Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  What blithering nonsense. Those days had vanished with Waterloo.

  A heavy fatigue overtook him, but he proceeded to shave and dress. He would put the best face he could on this day, for Madeleine’s sake.

  Below stairs, he walked past the dining room and smiled. Their little household rarely supped at the table there, except for the last meal of the day. He liked the informality of the kitchen where they gathered as equals in this venture to survive.

  That would vanish, too, with his decision. When his money flowed again, he would be master.

  As he neared the kitchen door he heard Madeleine’s voice.

  ‘Sit, Sophie. Please do. I will tend to the meal.’

  Sophie’s inevitable protest dissolved into a fit of coughing.

  Madeleine looked up as he entered. Linette clambered over the chairs to get to him.

  ‘Deddy!’ The little girl jumped into Devlin’s arms.

  ‘Devlin,’ Madeleine said, ‘please tell Sophie to sit and allow me to do the work. She is ill.’

  ‘I am not ill.’ The little maid, sallow-faced with dark circles under her eyes, choked on her words and turned her head to cough some more.

  Devlin opened his mouth, but had no chance to speak.

  ‘I cannot see how she fooled Bart. He never would have gone out had he known.’ Madeleine fussed at putting bowls on the table.

  ‘Deddy play?’ Linette batted her long lashes at Devlin.

  Madeleine whirled to the child. ‘No, Linette, sit here and eat.’ She swept over and took the child from Devlin’s arms.

  She put Linette back in her chair, raised high by a wooden box upon which Linette now stood, not sat. Madeleine continued, ‘Dev, please do something. Sophie will not listen to me.’

  As if to prove Madeleine’s words, Sophie pushed her hands on the table to raise herself. Devlin pressed his fingers to his brow.

  ‘All of you, sit!’ he commanded.

  The three sat, like obedient soldiers.

  He glared from one to the other. ‘Linette, do as your mother says. Eat. Maddy, stop fussing. If you wish to ready the meal then bloody do it.’ He softened his voice for Sophie. ‘Little one, do not exert yourself. It is foolishness when Maddy is capable of a simple breakfast.’

  Sophie did as she was told, coughing softly, eyes downcast.

  Madeleine rose to pour a cup of tea for Sophie and Devlin. ‘You need not have snapped at me.’

  He glanced at her, regretting his burst of temper, but her eyes held the hint of a smile and a softer expression that spoke of what had passed between them the previous night.

  ‘I apologise.’ His eyes held hers for that moment. He hoped she knew he was sorry for more than a fit of temper.

  Between coughs, Sophie said, ‘I need to tend to my sewing.’

  Madeleine started to protest, but Devlin shot her a glance to keep quiet. She spooned him a bowl of porridge.

  ‘You need sew no longer, little one. We have had a change in fortune. In fact, I intend to return your earnings to you.’

  Sophie’s eyes grew wide. ‘We have money?’

  ‘We will by this afternoon, I expect. I will call on my brother again. He will give me the money this time.’ He cautiously took a spoonful of the lumpy porridge. Perhaps by the morrow they would be feasting on boiled eggs and ham.

  ‘You see, I will do as my brother wishes and he will advance me the money.’ Devlin would leave further explanation of their change in fortune to Madeleine, not knowing how to tell Sophie about his need to marry.

  ‘May…may I continue with the sewing?’ Sophie asked, her eyes darting warily.

  He leaned to her and placed his hand on her arm. ‘You may do whatever you wish. I do shout and bluster, but you are a free woman, Sophie. Not mine to command.’

  Madeleine stood behind him with the pot of tea. She brushed against him as she poured.

  ‘Where the devil is Bart?’

  ‘Gone to find work,’ Madeleine said.

  ‘Deuce, you did not stop him?’

  ‘He left before I came down.’

  Bart would be out searching for some sort of back-breaking labour, or something so dangerous, only a few of the out-of-work war veterans would compete for the job.

  ‘He went to a lead factory in Islington,’ Sophie said, before a cough stopped her.

  ‘When?’

  She held her throat, as if that would hold back another coughing spell. ‘An hour or more, I think.’

  He could hire a hack and catch up to him. Devlin took a quick sip of his tea and rushed off to warn his sergeant not to risk his neck another time for Devlin’s sake.

  He found Bart at the factory door where he and others hung about, hoping to be chosen for a job. The factory billowed black smoke and flecks of black ash covered the pavement and buildings. How could anyone abide such dismal surroundings?

  ‘Come on, Bart. Let us get you out of this damned place.’ He gestured his friend over to the hack.

  Bart did not leave his place in the ragged line that had formed. ‘It is honest work, Dev, and pays well.’

  ‘You no longer need to break your back. Our fortunes have changed.’

  Bart stared at him, hands on his waist. After a moment he abandoned the line and walked over to the hack.

  Devlin explained the whole business as they rode back. Bart responded with a grim expression. ‘It is right enough, Dev, but I do not like it all the same.’ He shot Devlin a suspicious glance. ‘Are you certain you have thought this through?’

  Devlin nodded, frowning. ‘This is not one of my impulsive acts. I have sat up half the night figuring this. We are mere days from having no blunt at all. What else can we do?’

  The two men stared at the buildings passing by, the only sounds the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones and the shouts of vendors selling their wares.

  ‘When the time comes,’ Devlin said at last, ‘I want you to stay with Madeleine.’ He did not have to explain what he meant.

  ‘We have not been apart since Spain. I’ll not desert you now.’ Bart’s thick brows knitted together in one straight line.

  Devlin regarded his friend with a wan smile. ‘Sophie will not wish to leave Madeleine, I expect, and I doubt you will wish to leave Sophie. Am I correct?’

  Bart did not answer, but neither did his craggy brows move from their stern expression.

  ‘I can only do this if I know they remain safe.’ Devlin’s voice became low and insistent. ‘I must depend on you to look out for them. I will not be able to see to it myself.’

  Bart stared at him as the hack neared St James’s Street. ‘I will do as you say.’

  That afternoon, Madeleine was alone in the house. Linette napped. Sophie, who had insisted herself fully recovered, went to return her sewing to Madame Emeraude and get another batch. Bart accompanied her, so she need not carry the basket.

  Devlin left to see the Marquess, to announce his decision to seek a wife so as to release his allowance.

  Madeleine hated this solitude. Busy all morning, she had given herself no time to think of Devlin searching for a wife. And leaving her.

  Now there were no distractions.

  The only fantasy she could muster was of Devlin in a church with a beautiful lady like the Marchioness at his side, saying his vows. If she shook off that unwanted reverie, she saw him facing the same lady in his bed.

  She grabbed her sewing and settled herself in the parlour’s window seat. The day was clear, the kind of day she once might have spent on horseback, galloping over the hills near her home. Those days felt as unreal to her as her fantasies about Devlin. She frowned over her stitches. Sophie had helped her design an apron to protect her dresses during the day. They had found an old bedsheet to make it with. Stitching was laborious, but she was determined to finish the garment when she was not needed helping Sophie with the dresses.

  Sewing simply did not occupy enough of her mind, and this morning of all mornings she did not wish to think. Devlin would ma
rry and she would be sent away.

  She supposed she should be grateful that he intended to take care of her and Linette. It was a good fortune, a perfect solution to all their problems. Perhaps Devlin would visit after he wed. Lots of men kept mistresses, she knew. Several had offered her a carte blanche, but Farley inevitably found out and they never offered again.

  She refused to rank Devlin the same as those odious creatures who used to drool over her. He was not like them. Being with him was so different than being with other men. So wonderful. Devlin was a man like no other.

  She turned back to her stitches. Perhaps if she became truly skilled at sewing, she and Sophie could earn enough for a little place to stay, enough to feed and clothe themselves and Linette.

  Devlin would be free.

  Madeleine concentrated on speeding up her sewing, necessary for a seamstress. She tried very hard to keep the stitches the same size and close together. Sometimes she would forget to use the thimble and push on the needle with her bare finger. More often, she poked herself with the needle’s point instead of moving her fingers away.

  For a few moments, the effort consumed her mind, but a noise in the street distracted her. A shiny barouche with a splendid pair of matched bays pulled up in front of the house. The horses were as fine as any she had ever seen. What stable had bred them? she wondered. They were identical in size, their markings so similar one would suppose they had been twins. She wished she had seen them in motion.

  The knocker of the door sounded, and she jumped. She peeked out the glass to see who knocked. An unknown man stood there. The driver of the elegant equipage?

  She opened the door.

  The man who stood before her was more refined than any she had ever seen. His buckskins and driving coat were so finely tailored they looked moulded to his well-formed frame. His eyes, regarding her with a startled expression, seemed familiar, as did the set of his chin.

  ‘I was given this as Lord Devlin Steele’s direction.’ He eyed her as men usually did, but without the typical prurient gleam.

  ‘Lord Devlin is not presently at home,’ she said.

  He stepped past her, across the threshold, though she had not given him leave to do so. Her heart beat in alarm and she was acutely aware of being alone in the house.

  She straightened her posture. ‘Perhaps you would wish to leave your card.’

  He removed his hat. ‘I wish to wait.’

  She bit her lip. She dare not betray being alone. His eyes still carefully assessed her.

  ‘Who are you?’ His question was more like a command.

  She bristled. Smiling with bravado through her nervousness, she said, ‘Forgive me for not introducing myself. I had thought it proper for visitors to announce themselves first.’

  His eyes flashed at her insolence. She supposed he was not one accustomed to having his behaviour questioned. She smiled again and cocked her head as if waiting.

  ‘The Marquess of Heronvale,’ he said impatiently.

  Her smile vanished. Devlin’s brother.

  ‘You are?’ he commanded again.

  She waved her hand as if his question was foolish, but curtsied politely. ‘Miss England at your service, my lord. I am the…the housekeeper.’

  ‘Indeed?’ His eyebrows lifted in a top-lofty expression and his eyes flicked up and down her person once more.

  She took a breath. ‘Lord Devlin intended to visit you this afternoon, my lord. Perhaps you might find him at your residence.’

  He made no move to leave. ‘I will wait for him.’

  She took his hat and showed him into the parlour, where he stood continuing to watch her. She scooped up her sewing from the window seat and twisted the material in her hand, wishing she had finished the garment so it could cover her pale yellow muslin dress.

  ‘I shall bring tea.’ It sounded like what a housekeeper might do. He still stood, watching her.

  As she moved to leave, his voice stopped her, sounding less imperious. ‘Tell me, Miss England. My brother…is he well?’

  An odd question. ‘Yes, he is. Very well, my lord.’ She curtsied again and hurried out the door.

  The Marquess watched the retreating figure, wondering what to make of this surprise in his brother’s household. Housekeeper, indeed. The young woman—lord, she looked more like a girl—was a breathtaking beauty with startlingly blue eyes and dark unruly hair. Where had Devlin found her? He had heard no rumours of his brother forming a liaison.

  He strolled around the room, intrigued, as well, with the genteel furnishings. The place must have commanded a respectable rent. With this ‘housekeeper’, it was easy to see why Devlin wished to move. And he could see why his little brother had overspent his due. A woman of Miss England’s face and figure would not come cheap, as her tasteful new attire could attest.

  He’d not reckoned on his brother living with a mistress, had not conceived the notion even when Serena reported seeing Devlin with a woman. Devlin had introduced Serena to her as if she were respectable. Devlin should have told him about her.

  He should not be surprised Devlin had not. Ned wandered over to the window. He would have disapproved. He would have given Devlin a list of cogent reasons why keeping a mistress was irresponsible and he would have reminded Devlin of his duty.

  Ned had often thought about keeping a mistress himself. There were times when his masculine urges raged in a manner he could not inflict upon his delicate wife, and a willing woman would have easily slaked his desires.

  But he had not.

  In any event, Devlin had no business keeping a woman. He had no fortune of his own to command. Ned stood again and peered out the window. He had planned merely to assure himself Devlin was not ill and be on his way. He pulled on the bell cord.

  Miss England appeared at the door. ‘Yes, my lord?’

  At least she played her role of housekeeper well. Puzzling, she spoke like an educated miss. Still, her youth did not make sense. She could be no more than nineteen.

  ‘Please have someone instruct my tiger to walk the horses.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she replied.

  He watched from the window to see it done and was surprised when Miss England went from the house to speak to his tiger.

  A few minutes later, she entered with a tea tray. She poured the tea prettily and offered some lemon cakes, as well. He noticed tea leaves swimming in his cup.

  He could not resist baiting her. ‘Tell me, Miss England, how long have you been in my brother’s…employ?’

  ‘Not long, sir,’ she replied, an edge to her voice.

  ‘He had not spoken to me of having a housekeeper.’

  She did not lower her gaze at this question. She smiled instead. ‘Indeed? Do gentlemen discuss such matters?’

  He narrowed his eyes, ‘Was it you whom my wife met with Devlin—Lord Devlin?’

  Her cheeks flushed. ‘Yes, my lord. She kindly spoke to me.’

  He ought to wring Devlin’s bloody neck. How dare he put Serena in such a position, to speak to one such as this Miss England? He glared at her.

  But at the moment she looked more like a timid young girl, nervous and uncertain. It was difficult to maintain his anger.

  ‘May I be excused, my lord?’ Her cheekiness had fled, at least. He wished to ask more questions, but could think of none.

  ‘Deddy?’ A small voice sounded from the doorway, and Miss England turned pale.

  Ned turned to come face to face with a tiny child, no more than a baby, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

  The very image of his brother.

  Chapter Ten

  Ned stared at the child, a doll-like little girl who clutched a wooden horse in her hand. Even the toy was like one Devlin had carried with him at that age. She had blue eyes instead of green. Even so, this little girl was a female version of Devlin twenty-five years ago. The child stole a wary glance at him and ran to Miss England, who scooped her up in her arms.

  ‘I want Deddy,’ the child said.
/>   Miss England flushed.

  ‘Daddy?’ Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

  The young woman blinked rapidly.

  ‘The child’s word for papa?’ Perhaps the child had picked up the Scottish term from the faithful Bart.

  Her eyes darted. ‘No, indeed, for a…a…toy.’ She looked at the girl. ‘Go above stairs now, sweetling. Mama will be up directly.’

  The child flung her little arms around Miss England’s neck. ‘No!’

  Ned remembered that feeling. Chubby arms clasping his neck, the awesome knowledge that such devotion could be directed at him. His littlest brother, following him everywhere when he was home on school holiday. Worshipping him. Needing him.

  ‘She is Devlin’s child.’ He did not ask.

  A panicked look flashed across Miss England’s face. She recovered quickly, meeting his eye. ‘She is my child.’

  Her child? She looked barely old enough.

  The little girl studied him with wide lash-fringed eyes. ‘Who zat, Mama?’

  ‘He is the Marquess,’ she responded.

  His title would mean nothing to the child. But it would warm his heart if he again heard a childish voice call him Ned.

  The little girl squirmed and her mother set her down.

  Ned squatted to the child. ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Winette,’ the shy little voice said, a thumb popping into her mouth.

  ‘Winette?’ He looked to Miss England.

  ‘Linette,’ she said.

  Ned smiled at the child. ‘That is a splendid horse you have, Linette. May I see it?’

  Linette thrust the hand holding the horse in Ned’s face.

  ‘A splendid horse, indeed. Does your horse have a name?’

  She released her thumb. ‘Deddy’s horse.’

  Ned glanced at Miss England. Her hand had flown to her mouth. With a halting gesture, he touched Linette’s dark curly hair. His brother used to run to him for comfort, he recalled. Ned would mop up his tears and stroke his hair just like this.

  ‘Markiss play?’ the little girl asked, cocking her head and batting her eyelashes.

  Ned laughed and ruffled the child’s hair, a smile lingering on his lips. Yes, he would like to play again, to sit on the floor and gallop a wooden horse.