Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  “My dear Miss Layton, that’s where you are wrong.” Digby smirked, his eyes lingering on her lips. “Your brother wagered you. You were the prize.”

  “You are lying!” she cried, the poker forgotten. “I will never believe it.” The very idea was preposterous. Gareth would never have offered her in exchange for his debts.

  “Members of the aristocracy regularly trade their women for money, my dear. It’s what the marriage mart is all about.”

  She was trapped in a nightmare. This couldn’t be happening. Nor could it be true. “You’d only just met me,” she said.

  “You don’t seem to understand your worth, Miss Layton. And I don’t merely speak of your beauty, which is motivation enough. You have a most generous dowry from your mother’s estate, something on the order of 7,000 pounds per year. An income like that is the dream of any gambling man.” He was edging around the sofa now, inching closer.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach and leaned over, suddenly worried that she would be sick. She needed to get out of this room, needed air. “Why did Estrella bring me here?”

  Digby smiled, his lips thinning to slits. “You are an innocent, aren’t you, not to have guessed. Your cousin doesn’t want to lose Astley Castle any more than your brother did, and of course, the Laytons’ debts to me still stand.”

  She felt faint, but she couldn’t show him any weakness. She fought to steady her breathing. “I will never marry you.”

  “In a few moments, Lord Fitzsimmons will come through that door with some of the biggest gossips in the ton. He’ll catch the two of us in an indelicate embrace, and I will announce that you’ve made me the happiest of men. Deny it, and your reputation will be destroyed. I’ll claim my right to Astley Castle, and throw your father out onto the street.”

  “I will not let you hurt my father. I’ll fight you with everything I have.” But she was terrified. The smile was gone from his face, and he was so close now, his hands lifting from his sides, his fingers flexing.

  “Fight all you want. Just know that when I come into you, you’ll scream with the pleasure of it.” He attacked then, forcing her back against the wall, trapping her hands with one of his own before she could grab at the poker, pinning her hips with his body. She struggled, twisting her face away when he tried to possess her mouth, battling to break free. But her efforts only inflamed him. He was deceptively strong, and she’d never felt so helpless. His free hand forced its way into her bodice, pawing painfully at one breast before grabbing onto the gown itself. In a rush of horror, she felt the fabric start to give way.

  Suddenly, though, a crash sounded, and Digby grunted, going slack against her. Heavy pieces of porcelain fell all around them as he collapsed unconscious onto the floor. Standing behind his body was Jane Fitzsimmons, holding the remnants of an antique vase in her hands, her eyes round with shock.

  “Jane!” Annabelle cried, kicking past Digby to wrap the woman in a desperate hug. “Thank God you came when you did!” How had she found them?

  “Annabelle, I am so sorry. I overheard Father and Digby plotting this after the Hertford Ball. And they recruited your cousin this week to lure you here. I thought if I hid in the room, Digby could not claim to have compromised you. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t let him do such vile, terrible things.”

  “You knocked him senseless!” It seemed impossible that she’d been rescued. “I will never be able thank you sufficiently.”

  “There’s more to this. It concerns Lord Dorset as well,” Jane said between short, panicked breaths. “I should not have waited so long to act. I’ve sent a note to him. I expect him at any moment.”

  But it was not Alec who next opened the door to the library. It was Lord Fitzsimmons, followed by Lady Jersey, the Princess Lieven, and Lady Hertford. “Ladies, explain yourselves,” Lady Jersey huffed. “This is most unseemly!”

  But Annabelle could not stay here, surrounded by the shadows of what had almost happened, Digby still prostrate on the floor, moaning now with pain. She grabbed Jane’s arm and pushed past the others, blinking at the sudden rush of light in the hall.

  Fighting to regain her composure, she clutched at her bodice—loosened around the edge of one breast, but thankfully still intact—as the others shuffled into the hall. Digby had not exaggerated when he’d said the biggest gossips in the ton would be on hand. If Alec had worried about being the scandalous one, here was a scandal of epic proportions.

  “Corporal Digby trapped me and tried to force his attentions on me,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “It’s true,” Jane added. “I stumbled upon them. Miss Layton was struggling and—”

  “Jane, my dear, you are mistaken,” Lord Fitzsimmons interrupted. “They’re lovebirds, those two, although Miss Layton is obviously trying to disguise it, having been caught out. In my pocket,” he continued, “I have a special license from the archbishop. I procured it as a favor to the corporal, who wanted to surprise Miss Layton with a proposal tonight. There’s even a minister waiting in a carriage outside. I hope you’ve not spoiled it.”

  “I was very nearly violated,” Annabelle exclaimed, furious that the fiend could lie so brazenly.

  Digby walked into the hall then, holding a handkerchief to the gash Jane had opened on the side of his head. His neck was covered with blood, his dress uniform spattered with long crimson streaks. He was palpably furious, and she felt a sharp spike of fear. “Fitzsimmons,” he said as a crowd began to gather, drawn by the commotion. “Am I to understand that your daughter did this? I was wrapped in my love’s embrace one moment, and coshed across the skull in the next.”

  “I am not your love, Digby!” Annabelle cried, wishing only that she’d picked up a stray shard of porcelain in the library, so she could carve a matching scar on the other side of his face.

  “My dear, you know we have discussed marriage,” he said, fixing her with a dark stare. “Your father, in particular, is eager for our union.” There was no mistaking the threat behind his words.

  “He is lying!” she continued. All around them, people were streaming down the stairs and into the hallway, as news spread of the unfolding drama.

  “Never say you have been leading me along, Annabelle.” Digby’s eyes glittered. “That night, when you gave yourself to me, you swore you loved me.”

  The gathering crowd rippled with shock.

  Contemptible man. But his words had their desired effect. Even now, all eyes were on her. “I did no such thing,” she said, desperate to make everyone understand. “He planned the whole of this to force me into marriage.”

  “How dare you accuse my niece of impropriety!” Aunt Sophia all but hissed as she pushed her way toward them.

  “Miss Layton,” Lord Fitzsimmons said, ignoring her aunt. “I advise you to stop this foolishness, or society will have nothing to do with you.”

  “But Father,” Jane exclaimed. “You know full well that Annabelle is innocent!”

  The front door of Marchmain House suddenly flew open with such force that it slammed against its doorjamb. Several people shrank back in fear as Alec rushed into the hall. But Annabelle’s heart swelled as she watched him fight through the crowd.

  “Annabelle, are you all right?” he called out. She had never seen him so disheveled and anxious. His cravat was a tangled mess above a riding coat and breeches spattered with mud. He must have come on horseback, and he’d lost his hat along the way, his dark hair brushed into wavy streaks by the wind. He carried something wrapped with a cloth in his hand, and he looked as if he might use it to clear a path to her. He did not take his eyes from her face. Heavens, the expression in those eyes. As if the fate of the world was tied to her well-being. As if he would do anything, risk anything for her.

  • • •

  Had he arrived in time? He’d no sooner returned from Nuneaton than he’d found Jane’s note, warning that Digby was plotting something infamous for Annabelle’s come-out ball. He’d pushed Mars, his hors
e, to the edges of his endurance to get here, finding only a moment’s irony in the fact that his father’s gift to him might help save Annabelle.

  “Dorset,” Lord Fitzsimmons shouted, to make himself heard above the growing chorus of outrage at his sudden appearance. “You don’t belong here among respectable people.” But Alec was already at Annabelle’s side, searching her face and form for any evidence of injury. When he saw her loosened bodice, a black fury nearly consumed him. If Digby had hurt her, he was a dead man.

  “I’m all right,” she whispered, gazing up at him with a quick smile, as if they were the only two people in the room. But of course, they were not. He pressed her tightly to his side all the same, onlookers and propriety be damned.

  “You know Lord Dorset and Miss Layton are innocent of the charges against them, Father,” Jane Fitzsimmons said in a voice loud enough for the throng to hear, although it trembled. “I overheard you in the study that night. I know what you’ve done.”

  Was Jane really calling her father out in front of the ton? If Fitzsimmons’s duplicity was discovered here tonight, her reputation would be destroyed as well.

  The old man blanched. “My dear girl,” he said soothingly, but Alec could hear the desperation in his voice, the unspoken plea. “You’re overset by this evening’s events. Please, let me take you home.”

  She stood firm. “Father, tell the truth. Stop this while you still can.”

  And in that moment, Alec knew that he would never be able to repay her. She was risking everything she’d ever known for Annabelle’s sake. But would anyone believe her? “Lord Dorset is a man without honor,” Digby shouted, entering into the fray. “Yet your daughter defends him, Fitzsimmons. I can only guess at the reason.” Several in the crowd cringed at the insult, because the man had all but called Jane his whore. Noticing the dried blood on Digby’s collar, Alec had a sudden, pleasurable vision of the man’s life blood draining out into a puddle on the floor.

  With a squeeze of Annabelle’s hand, he took a menacing step toward Digby, taking grim satisfaction in the bastard’s sudden step backward. “Do you recognize this?” He slowly pulled back the folds of cloth covering the object he carried.

  All around them, bystanders leaned in to look. “Of course not,” Digby scoffed.

  “Let me refresh your memory,” Alec replied. “It is the linchpin from my carriage those many years ago … the linchpin that failed, causing my left wheel to careen wildly into Gareth Layton’s path, forcing the collision that led to his death. You’ll notice one side is neatly sawed in half, ensuring that the pin would shatter during the race.”

  His words echoed in the hall, as several onlookers began to shift uncomfortably.

  “Does this mean Miss Layton is the woman with the veils?” an overstuffed matron called out.

  “Why would Dorset tamper with his own wheel?” someone else shouted from high above on the stair. Annabelle was looking at the linchpin with dawning horror, but Digby remained defiant.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said dismissively. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “You killed the wrong man, didn’t you?” Alec seethed. “There was no justice that day, was there? Your mark died, while I walked away.” The devil would have his time with Digby in the end. But not before he did.

  “No one here believes your lies,” Digby said, pretending outrage. “You can’t distract us, Lord Dorset, from your crimes at Badajoz. I saw you there in the shadows. Leading men to despicable behavior. Violating women and small children. Committing acts of murder.”

  Alec cursed as the crowd recoiled. Several men demanded that he be tossed from the premises, as women frantically waved their fans and begged for smelling salts. Annabelle, on the other hand, looked as if she wanted to stab Digby through the heart. His brave, beautiful girl.

  “May I interrupt this unpleasant exchange?” It was Benjamin Marworth, pushing toward them, dressed in a tiered riding coat and breeches, a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm. “Alec, I have those papers you requested.”

  A quick look passed between them, telling Alec all he needed to know. Thank God. He quickly scanned the sheaf and formulated his attack.

  “I have a few questions for you, Corporal Digby.”

  But Digby was not done fighting. “Why should I answer your questions?” he said, trying for nonchalance.

  “I only seek to clarify your military service,” he replied. “An easy enough request, when you’ve spent so much time discussing mine.”

  Digby regarded him suspiciously, but he had not forgotten the crowd surrounding them. “By all means, then. Unlike you, Dorset, I’ve served my country with honor.”

  “You were posted in Spain under Wellington?”

  “Of course. He has command of the entire Peninsular Campaign. Surely you know that.”

  “Which unit were you with, Corporal?”

  “I first served as a foot soldier, but my skills were noticed by an officer with the 11th Light Dragoons.”

  “They’re rather infamous, aren’t they? Weren’t they picking cherries in an orchard in Spain, frolicking among the fruit trees, when French forces caught them off guard and attacked?” Several men chuckled openly in the crowd. Good. The more derisive, the better. It would distract Digby. “Were you one of the Cherry Pickers, then?”

  “I was transferred out long before that embarrassment,” Digby insisted.

  “Really? How convenient for you,” Alec replied, dripping sarcasm. “Is that how you ended up with the 10th Royal Hussars, then? I couldn’t help but notice your uniform.”

  “I was promoted to the Hussars in June of 1810, so I couldn’t have been part of that orchard incident. I’ve served with them ever since. Really, though, these are pointless questions.”

  “The 10th Royal Hussars are stationed in Brighton?”

  “Yes, we’ve been there since 1809,” Digby said with an exaggerated sigh. “But what has any of this to do with your crimes, Lord Dorset, the ones that have shamed everyone here?”

  “I confess to some confusion, Digby. If you’ve been stationed with the Hussars since 1810, how is it that you fought at Badajoz in 1812?”

  A wave of shock rolled across the assembly as his words rang out, and Alec knew a moment of pure triumph. The bastard had been trapped by his own arrogance.

  “You are mixing things up in my head,” Digby insisted. “I was there at Badajoz! I know what I saw.”

  “You have marvelous eyesight, then,” Alec observed, his voice dismissive. “There aren’t many who can see Spain from the beaches of Brighton.”

  The room erupted in sound. Men were shouting words like “liar” and “cheat,” as hundreds of eyes fixed on Digby, cold with condemnation.

  “Everyone, please quiet down,” Lord Fitzsimmons said, obviously shaken. “We’ll sort this out tomorrow, when heads and minds are clearer. Let me escort Corporal Digby home. There’s no need to rush to judgment.” He glanced at Alec, eyes imploring, as if begging for forgiveness. But it was far too late for that.

  “Didn’t you rush to judgment, Lord Fitzsimmons?” someone called out.

  “Wellington himself called Dorset a hero,” another said. “Yet you believed the lies of a stranger.”

  “Did you never investigate this Digby’s claims, Fitzsimmons? Or did you willingly set out to destroy an honorable man?”

  “I’d say it was the latter,” Alec said with deadly conviction. “In fact, I’d lay odds on it.”

  • • •

  Alec was immediately caught up in a circle of well-wishers, men slapping him genially on the back to offer their congratulations, as Lord Fitzsimmons and Digby were escorted from Marchmain House. But Annabelle would not let Jane leave with them. “I do not want you to spend one more moment in that wretched man’s presence,” she said. “Your father can take him home.” Jane, stiff and pale, merely nodded in agreement.

  “Why did you do it?” she couldn’t help but ask. “To risk so much for someo
ne you hardly know?”

  “I must admit,” Jane said quietly, “that I did not particularly like you at our first meeting. I knew I would not be shown to advantage at the opera, with you there beside me. I had hopes, you see, for Lord Dorset.”

  What could she say in reply? “I know that he holds you in the highest esteem.”

  “Perhaps not the highest,” Jane said with a wan smile. “He has certainly never looked at me the way he looks at you, when he thinks no one is watching.” She started to protest, but Jane lifted a hand to quiet her. “It’s alright. I could never shake the feeling that his courtship was half-hearted.”

  “Then why did you help us both?”

  “Because I still hope that one day, a man will love me for who I am, and I want to be worthy of that devotion.” Jane blushed, as if embarrassed by the admission. “And I could not allow my father to ruin Lord Dorset because of a perceived slight to me. I could not allow Digby to force himself upon you. Not if I wanted to live with myself.”

  “You will always have my thanks, Jane,” she said, truly humbled. “My thanks and my devotion.”

  “Why not simply thank me for my shawl?” Jane said, pulling a cream satin wrap from her shoulders and tucking it around Annabelle’s neck, to better hide her bodice. “If we don’t cover you up, the men may never leave.”

  She’d almost forgotten that they were in the middle of a ball, which was buzzing as Aunt Sophia climbed to the top of the stairs, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “Lady Dorset and I thank you for joining us. Given this night’s excitement, I think it best we conclude the evening.” At that, the crowd scattered quickly, everyone obviously eager to spread the story of Alec’s redemption. And it infuriated Annabelle that as people passed by Jane, many looked away, as if she were no longer worthy of their notice. When Jane had proved, against every expectation, to be a true and loyal friend.

  She could not say the same for the Simpertons, who were herding toward the door with the other guests, hoping to be lost in the throng.