The Wagered Widow Page 2

  “Yes. But you are not to worry, Snow. You’ve enough to do not to outrun the constable, I do not doubt, without having to—”

  “Pooh! Nonsense!” He waited out two more hops and a dance, then said with the air of one who has solved the unsolvable, “Tell you what, Becky. I’m promised to a party of friends at Brooks’ tonight. Three of ’em owe me a—er, good deal. I’ll demand they fork over the dibs, and you shall have it. ’Twill be a start, at least. By the time Anthony’s old enough to go away to school, there should be sufficient for the first year, at all events.”

  Touched, Rebecca said, “How very good you are!” But as she reached out to him gratefully, her loving gaze shifted.

  A gentleman had sauntered from the carriage and now stood at a safe distance from Pax, idly twirling an amber cane, and certainly able to have heard the last sentence or two. He was a tall, lean man of about thirty, clad in a caped cloak of dark red silk, flung carelessly back to reveal a white velvet jacket with enormous cuffs exquisitely embroidered in shades of pink and red, a waistcoat of red-and-gold brocade, and white knee breeches. His powdered hair was tied back with a riband of deep red velvet. A great ruby gleamed in the Mechlin lace cravat, adding to an over-all effect of dazzling elegance. Rebecca’s gaze slanted to his face. The features were strong but gaunt, the nose Roman, the cheekbones high, and the chin a square and determined jut. His complexion was clear, if inclined to sallowness, suggesting that his hair must be very dark, as were his thick, sharply peaked brows. An interesting face, decided Rebecca, if not a handsome one, yet never had she seen such cold grey eyes, nor so mockingly cynical an expression.

  Snowden Boothe glanced over his shoulder, and at once his own eyes hardened. “Give you good day,” he said with bleak formality.

  “No trouble at all, my dear fellow,” murmured the newcomer. But he did not look at Boothe, his hard eyes continuing to scan Rebecca from the ruffles of her hood to the little pink slipper that peeped beneath her gown.

  Again dismounting, and holding the reins with an unwontedly firm grip, Boothe enquired, “Your pardon?”

  The heavy brows lifted, the grey eyes shifted lazily to meet Boothe’s level stare. “Did I mistake?” he queried in a deep, insolent drawl. “I had fancied you apologized, Boothe. You came da—er, curst near to oversetting us, y’know.”

  Rebecca, who had begun to believe herself clad only in her corset, was incalculably relieved by the removal of the rude stare, but at these words anxiety twitched her brows together. Snowden had such a swift temper. Her brother, however, having noted that another gentleman had left the carriage and was inspecting the knees of one of the horses, said a repentant, “The devil! Have I caused your cattle to be hurt, then? Now curse me if I don’t have this clunch put to the plough!”

  “I would curse you did you do such a thing to…” The cool appraisal slid again to Rebecca, “to—so splendid a creature.”

  His thin lips eased into a smile, his admiration was obvious, and Rebecca was mortified to feel her cheeks become hot. She turned her head away with lofty dignity and stepped closer to her aunt.

  Boothe, meanwhile, led his horse over to the carriage, where he apparently discovered an acquaintance, for there ensued an interlude of shouting and back thumping. Rebecca murmured something trite to her aunt and contrived to ignore Snowden’s maddening behaviour, not daring to glance his way for fear of again meeting the smirking grin on the face of this flirtatious Unknown.

  Boothe returned at last, bringing his friend with him, and calling cheerfully that they must meet “good old Ward. Peter, I present my aunt, Mrs. Boothe, and my sister, Mrs. Parrish—Sir Peter Ward.”

  Pinning a smile upon reluctant lips, Rebecca turned about. Her smile died aborning and it was only with an effort that she restored it. A slender gentleman stood before her, and as he removed his tricorne to bow first to her aunt and then to herself, she saw that his thick hair, lightly powdered, revealed here and there a gleam of gold. Straightening, he smiled warmly at her, and she experienced the oddest sensation, as if she had left the ground and was floating off into the clouds. Surely, she thought dreamily, there had never been so perfect a gentleman. His hazel eyes were wide and deepset beneath arched brows of a light brown. The hair framing his high brow struggled to curl despite the severity with which it had been tied back. His nose was classically straight, his chin firm, his mouth well shaped and generous.

  A polite cough jolted Rebecca back to earth. A sardonic voice remarked, “Boothe is forgetful, as ever, Peter. Pray present me.”

  “Your pardon,” said Snowden hurriedly. “Ladies—the Honourable Trevelyan de Villars.”

  “Honourable, is it?” thought Rebecca, dropping a curtsey in response to a graceful bow. “What a farradiddle! The man’s a libertine if ever I saw one!”

  “How glad I am that you persuaded me to venture forth at so ungodly an hour, Peter,” murmured de Villars. “Are you by any chance the widow of poor Forbes Parrish, ma’am?”

  “She is,” Boothe put in curtly. “And has come out of blacks today.”

  “Very good of you to point that out.” De Villars’ smile was bored. “I’d never have noticed it, else.”

  Uneasily aware of Snowden’s tightening jaw, Rebecca asked, “Are you also an early riser, Sir Peter?”

  “I am the despair of my friends,” he admitted with a wry shrug.

  “True.” De Villars nodded, his quizzing gaze turned upon Rebecca. “But you do, occasionally, redeem yourself, dear boy.”

  Boothe took a pace forward. The belligerence of his chin was alarming, and his blue eyes fairly sparked.

  “You should invite these charming people to your ball,” de Villars went on with a wickedly amused glance at Boothe.

  “What a capital suggestion!” Ward turned to the ladies and said in his pleasant voice, “It is to be on Friday next, at my house in Clarges Street. I shall have cards sent round at once, but—do say you will come.”

  “But, of course they will come,” said de Villars.

  “Thank you, Ward.” Still, Boothe’s chin was high. “I shall be glad to attend. My sister is but out of mourning, however, and it would not be seemly for her to do so.”

  “Have mercy on us, dear Mrs. Boothe,” pleaded Ward, who had not missed the bristling resentment in Boothe’s voice and was well aware of de Villars’ deadly and well-deserved reputation. “Can you not intercede with your nephew?”

  “Oh—it would be lovely, of course,” said Albinia, flustered. “But—if Snowden feels…”

  De Villars sighed. “I cannot endure the suspense. What do you feel, Boothe?”

  Snowden’s tightly compressed lips and the glitter in his eyes left little doubt as to what he felt. Alarmed, Rebecca intervened, “Oh, please, Snow. I should like it of all things. It has been such a very long time since I went to a party.” She crossed to take his arm as she spoke and smiled up at him in the coaxing way he could never resist.

  His anger eased. He thought, “Poor little chit, it has been hard on her.” “We-ell,” he said, reluctantly. “There must be no dancing, mind.”

  “Lord, what a clodpole,” muttered de Villars, his voice unfortunately audible.

  Boothe’s head jerked to him. He said through his teeth, “Your pardon, sir?”

  De Villars smiled and with a languid wave of the cane and a lift of his Satanic brows said innocently, “The muffin man yonder—came dashed near to losing his entire tray.…”

  * * *

  “I have seldom seen Snow so angry.” Rebecca paused at the laden table in the busy warehouse to inspect a bolt of green velvet. “But—oh, did ever you see such speaking eyes? Or so fine a figure of a man?”

  “Very speaking eyes,” her aunt agreed, frowning a little. “And I’ll allow that I have always been partial to the athletic type. Truly a splendid leg and very good shoulders, but—as to disposition…” She pursed her lips doubtfully.

  “Oh? I thought him delightful. Do you not think this green would become
Anthony with his auburn hair?”

  Mrs. Boothe nodded absently. “And a fine grade of velvet. But velvet is so difficult to sew on, love. And if you mean to do it yourself … He would be dangerous, and not an easy man to handle. Though he is the type that—were his heart once given it would be for ever, I fancy.”

  “I must do it my—” Rebecca checked and, glancing up at her aunt, echoed, “Dangerous? I thought him all gentleness; all sweet amiability.”

  “You did? With that chin? That devilish smile? Lud! I sensed danger in every line of him!”

  “For mercy’s sake! I was speaking of Sir Peter! Not that nasty de Villars!”

  Her aunt’s brows went up. “Ward? You aim high, love.”

  “Perhaps, but—how could you have thought I meant de Villars? Had I been a man I should have knocked him down, if only for the ways his eyes prowled over me! At one point I feared I had forgot to put on my overdress!”

  Mrs. Boothe smiled. “He could not take his eyes from you, I’ll admit, and never has cared who he antagonized. Have a care, child. Snowden don’t like him above half, and from what I hear of de Villars, a duel with him does not end with a polite sword thrust in the arm.”

  “I knew it!” Startled, Rebecca lowered the blue satin she had taken up. “He has a reputation, then?”

  “With swords and women. Dreadful!”

  “Then thank heaven I want none of him! What about this blue?” But before her aunt could respond, she asked hopefully, “Do you know aught of Sir Peter?”

  “Very little, dear. I have not heard of a wife, however.”

  They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Striving to be sensible, Rebecca said, “Still, there might be one. In the country, perhaps. Oh, I do wish Snow had not gone off to his club! I can scarce wait to ask him a hundred questions.”

  As it transpired it was late the following afternoon before Snowden Boothe put in an appearance in John Street. He wore evening dress, and his aunt and sister exclaimed proudly over the whaleboned coat of blue satin embellished with silver braid on cuffs and pocket flaps, the silver lace of the cravat, and the white satin small clothes. “And blue clocks on your stockings, love,” smiled Rebecca. “La, but you put me to shame!”

  He grinned, sat in the chair to which they ushered him, took the glass of Madeira that was offered, gazed into it, then set it down on the drum table beside him. “I’d best tell you now,” he sighed. “I couldn’t raise the wind, Becky.”

  She was well acquainted with cant, having grown up with two brothers, and although she had not really expected him to rescue her from her financial embarrassments she hid a little pang of disappointment as she patted his hand and told him not to fret. “I’ve a plan or two of my own,” she said, with more confidence than she felt.

  He eyed her uneasily. “Now see here, my girl, I’ll have nothing smoky! Lord, but Jonathan would never let me hear the end of it did you open a gaming house, or some such—”

  He was interrupted by a faint scream from his aunt, who lay back on the sofa, fanning herself.

  “The very thought of it,” she moaned. “My poor heart! I shall be in my grave before Christmas! I know it!”

  “Fustian!” scoffed her unfeeling nephew. “You’re strong as any carthorse, Aunt Alby. Do not try to flimflam us! Come now, Rebecca. What is this mysterious plan of yours?”

  Rebecca’s plan was quite daring and, uneasily aware that Jonathan would not approve and that even the more flamboyant Snowden might forbid it, she wished she had kept silent in the matter. “Oh, nothing definite,” she said airily. “I shall tell you when I have all the details clear in my head. But, meanwhile, Snow, tell us of Sir Peter. What do you know of him? Aunt thinks he is quite a Non Pareil.”

  Half Boothe’s mind was still worrying at her obvious evasions. He stared at her blankly. “Sir Peter—who?”

  “Odious boy! Ward, of course! The gentleman we met yesterday.”

  “Oh.” He took up his glass and sampled the wine. “Haven’t seen him for years. Been rusticating, I understand. He has a beautiful place in—er, Bedfordshire, I think. Spends most of his time up there.”

  “He must have a very amiable wife,” said Mrs. Boothe, all innocence. “Most ladies would wish to spend more time in Town.”

  “Hmmmnn,” said Snowden, maddeningly.

  “She must be very beautiful,” persisted Rebecca.

  Snowden, who had been thinking how delightful it must be to own a country seat, looked up at this and enquired vaguely, “Who must?”

  “Lady Ward.”

  “Oh. As to that, I could not say. Never met the lady. Heard she was a beauty, did you? Surprising, at her age.” He added a hasty, “Don’t intend no disrespect, mind. I had Heard the old lady was a real Toast in her day, but—”

  “Old lady?” gasped Mrs. Boothe, titillated. “Did he marry for money, then?”

  “Oh, I doubt that. No, come to think of it, he couldn’t have. Ward Marching has been in the family since the Conquest, I should think.” He chuckled. “They likely brought it over with them.”

  “Then—why—” Rebecca broke off, her bewilderment replaced by amusement. “Snowden—impossible creature! Of whom are you speaking?”

  “Ward’s grandmama, of course. You said ‘Lady Ward,’ did you not?” And shaking his head as his relations dissolved into laughter that was more relieved than he could guess, he asked, “Are you sure you two girls ain’t been at this decanter before me?”

  “No, you wretch. We were referring to Sir Peter’s wife, not his grandmama!”

  “Then you were fair and far off from the start,” he said triumphantly. “Ward don’t have a wife. Oh, he was betrothed once. Years ago. I believe the lady went to her reward. Shame. She was a great Fair, so they say. Ward never got over it. I heard he hasn’t looked at a girl since. Silly gudgeon.”

  “I think it noble in him to be so loyal,” said Rebecca, shocked by such callousness. “There are not many gentlemen would mourn a lady so steadfastly.”

  He grunted. “I should hope not. Dashed silly thing to do. Now do not fly up into the boughs! I ain’t saying a man shouldn’t go into blacks for a year or so. But—six years? Drivel! If the lady loved him, she’d likely want him to be happy, not wear sackcloth and ashes into his dotage.”

  “From what I saw of Sir Peter yesterday,” Mrs. Boothe murmured, “he was far removed from sackcloth and ashes.”

  “Nor anywhere near his dotage,” added Rebecca.

  “Well, whatever he is,” said Snowden, preparing to take his leave, “he’s lost to the matchmaking mamas. They’ve all thrown up their hands over him, although he’s quite the best catch in Town. Full of juice, y’know. From what de Villars told me, there was a time when poor Ward could scarce set one foot after t’other without foundering, he was so deep in the handkerchiefs dropped for him.”

  “Indeed?” Rebecca walked with her brother to the hallway and said with a faint frown, “De Villars? I thought you purely disliked the gentleman?”

  “Did.” Boothe winked at the maid as he accepted the tricorne she offered blushfully. “Misjudged the fella. Had a good chat with him last night at Brooks’. Never dreamed he could be so jolly.” He bent to plant a kiss on Rebecca’s cheek. “Teach me not to go making hasty judgements, eh?”

  “Hasty judgements, indeed!” said Rebecca disparagingly when she relayed this conversation to her aunt. “If that horrid man was ‘jolly’ to Snow, it was because he has some mischief in mind.”

  “Yes, and involving you, child! I saw how he looked at you!” Mrs. Boothe shivered. “Like a cat with a mouse. It fairly turned my blood cold.”

  “Well, I shall be no mouse for Trevelyan de Villars!” Rebecca declared, the mischievous gleam bright in her dark eyes. “I am after bigger game!”

  “I knew it!” Gripping her hands apprehensively, Mrs. Boothe moaned, “You mean Sir Peter! Oh, but this is going to be frightful, I can feel it in my bones! What do you mean to do to the poor man?”

  Rebecca
twinkled at her. “Well, that,” she admitted, “is one of the details I’ve not quite worked out as yet. But I shall catch him, never you fear! Papa once told me that if a person wants something badly enough, no matter how difficult it may seem, it can be done.” She held out her skirts and danced around the room. “Lady Peter Ward.… Oh, Aunt! Does it not sound delicious?”

  Mrs. Boothe uttered a heartfelt wail and reached for her vinaigrette.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Rebecca sat at her dressing table, leaning forward, the small round patch balanced on her slender forefinger, her hand wavering as she critically considered her features. With a decisive swoop, she placed the patch slightly below and to the right of her tender mouth. “There!” she said with a pleased air.

  “Oh!” gasped her aunt, shocked. “The Kissing?” Her niece responding with nothing more than a bright nod, Albinia shook her head and retired to perch on the bed. She already wore her ball gown, a charming creation of dark blue sarsenet embroidered in lighter blue, with the bodice and train also of the lighter colour. Her wig was tall and decorated with clusters of violets, and she looked rather astonishingly youthful. Her eyes, however, were apprehensive, and the mirror informing her of this, Rebecca stood and asked archly, “What is the matter, dear? Do I not look well?”

  “You look very well, my love. Save for that naughty patch! And you are causing my poor heart to flutter most distressfully, for I dread to think what you may have plotted against that poor—”

  The door swung open to the accompaniment of a hurried scratching, and six-year-old Anthony raced in. “Mama! Mama!” he cried, “I had the most—” And he stopped, his green eyes widening so that they looked enormous in his pale face. “Oooh…!” he breathed, and went over to touch the white silken gown with one fine-boned hand. “Are the pink flowers stuck on?”

  Rebecca laughed, and bent to kiss his cheek. “No, my darling, they are part of the material.” She pirouetted for him. “Do you approve of your mama?”