A Wager for Love (2 page)

“Now you were saying, Ordley,” he prodded gently.

Ordley shot him a baleful glare. “Come, cousin, it’s all over town that our grandfather has left you his fortune only if you marry within three months of his death. How long have you left now?” he taunted. “Only a little over two months by my reckoning I collect.”

“You are right as always, cousin, nine weeks to be exact. However, you interest me. This, er, rumour, how comes it about that it is all over town? I own I had thought it a matter between my grandfather’s man of business and myself. But there, I repine too much.”

There was an uncomfortable pause whilst the Earl studied the diamond-studded buckle on one elegantly shod foot.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” muttered Ordley, his colour high.

“Oh indeed you were, cousin,” affirmed the Earl, “Especially it you hope to best me. Now, those vowels of young Arnedale’s.”

For a second Ordley looked a little puzzled. “Arnedale’s vowels, but what have they to do with anything? We were talking of our grandfather’s Will.”

“You were talking of our grandfather’s Will, Ordley. I believe I was endeavouring to steer the conversation into, shall we say, less dangerous waters?”

Ordley shrugged, “Have it your own way. What of Arnedale’s notes?”

“I have it in mind to take them from you, cousin.”

Beneath his cousin’s sardonic eyes, Ordley blenched and a look of panic crossed his face.

With an amused smile the Earl rocked back on his heels, “Never fear, Ordley, I mean to play you for them, that is all. You may name your own stakes.”

A rustle of anticipation ran through the room, as men gathered closer to the table. Here was sport worth watching.

“What’s this, Saltaire?” queried Sandwich. “Do you have it in mind to play the hero and rescue the lad from his fate?”

Saltaire eyed him coldly, “Don’t be a fool, Sandwich, you heard my cousin here. I might have the title, but my pockets are still to let.” He picked up the dice, shaking them expertly. “Besides it might be interesting to discover it my luck holds good now that I am become an Earl.”

“Ready, cousin,” he mocked.

Ordley checked him. “A moment, Saltaire. Not the dice. A wager, what say you? All I have here.” He gestured to the littered table.

The Earl’s hand hovered over the baize, his eyes sharpening. “Cousin?”

Ordley’s eyes shone with barely suppressed malice. “All these, including that young tool Arnedale’s notes, that you cannot marry within the week, but mind it has to be girl of good family, unblemished reputation and possessed of a fortune.” He sat back in triumph, enjoying the sensation caused by his words.

The Earl uncurled his long frame and watched him thoughtfully. “Dear me, cousin, how very theatrical.”

“You refuse?” asked Ordley eagerly.

The Earl studied his cousin’s face mockingly. “Come, you know me better than that. A week you say,” he mused. “It will suffice.”

Open-mouthed, Ordley stared at him. “But, Saltaire, you cannot … surely …”

“You expected me to refuse the challenge?” asked the Earl sardonically. His mouth curled contemptuously. “That was most unwise of you. You are a fool, Ordley-stick to plucking pigeons.”

Rigid with fury, Ordley stared at him. The room was awash with speculation. Saltaire might possess a fine old name, land aplenty, several fine houses and a title, but his reputation! A wealthy cit with a fortune from the Indies and a girl to marry off well, or perhaps some poverty-stricken Irish peer with his pockets to let and half a dozen daughters on his hands might-just might-consider an alliance with him, but the family of a girl of good breeding, unblemished reputation and a fortune-never.

Ware placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm.

“Have a care, Gilles, I implore you,’, he murmured. “Surely even you won’t attempt this folly? It’s not too late,” he pleaded.

He was wasting his time. The green eyes glittered dangerously. “You think I will not succeed?” He laughed gently. “Although he does not know it, my cousin has done me a favour. A rich bride, ‘tis just what I need.”

“Where’s the book?” shouted March. “Come on, hurry I say.”

A sleepy footman was sent post-haste to collect it.

The Earl turned to Dashwood. “Well, Francis, and what is all this one hears about your, er, activities at Medmenham?”

There was a short, tense pause, whilst several of the company affected not to hear, or became strangely absorbed in their footwear.

“What, can it be that you wish to join us at our frolics perhaps, Saltaire?” responded Dashwood softly.

There was just a suggestion of a fastidious shudder from the Earl. “Acquit me of that, Dashwood, I beg. I prefer to hunt my own quarry. not have it provided for me.”

“A hunt which becomes increasingly difficult as your reputation spreads, eh, Saltaire?”

The green eyes narrowed a little. “My reputation, Dashwood,” he drawled. “surely it is no blacker than your own? Besides a little difficulty always adds, shall I call it, excitement, to the chase. don’t you agree?”

Dashwood looked a little annoyed. “Come, Saltaire, since you returned from Paris minus the charming Isabella, the tongues have never stopped wagging, and by all accounts when you were over there …”

The Earl appeared to be lost in rapt contemplation of an extremely fine brocade coat, marvellously embroidered with humming birds, worn by a tottering exquisite. He raised his glass for a second. Dashwood’s question hung on the air. At last, apparently satisfied, he allowed the glass to swing free on its ribbon. “That, my dear Dashwood, was six years ago. Since then I have lived a life of, if not irreproachable morality, well certainly …”

He was not allowed to finish.

“Moral, you,” jeered Dashwood. “Lud, Saltaire, that’s rich, and what about the lady’s brother?”

“Yes, I agree. A trifle maladroit of me, I fear I had overestimated his skill with the sword. However, he is dead and no amount of repining will bring him back to life.”

“Repine, you?” queried March.

One eyebrow lifted haughtily. “Did I say I repined, March? I think not. I was of course referring to his family.”

At that moment the footman came running up bearing a large leather bound book.

“Ah good,” cried March. “Now let’s get the wager written up.”

It was done. Stakes called and bets laid. This accomplished to the satisfaction of all concerned, Saltaire placed one elegant hand on his friend’s arm.

“I think it is time we took our leave.”

“So where now, Gilles, the fair JuIianna?”

The Earl shook his head. “I fear not, James. I grow weary. Even the fairest charmer palls after a while, do you not find? There is a tendency to become … well I fear I really must call it clinging. And one of the things I detest most is a clinging woman.”

Ware frowned. Why must Saltaire always be so cynical? Women pursued him in droves, but it was Ware’s private opinion that for all his much vaunted rakish ways, Saltaire cared not one jot for a single one of them. However, Ware’s reflections were brought to an end by the eruption into the room of his younger brother, the Honourable Charles, patently a little high flown with wine.

“Ah, there you are, brother,,’ Charles said genially.

“Have you seen my friend, Arnedale?” He scanned the room a little blearily, his eyes coming to rest admiringly on the Earl. “Lud, Saltaire, emerald satin—’tis very fine.” He swept the Earl a fine bow, almost losing his balance and his wig in the process, and causing his unhappy brother to sigh a little. A painted and patched Macaroni in lilac satin and a lavender powdered wig tittered audibly behind his fan, faltering into an uneasy silence as he chanced to meet the Earl’s eyes.

Ware watched his brother a trifle grimly. “Charles!” he remonstrated. “Really, could you not …”

Saltaire cut in smoothly. “I fear you have missed your young friend. He left somewhat hurriedly. Badly dipped I fear.”

A look of gloom crossed the Honourable Charles’ mobile face. “Poor Richard.” He dropped somewhat unsteadily into a chair, shaking his head dolefully. “Warned him not to play at Ordley’s table. Told him it was devilish deep. Now he’ll never get his sister off his hands,” he added.

A gleam of humour lit the Earl’s eyes. “That was his intention was it. Tell me, Charles, was he going to stake her before or after his lands?”

“Stake her?” Charles stared at him owlishly. “No, nothing like that, Saltaire, I assure you. The girl’s been living secluded in Italy with her grandmother, or some such thing. Richard has brought her to London to puff her off in style. They are staying with a cousin or an aunt, I forget which. or course the chit has no portion, nor likely to have.” He shrugged, “Richard will have to find a rich merchant.” His face brightened momentarily and he added, “Might be a good idea that. Saltaire. Must tell Richard, course I ain’t saying . .”

“Charles!” cut in his brother repressively.

“Well, she ain’t in her first youth.” put in the Honourable Charles. “She must be all of three and twenty!”

“Positively at her last prayers.” responded the Earl gravely.

“˜What’s that?” queried Charles a little puzzled. “At her last prayers? Oh I see, well perhaps not quite that.”

“You relieve me, Charles. I had begun to think you must find me positively archaic.”

A startled, almost horrified expression, crossed the younger man’s face. “I assure you, Saltaire, nothing of the kind. I wouldn’t put you a day above thirty at the most,” he offered kindly.

“Thank you, Charles,” replied the Earl a little drily.

“Charles!” warned his brother despairingly.

Although the morning was fairly well advanced, one might quite reasonably have expected to find all three inhabitants of the neat house in Brook Street partaking of sustenance. In point of fact the sole occupant of the small sunny breakfast parlour was a young lady of some three and twenty summers, slightly under average height, and with a trim figure which was not really displayed to advantage by the rather faded and old fashioned dimity morning gown she was wearing. A profusion of chestnut ringlets, dressed very simply with green ribbons framed a face, which although not strictly beautiful, had a good deal of charm and character. Had she given much thought to it, Miss Lavinia Davenham would have probably declared her eyes to be her best feature. Indeed they were uncommonly large, grey and rather apt to sparkle; a warning to those who knew her best that she was about to give a show of the spirit that had led to at least one of her relatives declaring that the girl was far too hot headed. At the moment, however, her eyes were somewhat pensive, her soft mouth drooping, as she wondered what had happened to the rest of her family.

On enquiring of the butler after her cousin, Lady Elizabeth, Lavinia was informed rather gravely by that gentleman that it was not Lady Elizabeth’s habit to rise from her bed until the hour was well past noon. With the clock showing that the hour still wanted five minutes to ten, and newness to London precluding her from taking the pleasant stroll she had been used to enjoying in Italy, Lavinia, never one to repine unduly, seated herself at the table.

She had just finished her bread and butter and was about to pour herself a fresh cup of coffee, when the butler entered once more, this time bearing a letter which he handed to Lavinia. Puzzled she looked at it. She could think of no-one, apart from a few friends in Italy, who would be writing to her here, and indeed the writing was not familiar. Slowly she turned it over, her frown deepening as she broke the seal and perused its contents. She was just about to read it again when the door opened to admit a bleary-eyed and exceedingly ill at ease Richard.

Lavinia eyed him with sisterly concern, putting down her letter, “Why, Richard, whatever is the matter?”

Richard, Lord Arnedale, turned to face his sister, his boyish features haggard, his exhausted drawn pallor telling its own story. Huge dark circles rimmed his eyes. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

Lavinia’s life with her grandmother had not brought her into much contact with very young gentlemen, but she was a sensible girl and one look was sufficient to assure her that this was no mere boyish prank. Seriously alarmed, she dismissed the hovering footman, and hurried to her brother’s side. “Richard, come and tell me, my love, what ails you?”

He started nervously, biting his lip in distress, “Oh, Lavinia, I have been such a fool. Charles warned me, but I would not heed him. I thought I was so clever,” he added bitterly. “I wanted to do so much for you, to make up for our father’s neglect …”

He flushed at the speaking glance she threw him from clear, grey eyes.

“Don’t look at me so, I beg you.” Richard’s voice betrayed his self-disgust. “You see before you the most wretched of creatures. Yesterday I was the owner of our father’s estates. You would think I would be satisfied, but no.” He dropped his head into his hands, his voice muffled. “Today, I shall be lucky to retain the smallest farm on that estate. What think you of that, sister? I promised you a fine London season, and what do I give you-a cottage fit only for the meanest labourer.”

Lavinia placed a consoling hand on his arm. “Richard, tell me all,” she coaxed.

Hardly trusting himself to speak, haltingly at first, and then more easily, he related the night’s events. She was more dismayed than she allowed him to see. But the full force of her fury was not directed at her brother, but at the man who had so callously stripped him of all he possessed. There was a glint of anger in the spirited eyes and a decided set to the full lips. “This man, Richard, what did you say his name was?”

Richard shrugged unhappily. “What does that signify? There was nothing to cavil at, Lavinia, it was my own fault.” He shook his head disconsolately. “I fear I can’t remember, what with the wine and everything. You must think me the veriest fool. No, wait a minute.” His forehead wrinkled. “I have it, he is the heir to the Earl of Saltaire. I remember Charles telling me that when we first went in.” He squared his shoulders. “I have until noon to redeem my vowels, otherwise I shall forfeit my lands. Still, there is no use repining. I am a fool and deserve my ill-fortune. But it is you I am thinking of, Lavinia.”