By Way Of A Wager

by Solomon, Hayley Ann

  His ruminations were brought to a timely conclusion by the arrival of the morning’s mail. The silver platter was laden with watermarked envelopes, very few, he noticed, bearing the coveted franks of the elite. Those that did were pointedly directed to the Honorable Miss Beaumaris, a circumstance that made a foul day fouler still. A cursory glance at the remainder revealed bills, bills, more bills. How he was to fight off the duns was well beyond his knowledge. Wedding the unwilling second cousin was now a compulsory measure if he wished to show his face about town. At least few could quibble at the size of her portion. How maddening it was that all his well-laid plans were confounded. He would have to contrive again, that was all there was to it.

  Vague instinct made Sir Robert look up and notice the uniformed lackey hovering in the vicinity. His eyes narrowed as he caught the singularly anticipatory expression that conveyed life to his habitually wooden features. Remarking this, Harrington frowned. Perhaps there was a missive he’d missed. He screwed up his eyes thoughtfully, wincing from the shock of unexpected pain as he did so. The footman, one of his own creatures, would be unlikely to lose his composure at the sight of yet another statement—they were too commonplace by far.

  “Cat got your tongue?” He sounded waspish as he rounded on the servant. “Stop hovering, man, and tell me what you find so particularly curious!”

  The footman muttered something inaudible under his breath and Harrington dismissed him in disgust. Alone, he pushed some of the shattered glass to one side, then peeled off his tan riding gloves. Placing the salver gingerly on a small but elegant occasional table, his hand alighted finally and with decision on an envelope franked impressively in blue and red. It was at once remarkable for bearing the seal of state.

  Eagerness etched his features as his fingers clumsily ripped at the single wafer. Here, he hoped, was the answer to his nightly prayers. Confirmation at last of the demise of the sixth Earl Surrey. Lord Frances Beaumaris could surely be no more. He smothered an anticipatory grin. He could not help but feel the missive to be in the very nick of time. His mind wandered feverishly as his fingers made short shrift of the letter’s folds.

  He’d hold a banquet and invite all his creditors. Serve them humble pie, too! He sniggered. Then they’d regret their insinuating ways and niggardly harassment! Debtor’s jail indeed! Those days were gone as surely as he was the Lord Robert Harrington, seventh Earl Surrey. What a pleasant ring the title had, to be sure!

  The paper rustled as he unfolded it. He smoothed it down hastily with a practiced flick of the wrist. The words jumped out at Harrington unpleasantly. For a moment he thought he must have misread, but the hope was dashed instantly. Disappointment turned Harrington’s sallow features haggard, then calculating, as he took stock of the contents.

  In all Robert’s long and decidedly eventful life, he’d never suffered such a devastating setback to one of his lifelong obsessions. It was funny how three formal sentences, iterated on His Majesty’s stationery, could have such a profound effect. For an instant the room spun round. When it stopped, the germ of a notion had begun to formulate.

  The second footman, standing in an agony of suspense outside the heavy wood door, found himself recalled to the room. If he suffered disappointment at his failure to catch a glimpse of the missive, he was certainly not granted sufficient opportunity to bewail the fact. Before he knew what he was about, he’d been ordered to the Running Footman, a dubious little watering house on the outskirts of the Surrey estates, there to exchange pleasantries with a fellow answering to the rather unlikely name of “Cutthroat Jake.”

  The said person was in his late forties and looked altogether like a pugilist gone to seed. Heavy framed, the stubble that arose from his chin was of the hard, black variety, har-shening his already asymmetrical features. When all was said, his appearance went a long way to reminding the unfortunate servant of a bull terrier on a very short leash. This impression remained unaltered, even after the consumption of two long draughts of the innkeeper’s finest.

  The black stout served its purpose by means of introduction, but also went a long way to causing the beleaguered lackey to fair pass out. Lolling on the inn’s beechwood benches, he came close to casting up his accounts, an event that did not elevate him in the eyes of the seasoned likes of Jake. The interest of the said highwayman-cum-jack-of-all-dubious-trades seemed to increase in direct proportion to the amount of silver the footman now saw fit to lay across his palm. He was awake to the fact that he had within easy grasp a pigeon ripe for the plucking.

  By the time he’d pocketed his sixth shiny piece and ascertained there was more to be expected on completion of a small, but unspecified “consideration,” he was prepared to bestir himself from his slothful state and balefully head for the door. It was all the lackey could do to prevent himself from succumbing once more to the somewhat demeaning effects of the stout.

  Sir Robert found that he’d judged his man aright: Jake was most gratifyingly receptive to the scheme he’d devised in the ill-fated moment he believed all lost. It seemed singularly unfair to the second footman, however, that after all his trouble he should be dismissed so summarily. The door had been firmly shut in his face, only minutes after presenting his charge. It was an insult he found unbearably hard to swallow. Cursing his luck, he bent down low, straining to hear snippets of the conversation taking place from within.

  It was not to be expected that this transgression should go unnoticed. Indeed, the first footman, who caught him bending with his ear pushed tight against the keyhole, had much to say on this score. Since his misdemeanor was compounded by intoxication, he was fortunate, indeed, to escape the requisite dismissal.

  On consideration, the penalty had been vetoed by the redoubtable butler. With more than a hint of regret he’d decided against turning the man off without a character. If truth be known, his mercy had more than a little to do with his own curiosity. Although he would die rather than admit it, he was extremely anxious to hear of the proceedings taking place under his very nose.

  The second footman, spared the indignity of a dismissal, was constrained to satisfy his peers with lengthy descriptions of the rogue Jake and his manner of business. The servants’ quarters fair hummed with speculation. What Lord Harrington wanted with such riffraff was anyone’s guess, but it was many—including Stanford—who offered up a silent prayer for Miss Beaumaris’s safe return.

  “Cutthroat Jake” would have to live up to his unsavory name if he were to pay his way. Sir Robert found himself fervently hoping that the appellation was rightfully gained and not an idle boast. It was a strange thing, he’d noticed: people were perfectly willing to rob and maim and loot. When it came to a question of murder, however, the average Englishman balked at the thought.

  He scoffed in contempt. Not a flicker of doubt shadowed his mind as he went through the possibilities logically and without incident. He marveled at how easy it all was. Hardly even a challenge. Why he’d not had this plan formulated as contingency before he could not say. How fortunate Cassandra had mentioned the little sloop Surrey kept anchored off the coast of Brussels. The very thing, he was quite certain! Jake would sail posthaste to France, then travel by mount cross-country to Antwerp, where the sloop would be anchored. He, of course, would commute at a more leisurely pace to the coast and await Jake’s arrival with the jubilant news of the unfortunate earl’s safe disposal.

  After the whole matter was satisfactorily settled, he’d deal with Cassandra. How much better in the unchallenged position of peer of the realm. The thought excited him. He wished, suddenly, to be alone. A lifelong dream was but an ocean-length away. The moment was too exhilarating to share with a lowlife like the rapscallion before him.

  With a conspiratorial flick of the thumb that nevertheless conveyed an element of deep contempt, the dubious Jake was ushered from his presence.

  Time enough in the morning to discuss contingencies and refine further upon the details. The evening was one to savor and savor it he wo
uld. Silently, he lifted his glass in half salute to a man lying in a hospital camp some way off from La Hay Sainte.

  An acid laugh saw him toss his head back and drain the drink whole.

  A discreet cough broke in on Lord St. John’s innermost thoughts. It is to be inferred that these deliberations were definitely on the pleasant side, since a tiny gleam of humor was to be detected lingering at the edge of his wide, wholly masculine mouth.

  His lady love had just flung down the gauntlet and he was not the man to resist. What self-respecting fellow would turn his back on such a challenge, after all? Especially one that came wrapped as delightfully as this one did. How his heart’s delight had sparkled as she named the stake. A throw of the dice, a hand of cards, a game of chess. Winner to take all. Well, well, and well! She must have been very sure of herself, the wench, to hazard so high.

  He could only guess at the feelings that had willed her on to provoke him in this manner. Like chess, indeed like most earnest challenges, attack was the best form of defense. It troubled him that she still had cause to be defensive. He understood her, however, and made allowances. Besides, he admired her. He was hard put to think of another who would so willfully throw her fate to the gods. What a dear, spirited, brave girl to make light of life’s troubles in the singularly novel way she had done.

  He knew—perhaps more than most—what it was like to be fettered by society and its expectations. She’d defied the social code, and nothing short of a miracle could restore her to her rightful position. Well, for better or worse he intended to be that miracle. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to shield her, to devote himself to her preservation and safety.

  That she refused the ultimate protection of his name only endeared her to him more. Whether she knew it or not, she would be his. She belonged to him in more than just the physical sense, although that was certainly a part of it.

  The thought of releasing the clips of her hair and running his fingers through smooth, silken, unencumbered locks was fast becoming an obsession with him. The dull ache within his body was yearning for a matching passion. Never before had he been so sensitive to a warm, laughing presence. They belonged together and not to be bonded in the most ultimate of all ways seemed an incalculable sin.

  He had known her for a few snatched hours long ago and now this. Another mere sprinkling of time, but the hours were an eternity unto themselves. This was no passing fancy—he was all too well-acquainted with those—this was the real thing, Shakespeare’s stuff of dreams that he had been so cynical about. Before the fortnight was out, she would be his wife. The special license he’d been carrying on his person all day bore testimony to this most incontrovertible of facts.

  Miss Cassandra may rest easy in the belief that she’d won herself a reprieve. Miles knew better. For starters, he was an old hand at playing cards. How fortunate that Rupert had not been present to warn her off. The young gadabout was forever complaining—often quite volubly—that he had too uncanny a grasp of the order of play.

  Spectators seemed awestruck that at the end of a game His Grace the duke would next to always be holding the royal flush. Few had insight into just how much skill was involved in achieving that situation. Not sorcery, just a degree of calculation and logic. It was a thoughtful Miles who fingered the deep sapphire and silver handkerchief Cassandra had dropped from reticule to floor soon after she’d laid the terms of her bet.

  When she’d finally flounced from the room with the trace of an impudent grin and self-confident swagger, he’d decided there and then to keep it as a small memento. An heirloom with which to amuse his children and grandchildren. In the meanwhile, he intended to keep it close to him. Perhaps he was fanciful, but beneath his shirt, tucked away in the recesses of his muscular body, it would be close to his skin, close to his touch, close to his very heart.

  Vallon would grow slowly apoplectic at the sight of his bulging cambric undershirt. Nothing, to him, would justify a wrinkle in Islington fabric—not even passion. With fortitude Miles ignored this consideration. With due respect to his fastidious valet, some things were best endured.

  Pickering coughed a little louder, hoping this time to divert the attention of his master to more pressing matters. The matter, for instance, of a rather sorry-looking fellow kicking his heels in the second receiving chamber. Also, and decidedly more auspicious, the circumstance of a wafer having been hand delivered by the lord high chancellor himself.

  He’d not stopped, but had admonished the under footman to see it delivered into the duke’s hands with due urgency. The lackey, knowing his duty, had passed it on to Pickering who was now relinquishing it—with deference—into the appropriate hands. St. John smiled his thanks.

  “What would I do without you, Pickering? You were right, of course, to deposit young James in the blue salon. Always so discerning! Sometimes I wonder how you do it.”

  Pickering glowed inwardly at the praise. Outwardly, his features remained as immobile as ever, a fitting testimony to a butler of impeccably high standards. He held out the heavily sealed missive and made as if to withdraw.

  “One moment, if you please!” Miles stretched for his glass and languidly depressed the seal. The envelope opened with ease, the paper crisp in his gloved fingers. Scanning the short enclosure, he nodded positively before breaking out into one of his rare but brilliant smiles.

  As if instantly energized, the duke began rapping out some succinct but urgent orders. If the butler was surprised, he had the good breeding and civility not to reveal it. He merely bowed and promised faithfully that His Grace’s orders would be carried out to the letter. He also promised to apprise Mr. Everett of all the details the duke had seen fit to outline. St. John smiled perfunctorily as the butler made to withdraw.

  “No wait, Pickering. I may need more.”

  The duke’s brows furrowed as he thought furiously. The foreign office had made short work of his request for information regarding the status and whereabouts of Captain Frances Sedgwick Sinclair Beaumaris, Sixth Earl Surrey and regimental leader of the Fourth Hussars. If his suspicions were confirmed, he’d have no time to lose.

  “Send word to the stables that I want the chestnuts set to. Also, I’ll need Vallon to ensure ...” His instructions were interrupted by the sounds of hoofed feet on the cobbles. “Who the devil can that be?”

  Pickering cleared his throat. “That, I rather think Your Grace, is a hack.”

  His Grace looked incredulous. “A hack? Now who would call a hack, I wonder? Don’t, I pray you, gammon me into believing master Rupert’s pockets are as to let as all that! However desperate he may be, I don’t see him resorting to that type of conveyance, do you?”

  The butler permitted himself a small smile at this allusion to young Lord Rupert’s penchant for high steppers. Though his team was not nearly so fine as that of His Grace, they were nevertheless extremely good goers, very well matched, and the envy of all his friends. The viscount was fast developing expensive taste in horseflesh. Not a likely candidate to be jaunting around in a hired pair! Flat-sided, too, if he guessed it right.

  He turned to his master. “No, Your Grace. Not the viscount! Miss Beaumaris, I believe. Something about a governess in Bath?”

  Light dawned. Miles’s passing interest evaporated into definite concern.

  “Send him away at once, Pickering. At once! Kindly convey to the household that Miss Beaumaris is to be a lengthy and valued guest in this establishment.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Unless by express orders of myself or master Rupert, she is not now nor later to be abetted in any foolish attempt to remove herself. Do I make myself clear?”

  Heavy lines furrowed Miles’s brow as he made this declaration. In circumstances other than the one in which he now found himself, he’d have no option but to assist Cassandra in her endeavors to achieve a modicum of respectability.

  As it was, he had no choice. The communication he had only now received made it all the more imperative that he protect his
loved one from possible danger. He hoped fervently that his imagination was merely hyperactive. There was no indication, after all, that Harrington’s inclinations would run to murder or extortion. Left to chance, though, he’d rather not take the risk.

  Pickering bowed. He’d known his master since he was in short coats and trusted his unfailing judgment. If the situation seemed strange to him, it was not his place to comment. No doubt St. John knew what he was doing. He would stake his life that the man would not trifle with a lady’s reputation unless he had just cause.

  Even so, the butler could not help but hope the matter would soon resolve itself. He would have his work cut out depressing the curiosity of the chambermaids and kitchen staff, who were already agog at the circumstances of a lady of quality putting up at a gentleman’s establishment.

  NINE

  Cassandra had time to reflect. She realized, to her exasperation, that she was now honor-bound to remain under the duke’s protection. A wager was a serious business, not to be lightly dismissed. She’d contracted to play and so she must. It seemed madness to her that she’d got inveigled into such a situation. If St. John had been a gentleman he’d not have countenanced it!

  Honesty compelled her to admit that in all possible ways he had, in truth, been a gentleman. It was her own judgment that had been at fault. How could she have suggested such a thing? And such stakes, too! He must think her wanton to fool with her honor in this way. Marriage was no golden guinea to toss around wherever the dice may fall.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heavens her sanity had not so left her that she’d suggested a horse race across the commons or some other such thing! Judging from the looks of the duke’s splendidly frisky cattle, she’d not wager a farthing at the chances of her besting His Grace in that particular pursuit. If ever there was a way to settle this ridiculous issue of matrimony, it was this. At the risk of immodesty, she knew her chess game to be superior. She was relatively satisfied, too, that she’d comport herself well in the card stakes. Frances had always had the edge on her in this, but only just. She was proud of her masculine sense of logic. The dice would be luck, but she’d have to stand the odds.