Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  “But why were you fighting?”

  “I’m sorry you saw that.” Reaching her door, he stopped and turned. “I shouldn’t have lost control of my temper.” He was struggling with it still, though. His jaw looked like it was carved from stone.

  “Were you really trying to hurt Mr. Digby?”

  He watched her in the candlelight. “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head, trying to dispel the fear gathering within her. Gareth was in trouble, and she’d never seen Alec like this.

  “I know, Annabelle.” His voice was softer now. “But the fighting is done. You must try to sleep.” He opened the door to her room, and she crossed over the threshold before turning back toward him. How easily he fell back into the role of her protector. Evidently, it was the only one he wanted.

  “Will you please help Gareth?” She hated the desperation in her voice.

  “I will try.” The hall was so quiet and still she could hear their mingled breathing. He handed her the candle, burned low now and flickering. “Good night.” Then he drew back into the darkness, pulling the door shut behind him.

  • • •

  Digby was seated in the armchair by the fire. Gareth had barely moved, as if his mind were still trying to process all that had gone on before. Alec startled both of them as he reentered the study. “If this damnable race must go on, I’m going to be a part of it.”

  Gareth’s face lit with relief, but Digby merely snorted in disdain. “So much for your protestations, Carstairs,” he rasped, a hand moving protectively to his neck, which was lashed with bruises. “This settles a debt between Gareth and myself. You have nothing I want.”

  “I hardly care if you want me there or not,” Alec said. “And I doubt a man like you can resist a wager of 10,000 pounds.”

  Digby’s eyes bulged. Even Gareth was shocked. It was a fortune, an astounding amount to wager on a horse race. Ridiculous, but he could think of no other way.

  “Why would you risk so much money, Carstairs?” Digby smirked, though he’d barely regained his composure. As if Alec would confide his motivations to the cheating bastard.

  “If you win, you are 10,000 pounds richer, more than enough to cover Gareth’s debts to you. I should think that’s all you need to know.”

  “How noble you are … to rely on your father’s money and prestige to rescue a friend,” Digby taunted. “What happens if either of you wins the race?”

  “You leave the Layton family the hell alone,” Alec replied. “And I personally see to it that you’re forced from the shores of England.” Preferably in a boat destined for the bottom of the Channel.

  Both men were watching him carefully, trying to decide whether he was serious. Alec was deadly serious. “Very well,” Digby replied. “The three of us will race our own traveling carriages, since that is what we have at our disposal. Each of us will have a groom or a friend to judge the finish. We’ll race along the King’s Highway until it intersects with Two Boulders Road. The first carriage to turn and pass safely between the boulders to the finish line is the winner.” It was a treacherous route, with two enormous rocks perched on either side of a narrow, rutted path. There was only enough room for one carriage to pass at a time.

  Digby looked briefly at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was just past two in the morning. “We will race before breakfast, so as not to disturb the others. We hardly want a crowd bearing witness.

  “Besides,” he said, turning toward Alec, his eyes malevolent. “I race best on an empty stomach. It makes me hungry for the win.”

  “Then I should expect that you will remain hungry.”

  Chapter 3

  Someone was scratching incessantly at Annabelle’s door, whispering in a halfhearted attempt at stealth. In her fatigue, she barely understood what was being said. Squinting an eye open, she saw a room still cloaked in darkness. It was barely dawn.

  “Damn it, Annabelle, this is important!” said the whisper, louder than before. Last night came flooding back—the angry words and the vicious fight—and she slipped from her bed toward the door. She opened it as quietly as she could.

  “Oh, Gareth, you look awful,” she said, pulling him into her chamber. “Father has warned you about the pitfalls of intoxication.” Haggard and hollow-eyed, he was dressed in a coarse jacket and stained trousers, a satchel over one shoulder.

  Given his reputation as a dandy, that alone made her heart pound with concern.

  “I know, Annabelle. And he was right. I am the worst of brothers. I am so sorry.” She noticed that his movements were unsteady. He was as forlorn as she’d ever seen him.

  “Why are you sorry? What is going on?”

  He looked everywhere in the room but directly at her. “I’m going to fix it. Alec is helping me. Please don’t worry.”

  “You can’t keep relying on him to solve your problems, Gareth.”

  “I know. I can’t explain it, Annabelle, but I seem to have forgotten how to cope with any sort of responsibility. I am so ashamed of myself.”

  “Shame solves nothing. What is this wager you’ve made?”

  He tensed. “It is nothing … just a carriage race.”

  She was doubly worried now. Gareth had never been good with horses. “Can you not reconsider?”

  “Everything will be fine,” he insisted. “But I don’t want you anywhere near the course. I won’t have you climbing into the back of my carriage when I’m not looking.”

  “We both know I’m the better driver,” she added unnecessarily. “But you and I are too old to race together. I promise to be good.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” he said. “I am taking you off to Arbury Hall this morning. I’ve sent a note ahead asking the housekeeper to expect you.”

  “That hardly seems necessary. I’ll stay in my room until the race is done.”

  “And miss all of the excitement? Come now, a lock and key couldn’t keep you away, and well you know it.” Reaching for the satchel, he continued, “I’ve brought you a quick change of clothes, an old set of mine. You can’t be seen gallivanting about at this hour of the morning.”

  “Have you told Alec about this?”

  “There wasn't any time. Meet me downstairs in the kitchen in five minutes.”

  There was so much he wasn’t telling her. Whatever he claimed, there was no good reason for her to be sneaking from Astley Castle before daylight. But if Gareth was in trouble, she would not fail him. “Give me a moment.”

  He crept from the room, closing the door behind him, and she dressed quickly, impatiently donning an ill-fitting jacket and pants and boots three sizes too large. A low-slung hat successfully covered her hair. Mother would be appalled were she to see her now. She hurried downstairs to meet Gareth, and together they rushed out into the early dawn.

  • • •

  It would be a pretty day. As the sun peaked over the horizon, it etched slashes of gold on the thick summer grass. The leaves high above in the trees rustled in a gentle wind. Despite the cool air, it was comfortable and caressing. But none of that was significant now. They ran to the stables; she still didn’t know why they must hurry. And it was ominous, of course, that she didn’t know. She was wearing boys’ clothing and sprinting across the back lawn before even the sun had risen in the sky, like a thief stealing away from a crime.

  She could hear men talking in the distance. Gareth suddenly came to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily, eyes wary. He listened for a moment and then swore. Turning to her, he said in a tense undertone, “Run to the back of the stables. Go through the side door. Climb into the back of Father’s carriage, and for God’s sake, stay out of sight.”

  Annabelle ran as fast as she could, her feet sliding in the oversized boots as she sprinted through a thicket of trees along the edge of the lawn. When she reached the stables, she slipped through the side entrance, but she could barely see the carriage. It was too dark.

  With a combination of sight and feel, sh
e found it. She unlatched the narrow door and clambered through, pulling it shut behind her. She reached for the blanket stored beneath the rear passenger bench, but someone had moved it. She felt about for it on the floor. The carriage boards were unexpectedly smooth, and the smell inside was different—more linseed oil, less horse.

  She’d made a mistake. Gareth had been given a new carriage for his birthday, and there was little doubt she’d climbed into it. She could hear the creak of the stable doors as they swung on their hinges, and the sound of approaching voices. Panicking, she hid beneath the forward-facing bench seat.

  “Such a surprise to see you out and about so early, Gareth.” It was Digby. “Are you making an escape?”

  “I have as much a chance of winning this race as you do, Damian.” Annabelle could hear the anxiety in her brother’s voice. “I’m merely eager to start.”

  “Indeed,” Digby replied. “I’ve been seeing to the horses. They’re fed and ready to go. The only thing left for me to do is win. Then we will discuss the stakes.”

  They were beside the carriage now, close enough for her to hear Gareth’s quick intake of breath. “We agreed on Alec’s stakes last night.”

  “What if I prefer your original proposal?”

  “About that, I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”

  “You were thinking like someone who owes a debt of 8,000 pounds and has very few options for repaying it.”

  In the carriage, Annabelle was mute with shock. Eight thousand pounds! It was an exorbitant amount. It would take years for even her father to cover the debt.

  “You’re right, of course.” Gareth laughed nervously. “But the stakes have changed.”

  There was a long silence. “I think your conscience is a bit late to the festivities,” Digby said with little pretense at civility. “What will your lovely sister say when she learns you’ve practically beggared an estate you don’t even own?”

  Dear God, what had he done?

  “You’re not the gentleman I thought you were!”

  “I’m a gentleman when I need to be,” Digby replied matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing the weather. “This morning, I’d find it far too limiting.”

  She could not hide any more. She had to confront them. But as she edged from beneath the bench seat, she heard another person approach. “I thought I heard voices out here. Gareth, is everything all right?” She would know him anywhere. Dear Lord, what would Alec say if he saw her, dressed as she was? She remained hidden.

  “Ah, it’s Carstairs to the rescue again,” Digby mocked. “But there’s no need, is there, Gareth? We’re simply readying everything for our race on Two Boulders Road.” Her brother did not reply. “Since we’re all here, I say we get under way, even though we planned on a later start. You there! You boys!” he called out. The stable hands must have just arrived for work. “You will be our judges. My own man is outside, tending to my horses, and I’ve already seen to the others. We’ve merely to hitch them to the carriages to set things in motion. I see no reason to delay, do you, Carstairs?”

  “The sooner this is done,” Alec replied, “the sooner the Laytons are safe from you.”

  After a long pause, Gareth quietly agreed. Annabelle could hear horses backing up to the carriage, and straps being tightened and tied. Someone hopped up onto the driver’s perch. It had to be Gareth. She could feel the carriage pull forward, its wheels creaking as they rolled out of the stables. “Gareth!” she whispered. Either he didn’t hear her or he wouldn’t reply.

  She was frightened now, her heart racing. He obviously didn’t want her presence to be known, but how could she exit the carriage without being seen? They were moving slowly along a route to somewhere. The start of the race, she realized suddenly. Then they stopped, and she was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. The horses were pulling against their harnesses and pawing at the ground, ready to run. Something horrible would come of this. She could feel it.

  A starting gun fired a single shot in the distance. With the crack of a whip, they were off.

  • • •

  Adrenaline was raging through Alec. The three carriages were racing side by side, each trying to gain a foothold and shuddering with the strain of their speed. He briefly turned toward the others to access their positions. Gareth was closest to him, his eyes straight ahead, his face pale and nervous. Digby raced beside Gareth, urging his horses onward with the blistering lash of his whip, utterly focused and intent. Alec turned his own eyes back to the road. He had to win. More than anything, he wanted the satisfaction of humiliating a man who sought to harm those he cared for. Gareth was a lifelong friend, whether his father thought him suitable company or not. And Annabelle had been so worried for her brother last night, tense in the candlelight and utterly luminous.

  He couldn’t think of it now. His horses were stirring up a maelstrom of dust on the King’s Highway, and he needed to win every advantage. He sped on, urging his horses faster. They were purebred Yorkshires—a marriage of hot-blooded Arabian stallions and English Cleveland Bays. The carriage itself was beautifully sprung, an example of exquisite craftsmanship. His father demanded the best, and for that, at least now, Alec was thankful.

  Within minutes, he opened up a slight lead, just as Gareth’s inexperience was beginning to show. He was holding his reins too tightly, the bits tearing at his horses’ mouths as they tossed their heads in confusion. God, Gareth needed to loosen his hold, or they would rebel. Digby, for his part, was unleashing a furious attack on his team to urge them forward. Their mouths were foaming, their eyes terrified by the cruel mistreatment, and Alec swore loudly in disgust.

  He redoubled his efforts as Two Boulders Road loomed ahead. Responding to a deft slap of the reins, his horses surged forward with a burst of speed, and he pulled into a defiant lead. He couldn’t risk a look behind to see who followed next. From the sounds of the horses, Alec was a few lengths ahead of the others. God willing, Gareth was holding his own. As he threaded his carriage through the pass marked by the boulders, he saw the Layton grooms up ahead, preparing to judge the finish line. It was within his grasp.

  Then something went catastrophically wrong. The back of his carriage gave a groan, and there was a deafening snap. He spun his head around to see what had happened, and less than a moment later, the world lurched wildly. His back left wheel had sprung free, but somehow the horses and the carriage cleared the road before tumbling over violently. He fell from the driver’s box, landing with a bone-jarring crack on the roadside. For several long moments, he was disoriented, his vision blurry. Shaking his head to clear it, he felt a stab of excruciating pain. Jaw clenched, he had to squint to focus his eyes.

  Suddenly, though, he saw everything with hideous clarity.

  His back wheel had spun into the air, and then landed hard, bouncing directly into the path of Gareth’s carriage. Digby was far behind. His horses must have rebelled at his mistreatment, taking him out of the path of danger, but Alec watched helplessly as Gareth panicked and overcompensated to avoid the wheel, jerking his reins hard right toward one of the road’s namesake rocks. His horses, already spooked, were sprinting at full speed, and only at the last minute did they take note of their direction. Trying to avoid a collision, they veered wildly and sent the carriage careening out of control. Gareth was flung from his seat, and there was an earsplitting crash as the horses fell, and shards and spikes of lacquered wood spun up into the sky.

  Alec sprinted through his pain to the scene of the destruction. The horses were screaming. One was already back up, and rearing in terror, but the other had broken a leg and would have to be put down. Shocked by the scene, he didn’t immediately see Gareth. But then his heart stilled, and bile rose in his throat. His friend lay in the grass, blood trickling from his lips, his head bent at such an unnatural angle that Alec knew, without a doubt, he was dead.

  He heard a soft moan. He wondered, at first, if it had come from him—the first spilling of grief—but then it
sounded again, coming from the wreckage itself. He turned to find little that might resemble a carriage. It was nothing but a pile of cracked boards at odd angles and broken wheels. He flung himself at the remains, fueled by panic, and tossed aside splintered wood, a crushed copper lantern, a section of the carriage roof, a small door split in half. Had he imagined the sound? In the bright morning light, though, something shimmered. He tore away another layer of the wreckage. And felt a pain so stunning that surely his gut had been ripped in two.

  Because there, newly revealed and utterly still, was the ghostly pale face of Annabelle Layton, eyes open, her honey blond hair matted with blood.

  He tore at the last of the debris that covered her, until Annabelle was free of it, her body lying awkwardly against the remnants of an upholstered bench seat. Hands shaking, Alec tore off his gloves and felt for her pulse at the base of her neck. It was weak but alarmingly rapid. Her breathing was shallow, her skin cool and clammy.

  Someone drew in a sharp breath behind him. “Is she … is she dead, too?” Digby gasped, his face drained of color.

  “No, but she’s in shock.” He could hear the fear in his voice. “Take one of your horses, and get to the castle as fast as you can for help.” Alec turned to the groom who was running toward them. “Ride to Hinckley, and beg Dr. Chessher to come right away. Meet us here. I’m too worried to move her.” The other groom was looking down at Gareth’s broken body, silent and still. He’d just cut free the one unharmed horse. Alec called out to him. “We will need clean linens for bandages and a board to hold Miss Layton. You’ll need to pad it as best you can. And send two carts, one for her, and the other one … we’ll need it for Gareth. Hurry!”

  His heart was pounding, as if he’d sprinted for miles. Trying to keep his hands steady, he gently examined Annabelle’s head to assess the extent of the injury there. She had a gash the length of his thumb on the left side of her head, above her ear. He could feel bone beneath his fingers. He felt along her shoulders, tracking her blood with his hands along the jacket she wore—a man’s jacket, inexplicably. When he carefully pulled it open, and pressed along her left side, she flinched, though she was still unconscious. She had two, perhaps three broken ribs. He continued probing with his hands over the curve of her hips, clad in an old pair of boy’s riding breeches. His hands stilled. There was more blood. Lots of it. The breeches on the left side were soaked through. The scent of it hung in the air.