The Wagered Widow Read online

  “So you number two brothers and a sister, in addition to your son. How I envy you. I, you see, am not merely an only child, but an orphan besides.” He said rather wistfully, “I have always thought how fortunate are those with large families.”

  Rebecca, who had endured all the joys and torments of growing up with sister and brothers, could not imagine life without them and said kindly, “How very lonely you must have been.”

  He smiled and waited for the inevitable coy remark that he must hope to soon establish a large family of his own.

  It was not forthcoming. Rebecca was too sincerely interested to remember to be the designing female. She said, “You have cousins, surely?”

  “Oh, I do indeed! And what a bother they are.” His rueful grin mitigated the harshness of the words, and he went on, “I am the head of the family, you see, and it is because of my cousin James that I must now return to my country seat.”

  “Well, I do think it too bad in him to cut up your peace. Is he in a dreadful scrape?”

  “Oh, no.” He laughed. “Well, perhaps he is, at that. He was still a bachelor when his older brother died suddenly of some intestinal disorder. A year later, the widow remarried and went off to India, leaving her ailing daughter in James’s care. He is a good-natured fellow, but now he himself has married. His bride refuses to take the girl into her household, and she and James have removed to Norway, where he is attached to the Ambassador’s staff.”

  “And so they have left the girl with you!” Frowningly indignant, Rebecca said, “Why, I think that perfectly dreadful! The poor creature! Pushed around from pillar to post! She must feel she dwells in a swing, never able to set foot to ground.”

  “Oh, it is not that bad, I assure you. She will not lack for food and shelter. But I must find a governess, for a young lady should be properly guided before she makes her bow to Society, do you not agree, ma’am?”

  “I most certainly do. How good you are, Sir Peter. Do you mean to keep her with you, then?”

  “For the time, at least. And only listen to me boring on about my troubles.” Rising, he asked in his courteous way if Rebecca wished to go back inside. “There is a new summer house I had hoped to show you, but perhaps…”

  She lost no time in asserting that she would love to see the new summer house, and they walked slowly along the path that wound through flower beds and little clumps of trees and shrubs towards the centre of the garden. Sir Peter did not again refer to his family, and the conversation turned gradually to politics and the recent tragic conflict. “How sad it is,” he observed, “that so many fine fellows should have flocked to the banner of that pretty princeling, with never a thought for the consequences to themselves or their loved ones. Such gullibility is very well for callow youth, but for mature men to have taken up the Jacobite Cause shows a sad want of steadiness, do not you agree? For myself, I can but deplore the irresponsibility of those who plunged into so sadly lost a Cause, and must now pay so frightful a price for their folly.”

  This view was not one that Rebecca shared, but despite her admiration of the gentleman beside her, her own thoughts were much taken up with other issues. As he expounded on the subject she made few comments other than to murmur an occasional acquiescence, so that he judged her a very comformable girl, this strengthening his good impression of her.

  It was not until they were leaving a rose arbour to come out onto the hedge-lined path leading to the little summer house that either of them realized the structure was occupied. A sudden burst of feminine giggles was followed by a squeak, the sound of a slap, and the abrupt emergence of The Monahan. Laughing softly but hilariously and concentrating upon lifting her paniers so as to negotiate the three shallow steps down to the pathway, the statuesque beauty did not at once see the approaching pair, but fled towards them, still looking back and calling, “No, really, Treve! You would not dare—”

  A shout from her amused pursuer alerted her too late. Rebecca had made a belated effort to step aside, but was trapped by the hedge. Glancing around at the last instant, The Monahan swung in the same direction. For two ladies wearing the wide-hooped paniers and voluminous skirts of full evening dress, a collision could only be disastrous. Caught off balance, Rebecca staggered backwards. The Monahan stumbled over Rebecca’s foot; Rebecca was undone by the hedge, and down they both went.

  Paniers had been designed for dramatic effect. They had never been intended for reclining. Scarlet with mortification, Rebecca saw her skirts shoot into the air. Her efforts to contain them were as fruitless as her attempt to get back on her feet. Not only was she revealing a shocking expanse of her chemise, but her romantic interlude with Sir Peter was quite ruined, for how could he do anything but laugh at so clumsy a finish to their walk? Her humiliation was magnified as she heard a smothered male chuckle. That wretched de Villars! Of all the men she would least prefer to be rescued by!

  His strong hands gripped her upstretched ones. His mocking countenance bent above her. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he chortled. “What a contretemps! Poor Little Parrish!” He slipped an arm about her waist, steadying her as she stood, and breathed into her ear, “We did spoil things for you. But it would not have worked, you know. Did you hurt yourself?”

  Pulling away and glaring at him ferociously, she hissed, “You are horrid! Did you know it?” And, remembering her manners, “No, thank you. I am not hurt.”

  “I think I am in love with you,” he countered, grinning broadly.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, yearning to scratch him.

  “Who could blame me? You look extreme edible. Especially with your hair so deliciously at right angles.”

  She reached up. It was truth; her elaborate coiffure had paid a dreadful penalty. She gave a little whimper of despair.

  De Villars gripped her wrists as she attempted to rectify the matter. “Let be, girl!” He proceeded to busy himself with her hair. “There! Good as new!” He stepped back, eyes dancing with laughter. “I apologize. No, really. I will prove it. I shall be so unselfish as to contrive in your behalf. It might be amusing, at that.”

  “How I dread to deny you amusement, sir,” she said coldly. “But—pray do not contrive!”

  He stepped closer again and, with a very different gleam warming his eyes, breathed, “You mean I am free to be—selfish with you, m’dear?”

  Seething with indignation, she turned her back on his impertinence and managed to smile as her host came anxiously to console her.

  * * *

  Sir Peter Ward stretched his long legs, sank deeper into the comfortable chair in his parlour, and sighed his satisfaction. “It went off quite well, eh, Treve?”

  Chin on fist, de Villars surveyed him thoughtfully. It was almost dawn, and both men had shed their finery and wore dressing gowns over their night rail. Even en deshabille the difference between them was marked, for de Villars’ dressing gown was an Oriental design of black with heavy red frogging down the front closure, and although the sardonic gleam was still apparent in his grey eyes, he looked rumpled and far more human than the elegant exquisite who had graced the ball. Sir Peter’s hair had been brushed free of powder and neatly tied back, and he was if anything better looking than he had appeared earlier, the lamplight waking a rich golden sheen on his head, and his fair colouring enhanced by the blue quilted satin of his dressing gown.

  “It went very well,” de Villars acknowledged. “Did you suppose it would not?”

  Ward shrugged. “It has been a long time since I hosted a London ball. I am very glad you agreed to come, my dear fellow. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Enormously.” De Villars took a pull at the liqueur in his glass, then said with a slow smile, “I’ve not laughed so much in years.”

  A tiny frown touched Ward’s eyes. “The collision?”

  “Mmmnn. Lovely ankles has the widow.”

  “Which one?”

  De Villars glanced at him and thus glimpsed the frown. “By Jove, you’re right! Two widows! L’embarras des
richesses!” He chuckled. “Now, why do you scowl? Never tell me you have a tendre for the chit?”

  “You came with The Monahan. I’d have supposed her woman enough for any man.”

  “Oh, she’s a delicious creature, I grant you, but…” De Villars paused and asked curiously, “Are you warning me off, Peter?”

  “Why should I? I am not in the petticoat line.”

  “No. As I told her.”

  “The deuce you did!” With uncharacteristic heat, Ward snapped, “You had not the right!”

  “Aha! So the gentleman is interested!”

  “No, but she is a Lady of Quality. I’d not wish to see her ruined, de Villars.”

  “De Villars, is it? Woe is me! I am in deepest disgrace!” He laughed at Ward’s tight-lipped exasperation. “She is a widow, my dear Peter. A lonely little lady, ripe for the taking, I’ll warrant. And besides, why should you assume I mean to ruin her?”

  The injured air brought Ward to a reluctant smile. “Spare me a seizure. Do not say you mean marriage.”

  “I could not bear to see you suffer a seizure.” De Villars held his glass to the light and scanned it drowsily. “She amuses me, merely. One might be spared boredom for a year, perhaps, with her in keeping.”

  Ward was silent for a moment, then asked, “What of your present lady?”

  De Villars yawned. “Rosemary is delightful. And desirable. She excites, but—” He interrupted himself with a gesture of impatience. “Our relationship was entered into with the awareness on both sides that it could not become permanent, for temperamentally we do not suit. From the start we agreed that if either of us found our situation becoming—ennui, we would part while still friends.”

  Sir Peter threw him an awed look. “And you have found The Monahan to be ennui…?”

  “Now, what a fellow you must think me, that I should make so gauche a remark about so enchanting a lady. Let us instead own that she has become bored with me.”

  “Gallant,” thought Ward, “but not true.” He warned in his grave fashion, “Have a care, Treve. I suspect The Monahan would make a loyal friend, but a bad enemy, and does she suppose you to slight her because you find another lady more alluring—”

  “Alluring! Did I imply that? By God, but I must be extreme inarticulate tonight! Rosemary has sufficient and to spare of that commodity.” He went on slowly, “’Tis just that…”

  “That—what?”

  “Lord! What an inquisition! If I must be blunt then, I find Rebecca Parrish to be a rare article. An honest woman who balances practicality with a—a sort of elfin gaiety; who copes with many problems that are, I fancy, somewhat crushing, yet who has retained a naïve and rather heart-warming romantical outlook…” His eyes even more thoughtful, he said, half to himself, “And who, withal, manages to be a very lovely little creature.”

  “I’ll allow she is different,” mused Sir Peter. “When I expected a platitude, she showed me sincerity.”

  “And when I rescued her, she asked me did I know I was horrid!” De Villars chuckled. “Outspoken to a fault, The Little Parrish. Now you frown again. My poor Peter. For how many years have you endured me?”

  “Six.”

  “I wonder you put up with me. I have always been a burden to my friends.”

  He sounded sincere. Glancing at him, Ward wondered if he was. Ever. How little one knew the man and what was behind his sneering mouth and cold eyes. He could be so insensitive, so merciless, yet at times a boy almost, full of teasing and laughter. “I shall never forget how kind you were, when—when Helen was killed,” he said simply. “Yet—sometimes I do not … cannot like what you do. Sometimes, I think I know you not at all.”

  “But I know you. Is sufficient.”

  “Is it?” Ward said with a faint smile, “You probably find me a bore at times. Own it.”

  “I find everyone a bore. And there dawns the frown, very predictably.” Definitely bored, de Villars stood and put down his glass. “I shall bid you goodnight, mine host.”

  Ward said nothing.

  At the door de Villars paused and, his hand on the latch, turned back. “Peter,” he said softly, “I have never taken a woman who was unwilling. And no lady has suffered—because of me. I am a rascal, I own it. But—I trust I am not a rogue.”

  Ward looked at him levelly. “I suppose we none of us really know ourselves.”

  “Oh, very good!” But with a suddenly wistful smile, de Villars said, “Do you know, I have few real friends. I should purely detest to lose one.”

  “A most unlikely eventuality,” Ward acknowledged, returning the smile.

  De Villars swept him a bow. “In the matter of The Little Parrish?”

  “I—er, scarce know the lady.”

  “Nor I. We start even. Shall we make it a wager? Do I obtain a ‘yes’ from the lady, you owe me a thousand. A ‘no,’ and you win. What say you?”

  “’Tis something steep, considering I’ve not said I seek a wife. What have I to gain?”

  “A very great service. Only think, if the chit is willing to me, then she’s no proper wife for you. And your wife must be proper—no?”

  Ward looked steadily into the jeering grey eyes. “Oh, yes. Assuredly.”

  “A double incentive, then. Do I fail, you get one thousand guineas and the knowledge she is sans reproche. For I tell you this, Peter, if she is persuadable, I’ll persuade her.”

  “I believe you might.” Ward’s lips curled a trifle. “And—the limits?”

  “One month from today. Still the man cavils! What now?”

  Ward said hesitantly, “It does not seem quite—honourable. Almost as though we tested the lady.”

  “If she is chaste and pure, she has nothing to fear from me, I swear it.”

  “Very well, Treve.” Sir Peter reached out. “You’ve my hand on’t.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Rebecca tilted her white parasol so that the pink silk fringe cast a dappled shade across the pink damask of her gown. “No,” she said reluctantly, her mournful gaze on Anthony and his boat. “’Twas not an upset but a full-fledged disaster, dear Aunt. I failed us all.”

  “What fustian you do talk, my love.” Mrs. Boothe shifted her position on the wooden park bench they occupied, having paid a groat for the privilege, and patted her niece’s hand comfortingly. “Was you to ask me, many gentlemen were captivated, for I seldom have seen you in better looks. Besides, only Sir Peter and Mr. de Villars saw your tumble, and de Villars is very obviously interested.”

  “Oh, very obviously! And has already stated he fancies himself ‘in love’ with me!”

  With a squeak of shock, Mrs. Boothe cried, “He never did! Oh, but dearest, it will not do! ‘Any port in a storm’ may be well enough, but not that port! The gentleman has a reputation from Land’s End to John o’ Groats! He has fought four duels that I know of, and had to leave the country for six months only last year when poor Lord Kadenworthy nigh died after their meeting. His birth is impeccable, I grant you.” She shook her head and hove a wistful sigh. “And his person. Such a leg! And those magnificent shoulders—what a waste! But the best you would get from him would be a slip on the shoulder, certainly not a gold wedding band. He is not the marrying kind. And as to fortune, I have learnt now that he was cut off with no more than a competence after he ran off with a poor child barely out of the schoolroom, so if you—”

  “For mercy’s sake!” cried Rebecca, breaking into this lengthy indictment with considerable indignation. “How could you think I would even consider such a—a reprobate? I—Anthony! Have a care, dearest! I would sooner lie in my grave in Potter’s Field!”

  Mrs. Boothe blanched and flapped her dainty handkerchief in the general area of her cheek. “Do not say such dreadful things! Now I shall dream of it, I know I shall! And me in the next box to you! Oh!” Her wail was brief, however, and she sat straighter, exclaiming, “Yet it is all flimflam, for after the stir you created last night, I will be amazed are you not inundate
d with callers and cards of invitation. You may have to cross Ward from your list, as you say, but—”

  “Oh, but I did not say that,” contradicted Rebecca with a tiny smile.

  Mrs. Boothe blinked. “But—I understood you to imply…”

  “That I failed. Which I did. But”—Rebecca bestowed a dimpling glance upon her—“’twas just the opening hand, as Snowden would say. The game is scarce begun yet, and already I’ve an ace up my sleeve.”

  “You have? God bless my soul! What—”

  The ladies had been too engrossed in their discussion to notice the gathering of bandsmen, but now a sudden roar of music shattered the quiet of the warm early afternoon, sending pigeons rocketing into the air and causing a dozing elderly gentleman to topple from his chair.

  Anthony, his pale face alight with excitement, added to the embarrassment of the casualty by clamorously aiding him back into his chair. This done, he galloped up to deposit his dripping yacht in his mother’s lap. His aunt foiled this dastardly scheme by snatching the yacht and setting it on the grass. He threw a beaming grin at her, and panted, “May I please go and listen to the band, Mama?”

  Being conversant with the mental processes of small boys, Rebecca refrained from pointing out that the efforts of the musicians could probably be heard in Hampstead. “Yes, dear. But please stay where I can see you.”

  He darted off. Mrs. Boothe watched the vigorous pumping of those bony knees, but she had not lost track of the conversation and probed, “Now, as to this ace of yours…?”

  “Well,” said Rebecca gleefully, “it seems that Sir Peter has become temporary guardian to the daughter of a cousin. He means to launch the girl properly, and wishes her to be groomed for her come-out by an exceptional, er—companion or governess.”

  “Very good of him, I’m sure. But I do not see how this happenstance can be viewed as an ace card for you, love.”

  “But only think! Sir Peter is an only child. What can he know of the type of lady who would be suitable for such a post?” Seeing that her aunt was preparing to enter a caveat, she rushed on, “It seems to me that were I to offer to help him in selecting a suitable candidate, ’twould be logical enough that I must also meet his charge, no?”