A Wedding Wager (33 page)

Downstairs, General Heyward called for his horse again. The animal had barely reached the mews before the footman brought the message. The groom, who’d been looking forward to a pint of porter and a meat pasty for his midday meal, cursed an inconsiderate master and led the weary horse back to the front door. Heyward had attempted to assuage his rage and frustration with Lord Burford that morning by riding the horse into the ground in Windsor Park, and the groom was muttering that for two pins, he’d give the general a piece of his
mind and tell him to ride shank’s pony instead. The general was spared the caustic advice, as unfortunately, the groom didn’t have two pins, or perhaps fortunately. He’d be out on his ear telling General Sir George Heyward to use his own legs for once.

“You’ll be wantin’ me, sir?” he inquired as the general emerged from the house.

“No.” Heyward took the reins and mounted heavily. He was not wearing spurs, but he kicked the beast into movement with unnecessary force. The groom sent a copious gobbet of spittle to splat onto the cobbles in the general’s wake.

Heyward rode to Bruton Street, rearranging his expression into one of benign and gentlemanly friendship. He tethered the animal to the railing at the front door of the Suttons’ house and banged the knocker. It was answered instantly by the butler, who offered an impassive bow as he stood aside to admit the visitor. “I’ll ascertain whether Mr. Sutton is at home, sir.”

“Do so, and hurry up about it.” The general stood tapping his whip against his boots while the butler walked in stately fashion to the door at the rear of the hall. He knocked once and opened the door, stepping softly within.

A minute later, he reappeared. “Mr. Sutton will be pleased to see you, General. Will you step this way …” He held the library door open.

Heyward marched past him, a smile fixed to his lips. “Ah, Sutton, happy to find you home.” His voice had
a jovial boom to it, and his hand was outstretched in greeting.

“Welcome … welcome, m’dear fellow.” William rose from behind a heavy mahogany desk and greeted his visitor warmly. “I’m always to be found at home in the morning … like to take care of business first thing. Time enough for pleasure once the books are settled and m’mind’s at ease, don’t you know.”

“Ah, you are a man after my own heart,” the general stated, giving his host’s shoulder a hearty buffet. “Get the business out of the way … tedious though it may be.”

“Ah, well, I must confess I don’t find it in the least tedious,” William confided. “’Tis meat and drink, m’dear fellow. Meat and drink.”

Heyward smiled. “Each to his own, dear sir, each to his own.”

“Well, I’ve never been a gentleman of leisure … can’t see the point of it somehow … wine, General, or ale? I’m partial to a drop of strong ale myself at this time of day.”

The general concealed a well-bred shudder. “Wine, sir, if you please. I never developed a taste for ale.”

William looked a little dubious at this confession. It was his opinion that every right-thinking man understood the pleasures to be had in a morning tankard of golden ale. He poured claret for the general and filled a pewter tankard from a jug for himself. He passed the glass to his guest. “So, sit down, sir … be at your ease. To what do I owe the pleasure this morning?”

Heyward sat down, raised his glass in a silent toast,
sipped, and then said, “I’ll come straight to the point, Sutton. I would like to offer for your daughter. I like to think that my affection for her must be no secret?” He tilted his head in question, a smile of deep sincerity hovering on his lips.

William did not instantly reply. He sipped his ale, seeming to stare off into the middle distance. The general felt his hackles rise. He had expected instant pleasure. General Sir George Heyward was offering to marry a tradesman’s daughter. How could the man hesitate for so much as a second?

“Well, sir,” William said finally. “I’m sure Abigail will be honored. But ’tis not for me to give an answer for her.”

“Oh, come, sir, you jest, surely.” Heyward could hardly believe his ears. “I have every hope of securing Miss Sutton’s affections … indeed, if I may say so without sounding like a coxcomb, I do believe I may already have done so.”

“Then, if that is the case, sir, we may consider the matter settled,” William said before adding, “Once, of course, we have settled the small matters of business that need not trouble the dear child.”

“Of course, sir, that goes without saying.”

This was tricky ground. Somehow, Heyward had to prove his solvency to this astute man of business, while at the same time extricating a large dowry to be paid to him the instant the marriage took place. He hoped that William Sutton understood that he would be selling his
daughter in exchange for her advanced social position. He must surely be aware that no aristocrat or gentleman of breeding would consider taking a wife from trade circles, unless there was more than adequate compensation. But now was not the time to point this out.

“I am most deeply fond of your daughter, sir.” He smiled again. “Such a lovely girl, so beautiful, so accomplished in her conversation, and her harp playing is truly talented.”

William cleared his throat. He was a very fond papa, but even he couldn’t quite believe in this catalogue of his daughter’s fine qualities. When it came to her conversation, he had to admit he sometimes found it hard to stay awake, and as for her performance on the harp, he had serious reservations about whether he hadn’t wasted his money on her teacher. But Marianne had insisted, so he assumed it had been necessary. But who was he to quibble with a suitor’s idealized view of the child?

“Well, as to that, sir, Abigail is a darling girl, the apple of my eye … never met a girl to hold a candle to her,” he declared. “Tell you what, I’ll talk it over with her mother, and then we’ll see.”

This was not quite what the general had hoped to hear. He took a sip of claret. “I had hoped for a moment with Miss Sutton, sir … and Mrs. Sutton, of course.”

“Of course. My daughter would not see a gentleman unchaperoned.” William sounded surprised that his visitor had felt the addendum necessary. He pushed back his chair. “No time like the present, eh? Let us go
upstairs and visit the ladies. I heard Abigail come in half an hour past. She was visiting Lady Serena, I’m told.”

“I had the good fortune to meet her in the hall just as she was leaving,” the general said, rising with his host.

“Her mama wishes her to rest this afternoon to prepare for her first dinner party this evening,” William said with another fond smile. “Can’t think why ’tis so important the child should be in best looks for mere dinner-table talk, but when m’lady wife decrees it, then it must happen.” He chuckled and led the way upstairs to the ladies’ parlor.

He entered without ceremony, speaking as he did so. “My dear, I have brought Sir George Heyward to visit. Most anxious he is to see Abigail.” He looked around. “Where is the dear child?”

“She’s changing her dress, Mr. Sutton.” Marianne extended her hand to the general and nodded a seated bow as befitted a matron receiving a gentleman. “General, ’tis a pleasure, I’m sure.”

He bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips for a kiss in the air above her knuckles. “You look charming, ma’am, if I may be so bold.”

Marianne patted the elegant scrap of a lace cap on her graying hair. “Why, thank you, sir. You are too kind.”

“’Tis not hard to see where your daughter gets her looks,” Heyward said.

Marianne tittered a little. “You flatter me, dear sir. Pray, sit down.” She cast a glance at her husband, who was watching the proceedings with a somewhat sardonic
glimmer in his eye. “Mr. Sutton, will you call for wine for our guest?”

“Of course, my dear.” William pulled the bell rope.

Abigail was coming from her bedchamber as Morrison was carrying the decanter and glasses to her mother’s parlor. “Oh, do we have visitors, Morrison?”

“General Sir George Heyward, Miss Sutton. He is with Mr. Sutton and your mother.”

“Oh.” Abigail’s nose wrinkled. There had been a time in Brussels when she had quite liked the general’s flattering attentions, but her views had changed since her arrival in London. She didn’t feel like listening to his fulsome compliments this morning and turned back to her bedchamber. “Will you tell my mother I have some letters to write, Morrison? I will come down for luncheon.”

“Yes, Miss Sutton.” Morrison raised an eyebrow and continued to the parlor. He had met many a General Heyward in his career as butler and had smelled the rat in this one from the first meeting in Brussels. He was more than happy to assist his young mistress’s attempts to keep out of the man’s way.

He set the tray on the sideboard and spoke softly to Mrs. Sutton. “Miss Sutton, ma’am, begs to be excused. She had some letters to write.”

Marianne nodded. “Thank you, Morrison.” She waved him away. “I’m afraid Abigail won’t be joining us, General. She has some correspondence to take care of.”

Heyward looked disappointed but accepted the glass
of wine and began to talk of the projected visit to the theatre, which had still not materialized. In truth, he was finding it hard to lay hands on a suitable box at Covent Garden. He had hoped that one of his friends or clients who played at his tables would lend him a box for one night, but it was proving difficult to pin down any of the gentlemen so endowed. “I haven’t found a play that you would consider suitable, ma’am,” he now said. “Miss Sutton’s delicate sensibilities must be taken into account. And of course, the entertainment must be of a classical nature, as you yourself said.” He dabbed his lips with a scented handkerchief. “I wouldn’t suggest anything else.”

“Of course not, sir.” Marianne placidly set her needle into her tambour frame. “We shall wait for the perfect play.”

After a decent interval, Heyward made his farewells and departed Bruton Street, more annoyed than satisfied with his progress so far. He had failed to see Abigail, he had not met the kind of overwhelming acceptance he had expected from William, and, while he thought that Marianne could be persuaded to support his suit, he was under no illusions that William, in this matter, was the one to convince.

Sebastian parried, feinted, and his blade slipped beneath his opponent’s guard, pressing into the soft unprotected flesh beneath his armpit.

“Touché.”
Lord Harley stepped back, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve. “That felt like you had an axe to grind, Seb. What did I do?”

Sebastian lowered his point to the floor. He had let his emotions get the better of him, an unforgivable sin on a fencing piste. “A bad night, Harley. But unforgivable. I apologize.”

His friend regarded him with a degree of concern. “We all have bad nights, Seb.”

“No excuses. I beg your pardon.” Sebastian held out his hand. “Forgive the unforgivable, Charles. And if you refuse to fence with me again, I’ll understand.”

Lord Harley laughed, clasping Sebastian’s hand tightly. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear boy. We all have our megrims.” He clapped a hand over Sebastian’s shoulders. “Why are you blue-deviled, my friend?”

“Women,” Sebastian told him, knowing the one
word would satisfy Harley. No gentleman would tread on that territory unless invited, and the explanation had the added satisfaction of being true.

“Wine,” Harley declared. “’Tis the cure for all such ills.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Not in this case, Charles.” He laid his épée in the rack along the wall. “Let me buy you dinner in recompense. At the Swan tonight … oh, no, not tonight, damn it. I have another engagement.” He grimaced. He’d forgotten the Suttons’ dinner party, and in present circumstances, it was the last place he wanted to be … certainly the last place where he wanted to meet Serena for the first time after the previous night’s debacle. But he couldn’t cry off at this late date.

Lord Harley shrugged as he shelved his own sword. “Whenever you wish, Seb. It’ll be my pleasure, if you really feel the need.”

Sebastian managed a laugh. “No, ’tis not need, merely the pleasure I take in your company. Let us make it tomorrow evening.” He slung his cloak around his shoulders.

Lord Harley laughed. “The Swan it is. I intend to be expensive, take warning.” He swept up his own cloak.

Sebastian shook his head. “Nine, then.”

“Nine.” They parted on the street, and Sebastian, after a moment, headed for home, reflecting that if he could savage one of his best friends on the piste, he was clearly not good company at the moment.

He let himself into the house. “Perry, you home?”

Bart popped his head around the door to the kitchen regions. “Mr. Peregrine ain’t ’ere, sir. He went out about an hour ago.”

Sebastian nodded. He hadn’t expected to find his brother at home in the middle of the afternoon. “Bring me some bread and cheese, will you, Bart?” He went into the parlor.

Bart followed him. “This come for you, sir.” He held out a sealed packet.

Sebastian took it, turning it over in his hand. It was addressed to him in a sharp black script and sealed with the great seal of the Archbishop of Canterbury. With a rather grim smile, he slit the wafer with his thumbnail and unfolded the sheet of heavy vellum. It was, indeed, the marriage license he had applied for. A special license that could be issued only by the Archbishop of Canterbury.