Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  ‘There is no one.’ She turned her head, but held it erect. ‘Leave us where you wish.’

  Indeed, drop them into the street? They would be gobbled up in a trice. How long could he afford to put them up at some inn?

  At that moment, the bundle in Miss England’s arms emitted a squeak. Two small arms poked out of the wrapping and wound themselves around her neck.

  ‘Deuce,’ Devlin said.

  The cloak opened to reveal an equally small head with a mop of hair as dark as her own. The child cuddled against her chest, fast asleep.

  ‘This is my daughter, Lieutenant.’ Miss England faced him again and spoke in a trembling voice, both wary and defiant. ‘Linette…England.’

  ‘Good God.’

  Miss England spoke again. ‘I do wish you would order the hackney somewhere away from this place. I care not where.’ She grasped the child more firmly. ‘Lord Farley might have a change of mind.’

  Devlin instructed the driver to take them to his address. Where else could he take two women and a child when his brain was foggy with brandy and fatigue?

  The passengers lapsed into silence. Miss England pointedly avoided conversation, and Devlin, angry at himself for his rash behaviour, clamped his mouth shut.

  The thin light of dawn seeped through the London mist as the hack pulled up to a plain, unadorned building near St James’s Street. His rooms were at the edge of the unfashionable district where the rent was cheaper. It was an area best known for housing Cyprians of the ton and, therefore, acceptable for a gentleman.

  His entourage spilled out into the street, the little maid grabbing the portmanteau before Devlin could reach it. He began to chuckle. To anyone passing by at this hour, the women would appear as two more fancy pieces under protection. As long as the bundle in Miss England’s arms remained covered, that is.

  Devlin walked to his entrance halfway round to the back.

  Wait until Bart saw what he had won at cards. The sergeant’s face when they came in the door would make this whole escapade worthwhile.

  Devlin had once saved Bart’s life on the battlefield. Ever since, the older man made it his mission to take care of him. Primary among Bart’s self-imposed duties was tempering Devlin’s rash, impulsive nature—a task at which he was doomed to fail.

  Live for the moment. As a creed, it was as good as any.

  Hmmph, more like a curse, Devlin thought. That particular creed had gotten him sent down from a school or two, but, from the time his late father had purchased his colours, it had meant survival. Now, however, it meant he had the charge of two women and a child.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The women were not following. They stood on the spot where the hackney had left them, looking as lost as waifs.

  Devlin cursed himself. They presumed he would abandon them. When had he ever passed by a creature in need? In his youth, one of his impulsive habits had been collecting stray animals which he’d then had to conceal from his father.

  He walked back to the women. Three more strays to add to his collection.

  ‘This way, if you please.’ He wrested the portmanteau from the maid again. ‘My abode is humble, to be sure, but will have to do.’

  Miss England stood her ground. ‘You need not trouble yourself, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘We shall contrive something. The streets are too dangerous for you.’

  With halting steps she followed him through the narrow alley. Her maid crept close behind. The sky had brightened, showing signs of becoming a magnificent day.

  Devlin knocked on the door and only a moment passed before it opened. ‘Good morning, Bart,’ he said in a cheerful manner. ‘I trust you have not been up all night waiting for me.’

  ‘Half the night is all, then I consigned you to Jericho and took to—’ Pale brown eyes in a weathered face widened.

  ‘I’ve brought guests.’ Devlin smiled as he dragged in the portmanteau. Bart’s astonished expression was as rewarding as he could have wished. ‘Not guests, really. Charges, you might say.’ He stepped aside to let the women enter. ‘Bart, may I present my charges.’ He swept his arm in a graceful gesture. ‘Miss England and Sophie.’

  The little maid stepped forward cautiously and curtsied.

  Devlin tossed Bart an amused glance as he shrugged off his coat. ‘Where are your manners, Bart? Take the lady’s cloak.’

  Bart, mouth open, did as he was bid.

  Devlin turned to Miss England. ‘Allow me to assist you.’ He stepped behind her and unclasped the fastening under her chin, removing the garment.

  As the cloak fell away, the child in Miss England’s arms whimpered in her sleep.

  ‘My God,’ exclaimed Bart.

  Devlin laughed. ‘This is Miss England’s daughter…um…’

  ‘Linette.’ Miss England turned to face Devlin, and he had his first good look at her.

  His memory had not failed him. Her face was almost regal in its loveliness. Her skin shone like fine porcelain, except for finger-shaped splotches of blue. Her lips were the identical colour to a rose that had grown in his mother’s garden. Her lush mahogany-coloured hair cascaded down her shoulders, the perfect frame for a perfect face. She met his appreciation with a bold gaze, her intelligent blue eyes reflecting both youthful innocence and knowledge far beyond her years.

  Devlin’s breath left his lungs.

  ‘I…I do not know your true name…’ he managed, feeling his throat tighten at the vision of so much beauty.

  She paused, her eyes searching his face. ‘My name is Madeleine.’ She added a faint smile. ‘Madeleine England.’

  He remembered the feel of her bare skin next to his, the lushness of her full breasts, and the ecstasy of her passion. His eyes swept over her as his body came alive to her again.

  The child sleeping against her shoulder brought him back to his senses, a tiny girl, a miniature of the mother, very much resembling the wax dolls on his sisters’ old toy shelf. The child’s feathery long lashes cast shadows on the rosy cheek that lay against Madeleine’s shoulder.

  What the deuce was he to do with the lot of them?

  Bart broke out into guffaws of laughter. ‘Cast yourself into the briars again, have you, Dev?’

  Madeleine lifted her chin, refusing to let it tremble in disappointment as she regarded the two men. At Farley’s, her vision blurred by Farley’s blow, she’d thought she dreamed Lieutenant Devlin Steele. Lord, she’d dreamed of him often enough. But when she’d blinked her eyes, it truly had been he.

  She understood too well the look he’d given her a moment ago. It spoke of wanting to bed her. Foolish of her to forget this would be his motive for rescuing her. He could not be the brave and gallant dragoon of her fantasy. It had always been a silly fancy, after all, even if visions of him riding up on a tall stallion had comforted many a night.

  Especially the nights Lord Farley came to share her bed.

  The lieutenant ran his hand through his hair and replied to the other man’s remark. ‘I’ve not quite worked out what to do.’

  She knew what he would do. He would cast them off as soon as he could. He must dislike her bringing Sophie and Linette. Perhaps if she’d come to him alone he’d have been content to keep her.

  No matter. She would go nowhere without her daughter and her friend. They depended upon her.

  She avoided looking at him. ‘We shall not trouble you, sir. It is light outside. I am sure we may be safely on our way.’ She reached for her cloak. ‘Come, Sophie.’

  The slight figure was in mid-yawn, her lank yellow hair falling across her face. The other man reached out an arm for her as she staggered.

  ‘The lass is dead on her feet,’ he protested.

  The lieutenant rubbed his brow, as Madeleine struggled with her cloak. The child squirmed and started to whimper. The cloak slipped to the floor. She tried to comfort Linette, swaying to and fro with her as she had done since her infancy.

  ‘Do not be foolish, Miss England.’
He picked up the cloak and tossed it out of her reach. ‘You confided you have nowhere to go.’

  ‘It is none of your concern.’ She attempted to pass by him to reach her cloak.

  He stepped in her path and put his hand on her arm. ‘You will stay here.’

  She wrenched her arm away. The child started to whimper.

  ‘You have made her cry,’ Madeleine said. Much easier to be angry at him than to worry about where she would go if they did walk out the door. What would happen to Linette out there in the streets?

  ‘I have made her cry?’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you believe she will fare better if I allow you to leave? Do you have money enough to take care of her?’

  She could not meet his eye.

  He gently took her chin in his hand and made her look at him. ‘You do not have money enough even for a hackney coach, do you?’

  Her little girl stopped crying and stared with wide eyes at the man. ‘Coach?’ the child said.

  Madeleine clucked at Linette, taking advantage of the opportunity to turn her back on Devlin. Inside panic reigned. Where would they go? Not back to Farley. Never back to Farley, but where? ‘I do not need your concern.’

  He marched around to face her again, and his voice became quieter. ‘I beg to differ with you. If you will recall, it was I who intervened when Farley struck you.’ He reached toward her cheek.

  She shrugged him away, refusing to let him touch her. ‘What does that signify? It is not the first time he has hit me.’

  His hand remained poised in the air, his expression conveying acute sympathy. She should not allow herself to believe he truly cared, no matter how much the fantasy of that very thing had sustained her these few years.

  The child squirmed in her arms and pulled away to grasp his fingers. The child giggled. Devlin stepped closer, and the tiny girl tugged on his neckcloth. This time when he touched Madeleine’s bruised cheek, she did not draw away. Could not draw away. Speech became impossible.

  ‘He will not hurt you again,’ he murmured.

  He became the hero of her daydreams again. How could she believe in him? Other young men had vowed to place her under their protection. They never returned, or, if they did return, never spoke such a promise again. Farley had seen to it. Why had Farley allowed this man to take her? Was it some sort of trick?

  She glanced at her lieutenant. His eyes were warm and full of a resolve she would at least pretend was real. His face again became the one in her weary daydreams, conjured up after her toils were done and she was free to seek her bed alone. He always smiled at her in her dreams, his dimple winking at her.

  Now his manly face filled her with excitement. The memory of his gentle kiss and peace-shattering lovemaking returned and agitated her. It was acceptable to dream and remember, but to let herself feel again? To hope? No, her only hope was to contrive to support Linette and Sophie, two people she could depend upon because they needed her so.

  Linette tore out the folds of Devlin’s neckcloth as he leaned down. His lips came closer. Madeleine’s heart thudded against her chest.

  ‘I settled the lass in my cot.’ The voice of Devlin’s servant, Bart, broke in, full of indignation.

  Devlin smiled at the man. ‘In your cot, Bart? Quick work.’

  ‘I’ll harbour no insults, if you please.’ This man did not speak as servant to master. ‘If you’ve managed to get us any funds, I’ll see about some food. Some milk for the wee one.’

  Devlin marched over to the table and emptied his pockets. ‘Good news. We shall eat well.’

  Bart picked up a few coins and shoved the rest back to Devlin. ‘See you try to hold on to these for a bit.’ He reached for a coat on a hook and went out the door, closing it silently.

  ‘He is your servant?’ Madeleine asked, conscious of being alone with him once more.

  As if reading her thoughts, Devlin regarded her with smouldering eyes. ‘More than that, I suppose. We managed through Spain and Belgium together.’

  ‘Belgium,’ she murmured. After news of Waterloo, for days she had pored over the names of the dead, weeping in relief when she finally found him listed among the wounded.

  No matter. Now that his servant had absented himself, her lieutenant would soon wish payment for her rescue.

  Her heart pounded. She must not feel this excitement at being near him. She must expect him to be as selfish and capricious as other men. Madeleine adjusted her hold on Linette, who rubbed her eyes and flopped her head on Madeleine’s shoulder again.

  Devlin came near to her again. ‘The child must be getting heavy for you. Come. It is time for bed.’

  Devlin led her into his bedchamber, acutely aware of blood thundering through his veins. By God, she was more desirable than that first, magic time with her.

  As she regarded the room with dismay, he saw it through her eyes. A smallish room, furnished with a tall double chest of drawers in a style long out of fashion and a large four-poster bed with faded curtains. His old trunk was tucked in the corner, clothing spilling out.

  Her gaze rested on the bed. What might it be like to share that bed with her? To tangle with her in its sheets?

  This would not do. She appeared as if she would collapse at any moment. The child was no infant, nearly three years old, he’d guess. A sturdy bundle, and Madeleine had not let go of her for nearly an hour.

  ‘Where shall Linette sleep?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘In the bed, where else?’

  She straightened, her defiant chin lifting. ‘My lord, I am prepared to repay you for your generosity, but I must insist on privacy for Linette. She must not be in the same room, let alone the same bed.’

  He raised his eyebrows. Did she think him unmindful of the child? Did she think him so base as to take advantage of her?

  ‘And I’m loath to leave her alone in a strange place,’ she continued, her mouth set in firm determination.

  He stared into her blue eyes and the breath left his lungs. He let his gaze travel down the length of her. Her red silk dress clung to her form and the weight of her daughter pulled its low neckline down lower. The attire was pure tart, but her bearing regal. The combination set his senses aflame, though he had no intention of acting upon them, ill timed as they were.

  A smile not absent of regret spread across his face. ‘I meant for you and the child to share the bed. Did you think I meant otherwise?’

  She blushed, bringing a most innocent pink to her cheeks, her eyes downcast. ‘You know very well what I thought.’

  He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. The little girl’s curls tickled his fingers. For a moment he let his fingers caress Madeleine’s soft flesh. He held her against him, inhaling the scent of lavender in her hair. From behind her, he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek and gave her a push toward the bed.

  ‘Sleep well, Madeleine.’

  Chapter Three

  The damp chill seeped through Devlin’s clothing. His twisted limbs would not move. Pain had settled into a constant ache, made worse with each breath, worse still by the rancid stench of blood. Of death. Moans of the dying filled the night. The sounds grew louder and louder, until they merged into one piercing wail. An agonised sound. The sound of fear and horror and pain.

  Coming from his mouth.

  He woke, his heart pounding, breath panting. His vision cleared, revealing faded red-brocade curtains made moderately brighter by sunlight. What were brocade curtains doing at Waterloo?

  He sat up, his mind absorbing the round mahogany table in the corner with its decanter of port, the mantel holding one chipped porcelain vase. His back ached from contorting himself on the settee. It had been the dream. He hung his head between his knees until the disturbing images receded. Had he cried out in his sleep?

  The wail again sounded in his ears, coming from the bedchamber this time, not from his own soul.

  He leapt from the settee and flung open the door. Madeleine paced the room, clutching her little girl. The child cried
and struggled in her arms. Madeleine’s red dress was creased with wrinkles. That she’d not bothered to undress before sleeping moved him to compassion. How exhausted she must have been.

  The child gave a loud, anguished cry, and Madeleine quickened her pace.

  ‘What the devil is going on?’

  She spun toward him, her youthful face pinched in worry. ‘She is feverish.’

  ‘She is ill?’ Devlin’s head throbbed from the previous night’s excess of brandy.

  ‘Yes. She coughs, too.’ Her voice caught. ‘I have never seen her so ill.’

  ‘Good God,’ Devlin said. ‘We must do something.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do!’

  Tears glistened in her eyes. The child’s wailing continued unchecked. He had not bargained for a sick child.

  ‘Bart!’ he yelled, rushing back into the parlour. ‘Bart! Where are you?’

  Bart emerged from his room, Madeleine’s small companion like a shadow behind him. The sergeant, his craggy eyebrows knitting together, protectively held her back. The gesture irritated Devlin. Did Bart think him dangerous to young females?

  ‘What in thunder?’ A scold was written on Bart’s face.

  ‘The child is sick. We must do something.’ He stood in the middle of the room, doing nothing.

  ‘The wee one is sick?’ parroted Bart, standing just as paralysed.

  ‘Linette!’ Sophie rushed past Bart and ran to Madeleine, who had followed Devlin into the room. She frantically felt the child’s forehead.

  ‘She is burning up!’ she exclaimed. ‘Maddy, sit down. Let’s loosen her clothes. Mr Bart, if you please, some cool water and some clean rags.

  ‘Clean rags?’ Bart said, still immobile.

  ‘Make haste!’

  At Sophie’s words, Bart sprang into action, drawing water from the pump and bringing it to the women, both fussing over the child. Finding clean rags was more of a challenge. He finally brought a stack of towels and bade them to cut them up, if necessary. Sophie dipped one towel in the water, wrung it out and placed it on the child’s chest. Madeleine mopped the little girl’s brow with another.