Highest Stakes (33 page)

  "What is it, Beatrix? Are you ill?" she asked, alarmed at her cousin's demeanor.

  "No… not ill exactly… but before I speak of it, I need your promise, your solemn vow, that you will not breathe a word to anyone."

  Charlotte was taken aback by this sudden desire for confidence. They had never been close, had never shared intimacies. This must be grave indeed. "Yes, you can trust me. I promise, Beatrix," she reassured, handing the girl her handkerchief.

  With Charlotte sworn to secrecy, Beatrix inhaled deeply and blurted out, "I think I'm breeding."

  "Pardon me?" Charlotte gasped.

  "You heard me." Beatrix lowered her voice to a whisper. "I believe I'm with child."

  "B-but you have never even met your betrothed!" Charlotte stammered in disbelief.

  "Of course it is not by my betrothed, you peahen! But that is precisely the problem. It was Philip Drake." Beatrix spoke his name with a guilty smile.

  "But when? How did this happen, Beatrix?"

  "It was the night before you raced. And how? Are you quite certain you want me to elaborate? It's quite shocking." Beatrix giggled.

  "There is no need to particularize. I've spent enough time with the broodmares to have figured it out. I just can't fathom it." Charlotte broke off with her cousin's indignant flush.

  "And I suppose you are the innocent! I hardly think so, the way you run off with Devington at every opportunity."

  "It's not like that with us, Beatrix. Robert insists we wait for the marriage bed."

  "Then you shall have a long and lonely wait, as my father shall never countenance it, just as he will never allow me to wed Major Drake."

  "He has asked for your hand?"

  Beatrix's flush deepened. "Not exactly, or not yet." She recovered. "He intended to speak to Papa, but then you and Robert spoiled everything! But I shan't regret the doing, just my
undoing
as the result," she said defiantly.

  "Oh my," Charlotte murmured, the repercussions dawning. "Beatrix, you must tell him."

  "Papa would disown me!" Beatrix wailed. "I can't possibly tell him."

  "Not your father; you must tell Philip. He has a right to know and no less an obligation to put things to rights. He must marry you."

  "Marry me? Papa has made other plans. He shall never allow it."

  "But under the circumstances, he has little choice. If the major is a gentleman, he will offer. No doubt it shall be horridly awkward with other arrangements already made, but I can't believe even Uncle could contemplate marrying you off while carrying another man's child!"

  "But if I marry the major, I shan't ever be a countess."

  "But I thought you were in love with him?"

  "Well, I was, before I thought to be a countess." Beatrix pouted.

  "You can't have your cake and eat it, too. Besides, you shan't be a countess once your betrothed learns of this. 'Tis hardly something you can hide for very long. In either regard, you must tell the major. It is your only recourse."

  "But how?"

  With her heart hammering, Charlotte fingered the envelope in the pocket of her petticoat. Although she had proposed a shopping trip, her real intent was to take a letter to the tavern maid who had served as Robert's courier to her. Could she trust Beatrix with her secret? But her cousin was far too self-absorbed with her own predicament to attend to Charlotte's doings.

  "As it happens, I know how to privately convey a message." She could only hope that Maggie would be of a mind to help.

T he
portly, periwigged, and unfashionably clad man felt conspicuously out of place upon entering the doors of White's, London's oldest and most elite gentlemen's club. He was further abashed at the need to proffer his invitation, sealed by a longtime member, in order to gain entry to the hallowed halls, and even further mortified at his need to request assistance in locating the member.

  Indeed, he had never even laid eyes on Viscount Uxeter, who had unexpectedly called this meeting. Sir Garfield mopped the perspiration, evidence of his discomfort, hastily from his brow and followed the lackey to a private parlor. The sole occupant was an elegantly dressed gentleman who sat engrossed in studying his drink.

  The portly man was even further discomposed at the gentleman's prolonged hesitation to break from his trance and acknowledge his invited guest. Sir Garfield cleared his throat, and his lordship, foregoing even the most rudimentary of social graces, grazed him with a haughty stare. "Wallace, I presume?"

  "Just so, my lord, just so," he replied with due diffidence.

  With a curt nod, Lord Uxeter indicated the vacant chair. Taking his cue, Sir Garfield seated himself without ceremony and glanced admiringly about the room. "So gracious of you to sponsor me,

my lord—"

  The viscount's brows snapped together. "Sponsor you?" he scoffed. "I have no recollection of offering a sponsorship. White's membership is by election only."

  Sir Garfield felt the heat of his flush at such an imperious set-down. "I had assumed with our talk of betrothal and your invitation…"

  "You grossly misapprehend my purpose, sir," Lord Uxeter said and produced a packet of papers from his inner pocket. "I am in receipt of a most audacious proposition from my solicitor. Am I to understand that you desire a betrothal of marriage between myself and your daughter?"

  "Exactly so, my lord."

  "Pray let us be frank, Sir Garfield. If you design to align yourself with one of the oldest families in England, you are presumptuous beyond measure." His icy gaze penetrated right through Sir Garfield, and he slowly tore the betrothal contract into halves.

  Sir Garfield considered the man and indicated the torn documents. "I shouldn't act so hastily in dismissing the notion, my lord. I fear you give no consideration to the advantages of the match."

  "I need consider nothing beyond your low birth. Such a misalliance could only corrupt, indeed bastardize, a noble family line."

  "Pray hear me out, my lord. I don't yet despair of overcoming your objections."

  "You waste my time and your breath," Uxeter said with a sneer.

  "My birth may be inferior, my lord, but I am possessed of a vastly superior fortune."

  "What would you know of my family's affairs?"

  "I make it my business to know. I am well aware of Lord Hastings's ill-conceived investments and the sorry state of your holdings."

  "You overstep yourself!"

  Sir Garfield's tone was placatory. "I fail to comprehend you aristocrats and your repugnance of discussing such dirty matters as money, but I plead your forbearance. Should we come to an understanding, I am in a position to refortify your fortune."

  Lord Uxeter paused. "Is that so?"

  "My daughter is possessed of a very generous dowry."

  "How generous?"

  He cast the lure. "Twenty thousand pounds."

  Edmund regarded the baronet scornfully. "Not enough to taint the blood of a noble family." His voice dripped with contempt.

  "But is not everything in life negotiable?" Sir Garfield remarked with a conciliatory smile.

  "You wish to barter?" He was stunned at the man's effrontery. "
Gentlemen
employ solicitors for such business."

  Disregarding still another set-down, Sir Garfield forced another smile. "Then
your solicitor
should be in expectation of an offer more worthy of your consideration."

  "I should very much doubt it, sir." Upon that remark, Lord Uxeter rose and departed, leaving Sir Garfield vowing to buy the arrogant bastard's very soul if necessary.

  "We shall see, my lord. We shall just see." The baronet leaned back in the leather chair with a self-satisfied smile and a growing sense of ease in his new surroundings.

The unmarked carriage arrived at Hastings House at precisely ten o'clock. The quartet of darkly cloaked figures descended, but rapping at the door was unnecessary. They were expected, and the servant who answered had his instructions. He led the gentlemen into a large book room with a blazing fire, where the host of this conclave awaited.

"Good evening, gentlemen." Lord Uxeter advanced and greeted

his guests as his servant collected their doffed hats and cloaks.

  "So good of you to play host," Lord Gower replied. "We must take care from this day forward to avoid any public venue." Lord Gower eyed the servant warily.

  "Port or brandy, gentlemen?" Uxeter inquired. Noting his lordship's concern, he dismissed his footman. Lord Gower waited until the servant departed before continuing.

  "With word of our friend's arrival in France, we must be ever wary of the minister's spies."

  Edmund had never truly believed this plan, nigh on three years in the making, would ever come to fruition. For three decades, the Jacobites had ineffectually looked to France to help deliver their rightful king, but could the French really be trusted to deliver on their promises?

  "You mention preparations, but how can we be assured of France's resolve?" he asked.

  "The interests of Versailles finally converge with our own. France has never been more disposed to restoring the Stuarts."

  Lord Barrymore interjected. "Our French agent, Lord Semphil, confirms eight thousand Foot and two thousand Horse already amassed at Dunkirk under Marshal de Saxe. The Brest squadron is also made ready.

  "The French have provided fifteen ships of the line, four frigates, and sixteen troop transports. An additional three thousand of their number are to join our three thousand Highlanders in a coordinated invasion from the North while the prince lands on the Southern Coast and advances to the capital."

  "We have confirmation, and the invasion is imminent," said Colonel Cecil. "But the prince requires more than our vows of support; he must subsidize the campaign, and his troops and munitions must be maintained. The restoration of our rightful king comes at a price, but those who lend their support will be justly rewarded.

  "Twenty-five thousand pounds should secure your place on

the Regent's Council, Uxeter, though the prince shall appoint his ministers as he will. Rest assured that he shall not forget those with him in his hour of greatest need."

  Edmund eyed the gentlemen. How many men before them had plotted and schemed against the Crown of England, only to fail? The revolt of thirty years ago had led to executions and attainder of old and noble estates. Was he willing to take such a risk?

  But should the Young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, succeed where his father had previously failed, Edmund might finally attain a position worthy of his talents.

  This begged the question of whether the reward would be worth the potential price he might pay. It was a calculated gamble. His next question was how to come by twenty-five thousand?

  Deciding to defer further contemplation, he only smiled and raised his glass to the assemblage. "To the Young Chevalier, Charles Edward Stuart, Prince Regent of Great Britain."

  "To Bonnie Prince Charlie," they echoed.