A Wedding Wager (39 page)

“Oh, ’tis all taken care of,” Sebastian said. “Our landlady is preparing chickens.”

“Landlady?” Peregrine raised an eyebrow.

Sebastian merely grinned. Jasper said, “Well, that’s all to the good, since I had the foresight to put a case of some of Blackwater’s finest burgundy into the curricle. My groom’s watching over it now at that inn … the Bear and Ragged Staff, I believe.”

“Then let us go.”

The wedding feast was everything Serena thought it should be. The food was plain but plentiful and well cooked, the wine flowed, and the company was convivial. Within an hour, she was feeling as if she belonged in this family, and Sebastian had been quite right—she and Clarissa were two of a kind.

“Let us stay here tonight,” Sebastian murmured as their guests finally took their leave. “There’s no need for you to go back now … now or ever.”

For a moment, Serena was tempted. How easy it would be to throw away the old life as if it had never existed. If she never went back to Pickering Place, it would all be over. Then she put temptation aside. Not yet. It would be cowardly to give in before she had completed her self-appointed task. She could never live with herself if she abandoned Abigail at this juncture.

“We have an hour before we must go,” she said.

Sebastian sighed but said only, “Then let us put it to good use, wife of mine. ’Tis time to consummate this marriage.”

“You understand what to do?” General Heyward regarded his visitor with a scowl.

The individual was a man of few words and contented himself with a nod as he continued to pick his teeth with the tip of his dagger. “Deliver the letter to Bruton Street.” He patted the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

“And then what?” Heyward demanded, his frustration obvious.

The man shrugged. “I understand that if ’n you pays me what we agree, ’alf now and ’alf on delivery, then I’ll do the job just like you want. If that’s not good enough for ye, then ’tis no skin off
my
nose.”

General Heyward’s nostrils flared as his temper rose,
but he knew from experience not to press the man, who had never failed him yet, despite his insolence and infuriating taciturnity. But if he took against a job or decided he wasn’t being treated with suitable respect, he was perfectly capable of abandoning the business without a word.

“So, if ’n you’ll give me the ready, I’ll be gettin’ on wi’ it, then.” The man sheathed his dagger at his belt.

Heyward opened a billfold. “Twenty, we said.”

The suggestion received a short, derisive laugh. “For a fast chaise an’ all those changes on the road? Don’t make me laugh. Fifty.”

The general peeled off two bank notes and went to the desk to unlock a drawer. He withdrew a purse of sovereigns, counted out ten, and pushed them across the desk. His visitor slid them off and bit each one with a reflective air before dropping them into the pocket of his moleskin waistcoat. “Right, I’ll be off, then.”

“You’ll let me know when you’ve delivered the letter?”

The question was not dignified by a response, and the man in the moleskin waistcoat left the library without a word of farewell. He was crossing the hall to the front door when Flanagan materialized from the shadows behind the staircase.

“Kitchen door,” the butler said, gesturing behind him to the door to the back regions.

The man in the moleskin waistcoat gave him a look of contemptuous indifference and continued on his
way to the front door, which opened as he reached it. He brushed past Serena as she came in and hurried off down the street.

Serena stood in the doorway for a moment, frowning. What was her stepfather up to now? She knew the visitor. He was always nameless, but she knew the general employed him to deal with the occasional young man who found it difficult to meet his gambling debts. One visit from the moleskin waistcoat was usually sufficient to ensure instant payment.

She shrugged and headed for the stairs. It was already past five o’clock, and she had to dress for the evening.

“Good evening, Lady Serena.” Flanagan bowed. “Cook is rather put out. I wonder if you would see her for a few minutes.”

“Yes, of course. What’s the matter?”

“A problem with the fish, I understand, ma’am. Not as fresh as she would like.”

“Oh, dear.” Serena grimaced. The cook was of a somewhat temperamental nature and inclined to see disaster where none really existed. “I’ll go to the kitchen now.” Her idyllic day was well and truly over, it would seem. She touched her ring finger, smiling at the feel of the dainty circlet beneath her glove. She would have to take it off before she saw her stepfather, of course, but for the moment, whenever she touched it, the memories of the afternoon would become so wonderfully vivid she had difficulty keeping a smile from her lips.

She dealt with the kitchen crisis by suggesting that
the cook prepare chickens in elderflower sauce instead of the spoiled whitefish. “Either is lovely with the sauce,” she offered in soothing accents, and was relieved to receive a rather dour nod in response. She hurried upstairs to dress, preparing herself for the evening’s social obligations and mental gymnastics.

Jonas Wedgwood presented himself at the house on Bruton Street with a carefully chosen posy of hothouse winter roses for his hostess. He was nervous about his reception by the lady of the house but did his best to appear confident. He thought of Sebastian and tried to emulate that easy manner, the appearance of being totally comfortable in his skin. He knew his dress was impeccable. His coat of dark blue silk was perfectly complemented by his striped waistcoat of blue and silver damask. His knee breeches were dove-gray silk, his stockings plain white. In the froth of lace at his throat, a diamond winked, as good a gem, he thought, as any in Mrs. Sutton’s jewel box. Tucked into an inside pocket of his coat was a small packet containing a delicately engraved silver locket that he thought was perfect for Abigail. In perfect taste, not too ostentatious, not in the least vulgar. No mother could object to her daughter’s receiving such a gift from her betrothed.

Always assuming the betrothal would happen. But Jonas would not allow himself doubts on this score.

He knocked and was admitted by Morrison, who, it seemed to him, had a smile in his eye and a certain warmth in his voice as he took his hat, cane, and cloak and said, “The family is in the drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you, Morrison.” Jonas twitched at the wide skirt of his coat, fingered the lace at his throat, swallowed, and went manfully up the stairs in the butler’s wake.

“Mr. Wedgwood, ma’am … sir.”

Jonas stepped into the drawing room. Abigail was sitting on a sofa, an embroidery frame in her lap. She looked as enchanting as always in a gown of palest pink chiffon, with a lace fichu at her neck. Her hair was bound in bands of cherry-pink velvet ribbon, and she peeped up at him with a shy smile, rising to curtsy before sitting down again.

Mrs. Sutton did not rise from her chair. She regarded Jonas through a lorgnette, a new adjunct to her appearance, he reflected. If it was intended to intimidate, it would have succeeded but for Abigail’s smile and William Sutton’s hearty boom of greeting.

“Come in, m’boy, come in and welcome.” He shook Jonas’s hand vigorously, patting his shoulder. “Sit down … over there by Abigail. Plenty of room on that sofa, eh, puss?” He twinkled at his daughter, who blushed a little but moved her skirts closer against her to create more space.

Jonas smiled at Abigail before bowing to her mother and presenting his posy. “Ma’am, I hope you like roses.”

Marianne received the gift with a stiff smile. For all her frustrated ambitions for her daughter, she was incapable of an overtly unkind response to such a charming gesture. “Thank you, Mr. Wedgwood. They’re very pretty.” She leaned sideways to ring a little handbell on the table and instructed the parlor maid, who appeared almost instantly, “Put these in water, Sally. They’ll look very nice in the small cut-glass vase.”

“So what’ll you drink, Jonas?” William asked. “The ladies are curdling their insides with ratafia, but I daresay you’d like something stronger … a tankard of ale, perhaps?”

“No, Mr. Sutton, Mr. Wedgwood will drink sherry or madeira,” his wife said quickly. “Ale is all very well for the morning but not before dinner.”

William looked disappointed but said cheerfully enough, “So my lady has decreed. Which will it be, m’boy? Sherry or madeira?”

“Sherry, if you please, sir.” Jonas took his place on the sofa beside Abigail, and she gave him a quick sidelong smile.

“When are you planning to return home, Mr. Wedgwood?” Marianne inquired, taking a genteel sip of ratafia. “Soon, I expect.” She seemed to answer her own question.

Jonas looked a little startled. “I haven’t made any plans as yet, ma’am.”

“Surely your uncle requires your presence in his business?”

“I am conducting his business here in town at the moment, ma’am. He has given me several other commissions to execute.”

“Oh … really?” Marianne sounded doubtful.

Jonas looked in appeal to Mr. Sutton, who declared, “Such an inquisition, Mrs. Sutton. ’Tis well and good that he’s doing his uncle’s business in London, if he’s to go a-courting. Eh, puss?” He beamed at his daughter.

Abigail murmured something inaudible, but her eyes glowed as she glanced at Jonas. Marianne gave a tight smile but said nothing.

“Well, now, surely ’tis time for dinner,” William stated into the awkward moment of silence. “Let us go down. Mrs. Sutton …” He offered his arm to his wife. “Young Jonas here can take Abigail down.”

Marianne had little choice but to put a brave face on what was clearly now a fait accompli. Abigail was going to be Mrs. Jonas Wedgwood, and she might as well accept it. With acceptance came the first glimmer of pleasure as she thought of announcing to her fellow mothers of marriageable daughters that
her
daughter was to be the first among them … married before her eighteenth birthday and married to the scion of one of the most prominent and successful families in the Five Towns. She knew they would be green with envy. And of course, William would spare no expense on the wedding. It would be the most lavish affair seen in the Potteries in the last ten years. She permitted herself a small smile as she took her seat at the table and glanced at her
glowing daughter. After all, when all was said and done, Abigail’s happiness was really all that mattered.

William caught his wife’s little private nod and was well satisfied. He knew his Marianne, and he’d known that she would see the light eventually. He could bid farewell to the peaceful routine he was accustomed to for the next few months. Life in the Sutton household would be a whirlwind of preparations, Marianne would be in and out of his business office with demands, suggestions, crises both real and imagined, but he would endure with a good grace if it would make his womenfolk happy. He nodded to himself and began to carve the sirloin of beef in front of him, serving his guest generously.

“Nothing like a good piece of beef, I always say.” He passed the full plate to the footman, who placed it in front of Jonas. “You have some of that good Yorkshire pudding now, m’boy. Mrs. Sutton’s cook knows exactly how to make it. And those roast potatoes are the best in the country, I’ll wager. Need to feed you up if you’re going to live through the next few months.” He laughed and winked.

Abigail’s shyness dissolved under her father’s merry innuendos, and she began to chatter in her usual free and easy fashion. By the end of dinner, Jonas had lost his wariness and set out deliberately to charm his soon-to-be mother-in-law.

He succeeded so well that when William said, “I expect you two young people would like a little time to
yourselves. We’ll go up to the drawing room, eh, Mrs. Sutton?” Marianne merely nodded and rose to take her husband’s arm. Jonas stood up, clutching his napkin, and bowed.

The door closed on them, and Abigail was once again mute with shyness. She played with the stem of her wine glass. Jonas coughed, pulled at the damask square between his hands, then sat down again. A second later, he jumped to his feet and blurted, “Miss Sutton … Abigail, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”