The Wagered Widow Read online

  During the balance of the journey, Rebecca and The Monahan contrived to deal together politely, if not sincerely. The truce was temporary, as both of them knew, but manners must be served, and each lady was far too well bred to continue sniping at the other in a way that would cause embarrassment to their fellow guests. Thanks largely to Mrs. Boothe’s volubility and Miss Boudreaux’s sunny nature, the conversation went along easily, as did the miles. At each stage of the journey the gentlemen came to the windows of the carriage to chatter to their fair companions. Sir Peter divided his attention nicely between the two vehicles, and nothing could have been sweeter than the demeanour of Rosemary Monahan when his handsome face appeared beside the window. Mrs. Boothe fairly sparkled, for George Melton, a stocky gentleman of middle years, wearing a conservative tie wig that seemed to add to his solemnity, did not once divert his attentions to the second carriage, but came shyly up to her window each time they halted. If he said little, his brown eyes were admiring, a smile hovered about his firm mouth, and his very bashfulness added to the lady’s regard for him. Rebecca, who had privately agreed with Snowden’s opinion that Mr. Melton was a very dull dog, found herself warming to him, if only for her aunt’s sake, and when his square, guileless face turned to her, she granted him a smile that brought a momentary surprise into his eyes. He returned the smile with a rather touching eagerness, and she wondered for a selfish instant whatever she would do if he popped the question and Aunt Albinia departed from the little house on John Street.

  At the second stage they all left the carriages to be ushered into the Duke and Duck by a beaming proprietor and shown to bedchambers where their various servants already awaited to minister to their needs. Downstairs again, the coffee room had been commandeered by Sir Peter, and hot chocolate and little cakes for the ladies, ale and pies for the gentlemen, were waiting. Rebecca was again impressed by Miss Boudreaux’s friendliness. Such a warm, kindly girl, it was a pity she was so tall, that feature probably explaining why she was not betrothed, despite her looks and her eligibility. There was little time for private thought, however, for the guests from the other carriage had to be introduced, the gentlemen who had ridden escort also pressed around, and soon they all were enjoying the light repast and merry company.

  Rebecca was part of a chattering group when her glance aside discovered The Monahan flirting outrageously with their host. Sir Peter displayed no more than his usual courtesy, but Rebecca was dismayed. She turned away and found that Miss Boudreaux was watching her smilingly. Rebecca was briefly flustered; her cheeks blazed. Miss Boudreaux stepped closer and asked softly, “Have you known Sir Peter for very long, ma’am?”

  “I only just met him, to say truth. Do—you know him well?”

  “Oh, yes. I have known Peter ever since Miss Edwards was killed. It was an accident and happened only a week after I first met your aunt. My cousin de Villars was escorting me back to my Seminary. We saw a tree struck by lightning, and it fell just as Sir Peter’s coach came around the corner. There was no slightest chance for him to stop.” Her eyes became blank for a moment. She murmured in a hushed tone, “It was—frightful. Treve ran to help, of course. Peter’s arm was broken. He was quite helpless, and utterly distraught. Miss Edwards was thrown from the vehicle, and her head struck a boulder. She was killed instantly.”

  “How ghastly!” Her warm heart touched, Rebecca put a hand on Miss Boudreaux’s arm and said with sympathy, “Do not think about so dreadful a thing.”

  “I seldom do. But, do you know, I saw Helen Edwards lying there in the rain, and I have never forgotten it. She was so lovely and looked quite untouched—like someone asleep. It is small wonder poor Peter has never been able to look at another lady.”

  “She must have been very beautiful. How fortunate that you were close by.”

  “Yes, for there was no one else about. It was a terrible storm, and Treve—my cousin—would not have ventured abroad, save that I was to be in a play at the Seminary that evening, and bedevilled him to get me there. He took care of everything. Peter was past caring, but later he was rather pathetically grateful. They have been bosom bows ever since.”

  “I see. What a tragedy to lose her before they were even wed.”

  “Ward is rather a dear, do not you think? I have always hoped he might find someone else.”

  “It would appear,” murmured Rebecca, glancing to the side, “that he has done so.”

  “Who? Mrs. Monahan? Oh, no. Rosemary actually has—ah, interests elsewhere.”

  Striving to appear surprised, Rebecca said, “Indeed? Is a most indulgent gentleman.”

  “Is an absent gentleman,” Miss Boudreaux corrected, her eyes twinkling.

  The two girls exchanged understanding smiles. It would appear, thought Rebecca, that although she had undeniably made an enemy of one lady, she had found a friend in another.

  Soon they were back in the carriages and resuming their journey. The weather was fair, if not bright, and the countryside lush and green and ablaze with the flowers of early summer. They took luncheon at a charming old hostelry in St. Albans, and when they set forth again it was agreed to split up the guests so that they might better get to know one another. Much as she had liked the tall girl, Rebecca hove a sigh of relief to see Miss Boudreaux and The Monahan go to the second coach. Their places were taken by a sister and brother. An amiable pair, they appeared to be in their early thirties, and were distinguished only by their odd habit of finishing one another’s sentences. When it developed that the gentleman was as interested in birds as was their host, Rebecca lost no time in requesting that he identify some species for her as they went along. He gladly agreed, and she was instructed that there were many different species and that the British Isles was blessed with a great number of these, although the wholesale slaughter for “sport” bade fair to soon render many species extinct. She was shocked, and her interest spurred Mr. Street’s enthusiasm. The resultant flood of instruction became so confusing that she sighfully admitted at length that she must be a feather-wit, and was able to remember very little of what she had been told.

  “Never fret,” beamed Mr. Street encouragingly. “Sir Peter will—”

  “—tell you of them all,” Miss Street finished, her round face as full of good-natured cheer as was her brother’s.

  Fascinated, Mrs. Boothe asked, “Do you and your brother always—”

  “Talk like this?” Miss Street smiled, pulling her shawl closer about her plump shoulders. “Oh, yes. You see, we are—”

  “—twins,” chuckled her brother. “I am nine and twenty, and—”

  “—I am also,” Miss Street declared.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Boothe, understandingly. “Then that—”

  “—explains it.” Miss Street nodded.

  Rebecca thought, “My goodness! I wonder if Snow has met this strange pair!” Still, she liked them, for they were as friendly and unassuming as two puppies, and besides, she had learnt something from them that might very well assist her in The Plan; at least she would not be totally without knowledge of sparrows, rooks, and cuckoos!

  It was late afternoon when Sir Peter rode up to the windows to announce that they were now on his preserves. Mr. Street and his sister continued their mutual instruction, and many different varieties of birds were pointed out for Rebecca’s edification. She tried to pay attention, but her interest had waned, and she found more to admire in the estate they traversed. Save for an occasional low rise, the terrain was largely flat. The park was a very good size and well wooded. It had been left in as natural a state as possible, so that she thought what a happy time Anthony could have here. The house came into view when they rounded a curve in the drivepath. Rebecca experienced a feeling of disappointment, for although it was impressive and in excellent repair, it was a grey brick structure, sitting with uncompromising squareness in a broad treeless hollow. She could not but think how much more attractive it would appear were it surrounded by trees and shrubs, and found herself wondering
why the original builder had not set it on some of the higher ground rather than in the hollow. The welcome they received, however, left nothing to be desired. Sir Peter had an excellent staff, and the butler and several footmen and lackeys were on the terrace to receive them as the carriages rolled up to the wide-spreading front steps.

  Inside, the mansion was much bigger than Rebecca had anticipated. Maids and powdered footmen and lackeys were everywhere, low-voiced, efficient, and obviously eager to welcome and assist the master’s guests. Somehow, in the confusion of ushering his friends about, conferring with his butler, and doing all he might to be the perfect host, Sir Peter found time for a few words with Rebecca and Mrs. Boothe. He seemed almost overly concerned as to their comfort and summoned his housekeeper to enquire which suite had been assigned to them. Their disposition apparently satisfying him, he told the immaculate, white-haired woman that every possible effort must be made to ensure that Mrs. Parrish and her aunt receive anything that might make their stay more pleasant. He left them then, to attend to his other guests, but his smiling gaze lingered on Rebecca’s face, and she felt dizzied with happiness.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Kellstrand, placed them in the charge of a magnificent lackey and urged that they rest and refresh themselves after their long journey. “If you wish it, your dinner will be brought up to you,” she said courteously. “But if you are not wearied, Sir Peter will await you in the green saloon at half-past six o’clock. Dinner will be served at half-past seven.”

  Following their assigned lackey across the hall and up the wide staircase, Rebecca looked about with interest. Despite its now crowded state, everything was orderly, the Great Hall seeming, like its owner, to reflect an air of calm refinement. The marble floors gleamed; Florentine gold benches were spaced about the walls which were painted a pale blue-green; two marble pillars soared to the ceiling at each end of an oval dome of blue and green glass that filtered an arboreal light into the room; and the draperies at the tall windows were of green velvet. The stairs climbed against a wall hung with many portraits: the largest of these depicted a flock of starlings, and there were smaller individual paintings of robins, sparrows, blackbirds, and an especially fine likeness of a snowy owl. Somewhat taken aback, Rebecca glanced at her aunt and encountered such a stunned look that she had to battle a sudden urge to giggle.

  In keeping with the luxurious quality of the mansion, their suite was sumptuous. It consisted of two large bedchambers, each with an adjoining dressing room, and having between them a cosy little parlour. The carpets were so thick that Rebecca’s slippers seemed to sink into them. The furnishings were rich, but not ornate, the drawer and wardrobe space more than ample. Several fine old bird prints graced the walls, and the view from the windows was delightful.

  There was no sign of Millie, but they had no sooner removed their bonnets and mittens than a knock at the door heralded the appearance of a maid bearing a tray with a pot of tea, cups and saucers, and, in addition to the milk and sugar, a plate of scones and sliced cake. Curtseying to Mrs. Boothe, the girl advised that Madame’s abigail would be up so soon as what she’d got the luggage straightened out, as there was “some sort of bumbling in the stables just now.”

  Rebecca began to pour the tea and her aunt watched, holding her sides and bemoaning the fact that she would not have time to put off her corsets did Millie not hasten. She sat down to accept the cup Rebecca offered and, stirring in her customary three teaspoons of sugar, took a sip, sighed blissfully, and said, “Was you as surprised as I, love, to discover The Monahan amongst us? Lud, but you could have knocked me down with a feather.”

  “And me, Aunt. And did you notice how she scratched at me? Wretched woman! It is de Villars’ doing, I make no doubt. He has sent her, in his stead, to thwart me at every turn!”

  “Thwart you? But—whyever would she do such a thing, dearest? She cannot wish to aid you, if to do so means she will lose de Villars.”

  “If she adores him so, why is she here sans her love? He would be just cunning enough to convince her she is helping to protect his friend against a designing woman, never allowing her to suspect what his own evil designs are! I tell you, Aunt Alby, de Villars means to prevent me attracting Sir Peter, for he plots that I am to become another of his collection of lightskirts!”

  One hand pressed to her bosom, Mrs. Boothe squawked, “Re—becca! What a naughty expression! Besides, if de Villars does not mean you to become—er, better acquainted with Sir Peter, why would he have urged the man to invite you to his ball last week? And why did he not bring his influence to bear so that we were not invited here? Ward obviously rates him high, and would listen.”

  Stirring her tea thoughtfully, Rebecca admitted the logic of this. “If Ward followed de Villars’ suggestion that Mr. Melton be invited, he would—”

  “Do you know, I had quite forgot that,” Mrs. Boothe interpolated. “Lud! How ungrateful in me, when I should instead feel a kindness for the scheming rascal!”

  “Should you, dearest?” Rebecca chuckled at her aunt’s blushes. “I vow each time I looked your way, there were Melton’s eyes, fairly glued to you. Has he not so much as thrown out a hint yet?”

  “He looks, and smiles, and sometimes seems about to say something significant, but when he does speak”—Mrs. Boothe hove a mournful sigh—“’tis only to mumble about the weather, or what fine cattle Sir Peter keeps in his stables, or some such commonplace. Alas, I fear is a most bashful gentleman!”

  “Poor dear.” Rebecca smiled sympathetically. “We both are hampered, it seems. You by a shy swain, and me by a predatory rake! Well, never mind. We shall come about. Now, tell me what you think of this estate.”

  “I think it charming. A shade formal, perhaps. And did ever you see so many servants? Ward must indeed be plump in the pockets.” An arrested expression came into her eyes. “Can that be why Rosemary Monahan is so prodigious syrupy to the man?”

  Dismay seized Rebecca, but then her chin set doggedly. If The Monahan fancied to amuse herself by captivating another victim this weekend, she was going to encounter some stiff opposition!

  CHAPTER

  4

  Rebecca blinked sleepily as the brocade bedcurtains were drawn and Millie’s phlegmatic countenance looked down at her. The abigail vouchsafed the information that it was a cloudy morning, but the boat party had not as yet been cancelled, and Mrs. Rebecca had best take her breakfast now did she not wish to be tardy. Millie was tolerant of modern ideas; she knew her mistress would never eat in the morning before she had washed and cleaned her teeth, and hot water was already steaming in the washstand bowl. Yawning, Rebecca stretched and threw back the bedclothes.

  Ten minutes later, feeling alert and refreshed, she was seated at the round table in front of the windows, partaking of toasted crumpets and strawberry jam. The crumpets had been created by the sure hands of a master, the jam was rich and full of luscious berries, the coffee hot and of a fine brew. Yet Rebecca’s expression was glum.

  For a while last evening everything had gone beautifully. She had been seated at table between Hilary Broadbent, who had arrived at the mansion with several other dinner guests, and the shy Mr. Melton, who had surprised her with pleasant if not scintillating conversation. The gentleman spoke like a sensible man, wherefore one must assume shyness attacked him only when in the company of the lady he meant to court. Rebecca smiled sympathetically at the fragment of crumpet she held. Her own efforts had been no more successful than those of Mr. Melton. Sir Peter had looked her way often during the meal, and she had managed to appear unaware. Save for the one instance in which he had glanced at her just as a scallop had slipped from her fork and managed in some perverse fashion to plop into her glass, splashing wine over her neighbour. Hilary had teased her for her embarrassment, demanded that none but her own “fair hands” should wipe his cuff, and then created a good deal of amusement by “fishing” for the immersed scallop. Rebecca’s blushes had faded. Vastly diverted, she had entered into the merrim
ent, glancing up at length to find Sir Peter’s grave eyes still upon her, and Aunt Albinia directing an unmistakably warning glance down the table.

  She popped the crumpet into her mouth and wondered pensively why it was that she invariably forgot to be poised and sophisticated just when it was most important that she be so. Nonetheless, her jollity must not have been too hoydenish or given Sir Peter a deep disgust of her, for later, in the drawing room, he had three times wandered to her side, and when musicians began to play soon after ten o’clock, he had solicited her as his partner in a country dance. The Monahan, ravishing in a very décolleté gown of fawn damask embroidered with pink flowers, with hoops rounded in the old style, had been won by Major Broadbent, his narrow tawny eyes triumphant as he led her through the measures. Completely happy, Rebecca had known she herself looked well in her Watteau dress of cream satin trimmed with blue and having blue knots clustering about the flounce of her petticoats and the elbow-length lace of her sleeves. She had danced well, until someone had accidentally trodden on her train. She had been staggered and purely horrified when she heard the sound of ripping fabric.

  Her shining little teeth savagely attacked the remaining half of the crumpet. It had been an accident—no? When she’d glanced around, The Monahan had been some distance off, but in the movement of the dance, perhaps … She growled to herself. If it had been deliberate, it had succeeded, for by the time Millie had repaired the ravaged train and she had returned to the party, the musicians were packing up their instruments, The Monahan had Sir Peter fairly trapped, and Hilary was chatting with Letitia Boudreaux. She herself had at once been pounced upon by the Streets and borne off for a tour of the bird paintings, accompanied by a joint lecture she would have found a crushing bore had not her sense of the ridiculous arisen to rescue her.

  Well, she thought, her chin setting determinedly, the boat party today would not be spoiled! She would watch that designing lightskirt like a hawk! She stood and went over to the wardrobe. What to wear.… Running her eyes along the rainbow of colours that hung there, she fairly pounced on the green taffeta she had so recklessly purchased from Madame Olga. It was daringly plain, the stomacher of striped green and white satin being edged on both sides with a band of white fur that swept from waist to shoulder in a gracefully expanding “V,” this the only ornamentation, save for the ruffled edges of the chemise sleeves. It was a little frightening to be so far ahead of fashion, and she eyed the gown uncertainly. The skirt was rather stark, for it was neither tiered, flounced, nor scalloped. Still, when she had tried it on, it really had looked delicious, and Madame had been so enraptured that, despite the unpaid bills of this undistinguished client, she had called in her assistants to see “eggsackly ’ow the robe à l’anglaise it should be wore!”