“You don’t know the half of it. Take this function tonight. I doubt I’ll manage half a dozen words with Sarah. She’ll be too busy chatting up every dowager and dragon in the place—doing her ‘duty’ as a marchioness, you see.”
Hal blinked. “It is?”
Nicholas sighed again. “I suppose. Mama does it, but then damn it, she’s a dowager herself. I suspect she detests it—Sarah, I mean—but she still keeps on, function after function. I can scarcely drag her away for a waltz.”
Hal gave an understanding nod. “Makes her testy.”
“No, it isn’t that. She does it cheerfully enough, and when I ask if she’s enjoying herself, she assures me she is, now that the Farmer Bride business has blown over. Thanks to Sally Jersey, which—” he paused for a sip “—about evens the score with Sal for inviting Chloe to her ball.”
Hal chuckled. “Manages doxies, too.”
“Sally? She can’t resist the urge to manage everyone.”
“No, Sarah. At the Jerseys’ ball. Heard her.”
“She talked with Chloe at the ball?” Nicholas gasped.
“Not with the doxy. Weston.” Hal chuckled again.
Exasperated, Nicholas nearly snapped at him. Willing himself patience, he tried to decode that cryptic utterance.
And gave up. “You mean Lord John Weston? What has he to do with this?”
Hal recovered from his mirth. “Bounder. Saw Mrs. Ingram enter. Went over to Sarah. Asked her how she liked being married to a chap with so beautiful a mistress.”
“He what!” Nicholas exploded. “I’ll wring his neck, the bloody bastard!” Suddenly he remembered Sandiford’s warning—that Weston was Sir James’s tool. Hadn’t Sally also told him the man was responsible for that “Farmer Bride” epithet as well?
“Cool as you please, though. Sarah. Married handsomest and most accomplished man in London, she says. ’Course he has the most beautiful mistress.”
Nicholas’s jaw dropped. Not a word had Sarah mentioned to him of the incident, or uttered a hint of reproach.
’Twas the response of a true lady of breeding, and more. ’Twas a clever deflection of someone’s intent to wound. Anger stirred—and regret. He’d not considered others of malicious mind could use his liaison with Chloe to hurt Sarah. He really should end the relationship.
“She’s the best of good wives, ’tis certain. I just wish she wouldn’t overdo it.”
“Overdo?” Hal looked puzzled.
“For instance, I said ’twould be nice to have macaroons with tea. Next day, the biscuit box was full of ’em. And every day since. If I see another macaroon, I’ll puke.”
“Invite me to tea. Like macaroons.”
“Try this. I babbled something about Baines bringing me the wrong boots. She made the man take my wardrobe apart and reorganize everything in it. He sulked for a week.”
Hal frowned. “Shouldn’t truck with one’s man.”
“Quite right,” Nicholas agreed with feeling. “I tell you, Hal, I’m in a quake every time I return home, worrying that she’s seized on some chance remark and turned the house upside down. I swear, were I to express an interest in squid for breakfast, there’d be a damned rasher of ’em next to the bacon come morning.”
“Couldn’t. Come from—” Hal knit his brow “—some foreign place. Impossible.”
“You underestimate Sarah. Did I breathe the word, I bet you a monkey I’d find them on the sideboard within a week.”
“You’re on.”
“Well—” Nicholas sputtered “—I didn’t actually—”
“What’s this, a wager?”
At the vaguely familiar voice, Nicholas looked over his shoulder. Lord John Weston lounged behind him, smiling. “Waiter, bring the book.”
“Just a minute!” His grievances against the man sparked him from exasperation to anger in a heartbeat.
“Yes, bring the book.” Hal motioned to the servant. “Sarah’s a game ’un, but nobody’d do that. Saw ’em once—nasty things.” He shuddered. “Got eyes on little sticks.”
“Hal, I didn’t really mean—”
Weston’s loud halloo drowned out Nicholas’s protest. “I say, gentlemen. A wager!”
Nicholas watched in consternation as, in a babble of voices, half a dozen club members ambled over.
“What’s the bet?”
“I’ll back Englemere, whatever the odds.”
Nicholas cast Lord John a fulminating glance. Had the bastard been eavesdropping? ’Twas the worst of bad ton to make his own wife the subject of a vulgar bet—a recorded bet at White’s, no less. But trying to explain to Hal, never nimble-witted, in the midst of this attentive crowd that he never intended to make a wager, would probably cause more gossip than letting it stand.
Damn Weston for trapping him like this—and his master, Findlay. Reluctantly Nicholas watched Hal scrawl a note.
“Squid by Friday, eh? Monkey says you’re wrong.”
“A monkey, then,” he mumbled. It might be interesting to see if Sarah would really go that far. At least he’d have reason for once to anticipate with amusement rather than dread the results of a casual remark. And yet…
Hadn’t he done Sarah enough disservice already? Hating himself, but driven to do so, after her midnight confession he’d made some casual inquiries at the club and verified Captain Sandiford’s departure from the Sheffingdon rout immediately after his dance with Sarah. Having confirmed that, in a euphoria of relief—tinged with shame—he’d vowed to banish for good his ignoble, unworthy suspicions.
Sarah had been all that was honest and honorable. He owed her no less in return. After this, he swore with a dagger glance at Weston, he’d be on his guard.
The image of squid in a cooking pot, though, set him grinning. “Faith,” he said with a chuckle. “Cook’ll have palpitations.”
A week later bedecked in a dressing gown, Sarah sat at her dressing table in the pale dawn light, the large cask containing the Stanhope jewels before her. Nicholas’s mama had brought them, insisting rightly enough they were now Sarah’s. She should choose something to match her gown for the presentation ball tonight.
Fumbling in her own small cask for the key to the larger one, she came upon Sinjin’s signet ring.
Her chest constricting, she stared at it. She’d not worn it since the day she accepted Nicholas’s offer. She should have returned it the morning Sinjin called, but in her agitation had forgotten.
As she lifted the heavy gold ring, its shiny surface caught and reflected an arc of morning sunlight. Suddenly she saw in the flash an ardent young man, his blue eyes blazing as he pressed the ring into her hand. Should she ever need him, he vowed, she need only send this, and he would move heaven and earth to come to her.
Tears stung her eyes and a great lump filled her throat. He came to see her often now—too often. Calling during regular hours, dancing with her at various functions, he’d adopted a teasing, elder-brother manner.
She still could not encounter him without pain, but the ache was dulling. Perhaps, given time, she could learn to consider him just a dear and valued friend. In another fifty or sixty years.
After each meeting with Sinjin, she seemed impelled to seek out Nicholas. Somehow, her husband’s touch soothed the ache and made her feel—safe. Safe from Sinjin, or herself, was a question she didn’t wish to examine.
If only she dared throw her heart, as well as her energies, into being Nicholas’s wife, she might bury forever her lingering grief over Sinjin.
’Twas too risky a solution. She sighed heavily. Nicholas would support her, come what may, that she knew. But he would never, as Sinjin had sworn to do, ride ventre à terre to her rescue, words of love on his lips.
A breeze stirred the curtains, bringing with it a whiff of fresh green grass. The crops would be up at Wellingford. She felt a wave of homesickness.
Perhaps, after his mother’s ball, she’d ask Nicholas’s leave to go home. With a tremor of joy, she put her hand on her abd
omen. She was certain now that Nicholas’s nightly visits were no longer strictly necessary.
A pang marred her happiness. Once she broke the news, Nicholas would probably be more than willing to send her into the country. She closed her eyes to the image of a gloating Chloe Ingram.
Enough moping, she told herself, and rang for Becky. She’d make up a packet and mail the ring back this very day. Nicholas should be down for breakfast soon, and she had a little surprise for him this morning.
Nicholas smiled at Sarah as he entered the breakfast room. Attired in a gown of pale yellow, she looked like sunshine itself.
“You’re up early, sweeting,” he said as he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I thought you’d be still abed, so fatigued were you last night. Have you recovered?”
“Quite. I’ve been up an age, and as you can see, was too famished to wait. Do help yourself, Nicholas.”
She stopped eating and seemed to be watching with unusual intensity as he served himself eggs, bacon and toast. “Mama says you’ve been a great—what the devil?”
From under the lid he’d just raised wafted a hot breath with the distinct odor of tidal swamp.
“’Tis the squid you asked for. I hope Cook prepared them the way you like.”
To tell the truth, he’d forgotten all about the wager. He eased the covered dish open cautiously, releasing another cloud of foul-smelling air. In the warmed dish, a congealed eye stared up at him. He felt last night’s brandy rising.
“Good Lord!” he uttered with revulsion. Quickly he slammed the lid shut, vaguely noting a footman snicker. The stuff was every bit as repulsive as Hal had predicted. “James, take that—creature away!”
“But Nicholas, I thought—” Her anxious eyes on his face, Sarah bit back her reply.
Despite the closed lid, another pungent draft reached his nose, and he nearly gagged. “Now, James!”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman said with trembling lips. As he hefted the chafing dish, he looked into Nicholas’s revolted face, and a laugh escaped him.
Sarah stiffened. A rosy flush bloomed on her cheeks.
Glendenning cleared his throat and frowned at the footman, who converted his mirth to an unconvincing cough.
“The kitchen, James,” Glendenning intoned with a curt nod toward the door. “Tea, my lord?”
Nicholas angled a glance at Sarah, but she was staring toward the open doorway through which the footman was now hastily removing himself. He followed her gaze.
To his consternation, milling about in the hallway were half a dozen footmen, maids and even a stable boy. Hell and damnation, he cursed under his breath.
Glendenning strode over and slammed the door. Sarah focused her gaze on her plate.
From behind the closed door, Nicholas could hear a babble of raised voices and the rumble of laughter. Sarah’s flush deepened to brick.
Glendenning brought the teapot. As he poured, some of the liquid spurted over the china rim onto Nicholas’s wrist. With an oath, Nicholas jerked his hand away.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Glendenning said in frigid accents. He gave Nicholas a totally unrepentant look before the usual mask descended on his features.
Staring straight ahead, Sarah took a sip from her cup. Nicholas might have been able to convince himself she was unaffected by the incident, were it not for the vivid color that still painted her cheeks, her ears—even her neck.
Guilt washed over him. He opened his lips to apologize, but the thought of confessing, before the obviously disapproving Glendenning, a wager that appeared more ill-judged and sophomoric by the minute was too daunting. He gulped tea instead, and scalded his tongue.
“That will be all, thank you, Glendenning,” Sarah said. She took another precise sip.
The moment the butler closed the hall door, Sarah threw down her napkin. She was halfway to the French doors leading to the garden when Nicholas reached her.
“Sarah, I’m sorry!” he cried, catching her hand. “’Twas naught but a foolish wager. I’d told Hal you catered to my every whim, would even feed me squid for breakfast, did I but ask for it, and he couldn’t believe—”
“Nor can I believe it. ’Tis true ours was not a love match, my lord, but never did I think to have you make a—a May game of me in front of the servants!”
Ripping her hand free, she sped to the door, wrenched it open and fled into the garden.
His mouth still open, Nicholas watched her go. After a moment, he slowly walked back and reseated himself. He sipped his tea. It was tepid now.
Feeling like the lowest beast in nature, he pushed his equally cold eggs around on his plate. He could, he supposed, ring for Glendenning to bring warm ones. Although, he thought with a gallows grin, he’d not be at all surprised should the dour butler report back, with suitable effusions of regret, that there were no more eggs to be had. He might even bring back the squid.
With a sigh, Nicholas went out to the garden. If he didn’t find Sarah now, he’d probably not have another private moment with her until late evening. He didn’t want to give her that long to brood over his boorish behavior.
Though ill-judged, at the time Hal proposed it the wager had seemed harmless enough. He hadn’t considered the effort Sarah would have had to put forth to produce the blasted creatures, or envisioned so large and interested an audience gathered for their delivery. In truth, he told himself acidly, you didn’t think at all.
As exasperated as he’d sometimes become with her these past few weeks, never would he wish to hurt or embarrass her. Without question he had just done both.
Calling himself names under his breath, he spotted Sarah on a bench facing away from him, and stopped short. From the set of her bent head and her shaking shoulders, he realized she was weeping.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered, feeling worse yet. Uncertain whether to apologize at once, or wait till she was calmer, he hesitated. Then he noticed a flicker of light.
She held something in one hand, something small and shiny that she was rubbing over and over like a talisman. He stepped closer—and saw the object she clutched so tightly was a man’s gold signet ring.
Nicholas froze. The ring might be her father’s, though he doubted it. ’Twas not his, certainly. He could imagine but one other owner.
Sarah hadn’t heard his approach, for her posture didn’t alter. As Nicholas silently backed toward the house, she sat weeping softly, her thumb rubbing Sandiford’s ring.
Chapter Thirteen
Vacillating between outrage and chagrin, Nicholas repaired to the library. After a short glass of brandy and a lengthy bit of self-examination, he mastered the former.
Sarah must have had the signet a long time. Upon reflection, he dismissed his first angry suspicion that the captain had given it to her during their recent interview, as a pledge of future intent. As he had reason to know, she’d not had the ring on her person immediately after.
She should have returned it long since, but so intimate an item must be given back privately. She could hardly hand it over at a ball or in a crowded morning room.
Why had she been clutching Sandiford’s ring? His lips twisted in self-mockery. After that humiliation in the breakfast room, even a boorish, insensitive fool like himself could understand she might wish for comfort.
And what could be more comforting than an object that reminded her of the gallant young man who—he gritted his teeth—loved her, who had no doubt pressed his token upon her with vows of undying affection? Unlike the husband who groused to Hal of her solicitude, made her the object of a vulgar bet and exposed her to the ridicule of the staff.
“Will your lordship require luncheon?” Glendenning interrupted.
“Will her ladyship be taking some?”
“Her ladyship has gone out.”
Disappointed, but hardly surprised, he cast an eye at the butler. Disapproval positively radiated from him.
“Something simple might be prepared, though Cook did take to her bed when the s-squ
id,” he choked out the word, “was sent back untouched. For the second time today, I must inform you, the first being after she vowed such a nasty foreign creature would never see the inside of her cooking pot. However, the mistress soothed her with a posset. And the boy who washed the pot, the maid who bought the—”
“Enough, Glendenning.” Nicholas got the clear if tortuously delivered message that the inconvenience caused below stairs had been laid by the staff squarely at his door.
With the persistence of one who’d served his master since he was in short coats, Glendenning seemed determined that Nicholas not miss the point. “The mistress is held in the utmost respect and esteem by the entire staff.”
Nicholas essayed a deprecating smile. “Which is to say, I should expect cold tea and burnt mutton?”
“Certainly not, my lord. One has standards. However—” he unbent at last “—’twas not well done, Master Nicky.”
“No,” Nicholas agreed with a sigh. “I fear I’m in the basket now.”
“’Tis not my place to say so,” Glendenning intoned and bowed himself out.
Formulating elaborate and heartfelt speeches of regret, Nicholas whiled away the hours until teatime. Every afternoon Sarah prepared his tea—and presented a blasted macaroon along with it. However, although his tea arrived hot as promised, Sarah did not return to share it.
For her to neglect performing that ritual, she must be even angrier than he feared. Munching his tasteless plain biscuits, Nicholas racked his brain for a gift lavish enough to convey his deep contrition. He was about to call for his curricle to go buy the largest diamond Rundell and Bridges possessed when a better idea occurred.
Sarah wore little jewelry—he suppressed a pang at that reminder of a certain signet ring—and showed no interest in useless gewgaws. Indeed, she’d stripped her allowance to send supplies to Wellingford. What better gift than to set up a fund she might use to restore her beloved estate? With luck, he could have the monies transferred and be back in time to catch Sarah alone before dinner.
The Wedding Gamble Page 18