By Way Of A Wager

by Solomon, Hayley Ann

  The remark, addressed to Frances, was conversational. The earl shook his head. “After Mr. Marshall’s reaction I dare not! Thanks all the same!”

  The duke shrugged. “Rupert?”

  “Yes, please!” The young man lit up with a casual air. He did not fool his guardian for a moment.

  “Like it?”

  Rupert coughed discreetly. “A little on the strong side, I reckon!” He turned to Cassandra. “My uncle is forever purchasing exotic substances. You’re not the first to fall victim to his peculiar tastes!”

  Cassandra nodded. “That’s all right, then. As long as I have not offended you, sir?”

  Miles’s eyes softened. “Not at all, my dear Mr. Marshall! Not all of my friends are partial to my tastes, you know. Come, let us amuse ourselves. First person to throw two sixes wins.” The duke drew a pair of heavy, golden dice out from his waistcoat. “I always keep a pair handy. It whiles away the time, you know. My nurse taught me that trick. By the time I’d finally thrown a pair of sixes we were always well on our way to Bath. I used to hate those journeys. My father, Lord rest his soul, never believed in well-sprung carriages.”

  Rupert was interested. “You never told me that.”

  The duke looked quizzical. “Ah, I daresay there are a great many things I’ve not told you, Rupert.”

  The viscount grinned. “I daresay!”

  His Grace looked pointedly at Cassandra. “Sit down, Andrew. Lord Beaumaris—Frances I mean—you roll first.”

  Frances inclined his head. He shook vigorously. A five and a six. “Damnation!” His oath brought a jolliness to the proceedings. Rupert threw two ones, Cassandra a four and a three. The duke flicked the dice with astonishing speed. Another five and six. The round started again. The cabin was silent, all eyes on the dice. Round after round, it seemed perverse that none among them seemed to strike the sixes. The Prince Regent was well on her way to England before the long awaited moment arrived.

  Cassandra had just affected another of her peculiar flicks. The throw had landed a six and a four, but the die had trembled, then trembled again until landing with decision on the six. A twelve! The company clapped in unison. Mr. Andrew Marshall grinned broadly.

  “What’s the prize, Miles? We never agreed on terms!” Frances had entered with zest into the spirit of things.

  A strange light crossed the duke’s handsome features. “That is for Mr. Marshall to decide, is it not?”

  Cassandra almost blushed. Instead, she disclaimed and deftly turned the conversation. The winds held up. Every wave was a wave nearer England.

  On shore, Harrington paced up and down. Jake was a day late by his summation. Andover was a dreary place to be that time of the year, and the innkeeper was vulgarly keen to see the glint of gold. Impatience spurred the usurping earl to action. All morning he was to be seen on the wharves, eyeglass extended, waiting. It would take only the flash of the raven’s black or the peacock’s green to send him scurrying officiously alongside the most unlikely of vessels. He was disappointed every time.

  The arrival of the Prince Regent held no interest for him whatsoever. The vessel was too large by far and was carrying a crest of crimson and gold. A good deal of the port officials seemed to be shaken out of their inertia, but this fact was merely a mild irritant to the edgy earl incumbent. When the whole episode was satisfactorily over, he’d dock Jake’s pay for the delay. The tension, he was convinced, was slowly killing him.

  The minion in question, Jake, had well and truly spilled the beans. Harrington would have cringed to know the extent of his outpourings. Even now, as he strutted up and down the moorings, his days of freedom were numbered. Miles knew where he was waiting, what he was waiting for, and with exactly how much of the ready. It was only a matter of time.

  The waiting continued. A small sloop was gliding in to port. Harrington was momentarily arrested. His eyeglass went up then fell again. A dinghy, no more. Silently he stamped his foot in impotence. A sibilant voice uttered his name. He whirled around thinking it was Jake, and that he must have missed him somehow.

  It was not Jake. The eighth duke of Wyndham, earl of Roscow and baron of the Isles stood before him, a veritable nemesis. Dressed in black, he was impeccable as ever, his signet ring flashing ruby in the sunlight. Harrington suppressed an inward rush of anger. This man was the most meddlesome, unwanted specimen he’d ever come across. So cocksure! He wanted to plant him a flush hit there and then. It wouldn’t do, he knew. The duke was a master. He still had the faint tenderness and cheek bruising to prove it.

  “What do you want?”

  The duke smiled, his teeth gleaming a perfect white. “Who are you waiting for, Harrington?”

  “None of your damn business!”

  “Ah, but that is where you are so very misguided! I believe it is very much my business!”

  Harrington glared at him.

  “Perhaps we will wait for this mysterious arrival together. You do not mind, of course?” The duke’s tone was silky, but the usurper was not fooled. He knew the game was up, and in a flash he had his sword drawn.

  It was fortunate, indeed, that His Grace had anticipated such a course. Their steels clashed at one and the same moment. Sir Robert was good, his point just winging the duke more than once. He did not, however, reckon on St. John’s dexterity and force of thrust. Just as the sweat was beginning to pour from Sir Robert’s forehead, he felt a sharp pain in the shoulder blades and knew himself to be pinked.

  His Grace stayed his sword in grim satisfaction.

  Harrington cursed. “Now look you ...”

  The duke held up his hand imperiously, watching the erstwhile nobleman closely as he did so.

  “You look, Harrington! I have enough evidence to have a rope around your neck. No, hold your peace! Your man Jake has been very cooperative with the runners. I say very cooperative.” His meaning was not lost on Sir Robert, who was glaring at him balefully, his eyes narrow with anger.

  “Not that it is your concern, but I intend to wed Miss Beaumaris and have no wish for her name to be linked with a scandal entirely of your own making. Do I make myself clear?”

  Harrington could only nod, the oozing sight of his own blood making him feel distinctly queasy.

  The duke continued. “I therefore intend to show you a degree of clemency you do not deserve, although if you show your face in England ever again, I may well change my mind. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sir Robert nodded dumbly.

  “There’s a packet leaving Andover tomorrow. Where it’s going I know not and do not much care. Just see that you’re onboard, or I’ll have my not inconsiderable friends at Bow Street making inquiries.” St. John looked his utter contempt. Then he turned on his heels and walked away.

  NINETEEN

  “The duke of Wyndham, ma’am!” Cassandra looked up from the fresh daffodils. Her heart gave a sudden, unaccountable lurch as she bunched the flowers in their vase with a complete lack of ceremony. How strange that her heart should flutter so when she’d rehearsed this scene a dozen times or more in her mind.

  A good night’s rest, a fresh velvet riding habit, and a brisk morning’s trot had done much to revive her habitual good looks. Frances was still sleeping, and she’d ordered the servants to keep it that way. After the ordeal he’d been through, an afternoon slumber could do no harm.

  It was fortunate, indeed, that the duke had accepted without question the news of Cassandra’s return to Surrey Manor. This had made Mr. Marshall’s task so much the easier. By dint of shinning up the drainpipe, the resourceful young man had gained unlawful—but perhaps discreet—access to Surrey Manor through the west wing.

  It had taken a great deal of scrubbing, the ceremonious burning of breeches, and a well-earned nap before the transformation had been complete. Cassandra had spent all of the previous night alternating between giggles, tears, and tender exchanges with her prodigal brother.

  Strange to think he now occupied the role their grandfather had alw
ays done. Well, that was as it should be. Violet and her brat would be looking for new premises soon. Frances could not easily forgive or forget the wrong done Cassandra. He had been incredulous to hear her story and vowed with a twinkle that he would make well certain of a more appropriate heir in the near future. Cassandra looked at him questioningly, for Frances had never before shown matrimonial—never mind paternal—tendencies.

  Her brother had only smiled secretively and told her to be patient. She let it pass, but had a strong suspicion she’d missed something somewhere along the line.

  The sixth earl of Surrey drank deeply of a cold, clear apple cider and looked annoyingly smug. If Suzannah would have him, he would be wed long before Cassandra need worry about the earldom. For the moment, the last of the Harringtons remained confined to their chambers, uninvited and unwanted reminders of a very ugly chapter in the Beaumaris past.

  The duke was waiting! Cassandra straightened herself up. The pretty cambric looked extremely fetching with long bands of pastel ribbon cascading from her hair. Cassandra touched her dress self-consciously and moistened her lips. Now that the time had come, she felt surprisingly shy. She walked across the passage and headed toward the drawing room, where she knew her fate was waiting. Her hands trembled slightly, but otherwise she was the picture of composure as she stood at the threshold of the salon.

  If ever there was a moment the duke would remember it was this one. Cassandra looked so beautiful, so freshly feminine that he could but gape. Transfixed, he moved toward her and the words came of themselves, for he was lost for expression.

  She saw the gaze and blushed. Why, oh why, did this man always have such an effect on her? Her pulse was racing, her hands suddenly, unexpectedly, clammy. The duke was magnificent, as ever, in emerald morning dress and shirt so crisply tight it molded to his very form.

  His dark, cropped locks were a stark contrast to the gleaming white of his shirt points. His presence was so masculine that Cassandra shivered, his nearness a physical pain. If only she had the right to throw herself in his arms and beg never to be released, what heaven, what bliss that would be! She pulled herself together and executed a model curtsy.

  The duke bowed over her hand as he brought the delicate, pink flesh into contact with his lips. The touch was brief but the sensation lingered on intolerably.

  Cassandra withdrew her fingers. “Your Grace.”

  The duke stopped her, his hand to her lips. “Why so formal? I thought we’d agreed on Miles.”

  Her face lit up, the ice broken by her irrepressible sense of humor. “Oh, we’re not going to start that again. Miles, then. There, I said it. Miles!” She spat it out at him, cheekily.

  The duke grinned, the impudent smile taking years off his face. “Good girl! Now come along, we’ve got an engagement.”

  “An engagement?” Cassandra looked bewildered.

  “Of course we have, silly girl. We have a wager to attend to.”

  “But ...”

  “No buts about it! A hand of cards, a throw of dice, a game of chess. Winner decides your fate. Don’t say you’ve forgotten?”

  Cassandra’s heart beat so fast she was breathless. “No, of course not, but things have changed. Circumstances ...”

  “Ah, I see. A debt of honor and you’re backing out. Am I understanding you correctly?” The duke looked very fierce, a sudden scowl blackening his features.

  “No!” Cassandra was indignant at the suggestion. “I would never do that, but don’t you see ...”

  “Stop arguing, woman! Gather up your muff, call one of the housemaids to chaperone you, and step into the chaise. You may leave a message for Surrey if you like. Well, come on!”

  Cassandra was left no choice. After scribbling a hasty and somewhat unintelligible letter to her brother, she sought out Natty, bade her accompany her to Wyndham Terrace, and sedately followed His Grace down the stairs and out through the main gate.

  As the horses neared the cobble of Wyndham Terrace, the duke leaned toward her and whispered that he hoped Natty was still as reprehensible a chaperone as she had been on the day he had first set eyes on her. Cassandra blushed but assured him the little maid had mended her ways. He gave a comical scowl, and she felt an inordinate surge of happiness.

  The great portals of the mansion that had once seemed so threatening were now familiar, thrown open, and bathed in afternoon sunlight. The twins were to be detected peeping through one of the windows, boisterously waving a handkerchief and vainly seeking to suppress the telltale barks of a frolicking dog. The home had such a welcoming familiarity that Cassandra was compelled to press back unbidden tears. What a dope she was being! She just hoped the duke had not noticed.

  She hope in vain! It was scarcely likely the duke would miss even the slightest nuance that pertained to his lady love. Cassandra should only have known how close he came at that moment to pulling her into his arms and kissing away the shining sparkle that appeared so rebelliously at the corners of her violet eyes. If it weren’t for the presence of the Surrey maid looking very demure in mobcap, he might have done just that. As it was, Cassandra remained in complete ignorance of his intentions.

  The duke’s library was just as she remembered it on that first memorable night. The smell of rosewood and mahogany mingled to create that distinctive, masculine aroma. The book collection, bound in leather, remained just as impressive. The up and coming Keats vied with Livvy for a place on the duke’s shelves. A cursory glance revealed also the works of Galileo, Homer, and Milton. Peeking out from some of the lower shelves were the latest works of Lord Byron and—yes, Cassandra had seen right—several serial copies of Miss Austen’s literary works. Cassandra resolved to borrow them if she could. His Grace’s interests were diverse, to be sure!

  The collection was completed by a very interesting looking thesis on the mechanisms and history of hot-air ballooning. Seeing her surprise, the duke laughed. “Are you interested in aviation, my love?”

  She chose to ignore the endearing term and answer the question. “I am, indeed. Ever since Dr. Jeffries’s astonishing channel crossing I have quite longed to see such a contraption.”

  “Well, so you shall. Not Dover to Calais, I’m afraid, but Lord Lyndale is passionate on the subject and has made several ascensions already. You can imagine the crowds he drew from my estate. Quite festive, I do assure you!”

  “I should imagine so!”

  “The housekeeper offered to make up the silk, but the task was so daunting that even I was commandeered to make up the sewing team!” He shook his head ruefully, and Cassandra gurgled sympathetically.

  “I would like to have seen that,” she said.

  “I wager you would have, you widgeon. The stitching took so long that we nearly tired of the plan.”

  “But?”

  “But what do you think? Grace and Georgina would not hear of such cow-heartedness, so the balloon was completed after all. But come, we are not here to discuss such diversions. We have much more urgent matters at stake, have we not?” His tone became silky, and Cassandra eyed him warily as he gestured for her to take a seat. He rang for the under butler before pouring himself a glass of burgundy and offering Cassandra a drink of ratafia. She demurred, requesting instead, some iced lemonade. The duke laughed.

  “Keeping your head clear?”

  “Yes!” Cassandra sparkled defiantly.

  “So be it, then. May The best man—or woman—win.”

  The under butler appeared, and Miles asked him to procure the brass and silver chess set that had been bequeathed to him by the baron of Stratford-Hithe. Cassandra was awed by its beauty. She’d played on many a board, but none had been wrought with as delicate a care as this one. Her fingers ran over the pieces with pleasure. Heavy, well defined, and smooth. The game would be a pleasure, circumstances apart.

  The duke placed the queens behind his back. Cassandra chose. Silver. Her start. She focused her thoughts and determined to concentrate fiercely. This was her strongest game, and s
he willed herself to win. She opened with a queen’s gambit. The duke responded swiftly, his fingers scarcely hesitating over the pawn. Cassandra attacked. St. John responded in kind, forcing her to defence. Unlike Frances, he was slow to take pieces, preferring instead systematic control of the board.

  Cassandra waited as he thought through the next couple of moves. His face was endearingly animated with strength and skill. She took the time to notice that his raven-black hair just brushed his epaulet. She was glad that he did not affect the powdered wig of some of his contemporaries. She noticed, too, his full mouth, slightly pink, and she remembered his kiss... .

  His grace initiated an exchange, and a veritable bloodbath occurred, her knight being traded for a bishop, his pawn for a pawn, her knight for a rook. Piecewise they were equal, Miss Beaumaris claiming some slight advantage. Position wise, Cassandra was stressed. Her moves became defensive. The man was stretching her to her limits. Only her grandfather Surrey could claim to have done the same. In matters of chess, Cassandra was generally regarded as invincible. Too sharp by far!

  Move by move, the duke gained advantage. Cassandra ceased her daydreaming and concentrated as never before, unwilling to lose ground to the man who so unwittingly held her heart. Her remaining knight pinned the duke’s king and castle in a fork. She virtuously tried not to be exultant, but she could not help feeling a slight twinge of triumph. The duke moved out of check and she swiftly removed his rook from the board. Miles’s queen shot forward.

  Exultingly, Cassandra moved the knight back to its square of origin. Bishop forward, the silver king was threatened. Cassandra made to move it. She stopped. Brass queen was in the way. She looked again in disbelief. Grandfather Surrey had always admonished her not to be too confident, and he had been right. If she was not careful, she would be checkmate in the next move, rook or no. She surveyed the board. There was only one move that would prevent sure catastrophe. If she moved her pawn en passant she would protect her piece and put pressure on the gold queen. Her fingers dangled as if to play.