Knave's Wager

by Loretta Chase

  He was vain, Lilith thought contemptuously. Aloud she said, “I am sorry if Harris was not gentle with you. He is more accustomed to grooming horses.”

  “No wonder my hide is raw. It is a miracle he did not try to brush my—”

  “There are but a few spoonfuls left,” Lilith hastily interjected. “You had best finish while it is still hot.”

  Though he accepted the remaining broth meekly enough, there was no meekness in his steady scrutiny of her face, nor in the occasional glances he dropped elsewhere. He was sizing her up, Lilith knew. Well, if he had any intelligence at all, he must realise he wasted his time. All the same, she was edgy. When at last the bowl was empty, she rose.

  “Now I hope you will get some rest,” she said as she took up the tray.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He slumped back among the pillows once more. “Your company has been far too exciting for a sick man. You should not have agitated me so. I shall not sleep a wink.”

  “I fed you one small bowl of chicken broth,” Lilith said with a touch of impatience.

  “It was not what you did but how you looked when you did it. Such resolution in the face of ingratitude. Such militant charity.” He smiled lazily. “And such eyes, Athena.”

  “Indeed. One on either side of my nose. A matching set, quite common in the human countenance.”

  “The Hellespont in a summer storm.”

  “Blue. A common colour among the English.” She moved to the door.

  “Really? They seem most uncommon to me. Perhaps you are right—but I cannot be certain unless you come closer.”

  “You are short-sighted, Mr. Wyndhurst?” she asked as she opened the door. “Then it is no wonder you drove your curricle into a ditch. Perhaps in future you will remember to don your spectacles.”

  She heard a low crack of laughter as the door closed behind her.

  To Cecily’s eager enquiries during dinner, her aunt offered depressingly unsatisfactory answers. Yes, Mr. Wyndhurst was well-looking enough, she noted without enthusiasm. He was also shockingly ill-behaved.

  “Oh, Aunt, did he try to flirt with you? I was sure he would. He had that look about him.”

  “A look?” Emma asked with a smile. “You discerned a look under his impenetrable coating of mud?”

  “He had the devil in his eyes,” Cecily said. “I saw him open them when he thought no one was looking. He reminded me of Papa’s prize stallion. The naughtiest, most deceitful, ill-mannered beast you ever saw. But when he moves, he is so graceful that one is persuaded he must have wings, like a bad, beautiful angel.”

  Lilith put down her fork. “Whatever Mr. Wyndhurst may be, tending to him has been altogether wearing. I am not decided what to do tomorrow. We cannot leave him here, yet I cannot subject my servants to another night of sleeping in the tap room—or wherever it is the poor creatures will lay their heads. I should have asked his destination. If it were near enough, we might have sent word.”

  “You’ve done all you can for one day,” said Emma. “The decision can wait until tomorrow, when you’re rested.” She smiled ruefully. “At least I hope you’ll be rested. I do think you should let me share a bed with Cecily. Having done by far the most work, you have earned the most comfort.” She turned to Cecily. “I promise not to snore.”

  “Pray snore all you like, ma’am,” Cecily answered with a grin. “I am a prodigious sound sleeper.”

  Though she was eventually persuaded—thanks to Cecily’s threats to sleep on the floor—to accept Mrs. Wellwicke’s offer, Lilith was wakeful long after her companions had fallen asleep.

  She had no sooner thrust the obnoxious Mr. Wyndhurst from her mind than another gentleman pushed his way in: Sir Thomas Bexley, her erstwhile friend and, of late, patient suitor. His recent letters indicated he meant to repeat his offer of marriage in the very near future. Though her feelings had not changed since the last time, it seemed her answer must be yes.

  Poverty did not frighten Mrs. Davenant. She was disciplined enough to live frugally. She need not and would not in any case accept the charily of Charles’s family. Unfortunately, poverty touched not only herself. Without funds, she could be of no help to her nieces.

  She lay staring at the ceiling. The prospect of marriage was repugnant to her. There were reasons, but perhaps these were paltry. She would not be miserable with Thomas. He admired and respected her, and would exert himself to make her happy. Their tastes and personalities suited.

  No, she could not be so self-centered as to reject marriage to a perfectly worthy gentleman—not when the consequence was a lifetime of wretchedness for those beautiful, fresh, innocent girls. Cecily, for instance, to be married to that repellent sot, Lord Evershot—or to that obese young lecher, Mr. Crawbred.

  It was always the same: whatever wealthy and sufficiently well-born mate was handiest would do. Her in-laws took greater care in mating their precious horses. The children—whom they produced in such shocking abundance—they only wanted off their hands.

  Well, it would not be, she told herself. Aunt Lilith would look after them: Cecily now, Diana next year... Emily next... and Barbara after... then it would not be long before Charlotte’s girls came of age... and the eldest nephew, Edward, could do with, some guidance – if he’d stand for it.

  Thus, counting her beloved nieces and nephews instead of sheep, Mrs. Davenant finally fell asleep.

  Chapter Two

  Despite inadequate rest, Mis. Davenant was up and about early the following morning. She’d scarcely quit her room when Cecily’s groom, Harris, who’d dutifully looked in on Mr. Wyndhurst, informed her the man had vanished.

  The innkeeper expanded upon the news. “They came for him early,” he told the widow. “Seems his lordship’s relations were expecting him and sent someone to look when he didn’t appear. Must have found the smashed rig and alerted the family because—”

  “His lordship?” Lilith interrupted.

  “His lordship the Marquess of Brandon, ma’am. On his way to his cousin’s. Lord Belbridge, that is.”

  His patron’s countenance grew stony.

  The innkeeper went on quickly, “They came for him—the Earl of Belbridge himself and a pack of servants. As I said, it was early—-maybe an hour or more before cock crow— and Lord Brandon was very particular that we wasn’t to disturb you about it. He said to thank you for your kindness and apologise for his hasty leave-taking. I think that was how he put it,” the landlord said with a frown. “Anyhow, he paid your shot, ma’am. Said it was the least he could do in return for all the—What was it he said? He laid such a stress on it, the word—ah, the inconvenience.”

  After uttering a few cold words of acknowledgement, Mrs. Davenant turned away, her heart pounding with indignation. The Marquess of Brandon, of all people. Her servants had braved the cold, filthy storm and the muck of the ditch, risking pneumonia. They had spent the night on floors—when they might have slept comfortably, warm and dry in their proper beds in her London town house. All this they had endured for the most foul libertine who had ever trod his polluted step upon the earth.

  With her own hands she’d fed the man who had half killed her husband—for was it not Brandon who had mercilessly led Charles on an insatiable pursuit of the lowest sort of pleasure? Finally, when her husband was too ill for pleasure any more, this so-called friend had released what was left of him. Then Charles was hers at last—hers to watch nearly two years, while he crept slowly and painfully to his grave. Not once in all that long, weary time had this friend deigned to visit him. A letter or two from abroad was all. Then, one curt, condescending note of condolence, two months after the funeral.

  Now Brandon patronisingly threw a few pieces of gold her way—when she owed him thousands. She would pay him, Lilith vowed. She would sell the very clothes from her back if necessary. She would not be in his debt, not for so much as a farthing.

  Mrs. Davenant stood staring at a small, poorly executed hunting print until she had collected
herself. Then she returned to her travelling companions to break the news regarding their patient and urge them to a speedy departure.

  She fumed inwardly the entire distance to London. Outwardly, she was as coolly poised and unapproachable as ever.

  Even Cecily was eventually daunted in her efforts to penetrate her aunt’s reserve. Questions about the Marquess of Brandon elicited only warnings: he was precisely the sort of man young ladies must scrupulously avoid; he had not been so near death as he pretended; if he could deceive an experienced physician, what hope was there for an innocent young girl—and so on. Cecily would have preferred to be told what she didn’t already know.

  As Mrs. Davenant’s carriage was entering London, the subject of her disapprobation was reclining upon a richly upholstered sofa in the cavernous drawing room of a massive country house many miles away. He was being wearied half to death listening—or trying not to listen—to his cousin’s litany of woes.

  Julian Vincent Wyndhurst St. Maur, Baron St. Maur, Viscount Benthame, Earl of Stryte, Marquess of Brandon, was a trifle tetchy this afternoon. He was affronted by the behaviour of the chill he’d contracted en route to Ostend. He had given it the cut direct. The ailment, instead of humbly taking itself off, had only fastened itself more firmly— and had apparently gathered equally boorish associates.

  Though Lord Brandon was not so weak and ill as he had feigned for Mrs. Davenant’s benefit, he was scarcely well. At the moment, he wished he had remained in bed. His inconsiderate cousin might have respected his peace then, instead of pacing agitatedly upon the thick Axminster carpet in a manner viciously calculated to bring on mal de mer.

  “Do me the kindness, George, to sit down,” Lord Brandon said at last. “That constant to and fro raises the very devil with my innards.”

  Lord Belbridge promptly flopped down upon the sofa by his cousin’s feet. George was a rather stout fellow. The jolt of his heavy frame on the sofa cushions set off a wave of nausea.

  “Damn,’’ said Lord Brandon with a grimace.

  “Sorry, Julian. Keep forgettn’ you’re ailin’. But I’m half out of my wits, what with Mother at me the livelong day—or goin’ off in hysterics when she ain’t. Even Ellen’s overset—though it’s the children she worries for, and how they’re to hold up their heads—”

  “Being attached in the customary way to their necks, I expect their heads will contrive to keep from tumbling off. Really, George, one would think no man had ever kept a mistress before.”

  “If he were only keeping’ her, what should any of us care? But he’s been livin’ with her—near two years now.”

  “Of course Robert is living with her. You keep him on a short allowance. He cannot afford two sets of lodgings, now, can he?”

  George’s jaw set obstinately. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to give him any more. He spends every farthing on her.”

  “I see. You would prefer your brother spent his vast sums upon drink or hazard, I suppose. Come, George, you are a man of the world. As I recollect, there was a ballet dancer or two enlivening your salad days while she lightened your purse.’’

  “That was different. I had my fun for a bit, then got another. I didn’t talk of marryin’ the tarts, Julian.”

  Lord Brandon’s half-closed lids fluttered open. “My ailment appears to have affected my hearing. I was certain you mentioned marriage.”

  “He means to marry her,” Lord Belbridge grimly confirmed. “He’s only waitin’ ‘til he comes into his money, in less than four months. Can’t touch his trust fund ‘til he’s five and twenty, you know. Then he’s little need of his allowance. Not that it’s any great fortune—but it’s respectable. He wants to make an honest woman of her and set up his nursery.” George groaned. “Expects we’ll welcome her into the family. Can you see my sweet Ellen callin’ a fancy piece ‘sister’? And a damned Frenchie at that. Gad.”

  There was a moment or two of silence while George allowed his cousin to digest this piece of information. Lord Brandon pressed his fingers to his temples.

  “Robert cannot possibly be so imbecilic as to marry his mistress,” he said finally. “He must know you would seek an annulment if he did. Furthermore, I do not see what prevents you dealing with her yourself. Fill her purse and she will take her charms elsewhere.”

  “Tried,” George answered sadly. “Again and again. She won’t leave him. Why should she? She could get a wealthier lover, but not one fool enough to marry her. Not a lord, certainly.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “That ain’t the worst of it.”

  “Naturally not,” his listener murmured.

  “When she wouldn’t listen to reason,” George went on, “I took to threats. Told her we’d see the wedding never took place, whatever it took to do it. She only looked at me like I was somethin’ pitiful. Then she told me about the letters.’’

  “Letters,” Lord Brandon repeated, his expression pained. “I might have known.”

  “Love letters,” said his cousin. “She showed me one or two and told me there were a score more like ‘em—all beggin’ her to marry him. Callin’ her his ‘dear wife.’ Sickenin’, just sickenin’.”

  “Such epistles usually are, except perhaps to the recipient, for whom they undoubtedly must provide many hours of laughter.”

  “I went to my solicitor right after that. He hemmed and hawed for an hour before he broke the news. Which is, that if those letters end up in a court of law, they could be worth as much as twenty-five thousand quid in damages.”

  “Indeed,” said Lord Brandon. “Robert quite astonishes me. He has fallen in love with his whore, proposed marriage to her, not once but many times, and all in writing, no less. If he marries her, there is a great scandal, his family is dishonoured, and he is ruined. If he doesn’t marry her, she sues for breach of promise, there is a great scandal, his family is dishonoured, and he is ruined. How very neatly he has arranged matters. I must remember to congratulate him.” Cautiously, he pulled himself upright. “I think I shall go to bed.”

  “Is that all you can say?” George cried, jumping up.

  “I’m sure you will not wish to hear my feelings regarding being summoned from France—at Prinny’s behest, no less—merely to be informed that my cousin is a besotted fool. This is the ‘urgent family matter’ so desperately requiring my assistance, now of all times? When, finally, Buonaparte is within our grasp, when all the wit and tact we possess will be required to return his obese Bourbon rival to his unloving subjects?”

  “They wanted you home anyhow, Julian,” was the defensive answer. “They said you was near collapse—and had done more than your share at any rate.”

  “As you say, I have done enough. As to Lord Robert Downs—my young cousin is so unspeakable an idiot that we were all best advised to cease recollecting his existence.”

  “But dammit, Julian, he is my brother—and think of the scandal. Think of Mary. Think of the children.”

  “I cannot think of anyone at the moment, George. My head is throbbing like the very deuce. Will you ring for a servant? One with a stout arm and broad shoulders, if you please. I shall require some assistance regaining the sanctity of my bedchamber, where I expect to expire gracefully within the hour. No mourning, I beg of you. Black is not Ellen’s best colour.”

  “But, Julian—”

  “Wash your hands of him, George. I assure you I do.”

  ***

  Not many days after her return to London, Mrs. Davenant met with her man of business. Mr. Higginbottom, who possessed of the first good news he’d been able to offer his client in some six months, was buoyant. The debt, he told her, was cancelled. Lord Brandon had no wish to take bread from the mouths of widows.

  The slate-blue gaze grew so icy that Mr. Higginbottom involuntarily shivered. Congealing within, he soon petrified, to sink into arctic waters as his client expressed not only profound displeasure that the marquess had been apprised in such detail of her private affairs, but also an adamant refusal to accept his lordship’s charity.


  It was futile to argue that gentlemen cancelled such debts every day for far more whimsical reasons. It was useless to point out that the Marquess of Brandon didn’t want the money, most assuredly didn’t need the money, and in fact cared so little about it that he had let the matter lie buried these last seven years. It was equally useless to point out that twenty-nine thousand pounds, sensibly invested, would earn such and such a return, that she need not sell both her remaining properties, that in a few years she might expect to see her income return to its previous level or very near.

  Mrs. Davenant only coldly retorted that she was not on the brink of starvation.

  “You will use the funds from the lease of my Derbyshire residence for the present,” she said. “When the Season is done, we will discuss letting the town house. I wish the debt paid—with appropriate interest—as speedily as possible, though I hope your terms can accommodate certain matters of necessity. As you are aware, a family commitment requires my remaining in town. Still, it will be as economical a stay as can reasonably be expected.”

  She paused a moment before adding—and this was her first and only hint of emotion –“I will not be beholden to that man, sir, not for any amount.” She handed the businessman a slip of paper. “You will add this to the sum,” she said. “There was a misunderstanding with an innkeeper.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Mr. Higginbottom, and “Yes, madam” was all he said to everything else. Only that evening, to his wife, did he declaim upon the inscrutability of the ruling classes.

  Sir Thomas called, as he had promised, at two o’clock. Mrs. Davenant, as she had promised, granted him a private interview.

  The baronet knew his offer was expected. He was not, however, confident of an affirmative answer. Though he’d been granted the signal honour of her friendship, he could not be certain he had as yet awakened any softer feelings in the widow’s breast. To be sure, he required only sufficient softening to produce the word “yes.”