Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  “I have received a flattering amount of attention,” she said quietly, “but I’m hardly the toast of London. I’m not even sure I would want to be.”

  “Haven’t you been enjoying your time here? Is it wrong to hope that you might wish to return home?”

  “Society is capricious. People admire you in one moment, only to turn away in the next. The lies of one person can shake the foundations of everything you’ve tried to be.”

  “My dear, whatever is the matter?”

  “People have told the most outrageous lies about Alec,” she said as a now-familiar anguish settled upon her. “Everything that he is and has worked for is being threatened.”

  “Alec?

  “Alec Carstairs. The Earl of Dorset. Did you know, Father, he did not abandon me? I’d thought he wanted nothing to do with me because of the accident, but Mother banished him from Astley Castle. She destroyed my letters to him, so he didn’t know I had asked for his help. He needs my help now.”

  Father had gone decidedly pale. “Mrs. Chessher has told me it is a very bad thing to hide from yourself,” he said slowly, his eyes wary. “And even worse to hide from the things you have done.”

  “But Alec did nothing wrong. Don’t you see? It is Digby’s fault, that horrible man who raced with Gareth. He is here in London, and he’s made up vicious lies about Alec, not only about his service during the war, but also about the accident. He has hinted that Alec caused Gareth’s death.”

  “That man … he is here?” he said haltingly, as if speaking was suddenly difficult. “In London?” A faint sheen of perspiration had appeared on his brow, and he looked as if he might faint. She should have known better than to burden him with such things. He’d seemed so much better, so like the father she’d known as a child that she’d run to him, like a little girl, eager to confide her worries. He was not the same man. She’d been foolish to forget it.

  Moving quickly, she guided him to the striped settee, sitting down beside him. She loosened his cravat, fanning her hand in front of his face to stir the air. “Can I get you something to drink? Shall I call for a doctor?”

  Slowly, though, his color returned. He took a shuddering breath, hanging his head between his shoulders. “I am sorry, Annabelle,” he said, nearly overcome. “I did not mean to worry you. The journey was more than I’m accustomed to. I will be all right.” Something in his voice, however, gave lie to that statement.

  Before she could ponder it further, Aunt Sophia swept into the room, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile. It was quickly extinguished when she saw him on the settee. “Frederick, you are shockingly pale.”

  “He was overtaxed by the journey, but I was too careless to notice,” Annabelle said. “I was telling him about Alec and the letters and Corporal Digby. It was too much for him.”

  Father looked up then, hollow-eyed and sad. “Please, my dear. You mustn't blame yourself for my weakness. She is always trying to protect me from myself,” he added to Aunt Sophia.

  “I’ve noticed that.” Her aunt’s voice was oddly sharp as she watched him carefully. “Grown men should not be coddled, Annabelle. Let us get him settled into his rooms.”

  She helped Father stand, alarmed by the sudden and debilitating change in his behavior. He’d walked into Marchmain House with such confidence, but he shuffled now. His nervousness became even more pronounced when Aunt Sophia turned and said, “You should rest, Frederick. I need to speak with you privately before dinner is served.”

  • • •

  As he sat in the study of his bachelor lodgings on St. James Street, Alec couldn't set aside a nagging thought. Two days ago in Hyde Park, Annabelle had asked him about Digby’s whereabouts in Badajoz, about whether or not they could be ascertained with any degree of certainty. He’d replied that it was impossible to track a single solider in a battle involving thousands. And that was true. Tracking a soldier’s regiment, however, was another matter.

  Fitzsimmons and Digby could not have had much time to work out their scheme. After all, little more than a week ago, Alec had been dancing with Jane at the Hertford Ball while her father looked on in delight.

  Might the two men have overlooked crucial details in their story?

  On the floor of the Lords, Fitzsimmons had claimed that Digby was just back from the Peninsula, which assumed that his regiment had been engaged in the battles there. But given what he knew of the 10th Hussars, a horse-mounted unit more frequently assigned to gaudy displays at the prince’s Royal Pavilion in Brighton, it seemed unlikely.

  Had Digby served with other regiments on the Continent, and if so, when? Where had he been stationed on the evening of April 10, 1812? If Alec could find that out, and thus prove his suspicions, all of their lies would unravel.

  Of course, in the midst of this scandal, he was in no position to ask the War Office for service records. They would probably toss him out on the street if he tried. But fortunately, he knew someone who'd be met with a more favorable reception.

  He'd just dipped his quill into an inkwell, ready to pen a letter, when a knock sounded at the door. “No, thank you, Potter,” he called out. “I have no appetite.”

  “I’m not bringing the lunch tray, my lord. You have a visitor.”

  “Send the man away. I’m in no mood for another journalist hoping to interview the butcher of Badajoz.”

  “My lord, it is an older man, and a nervous one at that, if you’ll permit me to say so. I have brought you his card.” Potter walked forward to hand it to him. “He claims to know you from Nuneaton.”

  Alec felt a frisson of alarm as he read the name on it. Sir Frederick Layton was hardly the sort to pay a social call. “Please send him in immediately.” Moments later, Annabelle’s father walked hesitantly through the doorway. He was hardly more than fifty, but there was an unsettled grief that hung over him, making him appear older. He also seemed remarkably anxious. Alec stood, indicating that the older gentleman should take the leather armchair opposite his desk. “Sir Layton, it has been a very long time. I know your daughter has been looking forward to your visit. I hope nothing is wrong?”

  “Annabelle has told me about the accusations against you, Lord Dorset,” Layton said quietly as he took his seat. “She is very worried for you.”

  “Please tell her that I am fine,” he lied. “Things will right themselves. Your daughter has grown into a remarkable woman.”

  “She has become so without my help, I can assure you.” Layton was looking down at his lap, as if unwilling to meet his gaze. “I didn’t want to come here today, but Lady Marchmain told me I must. There are things … that must be said.”

  Alec stiffened. He knew what was coming. “I have already resolved to keep my distance from your daughter. I’ll not let this scandal touch her.”

  At that, the older man looked up in surprise. “No, Lord Dorset. I’m not asking you to stay away from my daughter. That would hurt her, and I have hurt her enough already.”

  Layton stood then and began to pace. “I am referring to the day that changed everything. I should have known, you see. I had just returned from the fields with a singularly large Death’s-head hawk moth, when he came up the drive with Gareth.”

  “Who was with Gareth?” He was confused by the abrupt change in topic. Was the man talking about the accident?

  “Most collectors want nothing to do with them,” Layton continued, as if Alec had not spoken. “They are a portent of grave danger. I should have remembered that. Perhaps then my son would not have died. My dearest girl wouldn’t have suffered.”

  “Sir Layton, who came to see you with Gareth?”

  “Digby has blamed you for my son’s death, but it was his fault. He brought death with him that day.”

  Was Layton mixing the past with the present? He wasn’t making any sense. “Digby can be blamed for many things, but not Gareth’s death.” He knew that better than anyone. “It was a terrible accident.”

  Layton stopped his pacing and dropped his head, his
shoulders bowed with grief. “It was no accident. That is what I’ve been trying to say. I have the linchpin from your carriage to prove it.”

  The room tilted wildly then. To steady himself, Alec gripped the corners of his desk, his knuckles white with the strain.

  “He sawed through it partially, so it would snap during the race,” Layton said, his anguish evident. “I found it that night, when I returned to Two Boulders Road. I’d seen Digby combing the wreckage, and I knew he was looking for something.”

  “Why didn’t you confront him?” Alec cried. “Why did you never report this?”

  “Gareth was dead. Annabelle was horribly injured. I worried Digby would come back for the money that was owed. I needed leverage against him. How else could I protect what was left of my family?”

  If Layton had known about his son’s debts, why hadn’t he done more to stop his destructive behaviors? Why hadn’t he gotten justice for Gareth? For Annabelle? “Hiding away the linchpin accomplished nothing. Why did you not at least tell me? Damn it! My father was the magistrate of Nuneaton. You could have gone to him.”

  “I did not want you to know. Can you imagine the shame of it? Astley Castle was on the verge of insolvency. Annabelle is the only reason it still stands today.”

  Alec leapt up from his chair in disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me you kept her there, hidden away from the rest of the world, to cover up your shame?”

  “No, I kept her there so that she would be safe.” Sir Layton’s eyes filled with tears. “And yet I don’t know what I would have done without her. My wife was no longer herself. Annabelle was all that I had left.”

  It was then that Alec knew, and the realization stunned him. “Did you also destroy her letters?” he said. “The letters she sent to me?”

  Layton covered his face with his hands, openly weeping now. “God forgive me. I never sent them. Mary, her maid, brought them to me, but I hid them away. When she found out what I’d done, I dismissed her, so that Annabelle would never know.”

  Were he any other man, Alec would have struck him. It would have been a small price to pay for the damage he’d done. As it was, it took all his determination not to turn away from the man in disgust. Perhaps Sir Layton hadn’t been able to bear the thought of Annabelle leaving him. Alec could understand that. But he couldn’t forgive him. “What did you do with the letters and the linchpin, Sir Layton?” His voice was bitter with anger.

  “I have sent a note to Astley Castle,” he cried, looking away once more. “They are in a case I have hidden there. It will be here by week’s end.”

  “I have reason not to trust the mail where you are concerned. I will go to the castle myself. God forgive you when Annabelle discovers the truth. It will break her heart.”

  Chapter 20

  Annabelle felt like a puppet at one of the Punch and Judy shows in Covent Garden. All evening, she’d smiled until her face was surely cracking. She danced every dance and thanked a parade of people for their compliments, but even the elaborate gown she wore couldn’t disguise her hollowness inside. The whole of the ton was here, not only to enjoy the ball Aunt Sophia and Lady Dorset had so meticulously planned, but also to make a final judgment about her suitability. Was she graceful and gracious? Was she witty? Would she be an asset to their exclusive ranks?

  They didn’t realize Annabelle had already judged them and found them wanting, because they believed the lies of a charlatan over Alec, and she was powerless to change their minds. Her declarations of his innocence were ignored. She was too pretty, they’d decided, to worry her head about such things. It hardly mattered that she’d known Alec for a lifetime, because war could change a man. Just look what it had done to him! And his poor mother! How courageous she was to show her face this evening, smiling valiantly beside Annabelle in the ball’s receiving line, when the world knew her son was a monster.

  Lady Dorset was indeed brave. She didn’t shy away from the many veiled accusations and innuendoes. Annabelle had wanted to cancel tonight’s ball, but Alec’s mother had declared it should be even bigger and more elaborate than originally planned. Anything less would be seen as a capitulation—or worse, an acknowledgment of Alec’s guilt. So Lady Dorset smiled her way through the dancing and the multitudinous array of courses served during dinner. She offered a toast to Annabelle as warm and heartfelt as one would give a daughter, and when at long last, there was an appropriate time to depart, she did so with grace. Not once did she give in to her heartbreak.

  Father was also putting on a brave face, considering the fact he’d been distracted and on edge since his arrival in London. Save for a mysterious morning call, he’d hardly left the confines of Marchmain House. Tonight, though, he was cornered by some of the ton’s biggest gossips, drawn no doubt by his eccentricity, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable in his evening wear. His eyes darted over the crowd, as if searching for a means of escape. Annabelle saw him notice the door that led to the servants’ back stair, and watched as he edged toward it.

  Perhaps they could escape the ball together. She excused herself from a circle of young ladies she’d met at the picnic, and followed him. She’d gotten no more than a few steps when her cousin Estrella came up, clasping a hand to her shoulder.

  “What a squeeze this is,” Estrella said with the languid drawl she’d adopted since her arrival in London this past week. “Surely the whole of the city is here. To think that our own little girl from Nuneaton is the name on everyone’s lips! Augustus is quite put out, I must tell you. He doesn’t like to share.”

  In the months since she’d last seen him, Augustus had not improved either his appearance or his character. And surely the greater squeeze had occurred when Estrella was buttoned into her gown, a fussy crimson affair several sizes too small. Still, Estrella’s attempts at matchmaking were increasingly halfhearted, and that had been the only positive in an otherwise dreadful week. Her heart ached for Alec. Even now, he was in Nuneaton, chasing down something to do with Digby. He might as well be on the other side of the world.

  “Annabelle, I need your help, my dear,” Estrella said, recalling her attention. “I’ve misplaced my fan, and it’s so beautiful with my new ball gown. I will simply be devastated if someone crushes it. I drank champagne in the library earlier to calm my nerves, and I may have left it there, but Marchmain House is so large I will never find it on my own. I should hate to become lost and miss the rest of your ball.”

  It would be difficult to lose sight of Estrella, but Annabelle welcomed the opportunity to escape. “I’ll be happy to show you the way.” It took a few minutes to slip through the crowd, but once they cleared the room, it was easier to move quickly through the house, down the stairs, and past the main hall. The library overlooked the square.

  The door to the library was closed, but Annabelle opened it and stepped inside. A low fire burned in the grate, but the candle sconces had not been relit, making it difficult to see clearly. She could just make out one of the floor-length casement curtains fluttering in a soft breeze. A window was open, no doubt to catch the cool evening air.

  “Estrella, will you show me where you were sitting? Perhaps on the sofa?” she asked, moving with slow steps in the darkened room.

  The sound of a door slamming was her only answer.

  She spun around, almost knocking over a large vase on one of the side tables. What could Estrella be thinking, to shut her up in the library alone? She wasn’t going to wait here to find out. She felt her way back across the room, only to discover that she wasn’t alone after all. A man stepped out from the shadows to block her path, and as he turned to face her, Annabelle bit back a scream.

  God help her. She was alone in the dark with Damien Digby. She needed her wits about her. Obviously, Estrella had led her here for just this purpose. But why? Annabelle had told her how dangerous the man was.

  “Miss Layton, may I offer you my compliments? You are perfection itself tonight.”

  “What are you doing here, Corporal Digby
? This is a private gathering, and you were not invited.” She struggled to keep her voice calm. She couldn’t let him see how frightened she was. In the dim light, he looked like a specter, half of his face and body hidden in shadow, the other half lit by the dying embers of the fire.

  “I felt sure that was an oversight, Miss Layton. After all, I am invited everywhere now. I’m not quite Wellington, of course, but I’ve been told I am a hero all the same.”

  “You are no hero,” she spat, though she was quaking inside. “All you’ve done is spread contemptible lies about an honest man.”

  He merely chuckled. “My revenge was long in coming, but that makes it no less sweet. Dorset tried to destroy me, and I’ve repaid the favor in spades.”

  “What do you mean, destroy you?” He was creeping toward her, and she stepped back, to the left of the fireplace, where the tools were kept to stoke the fire. With any luck, he hadn’t noticed them.

  “Come now, my dear. Don’t pretend you do not know. Your brother owed me a great deal of money, but we were to settle things with our race that morning. The Laytons would keep Astley Castle, and I would get what I wanted. But then Dorset had to involve himself. I was forced to take matters in hand. And what in God’s name were you doing in Gareth’s carriage?”

  “I have no memory of the race,” she said defiantly. “I certainly know nothing about debts owed to you.”

  Her answer seemed to surprise him. “No memory? By God, that’s rich. Is that what Dorset has played off of all these years?”

  “You had some sort of hold over my brother,” she acknowledged, keeping her focus on the fire tools. She needed to keep him distracted. “Alec raced that day to better Gareth’s odds against you.” Just a few more steps now.

  “I think, instead, that Dorset wanted the prize as badly as I did.”

  “Gareth had nothing of value to wager. Any winnings would have been meager.” The tools were almost in reach. She would grab the poker, and take great satisfaction in skewering Digby between his shoulder blades.