Knave's Wager

by Loretta Chase

  “Well, my dear,” said Sir Thomas after the remaining visitors had left, “what is this I hear about a rival?”

  “What is it you hear?” his betrothed responded stiffly.

  “I met up with Sally Jersey—not long after she’d left here, I take it, and she tells me Brandon is sending you love notes and lilies.”

  He stood by the table that bore the infamous bouquet. His hands folded behind him, he appeared to be weighing the flowers as Parliamentary evidence.

  “I have been hearing a great deal of Brandon lately,” he went on. “In fact, in the last twenty-four hours, I have heard his name linked with yours more often than my own. I know better than to credit every piece of idle gossip I hear, and I know better of your character than to credit what has been hinted to me. All the same, I do not take my treasure for granted.” He turned to her. “Have I any reason to speak to him regarding the matter?”

  Lilith removed the crumpled note from her pocket and handed it to him. “Judge for yourself,” she said frostily. “I have not read it. I have no wish to read it.” Her chin was high.

  He scanned the note quickly, then threw her a puzzled glance. “He thanks you, according to this, for your ‘exceedingly wise counsel.’ He says your advice was invaluable. What advice was that, my dear?”

  “Drains.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Drainage. Of his fields. It is... it is one of my hobbyhorses, you know.”

  Sir Thomas chuckled. “Poor Sally. All a-fever to know of midnight assignations and stolen kisses, and we can offer her nothing but agriculture. How I wish you had read her the note.”

  “I had no desire to read it, as I said. In any case, whatever was written, she would have put some base construction upon it-—and certainly it is none of her affair.”

  “No, my dear, and none of mine, I am sure. I am done with farming, thank heavens. All the same, I wish Brandon would take himself off to tend those fields of his. Even innocent, he is a troublesome fellow to have about, I think.”

  ***

  Lilith watched the two young people tear off at a frightening pace, Cecily’s groom trailing doggedly behind them. Cecily was a countrywoman, happiest in the saddle and— judging by her speed—galloping neck or nothing. Fortunately, her companion was a match for her.

  As Glenda had said, there was an eager boy under the veneer of jaded sophistication. Lilith had not observed Lord Robert very closely before. She’d had too many distractions—or one too great a one. But en route to the meadow, she had found much to meet with her approval. He was not sly or insinuating. He was good-natured, and behaved towards Cecily as though she were his sister.

  Equally important, Cecily was her usual levelheaded self. The elegant gentleman did not seem to throw her into any sort of confusion. He might have been her brother.

  Such fraternal behaviour scarcely promised a match, yet so long as Cecily’s heart was not affected, one could not object to the friendship.

  All the same, one could not help wishing the Season done already, with Cecily wed or soon to be. Lilith had never been overly fond of Town, though she made the best of it for her nieces’ sakes. At present... oh, London seemed a den of fiends. One, certainly, plagued her mind and heart.

  The hoofbeats seemed to come in response to the thought. She glanced over her shoulder at what might have been an apparition, for in the shadowed path man and beast appeared one. As she recognised the rider, her heart began to thud ominously. In a moment, Lord Brandon was beside her, his restless dark stallion pawing impatiently at the ground, agitating her mare.

  “She is like her mistress,” he said, subduing his mount. “She wants to bolt—though we mean them no harm, do we, Abbadon?”

  The beast snorted, and Lilith’s mare backed away.

  “We have only come for our scold,” he went on. “I trust you’ve had sufficient time to compose a thundering one.”

  “That would be a waste of intellect and energy. You are beyond sermons. You are beyond any civilised rules of behaviour.”

  “I object to having my life ordered by prigs, if that is what you mean by civilised rules. It was but a kiss, after all.”

  She winced.

  “I shall never be sorry I did it,” he added, his smile as unrepentant as his words, “though you threaten me with all the fire and brimstone of all eternity. You, on the other hand, are sorry, and therefore obliged to take it out on me. Well, do your worst. I shall gaze at your lips the whole time and not comprehend a syllable.”

  A breeze ruffled the boughs above them. The shifting beams of sunlight played over the clear planes of his face and softened it, gentled even the mocking smile and insolent green gaze. Or perhaps it was the low, beckoning sound of his voice that weakened something within her. Her own glance lingered on his mouth longer than it ought, and then upon his eyes, and within her grew a yearning that shamed and enraged her as soon as she recognised it.

  “I am sorry,” she said tightly. “To you it is nothing—a whim to amuse yourself. It is no joke to me, my lord. It does not amuse me that I have betrayed my affianced husband, dishonoured myself, earned the censure of my peers—oh, yes, and earned your contempt as well.”

  “Good heavens, one would think you had committed patricide. It was not even adultery—though I’m hardly the man to discourage you from that.”

  Lilith tried to hold her temper, but it was already ripping loose. She was sick at heart at the sin she’d committed, while to him it was nothing. She was nothing—her feelings were a joke to him.

  “No, you would not,” she said. “You delight in wrecking marriages. A betrothal must be a mere bagatelle.”

  “Not at all. Your betrothal is an atrocity. A woman of your spirit—to be shackled to that stale speechmaker. No wonder you are so short-tempered.”

  “Your opinion is of no consequence, my lord. Whatever you think of him, Sir Thomas is my own choice. I will not permit you to sully my reputation and make a laughingstock of him. I will not permit you to taint my existence any longer. You have already killed one husband,” she went on in low, furious tones. “Was that not sufficient? Must you make a shambles of my life once again?”

  There was a heartbeat’s pause. The teasing light went out of his eyes, and his voice was cold as he answered, “As I recollect, madam, your first was consumptive.”

  “Consumptive, yes—though I know it was his so-called friends hastened him to an early grave. If you can call it friendship to encourage a sick man to exhausting faculties— drinking, gambling, dissipating-—when he should have rested. Perhaps you call it friendship to lead such a man to the stewpots of a filthy city, when he needed to breathe fresh air.” She blinked back angry tears. “He might have had a few more precious years—even one—were it not for friends such as you. But with you it is always an endless pursuit of pleasure. You have no care for anyone but yourself. Now you have a whim to amuse yourself at my expense. You shall not,” she said, her voice choked. “I despise you and all you stand for.”

  It seemed as though every sound had been stifled about them, so potent was the silence when she finished. Even his restless mount stood still as a statue.

  “I am not omnipotent,” he answered at last. “My mere presence is not sufficient to befoul your lily-white reputation and cuckold your friends. As to your late husband, I doubt even the Almighty Himself had the power to sway Davenant from his chosen courses. He was a wastrel and debauchee long before I met him. If marriage to a wealthy, eager-to-please, generous-hearted girl was not enough for him, then his case was hopeless.”

  The pain wrenched her so suddenly that the tears spilled over before she could recall them. She turned her head, though she knew he’d seen her weakness.

  “I beg your pardon,” she heard him say more gently. “My presence distresses you. It will do so no longer.”

  Then he was gone.

  “Idiot!” Lord Brandon muttered as he rode away. “Clumsy idiot!”

  Abbadon uttered a deri
sive snort.

  “You needn’t rub it in,” his master grumbled. “It was clumsy, yes—and craven—to stoop to defend myself. Still, I was much goaded. You must admit that, at least.”

  The unsympathetic animal tossed its head.

  “Ah, you had your mind—or some part—fixed on the mare. You were not attending. You did not hear her contempt. You could not read the loathing in her eyes. Until, that is, your crude bully of a master reduced her to tears. That is a fine way to win a mistress, don’t you think? Damn.”

  Abbadon pricked up his ears at the oath.

  “Away, then, you devil,” Brandon growled, nudging the impatient animal’s flanks with his heels. The horse surged into a gallop, and man and beast thundered recklessly along the bridle path. Had anyone observed their headlong fury, that witness must have been convinced it was the devil and his familiar, plunging to the fiery place.

  While the furious ride eventually pacified his horse, it did little for Lord Brandon except make him hot and dirty. A bath and change of clothes improved his appearance but not his temper.

  Later, he stood in his dressing room, glaring at his reflection in the glass. He was not, he thought, vain—or not excessively so—yet he could not understand how a rational woman could look upon him with such utter revulsion. His crisply curling hair had not turned white suddenly. It was as black and thick as ever. His lace was not yet mottled with age and dissipation. His green eyes were clear, his posture straight. He had not turned into a troll overnight.

  His appearance was not the trouble.

  Lilith Davenant hated him for what he was, and what she believed he had done, and though he had done a great many tidings deserving of her prim displeasure, he had not done what she accused him of. Yet it was not the injustice that had angered him—and perhaps the feeling wasn’t precisely anger. Maddened for a moment, yes...

  He turned away from the mirror.

  There was no denying. Her snake-bite eyes had turned to ice, and she had raised her stubborn chin and opened her mouth, and—while the accusation was unjust, or only partly just—her words had pricked him. Very well, wounded him. He was not one to shy away from facts, however lowering they might be.

  To be wounded by a woman was a novelty—not an agreeable one, certainly. Still, it was a fact: Lilith Davenant had stabbed him, and he was still smarting.

  As he formulated the thought, he smiled wryly. He must remember to congratulate Elise on her choice of champion. Meanwhile, he had better set his mind to repairing the damage. Nearly a fortnight had passed since he had made his wager—and all he had to show for it was one absurdly chaste kiss!

  ***

  Elise had not attended Eton, Harrow, Winchester, or any other ancient educational institution. All the same, she could count. Since the night he’d spent at his cousin’s, Robert had made love to her exactly once, with a conspicuous want of enthusiasm. Once in nine days. Last night, again, he had not come home.

  Being wise, Elise had immediately sensed a woman in the case. Being well-informed, she had not required the entire nine days to ascertain who the woman was. Being practical, she turned her intelligence to determining the simplest, most direct way of eliminating her rival. Accordingly, she paid a visit to her dressmaker, and a bribe to Madame Suzetts’s assistant.

  On the Sabbath, Mrs. Davenant took herself to church. She prayed for forgiveness and strength. She came away feeling unshriven and weaker than before. She’d found no comfort in the minister’s words, though he, accustomed to preach to the nobility, wisely forbore mentioning such vulgarities as hellfire and eternal damnation.

  Lilith had looked up at him and seen herself, standing all those years ago before another minister. The shy girl, barely seventeen, who’d wondered at the powers that had given her as husband so golden and god-like a creature.

  The young bridegroom at her side must have wondered as well, for he’d got the worst of the bargain. Even now, at eight and twenty, Lilith was no beauty. As a bride, she’d been a carrot-haired, freckle-faced, skinny adolescent, inwardly awkward and unsure. Outwardly, she had been poised, of course, cool and perfectly mannered, because manners, poise, and self-control had been drummed into her from the day her grandparents had taken in the orphaned child of their only son.

  They had not, however, taught her how to make her husband love her. That, perhaps, was too much to ask. His family had wanted the match because their youngest son was too expensive to keep any longer. Her grandparents, their own title spanking new, had wanted the connexion with ancient nobility.

  Love in such a case was not to be expected—even if there had been anything remotely lovable or attractive about her. Yet she had wished. She had wished at least that Charles Davenant would teach her how to please him. She could never express such a wish aloud, though.

  Thus his rare visits to her bed were impatient and hurried, and his distaste only made the intimacy the more humiliating. When he was done, he left her hating her own body because it could never please him. Charles’s gawky child bride could not compete with his London beauties. She could not even inspire affection. She bored and embarrassed him, and even drunk—as he inevitably was—he could not wait to be gone from her.

  Lilith had not wept for her husband in years. Even at his death, her tears had been for the waste of the man he might have been. So young, strong, handsome... to dwindle to a frail shadow, weak, fretful, and afraid. She had wept as well because he’d left her no golden children to whom she might give the love he’d never sought or wanted.

  Now she wept silently in the church after the others had gone, because Charles’s friend had pierced the cold tomb of her heart, and revived the pain so long sealed within.

  Chapter Nine

  Early Monday morning, the much-harassed Mr. Higginbottom met with both Lord Brandon’s man of business and the marquess himself. Two hours later, Mr. Higginbottom was able to inform Mrs. Davenant that terms had been arranged at last, and to remind her, with gloomy satisfaction, that she would now be obliged to practice the strictest possible economy.

  The greatest of her expenses having been incurred already, Lilith had few qualms about her ability to last the Season. Shortly after, she would be wed, and money would no longer be an issue. All she would lose was her independence. She persuaded herself she’d already more of that article than most ladies.

  For five years she had been free to manage her own affairs, without having to accommodate a husband’s whims. She had not to chase him down when major decisions were required. She had done it all herself, without interference—and in the end she had made a bad job of it, had she not?

  Furthermore, there must be some gratification in having at last won this particular war of wills with Lord Brandon.

  To Mr. Higginbottom she expressed her satisfaction. Inwardly Lilith felt as though she were now a bill marked “Paid,” filed away and forgotten, and her victory was tinged with regret she despised herself for feeling.

  By early afternoon, this matter took second place to a more urgent one.

  Lilith was in her sitting room with Emma and Cecily, the two older women plying their needles while Cecily read aloud from The Corsair. That was when the box arrived from the dressmaker for Cecily.

  “I declare I’d forgotten completely about the walking dresses,” the girl said as she untied the string. “No wonder. I’m sure I have dozens already, though I never seem to walk anywhere lately. It is always— Oh, my.”

  She giggled as she pushed away the tissue paper. “Not a walking dress, I don’t think.”

  Emma, sitting by her, turned pink. Lilith promptly rose from her chair to investigate.

  Even the widow’s marble features became tinged with colour as Cecily withdrew from the box two intriguing garments.

  They were negligees. One was a maidenly pink. That was its sole connexion with maidenhood. It was of gossamer silk, its plunging neckline caught with cherry-coloured ribbons. The other was a froth of black lace, equally transparent.

&nbs
p; “Not walking dresses, to be sure,” said Cecily with a smile as she held the black one against her and modeled it for her two stunned companions.

  Lilith, who had stood numb with shock, hastily recovered. She snatched the two garments from her niece and threw them back into the box.

  “Obviously there has been a mistake,” she said.

  “I should say,” Cecily answered, grinning over the note she held in her hand. “I cannot be anybody’s ‘Dearest Lise,’ and who, I wonder, is my ‘adoring Robin’?” She giggled again. “I have never seen such naughty night-rails.”

  “I should hope not,” said her aunt. “This box will be returned immediately, and I shall certainly have something to say to Madame regarding her carelessness. The idea—to send such—such wicked things to this house.”

  “Of course it was a mistake,” Emma soothed. “There must have been another package, and another lady has Cecily’s frocks, I daresay.”

  “A lady, indeed,” Lilith said half to herself. “That her lewd belongings should pollute this house, and he—” She broke off, recollecting her niece.

  Cecily, however, was still studying the note. “But of course,” she said. It’s Lord Robert’s chere amis, is it not? Anne told me her name was Elise, and that she’s French, and the family’s in an uproar because he’s been living with her for years and years.”

  Lilith tore the note from her hand.

  “Anne should have told you no such thing. Ladies know nothing of—of these matters.”

  “Well, they pretend they don’t, but they must be blind and deaf to be unaware, I should think. It’s not as though he hides her away. Why, he was with her that night at the opera. I recall distinctly. She was very lovely and elegant. Frenchwomen are so stylish, are they not?”

  “I most certainly did not regard her,” the aunt answered quellingly.