By Way Of A Wager

by Solomon, Hayley Ann

  Rupert, deciding there and then that his guardian was becoming a bit touched in the upper works, screwed up his face and politely declined.

  “Be off with you, sir! If you want to catch the tides, you’d best start now. Changing at Dartford, are you?”

  When Miles nodded his assent, the young buck appeared satisfied. If he knew anything at all it was how to judge blood cattle.

  “Good. I don’t much hold with the livery-stables at Worthing, I must tell you! Now at Dartford I’ll warrant you’ll pick up a trustworthy pair. Not like your grays, of course”—he hastened to qualify himself—“but some sound trotters nonetheless. Just make sure they’re fresh when you change.”

  He looked thoughtful. “I reckon with a well-paced pair you could cover the fourteen miles from the Roxburgh Tollgate in Dartford to the Red Lion in Rochester in under an hour. If the weather holds out, that is.”

  He stopped as he saw the light of mirth shining in Miles’s eyes. Since the said person had taught the viscount all he knew on the subject of horseflesh, it was hardly surprising that he saw an element of humor in the lecture he was receiving.

  It was one of Rupert’s particularly appealing qualities that he could laugh at himself when the situation arose. Realizing his mistake, he joined in Miles’s amusement wholeheartedly, adjuring him only to take heed of what he’d said and make sure he chose a team with a clean pair of heels on the Kentish change.

  For his trouble he received a light-hearted cuff, but ducked dexterously to avoid the impact. Pleasantries thus observed, His Grace took his leave, setting his pair a spanking pace as they galloped before the gleaming curricle, heads proudly aloft.

  The groom was afforded a fine view of country England as His Grace took the whip, driving the thoroughbreds with a light but well-practiced hand. It must be said that Miss Beaumaris, chancing to look up from the depths of her portmanteau, gave a deep sigh. Relief that His Grace had granted her a reprieve battled with immense anguish at his departure.

  No word of explanation, save a boyish “hey-ho” and an impudent wink that sent her senses reeling. No indication of plans or of whether he intended his trip to be short or long. He’d intimated that he’d be leaving and that he held her to her wager, but nothing more. Damn the man, he’d sounded so urgent, so caring she had not had the gumption to confront him as she had determined to do. Surely he could not expect her sojourn at Wyndham Terrace to be indefinite? She could only reflect on the scandal!

  As the curricle vanished from view, Cassandra had to admit she was puzzled. She determined, however, to make the most of her brief but tranquil stay. Old Grandfather Surrey had ever been a one to quote the dictum of making the best of every predicament, no matter how noisome.

  As he had time and time again asserted, if a man had not the spunk and rambunction to make a go of every situation, he was hardly a man at all. Cassandra smiled at the memory. A gruff old man, but she had loved him. If only she knew for a certainty what had become of Frances. She quickly put the thought from her.

  For the moment, at least, she would live in the present. The house and the estate, filled with noise, with bustle, with laughter was her peace. Even in happier times she had never truly understood the meaning of tranquility. Here, she found it. Here, amid the housemaids and the twins and the chirping dovetails. Here, paradoxically, where peace of mind had most been challenged, dormant sensation most awakened. She determined to savor that peace, short-lived though she knew it would be. Sooner or later the realities of her life would impinge once more. Until then, she would endeavor simply to be happy.

  ELEVEN

  Quite according to plan, the Surrey family sloop glided out of the port of Antwerp. That it did not travel a straight route but stopped first at a small but unknown cove in the heart of France raised few eyebrows. Equally, that her crew was a motley lot did not surprise any of the harbor officials who may have interested themselves in the business. Times were rough and seamen were not what they used to be.

  There were few respectable people who wished to sail the seas right now. No doubt the sloop was to be used to ferry shipments of velvet and lace or the odd keg of matured rum. Even with the restrictions lifted, it was still nigh on impossible to get hold of the real thing in England. The channel crossing was too risky, the last of the rattled French legions still too desperate to make the attempt.

  The sloop was sufficient to fetch a rare price in cargo for whoever dared brave the crossing. The tide at this time of year was enough to make any unseasoned mariner quite green with illness. To Jake, however, bobbing up and down the oceans like a veritable cork was no great hardship. Blessing his good fortune, he had time enough to take stock. How fortunate that he was to have free run of the sloop and its dubious shipment.

  This of course included ill-gotten burgundy, Parisian perfume, and rolls and rolls of fine point d’Angleterre. Just where he acquired these luxuries was to be his business, no questions asked. When he had accomplished the trifling task for which he was employed, he was to sail home, docking the sloop at one of the small English enclaves in the south. Now there was the rub! It did not suit the fine Jake to have his profitable trade overset by details of this nature.

  What is more, it suited him even less to satisfy himself with the meager consideration Sir Robert had seen fit to offer. True enough, at the time it had seemed a windfall. That was then, however. When a man has not a groat with which to pay his ale, he has little choice. When he has command of a sloop, a few dozen yards of Brussels bobbin lace, and numerous barrels of the finest French hock, it is a different matter entirely. Truth to tell, Jasper Meredith—for that was his true name—at last had the world at his feet.

  The sea breeze and the saltwater slapping up against the sides did much to exalt Jake’s confidence in the vagaries of fortune. For once, he felt lady luck had favored him, and he was anxious to seize the moment. His eyes gleamed at the possibilities before him. It seemed life had landed him a plum ripe for the picking, and he was bound by his code to make the best of it.

  He stroked his chin, considering. It must be said that the man was not averse to going to the highest bidder. Unlike some he knew, he was seldom troubled by inconvenient moral scruples. That he was already contracted to do a piece of work for Harrington would not weigh with him if he thought the alternative more lucrative. Unfortunately, on reviewing the odds, he regretted to have to admit that Harrington’s proposition was the most promising. It was hardly likely that his victim would be in sufficient funds to buy his freedom.

  The chance of Lord Frances Beaumaris being in a position to outbid his employer was scarcely even worth the contemplation. What was worth a moment’s thought, however, was that tantalizing little word beginning with “b.” Blackmail. And why not? As a little side activity to the current venture it could prove most profitable. The thought conjured up an involuntary smile of cunning on the seaman’s face. He would have to chew it over carefully, but there was no obstacle he could immediately divine to extortion at its highest rate.

  If Lord Harrington wished to be invested with an earldom, he would have to pay for it. Not large sums, mind you, just small installments over a great many years. A great many years! Jake’s eyes gleamed as the plan gained some shape in his head. Wicked, perhaps, but not so wicked as the foul deed Harrington had conceived.

  As he took another swig of proof French hock, he ruminated on the likely course of events from that moment forward. The thought stimulated a warm glow of contentment. Life, he anticipated, was going to take a very interesting turn. Very interesting indeed.

  It must be said that in the mountains of Mont Saint-Jean, life was a whole lot less interesting for Jake’s intended victim. Frances Sedgwick Sinclair Beaumaris, Baron Hancock and the rightful Earl Surrey, if truth be told, had quite lost his customary jauntiness. Small wonder, since he was immured on a narrow stretcher in an unknown locale leagues and leagues away from the comforts of his ancestral home.

  True it was that the battle wa
s over, but for Frances, stranded and alone, the prospect of England seemed far away indeed. Dizzy with fever, he rolled over and permitted himself a small groan. The events of the past month—or was it years? or perhaps a week?—were too hazy to try to focus on. The smell of death and the round rosy cheeks of a small country urchin were jumbled together in the most peculiar and distressingly puzzling manner.

  Indeed, the juxtaposition of bayonets with horses and carts, artillery fire with the neighing of cavalry horses were almost too much for his aching head to make sense of. He smelled gunpowder in his nostrils, and this was confused with the minty smell of liniment, zinc potions, and lint.

  It is strange, though, how perverse the human mind is. It likes to sort patterns into images and images into logic. As long as Frances Beaumaris was alive, he knew his mind would give him no rest until he made the effort to make sense of the swirling shapes and smells around him.

  Memories had to be formed and molded into whole pictures, just as the stuff of dreams and nightmares had to be edited to formulate some meaning, some ultimate sense. Lying on his pallet in the icy mountains of Mont Saint-Jean, the sixth earl of Surrey wrestled with the problem of making light out of his darkness.

  His efforts were greatly facilitated by the presence of a gentle hand, ever so often cooling his brow, checking his dressings. The nurses of St. Christopher of Albans were renowned for their quiet efficiency and their healing touch. The officer in the bright, debonair uniform of the Fourth Hussars had had a very narrow shave with death. It had taken all the healing skills of Suzannah De Bonhuit to nurse him back to the world of the living.

  Two months it had been before they collectively pieced together bits of his story and so were at last able to trace his name and family. When they had, it had simply been a matter of waiting for the right weather before undertaking the descent into the nearby town of Vert Coucou and contacting the appropriate English authorities.

  All day, Suzannah and Sister Monica tended the sick, giving hope to the lost, time to the needy. Between rounds they established links between the conquered and the vanquished, housing French, English, and Spanish soldiers alike. It was with sublime indifference to political concerns that they discharged patients into the welcoming hands of family and country, whichever was the first to respond.

  They expected his lordship to be contacted any day. Their prime concern was to see that he was fit for the journey. His fever had broken and his wounds were healing well—it was simply that he was not yet ready to tackle questions or risk confusion.

  Sister Suzannah sat with him as often as could be spared, sewing samplers, mending ripped sheets. From time to time her voice would break into song, and the notes would form part of the patterns in the young captain’s head, introducing an element of gladness to all the pain and burdensome confusion.

  After his groan, the good lady had moved closer, whispering words of encouragement and peace. When darkness faded into the small shelter, the lilting pluck of a delicate harpsichord did much to ease the gloom of the crowded, makeshift hospital. It was during just such a time, when the soothing strains of Handel wafted through the cutting cold, that Frances had opened his eyes and beheld an angel.

  An angel in white merino with faded chip-straw hat and a welter of dangling ribbons that looked ridiculously modish given the unorthodox setting. His head ached as he focused on very dark hazel eyes and well-worn slippers peeping out from under skirts. He had smiled, then, and the worst for him was over.

  Sister Monica was the first to look up from her ministering and find a lean, swarthy-looking gentleman staring at her intently from out a mocking gaze. His toothy smile made her shudder and wrap the flimsy shawl she had set around her shoulders just a little tighter across her body.

  “May we help?”

  “I’m sure ye can.” Jake inhaled deeply of his distinctive brand of tobacco. His eyes raked the sister up and down, undressing her as they did. Perhaps, when the task was over, he’d pay another little visit to the quiet, isolated community. First things first, however.

  “Lord Frances Sedgwick Sinclair Beaumaris. I hear you be havin’ a patient answerin’ to that name?”

  Sister Monica’s eyes were searching. Somehow, she did not equate Frances with the appearance of this man. There was something wrong with his cocky manner and makeshift cart. She was hesitant to turn him away, so short was she of beds, but his general demeanor did not please her in the least.

  “May I ask who is inquiring?”

  Jake tittered. “What’s it to ye, sweetheart?”

  Sister Monica blushed crimson, thankful that Suzannah had entered the small, bare entrance parlor. Her clear, crisp tones brooked no argument. Though her bouncy curls were charming, they were now severely encased under a no-nonsense chip-straw bonnet. Jake, under the circumstances, did not demur. Perhaps best not to make waves. The last thing he needed was to be bathed in a haze of suspicion.

  He bowed low, and although his manners were unobjectionable from then on, there was something faintly disturbing behind his eyes. The young ladies both felt the menace, but at the same time chastised themselves for being judgmental.

  Their fears were slightly alleviated when they heard that Mr. Jasper Meredith was merely acting as emissary for the captain’s sister. Clearly, he was not quality, but that could be understood in the light of the times. Miss Cassandra Beaumaris—his lordship in his more lucid moments had spoken often of her—must have hired this seafarer to convey the earl across the channel. It was plausible, but there was still a bitter ache in Suzannah’s heart as she prepared the still-weak captain for his departure.

  The way he looked at her, lightly brushing her brow with his fingers, was infinitely gentle. She’d said farewell to many a handsome officer but never before had she felt so bereft. The truth was, she had come slowly to love this youthful young earl with his indomitable spirit, fine sense of humor, and blithe disregard of pain and confusion. She of all people knew of the depression of spirits like to beset men cast down in their prime. Not one word had she heard of complaint, not one murmur when he found he was in danger of losing his leg. That the wound had healed so cleanly was due in some part to her skill and in great measure to his common sense. He had submitted unwaveringly to their often painful ministrations and had desisted from rising too early as was his inclination.

  Suzannah gave a tremulous smile and wished fiercely that their paths would cross once more. The crumpled note she had carelessly crushed in the pocket of her capacious apron suddenly promised much. For the first time, she thanked her good fortune that her work here was soon complete. Sister Patience of Navarre was shortly to relieve her, and with the fighting at an end she realized she need feel little guilt.

  Repressing an urge to tell Frances of her circumstances, she held her tongue. It would be unconscionable to trap him into saying something he might later regret. Restored to his family, it was all too possible he would forget the gentle moments they had shared together or the fierce words he had uttered, half asleep, half delirious. She would never forget. But then, how could she? She shrugged her shoulders with Gaelic good sense and smiled up into his troubled face.

  “Au revoir, Monsigneur. Be good! And do not, I tell you, get your dressings wet!” Her voice was scolding but her eyes betrayed her. Frances had the sudden urge to tell the waiting minion to be damned. He did not. Thoughts of his sister put paid to his momentary overwhelming selfish and utterly compelling urge to tarry.

  “Au revoir, ma cherie! Be sure I will return!” His eyes turned dark, then his irrepressible humor surfaced once more. “And it will be with a very fetching bonnet, I can promise you that!” Suzannah dimpled and curtsied. Jake shifted his feet impatiently.

  After thanking the staff of the tiny hospital and bowing particularly over Sister Monica’s dainty hand, he turned once more to Suzannah. His eyes were speaking.

  She gave him a no-nonsense pat and boldly told him to “Be off!” The smile in her eyes matched his own as he was
carefully set in the wagon, a far cry from the Surrey coach that was his by right of birth.

  TWELVE

  Viscount Lyndale was making much of the task the duke had assigned him. Indeed, it was no hardship, for he found Miss Beaumaris to be quite the most approachable young lady of his acquaintance. He felt himself losing the shy reserve he usually experienced with ladies of quality. The fact is, the viscount was experiencing that unfortunate time in life when making conversation with the gentler sex left him feeling gawky, stiff-lipped, and irremediably gauche.

  Cassandra engendered no such feeling in him. On the contrary, her company seemed to stimulate and fortify, imbuing him with the unassailable impression that she was altogether a “great good gun.”

  His Grace would have chuckled to see him strutting about the estate with such a look of youthful self-importance that needs make all but the kindliest of people laugh to see. Cassandra, being one such person, merely allowed herself the veriest glimmer of a grin before hiding her merriment meekly behind her hands.

  It would not become her, she knew, to press Rupert about his uncle’s plans. Nevertheless, she felt such a burning curiosity that she could not help but pave the way for him to introduce the subject, if he so wished. His secretive look startled, then amused her. Obviously, he was in his uncle’s confidence and relishing that situation with all the enthusiasm of youth.

  Miss Beaumaris remained undaunted. An hour of his company made her realize she could wrest his secret in a trice if she so wished. Though she scolded herself for giving way to her baser instincts, in the end could not help herself. The twins were giving chase to Max on the lawns of the great, sprawling mansion, and in a moment of unlooked for freedom she removed her wide poke bonnet and allowed the sun to shine on her lustrous hair.

  She looked such a picture that Rupert was quite dazed. For the first time he saw her as his uncle must. Kneeling down by the small stream, her eyes as wide as saucers, almost violet in the light, she would have been hard for any man to resist. Rupert was simply no match for her. Before he knew what he was about, the secret of Beaumaris’s whereabouts was wrested from him. To his credit, he did not mention Harrington’s role in the affair.