The Wagered Widow Page 5

  “It is scarce a certainty, and—”

  “And from what he told me of her upbringing, the poor girl has known little of love and less of guidance.” Her eyes dreaming, Rebecca went on, “She has been sickly, and is likely a dowd, poor creature. ’Twill be a positive joy to instruct her. I shall take her to Madame Olga, perhaps, and by the time I am finished, will have transformed the girl into a poised debutante of whom Sir Peter can be proud.”

  Mrs. Boothe mulled this over in silence. Life, she knew, had not been easy for her niece since, at seventeen, she married Forbes Parrish. Rebecca had accepted her father’s choice of a husband with no outward evidence of dismay. They had made a handsome couple, she thought, with a nostalgic smile. Forbes, the most generous and well meaning of men, had gone through his quite respectable fortune within three years of the marriage, however. The jewels he had showered upon his bride had been the first casualties to result from his gaming, and had kept them solvent for another two years, but the luck he was sure would come to his rescue had (after the fashion of such capricious commodities) deserted him, and only his aunt and his widow knew how perilously close they now were to bankruptcy.

  Rebecca’s tendency to fantasize was well known to Mrs. Boothe, who had judged the trait a blessing that enabled the dear girl briefly to escape harsh reality. Besides the romantical, however, Rebecca harboured a wilful streak, and an occasional disregard for the bounds of convention that could be alarming. What other lady would have paid heed to that old man who had fallen in the middle of Bond Street last winter? Why, he had given every appearance of being inebriated and, if the gentlemen passing by chose to ignore him, a lady should certainly not rush into the traffic to aid him. Much less a lady wearing blacks! It made one palpitate just to remember the uproar it had caused. Especially when Becky had demanded that those two unwilling chairmen convey the man to a doctor, and then paid for the chair (which she could ill afford!). She had insisted the victim was not intoxicated, and admittedly one could not smell wine upon his breath, but the entire unhappy fiasco was so typical of her headstrong nature. And then there had been the instance of those wicked boys and the little brown cat, and Becky running from the house to lay about her with Snowden’s amber cane, and getting properly clawed for her trouble when she had untied the creature’s tail from the back of the carriage! Mrs. Boothe sighed. The cat had remained with them. He not only ate like a horse, but was grown so fat and lazy he could likely never chase a rat, much less catch one! Whisky’s affectionate nature was undeniable, but— Mrs. Boothe sighed again and cast an oblique glance to her niece. The big dark eyes were faintly smiling. She was undoubtedly indulging a dream in which she accompanied Sir Peter’s radiantly transformed cousin to her triumphant come-out ball.…

  At this point, Mrs. Boothe became aware that the air rang with laughter and that the rhythm of the music had become erratic. She turned to the bandstand, and cried, “Becky! Look!”

  Rebecca was jerked from a rosy dream that had progressed much further than her aunt guessed. She looked, and said laughingly, “Oh, that scamp!”

  Anthony had beguiled his way onto the bandstand, and a grinning bandmaster watched as the boy wielded his baton to the amusement of the musicians and the delight of the crowd. The selection lurched to a stop, the crowd applauded, and the maestro pro tem bowed low.

  “What a way he has, dear child,” said Mrs. Boothe, clapping heartily. “He will go far, mark my words.”

  Whatever his future prospects, Anthony was not going far at the moment. Rebecca watched curiously as a man wearing green livery spoke with her son at some length. She was about to go and join them when Anthony nodded, seized the man’s hand, and led him towards her.

  “This is Hale, Mama,” he announced cheerfully. “Hale, this is my aunt, Mrs. Boothe, and my mama, Mrs. Forbes Parrish. My papa is dead, you know, but I remember him very well.”

  Hale expressed polite regrets and ventured an understanding smile to the ladies. He handed an engraved card to Rebecca, remarking that he had been charged to deliver it into her hands at once, then bowed and left them.

  Rebecca read the brief message and gave a squeal of triumph. “Aunt Alby!” she cried joyously. “It is from Sir Peter. He begs that we join his party for the weekend at his country seat in Bedfordshire.”

  “How splendid!” exclaimed Mrs. Boothe. “Becky, you clever minx!”

  “Uncle Snow!” shrieked Anthony, hurling himself at the gentleman who strolled towards them on the arm of a friend. “Oh, you do look funny!”

  Snowden, awesome in a high French wig and puce satin, snatched up his nephew and rounded on his companion in high dudgeon. “There! Now blast you, Forty! Did I not say it?”

  Choking on a laugh, Rebecca said, “Oh, dearest! You never cut off all your pretty curls?”

  “’Tis the fashion, Mrs. Rebecca,” pointed out Fortescue, striking in yellow brocade. “You must own that Snowden looks much more the thing in his wig.”

  “May I try it on, Uncle Snow?” begged Anthony, tugging at one glossy ringlet.

  Snowden all but cringed. “Do not touch the curst contraption! Already, I scarce dare turn my head for fear it will fall off and reveal my nakedness!”

  Mrs. Boothe gasped and blushed fierily.

  “Really, Snow!” Rebecca scolded. “Anthony, leave your uncle’s wig alone.” She smiled at Graham Fortescue, causing that shy young Buck to blush almost as deeply as Mrs. Boothe. “Sir Peter Ward,” she told her brother, “has been so good as to invite us to join a weekend party at Ward Marching.”

  Snowden set his nephew down and took the card Rebecca handed him. “Hmmnn,” he said dubiously. “Don’t know about this.” He gave the card to Fortescue. “What d’you think, Forty?”

  His lordship scrutinized the invitation critically. “Not too bad. A touch plain, perhaps. Ward never was much of a one for frills, and—”

  “Not the card!” Snowden exploded. “The message, you slowtop! Is it proper for my sister Parrish to jaunter off to Bedfordshire with Ward?”

  “Oh,” said his lordship, grinning. “Well—why not? You will be going as well, so—”

  Boothe threw him an irked scowl. “No, I shall not! No more shall you!”

  “What? But I am invited, and—” His lordship encountered the full force of Boothe’s meaningful grimace, and his indignant protest faltered to a halt. He said lamely, “Forgot. Sorry. No, we cannot go, of course.”

  “Do you say I cannot either?” wailed Rebecca, who had waited out this odd discussion with much anxiety.

  Snowden looked from her dismayed countenance to his friend. “Well, you’re the expert in all things having to do with dress and manners. What d’you say?”

  His lordship reread the invitation painfully. Watching him, Anthony’s face was one big grin. He opened his mouth to comment, caught his mother’s eye, assumed the mien of a martyred saint, and was silent.

  “Don’t see why she should not go,” Fortescue opined at length. “Not a green girl, after all. Y’r pardon, ma’am, but ’tis truth. Says here a small party go. Ward’s a perfect gentleman. Besides, aunt will be with her. What?”

  Snowden pursed his lips. “Trouble is, Ward cries friends with de Villars, and if he’s to go…”

  Rebecca said innocently, “But I thought you said you had misjudged Mr. de Villars, Snow?”

  “Might have,” he admitted with a brooding look. “But it’s one thing for me to enjoy his company, and quite another for you to be seen with him!”

  “Shouldn’t worry about de Villars,” offered his lordship. “Gone into the hinterlands to see his great-uncle Boudreaux.” Evidently fearing this information would be suspect, he tapped the end of his snub nose and added owlishly, “Told me so. Personally. Didn’t ask him, mind. Not polite. We was talking of something else at the time. I collect he thought I might like to know it.”

  Staring at him, Boothe asked, “Why?”

  His lordship, misunderstanding the question, considered it, and
shrugged. “Probably he’s going to try and turn the old fella up sweet. Always going down there. Except,” he appended with shrewd perspicacity, “when Boudreaux is here in Town. Then he goes to Grosvenor Square, instead.”

  “Good gracious,” Mrs. Boothe fluttered. “I’d no idea Lord Boudreaux was related to de Villars.”

  “Head of his house.” Fortescue took out his snuff box and tapped it meditatively. “Old boy’s a bit of a martinet. Disappointed in de Villars. Cut him off without a penny when he run off with poor little Miss Rogers in ’30—or was it ’32? Lord, what a bumble broth that was!”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Boothe. “A very dreadful scandal. Poor girl. But she married Dutton the following summer, as I recall. I remember wondering at the time whatever could have induced a clever boy like Trevelyan de Villars to ruin himself by compromising a widgeon like Constance Rogers.”

  “She was a lovely widgeon, probably,” said Rebecca dryly. “She must have been, if she achieved an eligible connection within a year of her disgrace.”

  “I still do not see, Forty,” Snowden persisted single-mindedly, “why de Villars should think you interested in the fact he visits his great-uncle.”

  “Stands to reason, dear old boy. Anyone would be. Dashed great fortune like that, whistled down the wind for a schoolgirl. His papa suffered a seizure, I believe. They came near to burying him. Had to, finally. He died.”

  Aghast, Rebecca cried, “How awful! The poor man died of shame?”

  “Pneumonia,” his lordship corrected. “Contracted it when he—”

  Rebecca was unable to repress a giggle, and Anthony jumped up and down a few times to contain himself. Snowden laughed and cuffed his friend lightly. “Don’t pay no heed to Forty,” he advised his amused family. “Fell out of his cradle when he was an infant!”

  “What he means is that I’m not awake on every suit,” said Fortescue with a rather endearing grin. “It’s truth. I ain’t a clever one.” He pondered a minute, then asserted with simple pride, “But I never brought disgrace on a green girl. Nor got cut out of a fortune. So I ain’t altogether past praying for, am I, Snow?”

  “You most certainly are not, sir,” said Rebecca. “And you are a supreme authority on fashion and etiquette besides!”

  His lordship beamed at her and promptly volunteered to escort the ladies home, were they intending to leave. They started off very shortly, Rebecca and Lord Fortescue leading the way and the other three following.

  Tugging at his uncle’s dress sword, Anthony chortled, “Lord Forty moves his lips when he reads, sir!”

  “Silence, scapegrace!” hissed Snowden, much amused. He turned to Mrs. Boothe. “Now, Aunt Alby, I rely upon you in this business. Becky’s been shut away from the world so long, she might not—ah, that is to say, sometimes she don’t quite understand—”

  His aunt tucked her hand into his arm and murmured comfortingly, “Never worry, Snowden, dear. I’m more than seven, and am all too aware of dear Rebecca’s impulsive nature. You may be perfectly easy. I shall not take my eyes from her.”

  Snowden thanked her and promptly forgot all about it.

  * * *

  Because of the length of the journey, the carriages conveying Sir Peter’s guests were to leave London at an early hour on Thursday morning. Rebecca and her aunt, determined not to be late, were delayed when Whisky was discovered to have disposed himself upon Mrs. Boothe’s travelling gown, which Millie had laid on the bed while the family breakfasted. The cat, a part-Persian, had long tawny fur, and in addition to the fact that his weight had set a mass of creases, the gown was covered with hairs that stubbornly resisted anything but individual removal. By the time Rebecca had donned her own travelling dress of peach linen, the underskirt embroidered in orange and white, and Millie had positioned a dainty matching cap, frilled with white lace, upon her powdered coiffure, the carriage was waiting at the door, and a man’s voice could be heard downstairs.

  Anthony had been carried off by his uncle to see a military review in the park so that they found Sir Peter Ward alone in the small drawing room, gazing up at the portrait of the late Forbes Parrish that hung above the mantel. He turned and bowed when the ladies entered, and upon Mrs. Falk hurrying in with her mistress’s shawl, he begged the honour and himself bestowed the white lace about Rebecca’s shoulders. She slanted an oblique and triumphant glance at her beaming aunt and murmured, “You knew my late husband, Sir Peter?”

  “Very slightly.” He looked pensively at the portrait, apparently having forgotten the guests waiting outside in the carriages.

  Watching him, Rebecca thought how fine he was in his riding clothes, the high top boots and spurred heels combining with his sword to lend him an air of strength and masculinity. She sighed dreamily.

  He murmured, “Do you miss him very terribly, ma’am?”

  She started and, knowing that of late she thought far less often of her dear Forbes, knew also a pang of guilt, and evaded, “He was a fine gentleman.”

  “Yes. I am very fond of sparrows.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened, and her aunt stared her bafflement.

  “S-sparrows…?” echoed Rebecca.

  Sir Peter pointed with his gold chased riding whip to the sky beyond the low wall against which the artist had chosen to portray Mr. Parrish. “There are three of the little rascals,” he said. “Do you not see, ma’am? Here—and two over here.”

  “Why—yes. So there are. What very keen eyes you have.”

  Not one to let an opportunity slip past, Mrs. Boothe imparted the news that her niece was extremely interested in birds. “I declare as a child she used to gaze at them by the hour,” she lied staunchly.

  Rebecca blinked.

  “Are you, indeed?” Sir Peter turned from his absorption with the sparrows, his usually grave eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Jove, if that’s the case you are in for a treat, ma’am. My estate in Bedfordshire is something of a bird sanctuary. I permit no shooting there, and you may see many different—” A shout from outside startled him. “Gad!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Whatever must you think of me, keeping you standing here and my guests waiting! Are you ready, ladies?”

  Two luxurious carriages were drawn up on the flagway, and several mounted gentlemen were gathered about the open windows, conversing with the ladies seated inside. Rebecca, her fears eased by the absence of Mr. de Villars’ sardonic features, heard her aunt utter a small cry, and glanced to her curiously.

  “I believe I see at least one old friend,” said Mrs. Boothe, blushing.

  Rebecca searched the faces of the guests, and said a surprised, “Why, is that not Mr. George Melton, Sir Peter?”

  Their host nodded affably. “He is a good fellow, do not you think?”

  With a sudden flash of intuition, she asked, “Is he also a close friend of yours?”

  “I think I could not claim his friendship, Mrs. Parrish. But de Villars is rather attached to him, and asked that I invite him. I was more than glad to do so. Especially when I learnt you have his acquaintance.”

  Rebecca looked thoughtfully at her aunt. Decidedly flustered, that lady enquired as to whether Mr. de Villars himself would join them, and it appeared that Lord Fortescue was infallible, as ever, and de Villars was at the country seat of his great-uncle. “He is,” vouchsafed Sir Peter in his gentle fashion, “extreme fond of the old fellow.”

  “To say naught of the old fellow’s fortune,” thought Rebecca, cynically.

  She and her aunt were guided down the steps and across the flagway as though highwaymen lurked in each areaway. To be accorded such reverence after her lonely year of seclusion was bliss for Rebecca, and she smiled gratefully as she was handed into the luxurious vehicle. Complacency left her abruptly. A purring voice said, “Why, it is the fallen lady!” Rebecca stiffened and looked up quickly. A beauteous face smiled upon her, but there was a glint behind the languor in the green eyes. “Oh, dear,” murmured Mrs. Monahan. “How clumsy of me. I was speaking of our col
lision, of course, dear ma’am.”

  Managing to squeeze onto the seat beside her aunt, Rebecca said in puzzled fashion, “Collision? Oh! You must be the lady de Villars chased from the summer house! Faith, but I’d not have recognized you in the daylight.”

  The glint in the green eyes became a spark. A flush brightened the dewy cheeks, and the chin of The Monahan lifted dangerously. Beside her, a very pretty girl with clear grey eyes and fair skin exclaimed in amusement, “That gave you back your own, Rosemary!” She leant forward, extending her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Boothe? It has been a long time since we met. Can you place me, I wonder?”

  Albinia’s brow wrinkled. Dismayed, she said, “Oh, mercy! Your face, I know, but … for the life of me, I’ve no name to put to it.”

  The girl laughed merrily. “We were never introduced, dear ma’am, and met under prodigious adverse circumstances. In fact—”

  “The flood!” exclaimed Mrs. Boothe. “Now I remember! Your party was marooned with ours when a bridge was washed away. We were coming home from Stratford, as I recall, and we all sought shelter in some remote hedge-tavern. Goodness me! That must be six years ago, at least. What a memory you have, Miss…?”

  “Allow me,” said The Monahan, in her drawling, lazy voice. “Miss Letitia Boudreaux, Mrs. Boothe, and Mrs.—Perish.”

  Miss Boudreaux hesitated. Mrs. Boothe went into an involuntary peal of laughter. Rebecca smiled with an unusual expanse of pearly teeth. “Lud, ma’am. I vow I’d not believed all the gentlemen say of you, but I see they were right on one count. You are quite comical.”

  They smiled sweetly upon one another.

  A very few seconds had passed since Rebecca and her aunt had entered the carriage. It was only just, in fact, beginning to move off, the gentlemen clattering along behind. But each of the four ladies knew that battle had been joined.