The Wedding Gamble

by Julia Justiss

  He paused, a distinctly lascivious look coming into his eyes. Sarah felt sickened.

  “Not of your caliber, of course. However, marriage doesn’t preclude additional, quite satisfactory arrangements, does it, my dear? One need only ask your assiduous captain. How fortunate he returns to Spain.”

  Before Sarah could think or move, Sir James closed the distance between them. “We are fated to be together, don’t you feel it, little dove? You bear my mark.” He seized her arm and stripped down her glove. “Ah, yes, there it is.”

  His smile faded. “And I bear yours.” He touched his fingers to the crooked bridge of his nose. “What retribution should I exact, I wonder, for this?”

  Sarah ignored the impulse to appease him. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Did you not? True, that lummox Waterman perpetrated the outrage, but you cannot deny you were the cause.”

  He stepped back, making an elaborate show of studying her. Sarah forced herself to meet his gaze squarely. He wanted her to be afraid—he thrived on it. She would not allow him the pleasure.

  “I doubt you do anything,” she said evenly, pleased at how coolly disdainful her voice sounded.

  He laughed, a nasty sound. “My dear, are you that careless of your reputation? I have but to detain you while I call a few friends. How long do you think it would take before the news galloped round the ton that Lady Englemere paid an unescorted call to my bachelor dwelling? Your very proper husband might well divorce you.”

  “He’d be more apt to shoot you.”

  “On what grounds? Manners, and your own coachman, would attest you came here willingly. Besides, do you really think Englemere would exert himself over a wife who not only failed to provide an heir, but has already embroiled herself in several tawdry little scandals?”

  He tightened his grip. “Of course, you may be right. I take a risk. But ’tis what makes it interesting.”

  Although she strained away, he raised her wrist and kissed the scar. “A divorce might be convenient. I could install you here. And Miss Buxley, of course. What has Englemere taught you, I wonder?” He jerked her nearer and looked in her eyes. “Would you enjoy a ménage à trois? I shall likely have to tie her down. Such a little thing, ’twill be bloody. Shall you want to watch?”

  “You are disgusting.”

  He smiled as if she’d paid him a pretty compliment. “Shall I call in those friends—or let you go? Even do I release you, I must extract payment. What would be fitting, do you think?”

  He forced her arm up and ran her bare hand down his damaged nose. “Not your own sweet nose. No, we need something that would be our little secret. One slender finger, perhaps?” Holding her rigid, he waited for her reaction. For her fear.

  She laughed, albeit shakily. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I? My servants are both well paid and…deaf, when it suits me.”

  “I am Nicholas’s wife. Injure me, and he’ll kill you.”

  He nodded, as if she’d just scored a point at whist. “Perhaps. Something more subtle, then.”

  Suddenly light glowed in his eyes. “Why not enjoy what was stolen from me? And what better mark, than to plant a tow-haired bastard to be Englemere’s heir?”

  Hauling her against him, he trapped her in his arms. “Now, this,” he groaned, rubbing the hardness in his breeches against her, “I can truly enjoy.”

  For an instant, Sarah panicked. She forced herself not to struggle. To be raped had been no part in her plan, but if she resisted, he would quickly overpower her. Think, she told herself furiously.

  Making herself move slowly, she strained away from him. Immediately he tightened his hold. Still pressing him away, she uttered a low, passionate moan.

  Findlay stilled and gave a triumphant laugh. “Yes, moan for me, little dove.” Noticing the opening she’d made, he slid a hand down to fondle her breast. His breathing erratic, with his other hand he fumbled at the buttons of her gown, shifting his body back a few precious inches.

  It was enough. Bracing herself, Sarah slammed her knee up against the bulge in his breeches.

  He broke away with a howl and doubled over. Sarah retreated toward the fireplace, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at her to flee.

  She glanced at the clock. Three-fifty. Whatever Findlay did next, she prayed she’d survive it. And that Sinjin would not be late.

  Slowly Sir James straightened. In his expression, nothing of humor or lust remained. “You little bitch,” he whispered, his eyes blazing. Then he smiled, and from his waistcoat pocket extracted a small knife. Flicking the blade open, he advanced on her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Still grinning, Nicholas loped up the stairs of Stanhope House. Too restless to work until Sarah’s return, he’d borne Hal off to Jackson’s. He’d astonished master and disciples alike by allowing an untried fledgling to land a glove on him, and then laughing over his lapse.

  Jackson reproved him for lack of concentration. Hal looked at him strangely. He smiled genially back.

  Now it was teatime, and although Sarah had said she would probably not return, he’d come back just in case.

  Glendenning brought tea and ushered in a footman.

  “Mistress says I was supposed ter give ya this, but ya weren’t to read of it till after tea.”

  Nicholas took the note. From its paper wafted the faint scent of lavender he always associated with Sarah. He inhaled deeply. “You left Lady Englemere somewhere?”

  “Aye, master. Said as how she was avisitin’ a friend in Portman Square, and would be brung home by anudder.”

  “Portman Square?” he repeated, trying to recall who of their acquaintance lived there. Probably some old dowager in precarious health Sarah was paying a duty call on.

  “Thank you, Martin,” he said, and propped the note on the tea tray.

  What was Sarah proposing? Another little tryst, dare he hope? He tapped the scented envelope. She said to wait until tea. Surely he had that much patience.

  As he stroked and gentled her tonight, would she murmur out her love? In the aftermath of passion, should he confess first? Despite the newly discovered fervor of his emotions, he was still hesitant about voicing them. Awkward as a green boy in the first throes of infatuation, he thought with a chuckle.

  “Sweet Sarah, I love you,” he whispered experimentally. But then, ’twas nothing urgent about saying it—they had years and years, the rest of their lives. The idea of being in love, of Sarah loving him in return, was still so novel he felt a sense of awe and joy at the thought of it.

  Probably he was letting his imagination run riot, and the note was merely a reminder of which function they were to attend tonight, or a message from the factor.

  But with Sarah, he couldn’t be sure. Only think of his reception last night. Biting into a macaroon, he leaned back against the chair, reliving once more his entrance into his wife’s bedchamber.

  Some niggling sense of unease clouded that arousing vision. Then the memory surfaced.

  Did the job right. Broke his nose for sure. Bled all over m’carriage when I carted him back to Portman Square.

  For a moment, he froze. Then Nicholas grabbed the note and ripped it open.

  My dearest Nicholas, You have forbidden me to interfere in the matter of Sir James Findlay’s marriage. After much reflection I must conclude I have a duty to my conscience that transcends even that which I owe you.

  I beg you will understand, dearest husband, that I cannot turn away and allow the death or molestation of young innocents, knowing it is within my power to halt it. Thus, I must gather the evidence that will prevent Sir James—

  His heart stopped and a bolt of sheer terror shocked his body. Turning so abruptly he knocked over his chair, he yanked on the bellpull and dashed from the room.

  He nearly ran down Glendenning in the hallway. “Send Martin to the mews, and have Valkyrie saddled immediately!” he shouted as took the stairs two at a time. Careening into his chamber, h
e kicked off his tasseled Hessians, pulled on his riding boots and raced for the stairs.

  Please, God, he prayed to the pounding cadence of his footsteps. Please, God, don’t let him hurt her.

  He sped past the astonished Glendenning and out to the stables. Spying Martin leading Valkyrie, he shouted, “Which house on Portman Square?”

  The footman broke into a trot, bringing the horse to meet him. “Number thirteen, master.”

  “Have John Coachman send the carriage. Hurry.”

  Grabbing the reins of the snorting, sidling horse, he jumped into the saddle, applied both spurs and whip and galloped off.

  Carts pulled aside and pedestrians scattered as the stallion thundered down the street. Images jumped out at him from the blur of faces. Lydia, lying broken beside her broken carriage. Edmund, his eyes staring sightlessly from a face white as river foam.

  He clutched the reins, scoured by anguish. Please, God, this time don’t let me be too late.

  Then he remembered the colt in the stall at Tattersall’s. Bitter gall rose in his throat. Applying the whip again, he bent low over Valkyrie’s back.

  Portman Square appeared quiet as he brought his lathered horse to a plunging halt. He leapt from the saddle, ran up the steps and put his shoulder to the door. To his surprise, it opened easily. He shoved it to the wall and raced into the marble entryway.

  From the top of the staircase, he could hear grunts, the crash of crockery and the clash of steel on steel.

  “Sarah! Sarah, where are you?”

  He’d leapt up two steps when Findlay, sword in hand, backed onto the landing, hard-pressed by Sandiford.

  The captain lunged, Findlay countered. As the force of the check rang out against the stone floors and wall, Findlay shoved the captain back and ran for the stairs.

  Perhaps seeing Nicholas startled him, or mayhap his boot caught on the carpet. Whatever the reason, he seemed to check at the top of the stairs, then fell headlong.

  Nicholas stepped aside. Findlay reached out as he tumbled past, frantically clawing at Nicholas’s boot. He continued to bounce and slide until he reached the bottom.

  With a sharp crack, Findlay’s head hit the marble floor. He emitted a long, low groan and lay still.

  Swiftly the captain sheathed his sword. “I’ll finish this.” He jerked his thumb toward Findlay. “Look to your wife. First chamber on the left.”

  Nicholas scrambled up the stairs. “I’ve a carriage coming,” he called back. “Will you watch for it?”

  At the captain’s nod, he turned and ran down the hallway. “Sarah! Sar—oh, my God.”

  Facedown and motionless, one hand outstretched, his wife lay on the floor before the fireplace.

  In two bounds he reached her. “Sarah,” he whispered, his heart racing as he picked up the hand to check her pulse.

  He recoiled, for her arm lay in a crimson pool. With each faint pulse, a spurt of warm blood gushed from her wrist to stain his gloves and drip onto the floor.

  Gasping in his panic, he clawed at the knots in his cravat, finally tearing it free. He doubled the cloth and bound it tightly around her wrist.

  Holding her hand to the floor, he pushed his whole weight against the pulse point. Not until the tips of her fingers turned bluish did he dare decrease his force.

  It appeared the bleeding had slowed. Clamping a hand over her wrist to maintain the pressure, he rolled her over, intending to lift her into his arms.

  Her head lolled back, and as he reached down to support it, he saw the bodice of her gown had been sliced to ribbons. A crisscross maze of small cuts covered her chest.

  With a trembling finger he pushed aside the ruined material. The cuts all appeared shallow, and though the skin still oozed, none bled actively. She lay limp and lifeless, but a faint pulse throbbed at her throat.

  His chest tight in an agony of rage and pain, Nicholas carried her to the sofa. He sat, one hand still clamped about her slashed wrist, and cradled her against him.

  She had not submitted tamely, he noted as he tried to wrap himself around her chilled body. The room was a chaos of broken knickknacks and overturned chairs. With each puff of breeze from the open doorway, downy feathers wafted from a jagged gash in the sofa cover.

  His fingers numbing, he shifted her bandaged wrist. ’Twas cut at the same place as the burn scar, he realized.

  How could you think to prove assault? His impatient words burned in his ears.

  He should have known she would not abandon so important an enterprise. He should have known, and helped her, instead of goading her to this deadly confrontation.

  “Forgive me, Sarah,” he whispered. “Forgive me, forgive me.” Laying his face against her braids, he wept.

  Through a silent eternity punctuated only by the steady ticking of the mantel clock, Nicholas waited.

  Finally he heard boot steps echoing down the hall. Sandiford strode in. His swift glance took in Sarah’s unconscious figure, and his jaw clenched. “Can you carry her?”

  Nicholas nodded.

  From behind an overturned chair, Sandiford produced a military cape. “I have no idea where her pelisse might be. Seems the servants bolted. Best wrap her in this.”

  Nicholas covered Sarah and lifted her gently. Sandiford frowned. “You’re a pretty ghastly sight yourself.”

  Nicholas looked down. A ragged tatter of neckcloth hung from his collar, dark stains spread from his lapels down his stiffened shirtfront, and the cuffs of his jacket were soaked a blackish red.

  Sandiford tucked the long ends of the cloak up over Nicholas’s shoulders, masking the damage. “Let’s go.”

  Within moments they had her in the carriage. The captain had primed the coachman, for he stood with his whip at the ready and gave them no more than a glance.

  Once the carriage rolled forward, Nicholas looked over to Sandiford. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

  The captain waved away his gratitude. “I would do anything for Sarah,” he said simply.

  “What happened back at—” A black rage fired in him, and he couldn’t choke out the name.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much. My batman found me about teatime with a package from Sarah. It contained my signet, wrapped in a note demanding I meet her in Portman Square at four of the clock.”

  He held out the ring. “I’d given this to Sarah three years ago, telling her if she ever needed me, she had only to send it. Naturally, I came at once. But Findlay had already—” Sandiford’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard “—already cut her when I arrived. Why she went there, or why Findlay attacked her, I have no idea.”

  Guilt and bitter regret scalded Nicholas. “She knew him well. When she learned he meant to wed a very young girl, she felt she must at all cost prevent it. He had—hurt Sarah before.”

  “He what?” Sandiford exploded.

  “Just before their engagement was to be announced, Sarah displeased him in some way, and he burned her wrist. She carries the scar still. ’Twas one of the reasons I married her.” Nicholas laughed without humor. “To protect her. What a bloody botch I’ve made of that.”

  “’Tis not the first time she’s flung herself into peril, doing what she felt she must,” Sandiford soothed. “You’ve known Sarah only a few months. You couldn’t have dreamed she would be so foolhardy.”

  “But I should have guessed,” Nicholas cried. “She told me of her anxiety. I knew what Findlay was capable of and wanted Sarah nowhere near him. So when she suggested she bring charges against him, I, arrogant fool that I am, flatly forbade it. I even said, God help me, that her scar was too old to serve as e-evidence.”

  He gritted his teeth, too anguished to speak. After a moment he whispered, “I didn’t think…I never suspected—” He closed his eyes and bent his cheek to her head.

  Sandiford said nothing, but the sting of his own reproach was goad enough. A few moments later they reached Stanhope House. Sandiford assisted him out, then distracted Glendenning while Nicholas carried
Sarah up. He was helping Nicholas lay her on the bed when Becky rushed in.

  She halted, her face paling. “Oh, my lady!”

  Sandiford caught her arm. “Steady, Becky. Remember when she was ten, and fell out of that apple tree I dared her to climb? Looked a sight then, too, I remember.”

  “Master S-Sinjin?” Becky clutched the captain’s arm. She took a deep breath and straightened. “I’m all right now. Let me get her out of that h-horrible gown. You’d best step outside, young master.”

  “May I call tomorrow?” he asked Nicholas humbly.

  “Of course.”

  Sandiford nodded. He stepped toward the door, but then, as if drawn by an irresistible force, walked instead to the bed. The expression on his face as he gazed down at Sarah left no doubt of the depth of his emotion. With a half apologetic, half defiant glance at Nicholas, he bent to brush a wisp of pale gold hair from her forehead. “Wake soon, dear Sarah,” he said huskily, and strode out.

  Nicholas helped Becky ease Sarah out of the ruined gown. By the time she had bathed away the crusted patches of blood and bundled Sarah into a soft flannel nightrail, Becky was weeping silently. “My poor, sweet lady.”

  Nicholas collapsed in a chair. Already the day felt years long, and night had not yet fallen.

  In the predawn stillness, Nicholas sat on a chair by Sarah’s bed. During the long, interminable evening he had had his physician check Sarah.

  Keep her warm and get fluid into her if you can, the doctor had advised, adding she would likely not regain consciousness for some time. Then, if she hadn’t lost too much blood and if wound fever didn’t set in…Tonight would probably tell, he concluded soberly. Leaving a powder to administer in case of fever, the physician promised to return in the morning.

  Some time ago, Becky had brought him supper. Knowing he needed food to maintain his strength, he’d eaten mechanically, the meal like dust and ashes in his mouth. While Becky dozed in the sitting room, he sipped brandy-fortified coffee, able only to wait—and think.