Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  This time, no punishment would be harsh enough.

  “The only consolation,” his father continued, “is that it happened far from London, and that gives us time to mitigate your part. Everyone knows Layton was headed for a bad end.”

  “And what of Annabelle?” Alec asked quietly.

  “At least she had not yet made her debut. It would be harder if she had. As it stands, she is nameless, faceless to almost everyone here. We will agree that it was a tragedy, and offer all the proper commiserations. But that part of it will pass quickly.”

  In that moment, fists clenching, Alec hated his father.

  “It will not pass quickly for me.”

  The earl stopped pacing, and looked at Alec, focused and intent. “You have tried to hide your attraction to the girl, but I know you better than you know yourself. In the end, her role in this only proves that I was right to push for the distance between you.”

  No matter her role, there was every chance she would spend the rest of her life paying for his mistakes. “Annabelle did not deserve any of this.”

  “Whether she did or not is a moot point. We must redouble our efforts to introduce you to the proper circles in Parliament. The members will forgive this youthful indiscretion if you show them what you are made of, the intelligence that you have.”

  Ironically, Alec’s reputed intelligence had been the very thing that had recalled his father’s attention to his only son. He had taken first honors at Oxford in literae humaniores and in mathematics. When his father had asked for a sampling of his supposed knowledge, Alec had recited Cicero’s famous speech before the Roman Senate in 63 AD, castigating the counsel, Catiline, for his abuse of power. Of course, he had recited it in Latin, all 317 lines of it.

  How long, O Catiline … will that madness of yours mock us? To what end will your unbridled audacity hurl itself?

  His father had watched him quietly that afternoon, his surprise evident in the first genuine smile he’d ever offered. When Alec had finished, he’d said, “I had no idea you might be worth something.” Not the warmest compliment to be sure, but even so, the words had felt like a benediction. Because after that, Alec and his mother were no longer forgotten, packed away like an ill-fitting suit of clothes. All of his life, Alec had been desperate for his father’s approval. And now, he would throw it away.

  “Father, I cannot take up the seat in the House of Commons. I cannot stay in London.”

  The earl halted in mid-stride, turning toward Alec, his expression disbelieving. “Don’t be absurd. It is more important than ever that you take your place here, and prove that you’re not the worthless fribble that Layton was.”

  “I am going to serve with the army on the Peninsula. I have used the money that Grandmother left me to purchase a commission. And this has nothing to do with Mother. She should not be blamed for my actions.”

  The heat coming off the fire was nothing compared to the fury of his father. With a curse, he turned on his heel and walked toward his desk, yanking the stopper from a brandy-filled decanter set upon it. He sloshed a long pour into a waiting glass, and flung back the contents in a single gulp. After a deep breath, he turned back to face him. The disdain in the earl’s face made Alec feel stupid and unworthy, all his gains lost in a single moment. But in this, he would not back down. He could not.

  “So you will fight in Spain,” his father spat. “Or Portugal, or wherever they send you, and for what?”

  “For penance. To make some good out of this horror.” Alec looked down. Shadows from the fire were flickering across his hands. Absorbed as he was in them, he barely registered his father’s disgusted exhalation.

  “Parliament needs you far more than Wellington does. Would you risk the earldom’s heir? When you know the future I have planned for you? Are you turning your back on your honor? On our legacy?”

  “I am trying to be honorable. This is the only way I know how.”

  “How to what?” his father cried. “How to give up your birthright to Stansley, that pompous fop, who will inherit if you die during this appalling indulgence of your guilt?”

  “It is the only way I know how to stay away, Father. Especially now, after all the pain I have caused. And I must stay away. I have sworn it.”

  Part 2

  Chapter 5

  April 21, 1812

  Nuneaton

  Annabelle’s left leg was very good at telling her when it had had enough. Enough of horseback riding. Enough of long mornings spent working in the gardens. Enough of walking. It was speaking quite loudly now, come to think of it, sending a sharp pain from her knee up into her hip in a fit of pique. But she decided that she would ignore it. It had tried far too often in the past to dictate what she did. Not to mention those terrifying months when it had refused to work at all, and she had wondered if she would ever walk again. She would never take the luxury of putting one foot in front of the other for granted.

  Of course, she hadn’t planned on hiking so far. She took a long walk each morning, but today she’d gone all the way to Arbury Hall, with its tall spires gleaming in the early light. She’d always loved the beautiful Elizabethan mansion, which was surrounded by lakes and lush parkland. In the distance, she could just make out the grazing fields for the estate’s famous Southdown sheep, but the Hall itself was shuttered, its windows and doors draped in mourning cloth. She had read the black-bordered announcement in the news sheets. Lord Dorset, Alec’s father, had died suddenly. She was very sorry for Lady Dorset, whom she remembered with fondness.

  She refused to feel any sympathy for her son.

  Annabelle had no memory of Gareth’s accident, nor of how she had come to be in the carriage with him. Even the dark days that had followed were lost, and perhaps God had been kind in that. But there was one thing that she did know. She’d never really known Alec Carstairs. The Alec she’d believed him to be would never have watched his oldest friend die, only to leave for London before Gareth was even buried in the ground. He would never have abandoned her, bloodied and delirious, no matter how rash her behavior. And she feared it had been catastrophically rash, with consequences she could not bear to consider.

  He alone could speak to the role she had played. But he had never replied to the many letters she’d sent, begging for answers, or even for some indication that he cared if she lived or died. After the accident, he’d made his excuses to her distraught mother, insisting that he had to leave before the scandal touched his family. Upon his return to London, he’d gone off to fight in the Peninsular Wars, no doubt to put even more distance between them, and she’d never heard from him again.

  He’d once claimed she was like a sister to him. Until they had kissed, of course. And he’d told her that she was beautiful. After the accident, she had not been so pretty, had she? He’d left her behind, like a broken toy he no longer wanted to play with.

  Mother had been right. He’d never really cared at all.

  Enough about Alec Carstairs. Some memories should simply stay in the past, where they belonged.

  She cast a final, lingering look at the shrouded Hall. She was so tired of death! First Gareth, and then her mother only two years later, although that had not been completely unexpected. A large part of Mother had died with her only son, and Annabelle knew that she’d spent her remaining years waiting for the other part to hurry up and end her misery. What a sad, wraithlike creature she'd become.

  When Annabelle was a child, Astley Castle had been filled with laughter and light—a charmed existence by anyone’s measure. The Layton family had been blissfully unaware that life could hold unpleasant surprises, like tragedy and suffering. It had learned otherwise.

  Tragedy took your measure. It tested you, to see what you were capable of. Annabelle had learned that she was capable of more than she’d thought possible. She’d learned to walk again, despite it having been a painful and lonely process. She’d learned to be self-reliant and not to miss—too much—the friends who no longer came to call. And if
men no longer sprouted like spring flowers when she was near, she could accept that. She had no use for them either. Her scars had healed. Even some of the ones on the inside.

  She turned away abruptly, and headed back towards home. No doubt Cousin Estrella, who had lived with them since Mother’s death, was wondering where she had gotten to. If she was discovered in her hiking attire—a well-worn pair of old riding breeches, a warm wool vest over an oversized linen shirt, and a pair of serviceable leather boots—a lecture was sure to follow, and Annabelle was already running behind.

  With luck, she’d be able to avoid both Estrella and her son, Augustus, who also lived at the castle as her father’s heir. He had grown from a boy whom she had barely tolerated into a man she actively disliked, with florid waistcoats, and leering eyes, and wandering hands.

  • • •

  Once back at the castle, she slipped through the servant’s entrance and pulled off her weathered sun hat, unleashing a long braid that fell more than halfway down her back. Cook didn’t like hats in her kitchen, after all. Flashing a conspiratorial grin at Elizabeth, one of the downstairs maids, she sneaked a biscuit still warm from the oven, and headed toward the back stairway. Rounding the first flight of steps, she was on her way up the second when she heard an unfamiliar voice, mellifluous and faintly imperious. Did they have a visitor? No one ever came here. During the long year of her rehabilitation, Mother had refused all callers, and after that, people had simply stayed away, on the off chance grief and madness might be catching.

  Torn between her need for haste and a powerful sense of curiosity, she crept back down the steps, and crossed over to a service door that opened onto the main hall. She could hear Estrella, who was obviously agitated. “As I said, Lady Marchmain, Annabelle will be sad to have missed you. However, she’s hardly well enough for your visit, which comes as such a surprise, after all.”

  Lady Marchmain? She didn’t know anyone by that name. And why would Estrella say she was unwell? She was perfectly healthy.

  “Mrs. Simperton, I did send a letter.” The stranger’s voice was heavy with impatience.

  “But my lady, your letter did not arrive until this morning. I’d hardly finished reading it when your coach turned up the drive.”

  “I should like to know why you were reading the letter to begin with. It was not addressed to you. It was addressed to Annabelle.”

  “Yes … well,” Estrella faltered. “I read all of the girl’s correspondence, such as it is. Her mind has never fully recovered from the tragedy. She’s quite simple, really.” Annabelle drew back in affront. There was nothing at all wrong with her mind! Why would Estrella say there was? After all, who corrected the house accounts once Augustus had finished them? Time and again, she’d had to move expenses and earnings into their proper columns, and fix a stunning array of computational errors.

  “Simple, you say? I’ll make that determination. Now step aside, Mrs. Simperton, and have someone unload my trunks. Outside of her father, I’m the girl’s closest living relative. I may be late in claiming her, but claim her I shall.”

  The only relative Annabelle could claim—living or dead—was her mother’s sister, but she lived abroad and they’d never met. Her first name was Sophia, but the lady had been married so many times, Annabelle had lost track of her surname. In any case, Mother had never really gotten along with her. Whatever meager correspondence they’d kept up over the years had ended shortly after Gareth’s death.

  So many things had been buried with him.

  No longer able to control her curiosity, she pulled open the door and walked into the hall. Both women turned, obviously surprised by the intrusion. Estrella looked particularly pained, as if she’d been caught ogling a piece of the family silver—a not uncommon occurrence—but it was the lady beside her who drew Annabelle’s gaze.

  A trim and elegant woman, she was dressed in a dove grey gown, with a short purple pelisse worn over a petticoat of the same, fitted tightly with a stomacher buttoned with amethyst clasps. With pale blue eyes and dark blond hair beneath her feather-trimmed hat, her features—high cheekbones, slanted brows, and a slim, straight nose—were achingly familiar. For a moment, Annabelle felt faint.

  “You’re so like my mother,” she whispered.

  The woman stepped forward, her face wreathed in an approving smile as Annabelle dropped into an awkward curtsey.

  “I am Lady Sophia Middleton, the Countess of Marchmain, and your late mother’s sister, but you may call me Aunt Sophia, my dear.”

  Words had deserted her. Annabelle tried to smile, but it was difficult when she felt like crying and falling at the woman’s feet like a child who wanted to be held. Her aunt didn’t seem to notice. She gave Annabelle a frank and thorough perusal, sweeping her from head to toe. “I’m sure you have a perfectly logical reason for being dressed like a boy,” she said. “You are shockingly lovely all the same. And you can’t know how relieved I am to discover that you don’t suffer from any noxious infirmities, as I was led to believe.” She shot Estrella a fierce look of disapproval before returning her attention to Annabelle.

  “I can hardly wait to get you to London for the Season. What a time we shall have of it. Thank goodness you’re a grown woman, not an infant with grubby, sticky fingers. I wouldn’t be here if you were, I can promise you that.”

  • • •

  “Tell me all about yourself,” Aunt Sophia said. “There’s quite a bit to catch up on.” They were sitting together on a settee in the Rose Famille Bedroom, which Mother had named for the fanciful Chinese porcelain she’d loved to collect. It was a feminine chamber done up in pinks, greens, and golds, and it complemented her aunt, who was sophisticated and stylish and all the things Annabelle had forgotten how to be. If only she’d taken more care with her attire this morning. Her former maid, Mary, wouldn’t have let her out looking like this, but Mary had left shortly after the accident to care for her grandmother.

  “We live a quiet life here, but I’m very happy to meet you,” she said. “Mother told me so much about you when I was younger.”

  “Really? What sorts of things did she say?”

  “That you were beautiful and headstrong,” Annabelle said after a brief hesitation. “She also said you appreciated a well-turned leg on a man, although I recall wondering what that meant.”

  Her aunt smiled broadly. “Despite our differences, she certainly understood my nature.”

  And in that moment, the countess reminded her so much of her mother—at least as she’d once been—that Annabelle had to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat. “I know in later years, she regretted not having a regular correspondence with you.”

  “Your mother and I grew apart,” Aunt Sophia said, waving her hands as if that would dispel the memory of it. “Perhaps we were too much in competition with each other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I made a spectacular debut in the spring of 1780. Even Prince George was a beau. He was quite handsome back then, with such a stylish flair. Who knew he would tend to fat the way he has?” She shook her head, as if disappointed. “In any case, I was universally admired. But when Charlotte made her debut two years later, several of my suitors defected to her retinue. I didn’t enjoy that at all. You might even say I was jealous.” The admission seemed to pain her. “There. I have said it, and I refuse to retract it. It’s tiresome in the extreme when people second-guess what they say.”

  “I am sorry, Aunt Sophia. I don’t think Mother ever knew.”

  “Well, it was a silly enough excuse for staying away. When I met my dearest Carlos, the Marques de Vallado—he was my first husband and a delicious man—we married and left England for Spain. Outside of attending your mother’s wedding to your father, I was abroad for a number of years, and rarely looked back. Meeting you now,” she said with a smile, “I’m convinced I should have come home sooner.”

  Annabelle bit her lip against the urge to say too much too soon, lest she scare her aunt away.
“You are very kind to say it, but I’m afraid you’ll find things rather somber here.”

  “We’ll simply change that. And I am so pleased to find you well. Your mother’s last letter, rambling though it was, painted a very dire picture. So did her solicitors, once they were able to reach me with the news of her passing.”

  Annabelle took a deep breath. “During the carriage accident, I suffered a head injury and several cracked ribs. My leg was broken, the thigh bone forced through the skin—”

  Aunt Sophia held up her hand in protest. “I shall insist on a strong drink before I hear the gory particulars.”

  “I am sorry,” she replied, embarrassed now. “I’m not often in polite company.”

  “But how are you walking so well? I thought to find you incapacitated.”

  “I was lucky to have been discovered quickly. The person who found me took very good care of my wounds until the doctor arrived.” Dr. Chessher had said that Alec’s care probably saved her life. Yet he’d abandoned her the next day.

  “And who was that person?”

  “Alec Carstairs, the Earl of Dorset. He was a childhood friend.”

  “Carstairs … I remember that name. Charlotte wrote that he was responsible for the whole of it.”

  “There are many things Alec can be blamed for,” she said, looking down at her hands. “But my brother’s death is not one of them.”

  “Where is this Lord Dorset now?”

  “He has been fighting on the Peninsula for several years, but his father passed recently. No doubt he’ll return to England to take over the title and its duties.” They were the only things, in the end, that he truly cared about.

  “And are you happy he will return? You must have been close once.”

  “I don’t care if I ever see Alec Carstairs again.” She could hear the bitterness in her voice. “Alec made it quite clear following the accident that he wanted nothing to do with the Layton family.”

  “How very odd,” Aunt Sophia mused.