By Way Of A Wager

by Solomon, Hayley Ann

  “Rupert!”

  Cassandra’s eyes were alight with joy and hope. With a burst of energy she jumped up and ran right across the garden, shedding her slippers as she went. Rupert was hard-pressed to follow, while the twins squealed with delight, and Max romped with frenzied joy at this unexpected bliss. Poor Rupert! He could only stare in baffled bewilderment at the quiet young miss he had transformed with a few ill-considered words. Worse was to come. Before he knew what he was about, he was receiving a quite emphatic hug and was being pulled with great gusto by not one but six eager hands, right into the fray.

  The servants chancing to look out from quite a few of the many great windows of Wyndham Terrace might be forgiven for thinking themselves in a dream. It had been a long time since such merriness had been witnessed on the noble estate. Certainly not since the tragedy of five years previous, when the duke had succeeded not only to his title, but also to the upbringing of his sister’s vibrant progeny. A regular handful they were, that was for sure. For all their energy, the tragedy had a mellowing effect on the duke, moving him to a more adult approach to life than perhaps his years had warranted.

  There had somehow been no space or inclination for boisterous romps such as these, more was the pity. The housekeeper broke rigid precedent by allowing her upper maidservants a glimpse of the festivities, an action that earned her their approbation for a long time after.

  In the garden, meanwhile, Cassandra was plying the hapless Rupert with question after question, shouting above the din of the dog and the restless chorus of her charges. The Honorable Miss Beaumaris was nothing if not persistent. Rupert had an uncomfortable suspicion that his guardian would be none too pleased at his disclosures. Nevertheless, the look of wondrous hope on Miss Beaumaris’s face made all worthwhile. Rupert decided at once to make a clean breast of it to Miles and not to dwell too deeply on his reaction.

  How St. John had got wind of her brother’s whereabouts was a mystery to Cassandra, save what Rupert had hinted as regard to the Lord High Chancellor. So like a man to succeed where a woman had failed! Had she not herself been haunting the foreign office these days past? How should it be that the duke was privy to such information when she, as next of kin, was not?

  He must have been funning her all along! Not getting a special license, but rather investigating Frances’s whereabouts. No doubt he had spent the better part of the morning gleaning all the information he could. How perverse that she should feel a small twinge of regret. After all, she’d never countenanced marrying the man. At least now he would not press her. With Frances reinstated, she need have nothing more to do with her loathsome relatives. The earl would know how to scotch any scandal attaching to herself, of that she was certain.

  Rupert demonstrated a deploring lack of knowledge as to his guardian’s immediate plans. How long he would be, whether or not he’d stop at one of the many inns dotted along the countryside, whether he planned to stay in Brussels with Frances or return with him swiftly were all as trifles to the young man, who invested an extreme degree of faith in his mentor and would be brought to think no further of the matter. Resigning herself to the fact, Cassandra settled down, preparatory to a long and impossible wait.

  How strange that fate should intervene by way of the servants. Had it not been for the fact that the duke’s second maidservant was something in the way of affianced to the Surrey’s first footman, the matter might have gone no further. As it was, word has strange bedfellows. Strict though the edict had been on Cassandra’s presence in the bachelor establishment, it could hardly be expected that the two lovers would not exchange a moment of delicious gossip.

  A word in the right ear and the redoubtable butler Stanford was apprised of the new scenario. It came as something of a relief to him to know that his erstwhile mistress was safe and unharmed, although her residence at Wyndham Terrace came as unpalatable tidings.

  It would not, he knew, become his station to make judgments on the actions of his betters. Indeed, he may privately have shaken his head at the way the world was going, secure in the knowledge that the third earl would have brooked no such shenanigans. Publicly, however, it was incumbent on him to defend Cassandra’s honor, while at the same time deploring her necessity. He’d never been taken with the new earl and was now even less so. The possibility that the Honorable Frances Beaumaris might yet be alive filled his earnest being with something approaching delight.

  What he heard, therefore, set him to thinking. Stanford, as all who knew him would concur, was a ponderous man. It was not often that he found himself in a situation where he was called upon to utilize his intellect, his calling being such that the fewer questions he felt impelled to ask the better. Now, however, he felt himself saddled with a somewhat ticklish problem.

  Laying the particulars before him, he came up with a number of incontrovertible facts. The second footman had lately hand-delivered a missive to Harrington that must have held some degree of importance. This was gathered from the fact that it bore the state seal and had caused Harrington to have dealings with certain unsavory elements at the Running Footman, a haunt not too well patronized by the nobility.

  Here, the services of one Cutthroat Jake had been commissioned, the said Jake being a right bad apple if ever there was one. Further adding to the mystery, the first footman had been ordered to set the Surrey sloop aright. Jake had left the house. It had taken a night and a morning before the butler had come to his conclusion that two and two spelled something rather more than three. The uncomfortable task now rested with him to apprise his mistress of the facts. What those facts were he was not quite certain, but he was sure enough to be aware that she might wish to be informed.

  Accordingly, after a degree of deliberation, he hired a hack to take him to No. 4 Grosvenor Square—known to polite society as Wyndham Terrace. None could have been more astonished than Cassandra when his arrival was discreetly brought to her attention by Pickering.

  He, incidentally, had found himself at a rare loss. In all his years of dealing with the gentry, he had never yet found himself in the position of announcing a fellow butler. Not wishing to insult his compatriot by relegating him to the kitchens, nor of offending Miss Beaumaris by treating him as a guest, he had decided at last on that useful little blue salon to which the duke had so lightly referred.

  Stanford’s revelations left Cassandra in little doubt as to the extent of the danger confronting her brother. It was too much of a coincidence to suppose that Harrington would negotiate a channel crossing at the selfsame moment as St. John without there being some urgent cause. The description of the cutthroat sent shivers down her spine, rendering her quite incapable of speech for some few moments.

  When she had to some degree regained her composure, she collected herself enough to thank Stanford and slip him a small token of her appreciation. He appeared gratified and accepted with a customary display of pomposity that would ordinarily have sent Cassandra into paroxysms of laughter.

  As it was, the moment was not one for laughing and she could not help but grimly recall St. John’s last words to her. He had thought her in need of protection. She now understood that he’d not merely been engaged in an attempt at looking heroic. Harrington was at his malignant worst and there was nothing she could do to prevent it, save warn St. John. At this realization, she was spurred to action.

  Throwing a cape over her shoulders, she rang for the viscount and apprised him of her intention to follow in the wake of the duke. Rupert’s face was a picture of dismay. In the face of his protestations, Cassandra shrugged her shoulders impatiently and begged Chivers to set the horses to.

  Countermanding all his lordship’s attempts at rationality, she swung up onto the duke’s chestnut and gave the animal a light spur before even Rupert could arrange for a more suitable mount. She was halfway down the path before the beleaguered viscount caught her up and reminded her of the imminent shower, the footpads, and the penury that awaited her if she set foot without benefit of chaise, man
servant, or brass farthing.

  Something of his frantic gabbling must have penetrated, because it was a very relieved young man who watched the hell-bent Miss Beaumaris perform an admirable turn, coaxing the stallion every inch of the way.

  His alarm was not long to be assuaged. The glint in Cassandra’s eye was such that no man could put asunder. Despite Rupert’s protestations that the duke was already apprised of Harrington’s intent, she would not be turned from her course. Pacing up and down the gallery, the faces of St. Johns past and present staring down at her from out their weathered canvasses, she formulated a plan that was as shocking as it was bold. Rupert winced on hearing it, but his remonstrations were lost on his willful charge.

  In clear, bell-like tones she set out to decry all his former objections. Money. That was no problem. She’d draw on her bankers that very day. If they thought it odd in her, well so be it. They’d think it odd. Footpads, maidservants, chaise. No trouble at all. She’d dress as a gentleman and arm herself with one of Miles’s well-balanced dueling pistols. The sight of such an object would make any knave blanch. Besides, she’d set such a cracking pace no footpad would be able to catch her.

  Chaise. A paltry problem. Rupert had a curricle, and if she guessed it right, spanking good horses. She looked at him sideways, hoping she had hit the mark. She half-suspected that her reference to his high steppers would do the trick. She could not, of course, be certain, but she did detect a slight lessening in the young man’s protestations.

  When she stopped to draw breath, Rupert interposed. “I say, Miss Beaumaris! I have the most marvelous plan! No need for you to get all bothered. I’ll go myself!” This magnanimous conception would be bound to satisfy both his uncle, Cassandra, and his own yearning for adventure. Now that he thought on it, the opportunity to give his team a good run simply could not be missed.

  “Oh, Rupert that would be wonderful of you. So wonderful!” Viscount Lyndale heaved a sigh of relief, his eyes gleaming at the prospects before him. “Only ...”

  His heart sank. “Only?”

  “Only it won’t do, you know! How are you going to recognize the Surrey sloop when you’re over on the other side? You hardly even know our crest. You surely don’t expect to make inquiries of every vessel docked? Even if Harrington does not set sail under your very eyes, your questions will certainly get back to him and arouse suspicion. I want no chance taken with my brother’s life, you understand.”

  Rupert groaned. “Miss Beaumaris.”

  “Cassandra. If we’re going to be confederates, call me Cassandra.”

  “Cassandra, then. You have to see, I can’t let you go. My uncle was very specific. I was to stay here and make sure you kept out of harm. He’ll scalp me if I go along with this crazy scheme.”

  “And I’ll never forgive you if you don’t! Can you live with the death of my brother on your conscience? I cannot! I assure you I know I cannot! Do not make me, Rupert, I beg you. If you say no I’ll find a way to get there on my own. Who knows what horrible fate will befall me then? Footpads, drowning ...”

  “Stop! What do you want me to do? Think of your reputation!”

  “Reputation?” Cassandra smiled a trifle dolefully. “I seriously doubt I have anything left by now. Even so, my brother is worth more to me than any ballroom whisperings and social approbation. If you’re concerned, though, let my departure be a secret. Let me dress as a man and no one need know that I’ve accompanied you alone across the seas. No one need know anything. Not even the duke.”

  “Especially not the duke! If he knows what I’ve let you in for, he’ll kill me. Promise me that, Cassandra. This will be a secret between the two of us.”

  “I promise.” Her eyes were shining, vivid and violet, a sore temptation to any man. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it was not long before Rupert had entered fully into the spirit of the plan, issuing orders and hunting avidly through old chests in a quest to find garments of a suitable size.

  Strong willed though Cassandra was, he had somehow managed to prevail on her not to draw from her banker. Miles had made it very clear that her whereabouts was to be kept secret, and it was hardly to be expected that Mr. Pratt of His Majesty’s Bank Royal would not display some degree of curiosity.

  It did the viscount justice that he did not draw on the duke’s personal fortune for the journey. Instead, he regretfully conveyed his emerald cuff links and lapis lazuli-embedded snuffbox to Upper Wimple Street, where he sold them for a fraction of their market value. It was well for Cassandra’s peace of mind that she knew nothing of this little transaction.

  If Pickering was surprised at the young Viscount Lyndale’s sudden intentions of conveying mistress Beaumaris to Bath, he knew enough to keep his peace. It was unthinkable that the young scamp would embark on such a venture without His Grace’s blessing. No doubt they knew what they were about. Perhaps they were right, too. The duke wanted scandal averted. Removing the unwitting but constant source of gossip from his household might be sufficient to accomplish just that.

  Entering into the spirit of the expedition, the lady in question donned bottle green breeches, an unexceptional Marseille waistcoat, and slightly underpolished topboots as if to the manner born. It is not to be denied, however, that she suffered a few anguished moments in front of the glass before summoning up sufficient strength of will to undertake the first few snips of her luxurious locks.

  It was fortunate, indeed, that the viscount arrived on the scene at this very unprepossessing moment. With all the powers of persuasion he could muster, he succeeded in convincing her that a hat was sufficient to cover her tresses. Seizing the scissors from her hands, he offered thanks to immortal God that he had caught her in time. What Miles would have said in response to a shorn fiancée was enough to make him shudder.

  The matter thus satisfactorily resolved, Cassandra was left only to shrug herself into morning coat and cravat before surveying herself once more in front of the glass. The effect was admirable. Hastily scrawling a note to the twins, the duo’s next endeavor was to ensure her safe incarceration in the carriage. It would not be to their advantage to be forced to explain their actions to the numerous lackeys and household staff that the duke saw fit to employ.

  Cassandra had just time enough to gasp at the splendor of the traveling chaise that confronted her, gold-mounted harnesses shimmering like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight. The inside squabs looked curiously inviting as she was bundled inside with due lack of ceremony and uncompromisingly little fuss.

  The crest of Duke Wyndham, Earl Roscow, and Baron of the Isles glinted with fine pomp as the door flashed shut. She was later given to understand that although Rupert’s conveyance bore all the marks of being “a prime one,” even he, in his more sober moments, would not consider it fitting for a hastily conceived cross-country flight.

  The groom beamed at his instruction. “Set them to, Brentley! As swift as the wind, mind! We’ll change at the first posting station and get a fresh pair. No need to save their stamina.”

  With a bow and slight flourish of the whip, the groom took his young master at his word. The carriage gave a sudden jolt and started on its way, the clip-clop of horses sounding resoundingly in Cassandra’s ears as town was left far, far behind.

  So it was that the Honorable Miss Cassandra Beaumaris, previously of Surrey House, found herself clad in buckskins and topboots, alongside a young gentleman of good breeding, great impetuosity, and little sense, on the great market road to the coast.

  THIRTEEN

  “Where is the sloop, Jake?”

  Frances was doing his best not to fall back into a swoon. The tramp down the mountain was wearying indeed for anyone in a full state of good health. For Frances, it was torture. The only light at the end of the tunnel was that it would soon be over. The whole nightmare would soon be over.

  He could not wait to be with friends again, to slowly heal from the trauma of seeing all his companions at arms downed under Ney’s cavalry. The picture of the
young infantry officer who died atop him would forever haunt his dreams. There was little consolation that Napoleon was captured. So many lives! So many lives! It had seemed like a game going in. Now it just seemed a travesty.

  Jake leered, but held his tongue. No point enlightening his young victim just yet. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, they had a mountain to get down and a stream to ford. Better to have a willing participant than a surly one.

  Frances shrugged. He found it very odd that Cassandra should have chosen so cantankerous a man. Strange, too, that she had organized it at all. Surely grandfather Surrey ... ? No use trying to ponder. No doubt all would be revealed in good time. Such a pity he was feeling as weak as a kitten. It was churlish, perhaps, but he could not help but hope for a good crossing.

  Time seemed to stand still, an endless ebb and flow of light and dark. The air was dry and cold, biting into the thin buckskins and well-rinsed coat of his battle uniform. All the braid was frayed, and the bright scarlet of the Fourth Hussars had dimmed. Frances did not allow his hope to fade in the same way. His will to survive was great.

  If he could only make it to the safety of his sloop he’d be home and dry. He could picture Cassandra at the helm, perhaps even his old friends Sir Reginald or Freddie Althorp. If he could just sustain himself enough to bear with the steady clip-clopping of the mares, he’d get there. Gritting his teeth, the young lord permitted exhaustion to overcome pain.

  Not for long. It was growing dark, and the nags were inclined to stumble. It was a great effort not to wince at every jolt. Frances closed his eyes and imagination took over. The calm, soothing voice of Suzannah as she mopped his brow, singing all the while. His breathing became easier, his pallor less distinct. Jake glanced at him sharply and shook his head. Wouldn’t do for the blighter to recover altogether!