The Offer

by Sara Portman

  “I will be missed if I don’t return,” she said with what little breath she could draw. “I trust you will not speak of this to anyone.” She turned from him and fled, heedless of whether her reentry might be observed.

  * * * *

  When Bex found the actual card room, he was grateful for the distractions there. He found Ashby engaged in a game and had no trouble waiting patiently as he considered the other gamers, wondering which he might be able to interest in a partnership if Lord Ashby declined.

  Even with all the cards moving on multiple tables and all the men to consider as they played, Bex still found it difficult to keep his thoughts from drifting back to kisses in moonlit gardens. She had wanted to compare, for God’s sake. The woman would be in danger from all sorts of rakes in London—himself included—if she could not learn to be coy.

  He didn’t mean it, of course. He liked very much that she was not a sophisticated flirt. Only, he should not like it. He should not like her. He did, though. He liked her enough to be troubled by the risk that she might be developing a liking for him. He would have to put a stop to any of those ideas before they started. The duchess didn’t know what she was about if she was steering her friend in his direction.

  In his peripheral view, Bex saw Ashby lay down his cards and rise from his seat. He had lost—Bex knew it from his expression—but he did not lose his temper as others did. Bex respected that, but more importantly, viewed it as further evidence that Ashby played the game strategically, rather than emotionally.

  Bex worked his way slowly but deliberately toward his prey. To his great fortune, Ashby did not immediately enter another game, but stood at the wall, sipping whiskey from a tumbler and watching the others play.

  Bex reached the wall where Ashby stood, sidling close enough to be overhead, and said, “Poor luck in the cards today?”

  Ashby turned and faced him, quizzical at first, but then recognition dawned. “You are Worley’s cousin, aren’t you?”

  Bex nodded. “I am.”

  “Worley is not much of a gambler, but I gather that is not a family trait,” Ashby said, turning back to survey the action at the tables.

  Bex shrugged, biding his time. “I appreciate the fun of a wager, but I rarely do so at the card tables these days.”

  Ashby looked back at him and a flash of something—disapproval, perhaps—crossed his otherwise neutral features. “Are you for dice, then?”

  Bex grinned wryly. “There is no skill in dice,” he said, knowing Ashby would view pure games of chance with the same disdain. “Where is the challenge in that?”

  Ashby nodded and swirled his drink. “If you do not play cards or dice, on what do you wager?”

  He had taken the bait. “I speculate with small investments,” Bex explained.

  Ashby sipped. “Trading shares on the exchange can be risky at times, but I find there is not much entertainment to it. If I am going to invest enough to make it worth my while, I will make a sensible investment—hardly a wager.”

  “I don’t mean the companies listed on the exchange,” Bex clarified. “There are other ways to invest, if you are interested.”

  Bex waited, and Ashby was quiet for a long moment. Perhaps he was not interested. If so, Bex would have to seek another partner—find another connection.

  Ashby sighed. “I suppose I am interested enough to hear your explanation, if you’re of a mind to share it.”

  Bex resisted the urge to smile. “Are you familiar with Gibbs, owner of a gaming hell called the Birdcage?” Bex asked, despite knowing the answer.

  “I am.”

  “Gibbs acts as a facilitator for men who wish to become merchants or tradesmen but have no funds to begin. There are manufactories popping up all over Britain, but they require iron for machines and wages for labor long before any profits are generated. These are the sort of men who cannot gain access to listings on the exchange. Gibbs aids them in raising funds and in return, both the tradesman and the investor pay a fee. There are opportunities for considerable profit, with the right investment.”

  Ashby pursed his lips. “What you are proposing is that I become directly involved in trade. Owning shares through the Royal Exchange is one thing, but direct ownership in a factory—I don’t know if I have the time or interest for such things.”

  Bex persisted. “With all due respect, Lord Ashby, the speculative interests I’m discussing are in amounts no greater than you might spend in an evening wagering on card games. These are really just wagers of a different sort.” Bex saw the intrigued light in Lord Ashby’s eye and continued. “Factories are increasing throughout Britain. Many will fail, but a few—perhaps more than a few—will be successful. In those instances, a very small investment could reap great rewards.”

  Ashby did not respond, but had not turned away, either, so Bex pressed forward in his proposal. “You are a peer of the realm. You are the steward of your family’s estate. You, and others like you, will take the majority of your family’s wealth and invest it in the safety of the four percents, with the security of King and country. You might own shares in the East India Company. Those investments will produce income, but significant income requires a significant investment. Compare that instead to the wager you place on a roulette wheel. It could be a small amount of money, but if your number is called, you’ve won many times your wager.”

  “Only fools play games in which they cannot develop an advantage,” Ashby said.

  “I agree,” Bex told him and did his best to paint a tempting picture for the seasoned gambler. “These factories are the best of both. Think of the factories like the numbers on the green field of the roulette table. If you wager on the correct number, the gains are significant. Only, unlike roulette, in this field you can apply skill. The factories have circumstances that you can study. A strategic man can improve his odds by eliminating those factories based upon unoriginal ideas, whose inventors are lazy or ignorant of the trade they seek to enter. The more understanding one gains, the better one is able to refine his wager and improve his odds.”

  Ashby’s eyes narrowed and he was silent for a moment, but then shook his head. “You miscalculate, Mr. Brantwood. I have cultivated my card-playing skills over nearly two decades. I lost much more than I won at the beginning when my skills were underdeveloped. I am wise enough to know I don’t possess the skill required to make the selections you discuss. Those choices require a merchant’s knowledge, or a tradesman. We’ve already established I am neither.”

  “I am not a charlatan, Lord Ashby. I have no intention of manipulating you into believing you will inherently possess the knowledge to make these choices. I propose a partnership with a man who does.”

  Ashby eyed him skeptically. “And who is the possessor of this strategic mind with whom I should be partnering?”

  “I am.”

  “You?”

  “Indeed.”

  Ashby tilted his head to one side and peered at Bex. “If you are so gifted in speculation, why do you not fund your choices with your own fortune?”

  “Because I, too, began from a position of ignorance rather than skill. I have not always wagered wisely, but with each loss, I gained insight and education.”

  “And now you’ve accumulated enough insight to gain the advantage?”

  “I believe so.”

  Ashby’s lips formed a grim line. “You must have lost a great deal.”

  Bex did not deny it.

  Ashby was silent, considering, and Bex waited. He turned his attention back to the tables.

  Finally, Ashby spoke. “I will consider it,” he said, looking down at his glass, rather than at Bex. “How will I reach you?”

  Bex stepped away from the wall and passed in front of Ashby, discreetly handing him a calling card as he did so. “I look forward to hearing from you, my lord.”

  Chapter Eleven

&nbs
p; The following day was thankfully a quiet one for Lucy. Agnes had arrived with a tray in the morning, informing Lucy the duchess was tired and had chosen to take a tray in her room. Agnes had assumed Lucy would prefer the same.

  Agnes was correct.

  Lucy didn’t know which had exhausted her more thoroughly, the drama brought on by her poor decision making, or enduring the polite exchanges for the remainder of the evening, in an attempt to be well mannered and memorable, but not too interesting.

  She dressed for the day and did venture out once to check on Emma, but otherwise spent a reclusive morning in her room reading The Little Academy, a timely reminder of the proper focus of her attention.

  In the early afternoon, there was a knock on her chamber door and Agnes entered again.

  “I’m to tell you there is a caller, miss.”

  Lucy set her book on the bed and sighed. “The duchess is not taking callers today, Agnes.”

  “Yes, miss, but the lady has called for you.”

  “For me?” Lucy wasn’t sure what to make of that. No one had ever called for Lucy at Worley House. Could Emma have spoken to Lady Ashby about her after all? She quickly dismissed the idea. Lady Ashby would expect a prospective employee to go to her, of course.

  Curiosity overcame Lucy’s desire for solitude, and she rose. “I shall be down shortly, Agnes. Thank you.”

  She was down very shortly, as she didn’t see any reason why her simple day dress wouldn’t suffice for whatever visitor waited. She was not a duchess and no one would expect her to be turned out as one.

  She regretted this decision slightly, however, when she arrived at the drawing room and found the lovely and luxuriously clad Comtesse de Beauchene smiling brightly at her from beneath a bonnet decorated with silk blossoms and rich ribbons. Lucy felt very much the simple vicar’s daughter when contrasted with such continental sophistication and finery.

  “Lady Constance,” she said, hoping her surprise at seeing the woman was not evident in her greeting. “How nice to see you again. I am sorry that the duchess is ill and unable to visit.”

  The lady dismissed this concern with a wave of her hand, sending a subtle scent of perfume wafting toward Lucy. “I would have very much liked to visit with the duchess, of course, but I am equally happy for your undivided attention, Miss Betancourt. I was thoroughly entertained by our conversation last evening and decided we must continue it today.”

  Bemused, Lucy studied the woman as she crossed the room toward her. By all measures, the comtesse’s return to English society had been a smashing success. She had spent the past evening surrounded by a circle of devotees. She could have taken the time today to call on any one of the aristocratic ladies of social power and pedigree who had flocked to her side. Why Lucy Betancourt, vicar’s daughter and would-be governess?

  “I am flattered you recall our conversation at all, Lady Constance,” Lucy said. “I enjoyed it very much, but you met so many people last evening. Surely your head is dancing with names today.”

  “Not at all, ma petite,” the comtesse said with a wink and a laughing smile. “I only bother with the worthwhile names, so I never have too many to recall.”

  How did she do it? Somehow the comtesse managed to say the most outrageous and outspoken things without offending. Lucy would only manage to appear unkind if she said anything similar, yet the comtesse seemed universally adored.

  “Won’t you sit, Lady Constance,” Lucy asked. “I shall ring for tea.” Lucy had never before rung for tea in the Worley House drawing room, as she was always with Emma, but as she was receiving a caller—a French comtesse, no less—she decided she was not overstepping. She pulled the bell and made her request to the responding maid, but couldn’t help the apologetic smile she gave at the end of the exchange.

  “So,” Lady Constance said, once she’d arranged herself on the sofa. “You are a vicar’s daughter from the country. Tell me more about yourself, ma petite. Have you brothers or sisters?”

  “I do not,” Lucy responded, seating herself in the chair to the comtesse’s right.

  “And your parents? Are they living?”

  “They are. My father is vicar in Beadwell, a small village in Kent.”

  “And you have known the duchess since childhood?”

  “I have.”

  “Well.” The comtesse sat back against the sofa and smoothed her skirts. “That may explain it.”

  Lucy laughed at her odd comment. “I beg your pardon. Explain what, my lady?”

  The tea tray arrived then, delaying the response. Once the tea had been distributed and the cakes offered, Lucy repeated her question. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What have I explained?”

  The comtesse gave a delicate shrug. “You move in a very highborn set for one of your station, but you don’t seem intimidated at all.”

  Lucy didn’t suppose that was entirely correct, but she did not dispute it. “Should I be intimidated?”

  “Never,” Lady Constance said, leaning forward to add vehemence to her declaration. “That is why I like you so much.”

  Lucy smiled. She rather liked Lady Constance as well. “There is very little accomplishment in birth, is there?”

  The comtesse winked. “Indeed, but never let on that we know.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Oh, I wouldn’t.” Of course, she just had. “That is…I shouldn’t have said it. It would not recommend me well to offend the very families I would like to employ me, would it?”

  “Employ you?”

  Lucy straightened. “After Emma’s…er, Her Grace’s child is born, I intend to seek a position as a governess.” She fully expected the revelation to change the comtesse’s opinion of just how interesting Lucy was after all.

  Lady Constance made a face as though the very thought put a horrid taste in her mouth. “Why ever would you do that?”

  Lucy was unable to prevent a laugh at the woman’s theatrics. As Lady Constance was so direct, she didn’t see any reason to be vague. “Marriage is not practical for me at this time,” she said. “My father is aging. It is time I am no longer a burden to my parents.”

  “But that is easily accomplished with a marriage, ma petite.”

  “I am not in London for a season,” Lucy said simply.

  “Surely your friend, the duchess, would sponsor you for a season,” she said. “After the child is born, of course. Next year, perhaps.”

  “There is more to it than that, I’m afraid,” Lucy said, surprised that the comtesse would even discuss the topic. She had expected a hasty withdrawal, but instead the comtesse managed to communicate her abhorrence with Lucy’s plan without making Lucy feel judged, or somehow less. “Even if I arrived in London dressed as royalty and attended every ball given, I would not become a desirable match. Without wealth or family consequence, I would not find a husband in London any more easily than I would at home.”

  The older woman pushed her teacup away with a wistful sigh. “Marriage is all too often a financial arrangement.”

  “But what else can it be,” Lucy asked, “when a family must make a home, must have something to eat?”

  “You are far too young and pretty, Miss Betancourt, to have lost all sense of romanticism. Has no man ever turned your head? Have you no remaining girlish fantasies?” The older woman’s eyes glinted with excitement and mischief.

  Lucy felt her cheeks redden. Unbidden, a memory of Bex Brantwood filled her mind.

  Lacy Constance eyed her speculatively, but continued. “Your friend the duchess seems quite enamored of her husband.”

  Quickly, Lucy pushed the traitorous vision aside. She swallowed and smiled placidly. “You misunderstand. I am not at all cynical and I am love’s greatest proponent. You are indeed correct that the duchess had the happy fortune to find herself in a love match, though the engagement did not begin so. Theirs was a marriage bor
n of practicality, Lady Constance. Their companionship grew to love.”

  Lady Constance shook her head as though saddened by these revelations. “I see,” she said. “And though you claim to be a proponent of love, you are champion greater yet of practicality.”

  Lucy smiled. “I fear love makes weak soup, Lady Constance.”

  “And so it does, ma petite. And so it does.” The older woman took a dainty bite of a tea cake from a small plate and returned the plate to the table that sat between them. “So instead of having children of your own, you will find some family who will employ you to look after their children.”

  “I hope to find a position as a governess. If I am unable to find a position with one family, I will likely begin giving music lessons.”

  This seemed to intrigue Lady Constance. “Music lessons, you say. What do you play?”

  “I am proficient enough to provide instruction in pianoforte and harp.”

  “Is that so?” She squinted at Lucy as if contemplating some significance to this information of which Lucy was not yet aware.

  “Yes, ma’am. I have played all my life.”

  “Well, that may do nicely. That may do very nicely,” she said.

  Lucy laughed. “I feel as though I have just become involved in something without knowing it,” she said.

  “I do believe you have, ma petite. How would you like to play for a concert I will be hosting?”

  “A concert?”

  “I am hosting a performance of Madame Castellini, the Italian opera singer.” Lady Constance picked up the small plate with the half-eaten tea cake, considered it, and placed it back upon the table. She smiled wryly at Lucy. “I am accepted in society because I am English, ma petite, but I am interesting to society because I am French. If I am to remain interesting, I must be a source of continental entertainments.”

  “I don’t know,” Lucy said, attempting to construct an appropriately grateful and polite denial. “You have never even heard me play.”