in the Horsemen of the Apocalypse series. (God only know how long it might take.)

  Chapter One

  In which a man’s castle is not his home.

  May 1817

  London

  A glossy new town carriage rolled to a stop near her townhouse in Lower John Street just off Golden Square. Well, it wasn’t her townhouse, Lady Iphigenia Thornton reminded herself, but never mind. She paused to glance at it before returning to the dirt. The flower boxes decorating the window sills on the street level reclaimed her attention. She dug with a trowel in the soil, preparing it for seeds, and dried manure sprinkled the skirt of her oldest, faded gray day gown.

  She was not too proud to be her own gardener. At this point, she was her own upstairs maid, too.

  The neighborhood had ranks of attached townhouses with no below-ground kitchen entrance. The facades were straightforward, unadorned and not particularly fashionable, but well enough for the town residence of the kingdom’s only earldom with next to no land and almost no consequence.

  The Thornton family tree had dwindled to a single branch and its fortunes had likewise declined to mere gentility. But her brother had enjoyed the townhouse’s proximity to St. James, his club, and gaming dens. As earl, he hadn’t enjoyed this proximity for long, poor soul, but he did his possible during the years God gave him.

  If only Iphigenia had made him take better care of himself, convinced him not burn the candle at both ends, to eat more sensibly and drink less—but she quickly dismissed the direction of her thoughts as impractical. Her late fiancé, Lord Holmsbury, was temperate in all things and he was carried off by a fever at Christmastime last year.

  In her distraction, she heard no one approach, nor did she sense danger before something cloaked her head and a big hand clamped over her muffled mouth. Before she could react, a strong arm wrapped her midsection and picked her off the pavement effortlessly. She squirmed and kicked at her attacker but whoever it was had her. She was tilted. Her head cracked hard against a carriage door frame.

  A man cursed under his breath before whispering a curt apology.

  Her assailant turned awkwardly in the tight quarters of the carriage and pulled her onto his lap. He was a large man, with a broad chest, strong arms and long, hard thighs.

  Iphigenia was clasped to him, blinded by a bag and bound by his arms.

  “Are you hurt?” the low voice asked.

  She shook her head, as much from trembling as in answer to the question. She couldn’t reply with his hand over her mouth. Her forehead throbbed over her left eye. She struggled to escape his grip.

  The blasé voice said, “You’re in no danger. I wish a word in private, nothing more, Lady Iphigenia.”

  She stilled. He knew her name. There was something familiar in that deep, purring voice. Perhaps he didn’t mean to hurt her, but he certainly intended to scare her senseless.

  “I will remove my hand now. If you attempt to scream, I will not hesitate to silence you. Is that clear?”

  She nodded and felt the hand loosen a fraction.

  She whispered, “Please let me go.” The hand was gone but what covered her head stayed. “Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “We have a problem, you and I. I wish to solve it discreetly.”

  “We have a problem? Do I know you, sir?”

  “Must I explain again?” the voice rumbled. “You occupy a townhouse that is property entailed to the Earl of Theydon, a title recently bestowed by the Prince Regent on a former military officer. As you also know, the title became extinct when your brother died without issue and reverted to the crown. The gentleman offers his sincerest condolences, my lady, but you must see that you are staying where you have no right to be.”

  “He’s no gentleman.”

  “To want what is his?”

  “To hire a hoodlum to snatch me off the street and intimidate me this way. He has my dowry, every guinea of it. And he is a thief to keep it.”

  “He does not, ma’am. He has the title and properties entailed upon it. No more. Beside the principle seat in Essex, there’s only the townhouse you occupy. He wants it unencumbered. And he shall have it so.”

  “What of my money? Where am I to go?”

  His grip loosened and she snatched the hood off her head. To distance herself, she slapped at the arm encircling her, but he would not release her. She twisted around, wrenching free to give him a good slap.

  He caught her hand mid-swing, his reflexes were exquisitely tuned and lightning fast.

  Their eyes locked. A sliver of light slipped past the curtains covering the carriage glass and illuminated the tawny gold eye of a lion. His thick hair, too, was burnished and tumbled like a mane.

  “You,” she gasped.

  She refused to refer to him by her late brother’s title but recognized the horrid new Earl of Theydon. He may be a Horseman of the Apocalypse and friend to Lady Jane’s new husband, but he was a villain through and through.

  “I don’t have your money,” he repeated. “None came to me, only real property. Truth is, I’m high and dry at present.”

  “Liar.”

  “No, ma’am. I am mystified by you and frustrated with you but I have never lied to you.”

  Iphigenia snorted, “Is that so, Mr. Percy?”

  “Lord Theydon, though it choke you to say it. I do not want a scene. I do not wish to involve the bailiffs. Nor, if you are wise, do you. I simply want you out of my house, understood?”

  He stared impassively at her and her heart almost failed her. But even a mouse in a corner will attack.

  “I will leave when you return my dowry and not before.”

  “You will leave when I say. But you’ll find I am not a cruel man. I understand your predicament. You will miss your friends. But you really wish to live where you cannot afford the staff or the lifestyle? As a matter of practicalities, you must leave London soon or embarrass your friends with your penury.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I learn what I need to know but I wasn’t certain until you confirmed it just now,” he purred with sat
isfaction. “I do know for a fact everyone but your housekeeper, a Mrs. Fairfax, retired without pension after your brother’s sudden demise.”

  “I will redress his oversight as soon as you give me my—”

  “I mean no disrespect to the dead, but with no will, no wife or male heir, he planned poorly for the future. That was his fault, not mine, you must admit.”

  “When Lord Holmsbury died, my brother promised faithfully—”

  “If I had it, I would give it to you so you could retire to somewhere in the country with Mrs. Fairfax. There’s no shame in that. But for the umpteenth time, I haven’t got it.”

  “I don’t believe you. Four thousand pounds is a reasonable price for a well-kept London townhouse, I believe.”

  “Off Grosvenor Square perhaps, but I won’t be extorted for what’s already mine by law.”

  “Then I have nothing more to say. Let me down.”

  He spoke to the driver through the trap and the carriage rolled around the block to his townhouse and deposited her there.

  His parting words to her were, “You have till the end of the month, Lady Iphigenia. I suggest you make use of the time I’ve given you.”

  * * *

  One month earlier

  It was a lovely April day when George Percy, Earl of Theydon, decided to inspect the townhouse entailed upon his newly acquired title. To his dismay, he discovered the earldom came with a rather problematic legacy: the property’s current occupant, Lady Iphigenia Thornton, bereaved fiancée of the late Lord Holmsbury (d. 26 December 1816), and more recently bereaved sister of the late fourth Earl of Theydon in its second creation (d. 13 March 1817).

  Lady Iphigenia herself answered his knock but permitted him no farther than the doorway.

  “I cannot invite a man in without proper chaperonage,” she said.

  He offered to return another time at her convenience.

  “No.”

  “We must discuss this situation. May I not come in?” He let her push him out but he held the door open despite her full weight leaning against it.

  “No,” she said, straining to close it in his face.

  “May I ask why?”

  “I haven’t a companion to make such a meeting proper.”

  “Ever?”

  “Never,” she answered, desperate to end the interview.

  “Well,” he extemporized, “would you agree to drive with me in the park? Open carriage, no impropriety in that.” He gestured to his curricle at the curb. “We must speak, you and I.”

  She peeked out the door, then looked up at him so anxiously that he felt a rush of sympathy nearly equal to his consternation.

  “No,” she said, “you will attempt to evict me by nefarious means while we’re out.”

  “The thought never occurred to me,” he said, careful to hide how deeply her accusation offended him.

  “I will only leave when you return my dowry,” she stated. “Four thousand pounds, sir.”

  “Four thousand?” Percy echoed, aghast.

  “As they say, possession is nine-tenths of the law. You have what’s mine, I have what’s yours. Let’s trade.”

  “You have lost your mind.”

  “My brother promised to put my dowry in trust for me after Holmsbury passed away. It should’ve been separate from the entailed assets.” She swallowed hard before she could finish, “Apparently, he never signed the legal documents. So, you have my dowry among the estate’s assets, my lord, and must give it back. I can do nothing but stay without that money.”

  “Lady Iphigenia, I was granted the title, that’s true, but the only entailments are the Essex estate, with its rents and production, and this townhouse, with its expenses. Not a shilling came to me. In fact, your brother’s steward gave me a list of repairs owed the tenants and I’ll be dashed if I can fund them out of pocket. There’s no income to speak of until the autumn.”

  “Heavens, I should’ve known,” she said, “you finagled it from the Prince Regent. I don’t doubt you suggested he take all the cash in consideration for the title. Was that your underhanded bargain? You and your moral turpitude disgust me.”

  She put her shoulder to the door and shoved harder, but he kept it from closing. He would continue to do so until he was good and ready to let it go. Still, one couldn’t help but pity her for her misfortunes. Did no one in the relevant bureaucracies realize the late earl’s sister was still in his care when he died?

  Then again, how was that his fault? Or his responsibility? And how, he’d like to know, did any of this make him a morally-turbid finagler?

  Putting aside his sense of ill-usage, he considered the mistrustful little mouse carefully.

  He’d met her before. In company with strangers, she effaced herself to avoid notice. But among friends, she had the discretion of a town crier. Her whisper could reach the farthest seat on the uppermost deck of Covent Garden.

  The new earl was determined to avoid a rumpus over a minor misunderstanding. It would not do to embarrass the Prince Regent over missing cash—mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Indiscreet she might be, but not unintelligent. He dared not underestimate her. She was the one to suggest transporting Lady Jane’s bear across England by canal when he and Seelye were at a standstill. She recommended an iron-reinforced crate to house the animal in transit. Both solutions answered their difficulties brilliantly.

  Better by far, Percy decided, to rely on his diplomatic finesse. Not that he anticipated needing to exert himself overmuch. The lady could not wish to cause an unseemly scene either. He’d untangled many more intricate matters for the crown quickly and quietly. With judicious use of reason and pressure, she would leave with nary a whimper.

  That goal in mind, he tried reasoning with her through the half-open door, on which she now leaned at a forty-five degree angle. Lady Iphigenia flatly refused to vacate, becoming more insulting with each accusation she flung at his head.

  It came as a shock when Percy realized he was dealing with the sneakiest, most treacherous sort of female on God’s green earth, the crypto-bluestocking—one part Venus fly-trap to one part shrinking violet. Beneath her veneer of ladylike meekness beat the brazen, cold-blooded heart of a Norman occupier.

  She insisted on an outrageous sum to vacate his premises. He hadn’t a quarter of what she demanded.

  “Wherever your dowry went, it wasn’t to me,” Percy reiterated to her.

  “Then get it back,” she said.

  “From the Prince Regent? It was spent as soon as Prinny got his hands on it.”

  She strained at the door while he explained once again that the earldom had been stripped clean of cash before it was granted to him—as were most titles falling into the Prince Regent’s pudgy clutches.

  “Prinny wanted another onion dome for his Brighton folly,” he said, trying to joke about the profligate prince.

  She was not amused, and he was fed up with her. Before she could deliver whatever fresh insult she opened her mouth to hurl, Percy released the door and had the satisfaction of hearing her tumble to the floor inside after it slammed shut.

  He strode away from his townhouse with nothing sorted to anyone’s satisfaction.

  The new Earl of Theydon admonished himself again and again in the hack returning to his set at Albany, gift horse, mouth, et cetera.

  After all, the Essex property was a sweet prize. It bordered Epping Forest, near the village of Theydon Bois, only eleven miles of fair road from London. The manor house was recent, built in Georgian style with well-proportioned saloons on the ground floor. The first floor boasted eight bedrooms, including two connected suites for lord and lady of the manor. On the second floor were the nursery and servants’ quarters. Nothing lavish, in other words, but enough to exceed his expectations.

  The estate generated income sufficient to underwrite its own operation as well as the townhouse with a four-person staff, according to the late earl’s land agent. In time, money would come, annual rents, harve
sts in the autumn, and so forth. Not 4,000 guineas by a long shot, but enough to support himself in gentlemanly style and a bit extra to assist Lady Iphigenia through her difficulties. Most of the money he had on hand, he’d invested in the K&A Canal Company and in Welsh coal fields. He was loath to divest from those profitable ventures when the dividends met his current needs.

  The former earl should’ve taken care of his sister’s future, since she was no concern of the latter earl. He’d help her—within reason. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give the little bother a dowry’s worth, whatever she threatened. He’d have her hauled to the Fleet before he forked over that extortionate sum.

  Turning it over in his mind, a solution presented itself.

  He might let her occupy the vacant dower house in Essex with a companion she employed while she looked for a place of her own somewhere else.

  A handsome offer that would be, he thought. The gesture would remove her in time to renovate the townhouse and shop the Marriage Mart in earnest next spring. He was looking forward to finding himself a countess and getting on with his new life.

  Percy congratulated himself on his charitable impulse and its practical benefits. Unlike his predecessor, he would not fail to have issue, or make a will, or prepare for the future. His earldom would thrive, once he eliminated the only obstacle in his way.