A Desperate Wager (15 page)
Authors: Em Taylor
Thirty-Nine
Sarah turned her head and studied the man, propped against the open doorway. His cravat bore tea stains, his shirt was untucked and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He had changed from his boots into shoes. She cast her eye up his strong calf muscles, his buckskin-encased taut thighs, his broad torso, until her gaze rested on his glassy, slightly leering look on his face. He was most definitely in his cups. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath.
She really was struggling to maintain some kind of composure. From the indignity of being sprawled on the floor when a maid had answered the bell, to needing help to be seated back up on the chaise, to knowing that maid knew he had left her to fend for himself. She doubted anyone in this sprawling house was not aware that the duke was a drunk. And she had been stupid enough to marry him.
He licked his lips. Was that supposed to be a seductive pose he was trying to create as he sprawled against the door he had just shut? She really was not in the mood for anything to do with the marriage bed. Her head still ached from the fall, and her limbs felt as though she had been stretched out on some medieval torture rack—presumably her body’s reaction to the tumble from the carriage.
“
Thank you for lunch,” he said.
“
The servants made it—not I.” She had only asked the housekeeper to ensure that he had been fed. And she had done it reluctantly, considering how hurt and betrayed she had felt.
“
I know but you could have left me. I would never have rung for food myself.”
“
You would have if you had not been foxed.”
“
Shhh, please do not scold me. I know I was wrong.”
Sarah stared up at the ceiling, blinking back the smarting behind her eyes. His unsteady footsteps grew nearer then changed direction. He was stumbling around to the other side of the bed. The depression of the mattress told her he had sat.
She wished she could turn her back on him but that would be a production in itself, given that she would have to grab the side of the mattress and haul herself onto her side. Movement of the bed indicated he had lain down beside her. She glanced towards him and noted that he had removed his coat.
“
I am deeply sorry, my beautiful Freckles,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. He threw his arm over her stomach, moving to lie alongside her, pressing himself close. “I know I should not drink so much alcohol but,”—his voice hitched—”I thought you were dead. I thought it had happened again. I was back on that road, staring into Crosby’s glassy eyes, knowing he was dead and knowing I had killed him. And now here you were, lying dead—or so I thought.”
Sarah frowned. Who was Crosby? And had Nathaniel really killed a man? What in God’s name was he talking about?
He moved again and dropped his head onto her stomach. Sarah lay there, still, as her drunken husband burst into great heart-rending sobs. A product of the whisky no doubt, as Nathaniel was not a particularly emotional man. But she knew in her heart that whatever had happened with this Crosby fellow was what was eating at him.
She ran her hands through his curls, hoping it would soothe him slightly and her anger and hurt dissipated, to be replaced by concern. They’d had a tumultuous start to their marriage. Some of it had been wonderful. He was a considerate lover
, and her injury had not caused as many issues as she might have expected. But she knew he carried a flask and regularly drank strong spirits throughout the day. She suspected there was alcohol scattered throughout the manor and that the alcohol he drank in a glass, from a decanter was only the beginning of the story.
“
So sorry,” he whispered into her muslin day gown. “I am so sorry, Freckles.”
His sobs eased
, and she knew that even in his drunken state he was going to feel rather embarrassed by his outburst. When he tried to sit up, she held tight and shushed him. And, after a short while, when a little snort-like snore escaped him, she knew she had a few hours to rid the house of strong spirits.
When he had moved the bedroom to this part of the house, Nathaniel had ensured that the bell pull was next to the bed. After what she guessed to be about half an hour of his gentle snoring, she tugged on the cord for her maid.
“Help me up,” she whispered to Tilly. “We need to move His Grace off me.”
“
Aye, ma’am.” Tilly moved around the bed and tugged on the duke’s shoulders. He rolled easily onto his back. She did not like him on his back. What if he became violently sick? That could happen with strong spirits. Well they would be in the room while she changed, and she could get a footman to turn him once they were done.
“
I need my light green muslin and my hair repaired. Then we will get a footman to take me into His Grace’s study.”
“
Of course.” Tilly hurried about her business, and soon Sarah was feeling more like her usual self. Her head still thudded but it was bearable, and managing to rid the mansion of the demon drink would make her feel better. A little part of her felt she was being dishonest and sneaky, but the bigger part knew she was doing what was best for the man she loved.
She stared at herself in the glass as the words swirled around her head. Loved? Did she love her husband? She was fond of him
, but at times he was nothing but a bad-tempered brute. How could she love such a man?
The thrum of his snore rent the air
, and she smiled. He was quite adorable. Well, she had no time for considering her feelings towards her husband at present. There was work to be done. And she knew he would not be happy when he awoke.
Forty
Mrs Jenkins, the housekeeper, had been given the task of ensuring every flask, bottle and decanter of spirits had been located and placed behind a locked door. It would not do to throw it away because they would be entertaining at some point and it would be needed.
Only Sarah and Mrs Jenkins had keys to the cupboard
, and Sarah had confidence that Nathaniel was not the kind of employer to bully his staff. If Nate wanted spirits, he would have to convince Sarah to open up the cupboard.
They would discuss it as soon as he woke
, and she would make it absolutely clear that if Mrs Jenkins was bullied or threatened in any way to open the cupboard then their marriage would be over and his chance of a legitimate heir would be gone forever.
But she did not really believe this threat would be necessary. She sat in the comfortable seat behind the duke’s desk, organising the finding and removal of the whisky and brandy. Nate’s valet had been sent off to search his dressing room and his old
bedchamber, the maids to find any cupboards where flasks might be hiding and even the groom had been ordered to check the stables and carriages.
Throughout the process, Caesar had sat at the fire, gazing mournfully at Sarah.
She wondered if the dog had taken it into his head that she had usurped his master.
“
Please do not look at me in such a wretched way, Caesar,” she requested of the hound. The dog padded over and laid its chin on her lap. She sat back, stroking the silky hair on the dog’s head. “You are a faithless mutt, are you not?” she chastised the Labrador. “By rights you should be at your master’s side. But thank you for your company.” The dog gave her another doleful look and shut his eyes.
Progress had certainly been made in clearing the house of spirits when
Garvie, the butler, appeared and announced the arrival of Bellamy the coachman who wished to speak to the duke.
“
Send him in to speak to me,” she said and watched the butler’s jaw drop.
“
But, Your Grace, His Grace demanded to see Mr Bellamy on his return.”
“
That may be so, Tompkins, but His Grace is indisposed. I am the mistress of this house and you would do well to keep on my good side. Send Mr Bellamy in here.”
“
Yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned, looking somewhat nonplussed. A few minutes later Mr Bellamy strode in.
“
I was told to report to His Grace as soon as I returned.”
“
His Grace is unwell. You can report to me and I shall convey the message.”
“
Well, ma’am, he did say…”
“
And now I am saying. Bellamy, I do not wish to have an argument with you, only for you to have to concede and lose face. I am no imbecile and am more than capable of conveying your findings to my husband. Now, what did you find out?”
“
It appears that the wheel was cut through with some kind of saw. It was deliberate. Someone was trying to hurt you, His Grace or both. I am sorry to be the bearer of such awful tidings.”
“
I see.” She had expected it given what Bellamy had said at the roadside, but she worked hard to steady the awful lurch in the pit of her stomach. Her skin grew cold, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. She wished she had a shawl. “Would you check over the other carriages and make sure they have not been tampered with, then report back. I think it best that we know exactly what we are dealing with. We will interview all the stable staff and see who had access to the stables and the carriages. Someone must know something.”
“
I will, ma’am. May I apologise for my impertinence earlier.”
Sarah smiled at the older man. He clutched his hat as if it may fly away in a strong wind any second. She waved her hand dismissively.
“Think nothing of it. I have no doubt I shall do things differently from the now dowager duchess. We shall all take a little time to adjust to my new role.”
“
Indeed, ma’am.”
“
Thank you, Bellamy. You may leave.”
After the coachman left, Sarah ordered tea and cake then started to look through the papers of Nathaniel’s desk. Oh she knew she should not be poking around in his affairs
, but they were married now. Perhaps there was some clue to the person who was trying to kill one or other of them.
There were bills and correspondence about farming and House of Lords’ business, a few letters of congratulations on his marriage—perfunctory and devoid of any real sentiment.
Then her gaze fell upon an unopened letter. She turned it over to find a seal she did not recognise. Flipping it over once again, she considered the sender’s script. It was feminine, slanting and a little too cursive for Sarah’s taste, as if the writer was trying a little too hard.
Should she open her husband’s mail? He was only foxed—not completely incapable. But then it may be a clue to who was trying to harm them.
She lifted the letter opener, took a deep breath along with her chances that he would be angry with her.
A lock of dark brown hair fell out onto the desk
, and she eyed it with distaste. Who was sending such a strange trophy to a married man—to her husband? It was the kind of thing a lady would sent to her betrothed.
As she began to read the letter her heart began to sink into her belly.
Nate, my love,
I have returned from Town and am currently in residence at our country seat. Mama is beside herself at the terrible turn of events. She was looking forward desperately to our betrothal and organising what would surely have been the wedding of the Season. Now my only hope is for an illicit affair with you. My innocence seems unimportant now. Feeling your hands on my body, your lips on mine are all I can think on.
Meet me in the orchard tomorrow night at midnight. I will give myself willingly to you and eschew any other suitors. I am doomed to a life of spinsterhood, but I can bear that if only you will come to me and prove how much you still care.
I love you and I always will.
Forever yours,
Amelia
The paper dropped from Sarah’s hand and she leaned back on the large leather seat. They had seen Miss Amelia Trotter just that morning on the road as they had returned from the scene of the accident. She had been wearing an elegant, fashionable gown, her hair had been perfectly coiffed and her bonnet undamaged from being thrown from a carriage. She was the perfect duchess—except that she was not married to a duke.
Sarah, on the other hand, had been bruised and battered with grass stains all down her gown and her legs showing to the knees. She felt like crying.
Why was the letter lying unopened? Was his drinking something to do with him being forced into marriage? Was that why her father had picked the Duke of Kirkbourne? She knew Nate had been drunk when he made the wager, but did her father have a hand in getting the poor fellow drunk? She would gladly throttle her father if she could. It had been a crazy scheme. It may have worked, but at what cost?
The sound of the door opening roused her from her musings. Nathaniel stood in the door, freshly shaven, hair combed and clothing changed and looking extremely sheepish. He squinted at the late sun streaming through the window. She hoped His Grace had a headache—a very painful one.
She checked at the clock on the mantel and winced. She had been sitting in his study for four hours. Dinner would be ready in one hour.
