Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  “The viscount is trying to gain the favor of a certain widow, a Mrs. Mary Browne.”

  “No doubt he has her attention,” Annabelle said, caught somewhere between awe and amusement. “He certainly must be given high marks for creativity.”

  “Now quickly, to your right, you’ll see George Brummell and Lord Alvanley. Brummell—the one with the elaborate cravat—is the undisputed arbiter of fashion in society. He’d rather hang than be seen in Petersham’s get-up.” Aunt Sophia smiled in acknowledgment to both of them, as Mr. Brummell raised an elaborate quizzing glass and gazed intently at Annabelle. Eyes wide, he tipped his hat before moving on. “I hear he is on the outs with the prince regent. Not a good place to be when you have expensive tastes but empty pockets.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. I feel like we’re all on display.”

  “Indeed, you are. I must say things are going even better than I expected, and I had very high expectations.”

  “But all we have done is ride through the park and look decorous.” The ways of the ton would take some getting used to.

  “You must trust me, my dear. The young women coming out this Season are suddenly far less sanguine about their prospects. And that’s a good thing. Jealousy, at least when you have inspired it, can be marvelously invigorating.” Aunt Sophia leaned toward her, lowering her voice. “By the way, unless I am mistaken, Lord Dorset is heading toward us.”

  Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat. She’d prepared to be polite and nothing more, but she couldn’t help but remember the angry and dismissive words he had last spoken to her. And of course, she’d said much in the same vein.

  He was less than forty feet away, handling the reins of a phaeton with ease as he spoke to a lovely brunette who sat beside him. The woman was neatly attired in a rose-colored riding suit, and while Annabelle found herself unaccountably curious about the stranger, she found it even more difficult to look away from Alec. He wore a bottle-green jacket fitted to showcase the breadth of his shoulders. Handsome, traitorous man.

  As if sensing her gaze, he glanced up, and even at this distance, she could see his jaw clench. His eyes were flat as he studied her, and then he turned away, speaking to his companion. Irrationally, she felt a stab of disappointment. “I don’t believe Lord Dorset will acknowledge us, Aunt Sophia.” She’d looked forward to showing him how very little she cared about being in his good graces.

  “Nonsense. He is a gentleman, and you must stifle your resentment. It will do you good to be seen in his company. The Carstairs are haute ton, the very best kind.”

  • • •

  This was the very worst sort of surprise. Had he known she would be here, Alec would never have come. As it was, a perfectly satisfactory afternoon was about to be spoiled. A carriage carrying Annabelle and her aunt was headed this way.

  He’d learned quite a bit about Lady Marchmain since his return to London in the last few weeks. After all, how better to avoid someone—or her niece, for that matter—than to learn her habits and haunts? He’d made discreet inquiries, only to find there was almost nothing discreet about the woman. She’d lived abroad any number of years, changing husbands as often as most women changed their bonnets. To be fair, each of the men had died unexpectedly, but that only made the countess more scandalous. She lived precisely as she pleased, answering to no one. And now Annabelle was her protégé.

  “My dear Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said. “The sister of an old friend is approaching in the next carriage. I should stop to offer my greetings.”

  “Of course,” Jane replied easily. “I am always eager to meet your friends.”

  Within minutes, the carriages had pulled up alongside each other. “Lord Dorset,” Lady Marchmain said. “How nice to see you on this lovely day.”

  “Lady Marchmain, Miss Layton, what a surprise.” It went without saying he thought it a poor one. “May I present you to Miss Jane Fitzsimmons? Miss Fitzsimmons, allow me to introduce Lady Sophia Middleton, the Countess of Marchmain, and her niece, Miss Annabelle Layton. Miss Layton is a neighbor from Nuneaton.”

  He didn’t make eye contact with Annabelle, focusing his attention instead on Jane, who inclined her head and gave the other ladies an austere smile. She really was a pretty woman, with an appealing softness to her face and form. Even better, she never troubled his dreams in the night. Or stole the breath from his body.

  “Miss Fitzsimmons,” Lady Marchmain said, “are you related by chance to Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons?”

  “I am indeed. I am his only child.”

  “He’s quite outspoken in the House of Lords. I have seen his speeches in The Times.”

  “Father takes his responsibilities very seriously. He is working with Lord Dorset on an important bill regarding soldiers’ benefits. We’re hopeful it will be well supported.”

  As Jane explained the details of the legislation, Alec risked a quick glance at Annabelle. She appeared to be listening intently, but he could tell by the soft blush on her cheeks that she was nervous. The fact that she was also dazzlingly beautiful did not signify. Because really, what had she to be nervous about? Her success in the ton was assured. All around them, men were practically falling off of their horses to get a look at her. And there she sat, pretending not to notice, radiating the sort of innocence that roused a man’s protective instincts. Surely, she’d studied the effect. Only look at how her head was tilted in order to highlight the perfection of her profile.

  “You must be very proud of your father’s efforts, Miss Fitzsimmons,” Annabelle said when Jane had finished.

  At that, his gaze narrowed on her exclusively. One did not wish to draw attention to one’s own efforts, but she’d intentionally ignored his role. “I’m the author of the bill, Miss Layton.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were suddenly fixed on him, and something fluttered uncomfortably in his chest. “But I already know how proud you are. I would never wish to be redundant.” Her smile was innocent, but there was no doubt she was mocking him.

  “Proud of my fellow soldiers, Miss Layton, and of their valor in battle,” he insisted coldly. “I mean to honor their sacrifices.”

  “Of course you do.” She turned to Jane. “Lord Dorset can always be counted on to remember the people he has left behind, even though years may pass before he has the opportunity to do so.”

  Lord, but she was impertinent! Just as he was about to offer a retort, a familiar voice interrupted them.

  “Dorset, you’re a thorn among these beautiful roses.” Benjamin was beside the two carriages on horseback, flashing a smile.

  “You’ve always been a master of the bon mot, Marworth,” Alec replied, surprised by a sudden flash of annoyance. No doubt he’d been tracking Annabelle ever since she had entered Hyde Park.

  Benjamin turned first to Jane. “Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said, touching a gloved hand to the brim of his hat. “Just this morning, my mother was praising your work at the Society for Indigent Children. She’s most impressed by the seriousness and sobriety of your demeanor.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And how are the children faring?” he continued, even though it was obvious his attention had already moved on to Annabelle.

  “They are still poor, Lord Marworth. I am certain your mother has mentioned it.”

  “Yes … quite.” At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. He turned to Annabelle and her aunt. “Lady Marchmain, how nice it is to see you back in London. And Miss Layton, how happy I am to see you again. It was such a lucky surprise to find you at Hatchard’s.”

  Of course, Hatchard’s had been no surprise at all. The man had hunted her there.

  “Are you enjoying that volume of poetry, Lord Marworth?” Annabelle asked. Alec knew full well that Benjamin didn’t even like poetry. He used it to seduce women.

  “Surely you were my inspiration for its selection, Miss Layton. May I say that ‘the violet in her greenwood bower may no longer boast itself the fairest flower …’”


  Alec fought the urge to groan aloud, and Jane seemed equally unimpressed by that tepid attempt at gallantry. “Sir Walter Scott, Lord Marworth?” she said. “How surprising. His poems are too ponderous and sentimental for my tastes.”

  Benjamin looked back at her with a smile. “How curious, then, that you know his words by heart.” At that, Jane pressed her lips together, and made a great show of rearranging her skirts.

  “Lord Marworth,” Lady Marchmain said. “We’d like to welcome you to Grovesnor Square one afternoon this week. I know Annabelle would enjoy hearing about your time with my late nephew at Oxford.”

  “I will look forward to it,” he replied, “although the tales of our schoolboy antics will have to be appropriately expurgated. Until then, will you allow me to introduce a few of my acquaintances? They’re most eager to meet you both.”

  With a sweep of his hand, Benjamin pointed to several gentlemen waiting on horseback nearby. Among them were Alvanley and Asquith, Billingsly, Hertford—he was an unrepentant rake—and a host of other fops. What a disaster. Alec grimaced as Annabelle greeted each gentleman, tilting that head again just so.

  At last, Lady Marchmain intervened. “Annabelle, we’ve brought traffic to a standstill. We really must be going.” So they had. The Row was crowded with carriages that couldn’t move.

  “Ladies, it was an unexpected surprise,” Alec said with a quick nod, eager for the chance to escape. “Miss Fitzsimmons, shall we be off?” Jane, who had gone unusually quiet, merely nodded. They said their final goodbyes, and continued on their way until Annabelle’s carriage was a mere speck when he looked over his shoulder to watch her.

  Chapter 8

  Alec looked down at the note in his hand, and then again down the long marble hall of Marchmain House. He had no interest in being here, but he had no choice. The countess had sent a summons yesterday afternoon requesting this meeting. As a gentleman, he couldn’t refuse.

  He hoped Annabelle would not be at home. He didn’t want to see her again after successfully exorcising her from his thoughts. He didn’t miss her at all. But for the past three days, White’s had been filled with talk about her. So had Brook’s and Boodle’s and Watier’s and Tattersalls. And of course, there had been the spectacle on Rotten Row yesterday. If Alec heard one more man compare her to the damned Gunning sisters, or Botticelli’s Venus, or Helen of Troy, he’d surely strike him. On second thought, perhaps the Helen appellation was mildly appropriate. After all, Annabelle’s face had launched a thousand fools.

  All too soon, the butler who had gone to announce his arrival returned, and Alec followed him to a drawing room a short distance away. With a bow, the man opened the doors wide, and Alec briefly took note of a pretty room with tall casement windows, corded silk hangings, and lots of flowers. He couldn’t help but notice the flowers. Arrangements covered nearly every surface, spilling over with a profusion of roses and lilies, morning glories and apple blossoms, tulips, and azaleas, and more. There were enough to rival the damned Botanic Gardens. He turned to a particularly effusive display and noticed Marworth’s card perched beside it.

  He shouldn’t be surprised. Benjamin never had been one for subtlety.

  Then he remembered his manners. Lady Marchmain sat in the midst of the blooms on a blue and white pinstriped settee, striking in an emerald silk gown with long fitted sleeves. She rose to greet him as he walked forward and extended his bow.

  “Lord Dorset, it was kind of you to come here at my request.”

  “It seemed a rather urgent matter, Lady Marchmain,” he replied. “I hope all is well.”

  “I have something to ask of you, but first allow me to ring for some refreshments.” She gave a gentle tug on the bell pull beside the settee. Almost immediately, the butler returned. “Would you be so good as to bring a bottle of my favorite Gran Riserva, Canby, along with two snifters? And don’t forget a few almond cakes.” Turning back toward him, she said, “Surely we can dispense with tea? Brandy is superior in every way.”

  “Certainly, Lady Marchmain.”

  “I developed a fondness for Gran Riserva while I was married to my first husband, Carlos. We were blissfully happy, until the terrible accident that took his life.” She sat gracefully upon her settee, indicating he should sit on the plum-colored fauteuil beside her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Lady Marchmain.”

  “Thank you, Lord Dorset. His death was the first great shock of my life, because he knew better than to mix strong spirits with bull fighting. Were it not for the solace of my darling Stephano, whom I met in Capri, I should never have recovered.”

  Thankfully, Canby returned with the tea cakes and brandy. Taking advantage of the conversation’s sudden lull, she prepared a plate for him, and poured them each a generous measure of liqueur. After a long sip, she began again. “Stephano is one of the reasons why I was so late in meeting Annabelle. He died suddenly in the spring of 1792, when she was born. I was in no mood for travel.”

  “Another tragic loss. I’m sorry to hear of it.” He was completely befuddled as to the point of this conversation. Why had she asked him here?

  “It was the second great shock of my life,” she said, sad for a moment in what he supposed was reflection. “Beware of oysters past their prime, my lord. Stephano believed they boosted his virility, but poof! A bad batch, and two days later he was dead.”

  “I’ll take that warning to heart,” he replied. “And may I also offer my sympathies on the death of Lord Marchmain, while we speak of such sad things?”

  “Dearest Edward. My third husband. At least his death and that year in black bombazine brought me to Annabelle.”

  “I am sure she’s very happy for your company,” he said. “Perhaps we can speak about why you’ve asked me here?” And perhaps insanity ran in the Layton family, as Father had suspected.

  “Of course. I only tell you my history so that you can understand the relationship I have with my niece. We get along so well because we’ve both known great tragedy.” She let that last word hang in the air.

  “You are speaking of Gareth’s death, which was devastating to all of us. I have the utmost sympathy for Miss Layton in that regard.”

  “That’s why I feel certain you will offer me your assistance,” she replied. “I have brought Annabelle here to London to enjoy the Season, but I have an eccentric reputation, one that might not see her invited to all the best events. I need an eminently respectable family to help me launch her into society. You were once close friends. Will you do it?”

  What an appalling suggestion. They were no longer friends, or acquaintances even. They had no place in each other’s lives. “Lady Marchmain, I hardly know how I can help.”

  “I need your help to find her a husband.”

  Now he was shocked. “Does Miss Layton know of your plans, Countess? I hardly think she’d approve.”

  “I’m only doing what I believe is best for Annabelle.”

  He hesitated. He liked to think that he would help Annabelle in any way that he could, but she'd made it quite clear that she no longer needed him. “I’m sorry, Lady Marchmain, but Miss Layton barely tolerates my company. If you’ll forgive me, I have another appointment.” He stood abruptly, offering her a respectful bow, and turned to depart.

  “Lord Dorset?”

  He turned back after the slightest hesitation.

  “If Gareth was alive, I would not need your help.”

  “No, you would not,” he replied, his voice low. “I can’t help but acknowledge my role in his death.”

  “Did you know that Annabelle was bedridden for months after the accident, that it took her more than a year to walk without a noticeable limp?”

  “I did not,” he admitted, his hands clasped together tightly.

  “Annabelle’s recovery was extraordinarily painful, of course. But even after she’d healed, Charlotte, my sister, was terrified that something else would happen to her. She wouldn’t let her venture into town. She would
n’t let friends visit, for fear of contagion. She made Annabelle believe that the world, at large, forgot her very existence.”

  “But what of her father?” He couldn’t prevent the stern set to his jawline. “Why didn’t he intervene?”

  “Since my sister’s death, Sir Frederick is increasingly unstable. His heir, Augustus Simperton, has moved into Astley Castle with his mother, and the two of them are trying to force a match on Annabelle. They’re after her dowry, you may be assured of it.”

  “I’m sorry that Miss Layton has had so many difficulties,” he said quietly. He curled his left hand around the back of his neck, and squeezed it, if only to stop himself from a less than gentlemanly impulse, which involved turning around and walking out the door. Instead, after a long pause, he walked toward her and sat back down upon the fauteuil.

  “I can’t help but admire my niece,” she continued. “She’s had to overcome many challenges. Were it not for that terrible day, she’d no doubt be settled now, secure in the love of a husband and a family. Instead, she faces an uncertain future without your help.”

  She spoke the truth, of course. He’d robbed Annabelle of so many things when he’d allowed that race to go forward, when he’d left her behind at the behest of a woman who quite probably had been mad with grief.

  After a long silence, he cleared his throat. “My mother has always been fond of Miss Layton. Moreover, she has just arrived in town for the start of the Season.”

  “I hope her trip was an easy one.”

  “I know she’ll be eager to help your efforts. I will send a note straight away. And I can escort both you and Miss Layton to her home on Park Lane tomorrow. Would that be convenient?”

  “That will be perfect. Annabelle will enjoy renewing her friendship with the countess. And I must thank you, Lord Dorset. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “Somehow I doubt that Miss Layton will share your opinion.”