The Marquess’ Daring Wager Read online

  “Too bad we could not wrangle an invitation to the dinner this evening,” Lord Cabot said.

  Lady Montague pressed her lips together. “Pamela Hugh may be able to keep us out tonight with the flimsy excuse that there was not one extra spot to be had, but she will not keep us from attending the regatta or the ball. Two excellent opportunities to accomplish your aim. After that, the guests will all depart and Lockwood must be on his way with nothing to show for it, exactly as you planned. He will not engage himself to that little miss, Lady Sybil.”

  “He’ll thank us later, anyway,” Lord Grayson said.

  “Of course he will,” Lord Ashworth said.

  “Indeed, he must,” Lady Montague said. “There could not be a more unfortunate connection than with the Hayworths. They are a strange and unaccountable sort of family. But then, they are Cornwall people. What can one expect?”

  The conversation turned to other topics and Charlie crept away.

  He smiled to himself. What he’d heard was a good bit of fun. Those gents sought to separate Lord Lockwood from Lady Sybil when there weren’t any separating to do. They were spinnin’ their wheels, as it were.

  Charlie paused, it suddenly occurring to him that he had no idea why his master was so fixed on Lord Blanding. He’d heard all about how the gent was to be won over, but no particulars as to why. Did it have to do with Lady Sybil?

  He hoped his lord didn’t have any ideas of marriage. At first, he’d thought that if Lord Lockwood’s father wished it, the lord ought to just pick one of them ladies that was hangin’ round the house. Now though, he’d begun to rethink the matter. He’d landed himself in a comfortable situation, despite how many times Kingston would launch boots and brushes in his direction, and he didn’t like to think of a lady coming in and shaking the whole thing up.

  On the other hand, Lady Sybil’s maid, Betty, had been very motherly to him and he could not say he was opposed to that. Wherever his own mother was, whether she were a heartbroken baroness or no, he’d not laid eyes on her and likely never would. It was pleasant to have a lady fuss over him and wipe a smudge from his cheek or slip him an extra biscuit at tea. She had even mended a tear in his trousers and once moved the fire screen in the servant’s hall for his comfort, about as motherly a thing as he could think of.

  Charlie supposed he better let the fates take the situation in whatever direction they liked. The fates had been kind to him recently and so he presumed they knew best. He’d gone from sleeping in doorways to sleeping in a bed. He’d advanced from stealing a boiled eel for dinner to filling up on chops. His clothes were clean and he noticed they didn’t scratch. He hardly ever thought about the hair on his head anymore, though it had itched all his life and he had always supposed everybody’s head itched. He was now fairly certain it had been the fleas that Kingston had been so determined to get rid of. This was a fine, clean, well-fed sort of life and he’d like to keep it.

  He would, however, try to figure out what blighter of a footman was sellin’ secrets to Lady Montague. That might be used to advantage, though he didn’t have the first idea how at that very moment.

  Now, he’d only to somehow get back on that horse and report it all to Lord Lockwood. He could have a jolly time on the ride back, refusing to tell Kingston any of what he’d heard due to its confidential nature. The old boy would be outraged.

  *

  Lord Hugh had made a rousing speech to open the Yorkshire Regatta annual dinner. To hear it told, those men who would venture out onto the water on the following day had the strength of a viking, the courage of a lion, and the fortitude of a Spartan warrior.

  The crowd had cheered Lord Hugh’s every lofty phrasing. Sybil’s father had blushed to be compared to a viking. Lady Blanding nodded enthusiastically as if she’d always viewed her lord in such a light. When the courage of a lion had been floated, Lord Lockwood had irritated by pointing at Lord Blanding and raising the cheer. Sybil pretended she did not see it, though she thought the lord had the most annoying skill of throwing a compliment at her father that he could not work out how to incinerate on the spot.

  The speech finally came to a conclusion by noting that five brave men would sally forth on the morrow in good heart, the betting book would be maintained by Mr. Davies, and the judge to hear protests was to be Lord Burke.

  Once Lord Hugh had sat down, an army of footmen had appeared carrying no end of trays. Sybil understood that footmen had been borrowed from most of the neighborhood to accomplish it, and they were all to have an extra day off and coin in their pocket after the regatta for their trouble.

  Sybil ignored Lord Lockwood, though he would speak louder than he needed to. He was just now piling on compliments about her father to her mother.

  “I fear I will be outclassed on the morrow,” Lord Lockwood said, “as Lord Blanding has so much experience and skill.”

  “No doubt,” Lady Blanding answered. “Though I cannot fear for you overmuch, Lord Lockwood, as you appear to be a very cheerful loser.”

  Sybil smiled to herself. Lord Lockwood and his friends might think they were exceedingly clever, but nobody who dared joust with Lady Blanding came out of the experience without a few holes in their coat.

  She felt a perverse wish to punish Lord Lockwood. It was his fault that her heart was compromised. He should never have paid her the attention he had during the season. She was another victim of the gentlemen of the pact.

  “I understand,” Lady Blanding said, before Lord Lockwood could respond to the idea that he was a cheerful loser, “that you visited your mother in York. I hope you found her well?”

  Sybil paused over her soup. Would this be the moment when he would enlighten everybody as to the real truth of his dash to York?

  “Very well,” Lord Lockwood said.

  Sybil tightened her grip on her spoon. He would go on with the lie! She supposed he was not aware that he’d been exposed.

  But then, if he went on with it, did that mean there was no engagement? Why did he not brag of it?

  In a moment, she saw why he stayed silent on the matter. He waited for Poppy to rejoin the party and make the news known herself. There would be much celebration and by rights the lady should be on the scene for it.

  And so the dinner went on, Sybil sometimes speaking to her father on one side, though Lord Blanding and Lord Hugh were far too excited for the coming regatta to pay her too much attention. Her mother turned to her at various intervals and they spoke of this or that. But mostly, Sybil listened to what Lord Lockwood would have to say for himself.

  He’d had quite a lot to say, all in favor of Lord Blanding. Fortunately, Lady Blanding had settled on a scorched earth approach and shot flames at his every sally.

  The dinner having come to a blessed end, the guests began milling about and calling for their carriages, or for those staying in the house, making their way to the drawing room.

  Sybil was tired, in both body and mind, and had asked her mother’s permission to retire. She made her way to the house, leaving her parents behind, while Lord Blanding answered questions about his strategy for the race. Apparently, he intended to come out fast and stay in the lead.

  “Lady Sybil,” Lord Burke said, hurrying to come into stride with her. “I really must tell you something.”

  Sybil slowed her walk. She had rarely seen Lord Burke so grave. In truth, the only time he had appeared at all serious had been when he had rushed to the scene of Cassandra’s ball. The joking fellow he usually presented was just now nowhere in sight.

  “Perhaps it is not my business,” he said, “but I think you ought to know that Lockwood came here in pursuit of you, not Miss Mapleton.”

  Sybil stared at Lord Burke. He was in earnest; she could see it.

  The swirl of emotions that had lain beneath the surface all through the evening threatened to overtake her.

  Sybil picked up her skirts and ran into the house.

  “Wait! There is more!” he called after her.

 
Sybil raced up the stairs. She did not wish to hear more.

  In her bedchamber, she paced the room. She had not been delusional to think Lord Lockwood had favored her. He had, and he’d pushed his way into the house in the most determined manner on her account. He’d verged on rude to claim a distant connection to Lord Hugh, all in the hopes of seeing her.

  She had been the architect of her own destruction. If she had only agreed to forgive Lord Lockwood for his role in Cassandra’s troubles while they had still been in London, he would not have come. Things might have gone on as they had.

  Instead, she had kept her back straight and refused to do it. He’d followed her here, and then he’d fallen for Poppy.

  She supposed he considered it a lucky escape to have not declared himself sooner. Now, he was engaged to Poppy and went happily along, irritating her father in the hopes of winning some bet with the other gentlemen of the pact.

  My God, her happiness had been there to grasp and she’d let it slip through her fingers. She wished Lord Burke had never told her of it. If she had felt regret before, now the opportunities missed settled over her like a burial shroud.

  It must be for the best. She must convince herself of it. After all, if Lord Burke was right, that Lord Lockwood had pursued her here, he was not a very loyal or stalwart figure. How was a gentleman to change his heart like he changed his coat?

  Worse, what if he had declared himself to her, only to later discover he preferred Poppy after all?

  Sybil clutched the bedpost. It would have led to either an unhappy marriage or a broken engagement.

  This must be best. Her feelings were still her secret and that was how it must stay. Her humiliation was only known to herself and that must make it more bearable. She must consider herself lucky that he had not declared himself, only to turn to another. She would suffer in private, which was a deal more preferable than suffering in public.

  Betty softly knocked and entered the room. Sybil turned and said, “Will you bring me a hot milk punch? Strong, if you will.”

  *

  Richard had gone up early. He’d done all the work he could on Lord Blanding and the fellow was insistent on wagering on everything in sight. He might have put up with it, even the bet on which candle would burn down first, but Lady Sybil had retired early and so there was nothing to stay for. In any case, he had a regatta to win on the morrow. He’d left the drawing room with Lord Blanding calling after him that he would challenge him to bet on candle drippings at the gentleman’s earliest convenience. The man could be maddening.

  Now, he prepared to hear what Charlie and his valet had discovered during their sortie to Lady Montague’s house.

  Charlie leaned against the bedpost. “First, it’s a miracle we got there and back, considering your man’s unfamiliarity in the saddle,” he said, handily ducking Kingston’s hand.

  “To the point,” Richard said, folding his arms.

  “You was lured to York,” Charlie said. “They’re afraid you’ll figure it out on account of another lord’s ma and pa are just now visitin’ your own ma and pa in Norfolk.”

  At the mention of the duke and duchess being referred to as ma and pa, Kingston covered his eyes as if he could no longer bear to view what the world had become.

  “They speak of Burke,” Richard said. “He already told me of his parents visit to my own.”

  “Then,” Charlie went on, “there was all sorts of talk about two wagers. You was to come to the house to view Miss Mapleton and win over Lord Blanding—bets on both.”

  “I fully intend on winning over Lord Blanding, though there was no wager. How come they to think I was set on viewing Miss Mapleton?”

  “It warn’t them that thought it, t’was Lady Sybil. They seemed to take it as a great joke. Lady Montague talked of watering seeds, whatever she meant by it. Oh, and Lady Sybil don’t know you was lured away and thinks you went chasin’ after Miss Mapleton.”

  “Good Lord, Burke said as much but I brushed off the idea as ridiculous,” Richard said.

  “It seemed to me,” Charlie said, “that they was intent on parting you from Lady Sybil. They called it the evils of marriage and something about Cornwall being not up to snuff.”

  “Of course that’s why they’ve come,” Richard said. “If they wanted to scheme, who better to employ than the scheming Lady Montague?”

  “What I was a-wonderin’ though,” Charlie said softly, “is if you needed the separating. Was you thinkin’ of marrying the lady?”

  Kingston clutched at his forehead. “The insolence! The forwardness! It is not to be born. My lord, he is incorrigible. There is no reforming such a boy, it is entirely hopeless.”

  Richard poured himself a glass of brandy, he always being less affected by Charlie’s affronteries than his valet. “For all that, Kingston, I suppose you’d very much like to hear the answer?”

  “Well, I…”

  “I do intend to marry Lady Sybil,” Richard said. “This latest dust-up is just a small skirmish in a long war. We must gird our loins, gentlemen, the fight may go on for quite some time.”

  “I’m ready,” Charlie said. “I’ve given the matter thought and have been sometimes for and sometimes against, but I’ve come down in favor of it.”

  “You are not to imagine that you are to have thoughts revolving around your master’s personal business,” Kingston said. “I am amazed I must point that out, even to you.”

  Richard drained his brandy and laughed. “I’d be interested in hearing these thoughts, though,” he said. “If there is one thing amusing in this house, it’s Charlie’s thoughts.”

  Charlie leaned forward confidentially. “It comes down to this, on the one hand I don’t want a lady to upend how we go on, which is very comfortable in my opinion.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Kingston said under his breath.

  “On the other hand, Lady Sybil’s maid, you probably ain’t met her—”

  “I should think not!” Kingston said.

  “Her name is Betty,” Charlie continued, entirely unmoved by Kingston’s shock, “and she’s a motherly sort of person. I’m thinkin’ more and more that I ain’t never gonna run into me mum what’s probably a baroness and wouldn’t it be nice to have Betty about the place. She’s darning one of my socks at this very moment, she’s that fond of me.”

  Richard could barely hold in his laughter. He said, “Well then, I think it’s settled. I must marry Lady Sybil, on account of her maid.”

  *

  The gentlemen who were to take part in the regatta were roused at dawn and given a hearty breakfast before heading to the lake. If there had been much starings down and mutterings and snappings of napkins at that particular breakfast, only the parties involved and Jiminy knew of it. The race would start at ten and the spectators would begin arriving by nine.

  Sybil had not slept much, despite Betty bringing her a remarkably strong milk punch. She’d been up to see the footmen loading the wagons for the picnic, their faces grim, while Jiminy did his best to hustle them along. Then she’d seen the men mount their horses and set off to ready their boats.

  Lord Hugh and her father very determinedly took the lead and rode side by side. Lord Lockwood followed behind them and Sybil could not hear what he said, but he was talking, so he was no doubt irritating her father.

  As irritating as he was, Lord Lockwood also sat a horse very finely. Sybil could not help but note the power of his arms as he expertly maneuvered his animal. She had sighed and lain her cheek against the cool glass of the window. She did so very much admire a confident man on a horse.

  Lord Niemore followed Lord Lockwood and then the last gentleman, Sir Jeffrey, brought up the rear. Sir Jeffrey seemed a nondescript sort of person of medium size, the kind one may meet ten times before remembering him. According to her mama, nobody knew if he had any skill at the helm, as this would be his first time entering into the fray. Lady Blanding had high hopes he was a disaster in the making.

  Sybil tra
ced a drop of dew that made its way languidly down her windowpane. She must only get through the next few days. Today was the regatta, this evening was the ball, and then they would stay for one final day.

  Her father had already planned the activity for the final day—there was to be the epic card game with Lord Lockwood that would strip the gentleman of his final guineas. They were to play piquet, as her father considered himself rather a master at that particular game. Sybil had already mentioned it might not be worth the attempt since Lord Lockwood would soon be in possession of Poppy’s dowry, but Lord Blanding was intent upon it. Dowries, he said, took some time to collect. A contract must be negotiated, and it could easily be drawn out if there were some little quibble about Poppy’s pin money or some other detail. Lord Lockwood would feel the sting of Hayworth wrath and he would be forced to own the loss to his father, lest the lord find himself with empty pockets and nowhere to live.

  However the events would unfold, time would march on. She would soon find herself on her way back to Cornwall. Blessed Cornwall, blessed home. She had every hope of returning to her childhood bedchamber and finding that being surrounded by everything familiar soothed her. Even her old childhood rocking horse with its soulful glass eyes would be waiting in the corner of her room, ever willing to console.

  She would regain her spirits in Cornwall. After all, had not many a lady had a disappointment and gone on to happiness? She could not see how it would be possible at this very moment, but surely that was only because her greatest friend in the matter, time, had not yet had the chance to do its work.

  She could be happy again. It must be so.

  Betty interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry I am late, my lady. I darned a sock for that little fellow that was taken on by Lord Lockwood and he did keep me stopped in the hall with all sorts of questions. I felt sorry for him, he’s just as curious about mothers as anything, I suppose it’s natural as he’s not got one of his own. He even went so far as to inquire if a mother might not tuck in a young boy to his bed at night. I told him I supposed so and he was ever so struck by it.”