The Double Wager (17 page)

The next few days until the Wednesday were unhappy ones for Henry. She had to visit a modiste she did not usually patronize, with only Betty in tow. There she purchased a dark-green domino and mask and hoped either that the dressmaker did not know her identity or that she would find no topic worthy of gossip in the Duchess of Eversleigh’s having bought those particular items.

Worse, Henry had to deceive her husband. They had not accepted any particular invitation for Wednesday. She perused the small pile of cards that she had received and set aside as being of no particular importance. Which one would Marius be least likely to want to accept? She settled on a musical evening to be held at the home of Mrs. Augusta Welby, a lady strongly suspected of being a bluestocking. The program seemed particularly promising to Henry. It was proudly billed as a ladies’ evening: an unknown but promising lady pianist, lately come from the provinces to take the capital by storm; Lady Pamela Bellamy, one of the year’s crop of debutantes, who had generously agreed to contribute a rendering of several English love songs; Signora Ratelli, the Italian soprano who was currently enjoying great success in a tour of England. She was actually known to have sung for Prinny at Carleton House. Henry read no further. She could almost picture Marius holding the invitation at arm s length while he regarded it incredulously through his quizzing glass before languidly ordering poor Mr. Ridley to get rid of it.

After dinner that evening, while riding in the carriage with Eversleigh on the way to the theater to watch the renowned Kean play Lear, Henry told him that she had accepted the invitation. At the same time her heart beat painfully with the necessity of telling the lie.

“Good God, Henry!” he exclaimed, his language unusually strong. “When did you acquire such highbrow tastes?”

“I thought it time to learn about more cultural matters,” she answered primly. “You keep reminding me that the Duchess of Eversleigh is expected to behave in a more ladylike manner.”

“I believe I was talking about bonnets,” he said, giving her a sidelong look. “But an evening of ladies’ musical talent, Henry? Is that not going too far?”

“I think not,” she replied crossly. “Why should female talent be more to be laughed at than men’s?”

“I might have known I could depend upon you to change the focus of the discussion, my love,” he remarked indulgently. “Go and enjoy the triumphs of your sex. But you will not expect me to accompany you, will you?”

“I had hoped you would,” she replied cunningly, “but I shall not try to insist, of course. I am sure you can find some other way to spend the evening.”

“Horton has invited me to play cards that evening,” he continued. “It will break my heart to be away from you for a whole evening, of course, my love.”

“Absurd!” she said, dimpling. But then she remembered that her part in this conversation was all deception and turned to stare into the darkness outside the carriage window.

* * *

By the time Wednesday evening came, Henry was feeling quite wretched. She had spent the afternoon with Marius and the twins at the British Museum, viewing the Elgin Marbles. It had been an absurdly happy-go-lucky outing. The twins were in high spirits, as they usually were before some prank, Henry had noted from past experience. They did not get into trouble, but had merely darted from exhibit to exhibit, exclaiming over everything with loud enthusiasm. Henry had held to her husband’s arm and had been almost breathlessly aware of his masculinity. He had used his quizzing glass freely and affected a shocked disapproval of the nakedness of many of the statues. Henry had giggled more than she had since leaving Roedean.

Eversleigh had been invited to Lord Horton’s home for dinner before the all-male card party. It was a relief to Henry at least not to have to face him across the dinner table, knowing what she was planning to do that night. It also eased her mind that it was a card party that Marius was attending. It was bound to keep him away from home almost until morning. But her conscience was not eased at all. It was with a heavy heart that she left Manny sewing placidly in the drawing room (the twins had already gone to bed, yawning loudly and claiming to be tired out by their afternoon excursion) and retired to her room to get ready for the masquerade.

Betty helped her into a modest cream-colored silk evening gown. It was high-waisted and fell almost straight to the hemline, an ideal dress to wear beneath the domino. She folded the domino beneath her evening cloak and put the mask into her reticule. She did not wish the servants to know where she was going. They might conceivably leak the information to the duke.

Oliver Cranshawe arrived promptly at nine o’clock. The butler knocked on Henry’s door and informed Betty that he was waiting downstairs in the hallway. Henry left her room, feeling that doomsday had come, and descended the stairs quickly, before she could lose her resolve.

Oliver, she was relieved to see, was also not dressed for a masquerade. He wore a plain black cloak over his blue satin evening clothes.

“Ah, your Grace,” he said, bowing over her hand and playing to the audience of two footmen and a butler. “How lovely you look. And how honored I am to conduct you to the concert in place of my cousin.”

She smiled bleakly. “Let us not be late, Oliver,” she said, and swept out of the house ahead of him.

Upstairs, about one hour later, Philip let himself quietly into his sister s room. He was dressed in plain, almost-ragged breeches and shirt, borrowed from a stableboy who had considered the loan of two outfits well worth the guinea he had received in exchange. A cap was pulled low over Philip’s eyes.

“Are you ready, Pen?” he hissed into the darkness.

“I think so,” she whispered back anxiously. “Do I look like a boy, Phil? I just hope my hair stays tucked under this cap. I should have it cut short like Henry’s.”

Philip peered into the darkness. He could see his sister dimly in the light that came through two large windows. “You’ll do,” he said. “Apart from the hair, you never do look much like a girl, anyway, Pen. You don’t stick out in front.”

“Good,” she said, not one whit offended by this blunt reference to her underdeveloped femininity. “Shall we go?”

They crept stealthily down the servants’ staircase and let themselves out a side door, hoping that no one would come along and shoot the bolts across while they were still out. Penelope kept close to her twin as they turned south in the direction of the opera house, whose location they had studied carefully in the last few days.

“I wish we might have brought Brutus,” she said. “But I suppose you were right. He would draw attention to us, and Henry and old toothpowder might recognize him if we get close.”

“Now, Pen, let’s go over again how we are to do this,” her brother said.

“I still don’t think it fair that you get to do the exciting part,” Penelope complained.

“Ah, but you have the most difficult part,” Philip replied diplomatically. “You have to do some acting.”

They trudged along, going over once more their campaign plan, which had been formulated in many secret meetings over the previous few days.

When they reached the opera house, they stood across the road watching for a while, standing in the shadows of a doorway. Somehow their plan seemed more flimsy now that they could see the actual building and the activity going on before the doorway. There were two doormen on duty, both guarding the entrance against unauthorized persons and helping to open carriage doors and pull down carriage steps. And vehicles drew up with fair frequency.

“You see that pillar to the left of the entry?” Philip asked. “When you see me safely behind that, you wait for the next carriage to come and do your part. All right?”

“All right,” she said, but she grabbed his shirt sleeve as he made to leave the doorway. “Phil, be careful,” she added.

“Aw, don’t start acting like a girl,” he replied scornfully. “Just make sure that you wait for me at the corner of the street where we planned.”

A few minutes later, Penelope could see that he was safely tucked behind the pillar. And she could see a carriage approaching down the street. With a deep breath and a thumping heart, she sauntered across the road. The doorman who had stepped forward to greet the approaching vehicle made shooing gestures with his hands. The other stayed where he was, hands clasped behind his back.

Penelope waited quietly until a dandified gentleman and a lady displaying an ample amount of bosom had descended from the carriage, and then stepped forward, palms cupped together.

“Spare us a penny, guv’nor,” she whined, sidling up to the dandy. “Me mum’s sick an’ I ain’t had nuthin’ to eat in two days.”

“ Ere, ere,” the closest doorman said, “be off with you, little tramp, and leave the quality be.”

The lady gathered her skirts around her to avoid the contaminating touch of the beggar, and prepared to move around Penelope. The dandy completely ignored her.

“Just an ’apenny, then, lady,” she said shrilly, stepping across the path of the female. “The baby’s starvin’ and there ain’t a crust o’ bread in the ’ouse.” She sniffed loudly and cuffed her nose noisily.

“Ere, I’ll get the watch after you,” the doorman growled, grabbing Penelope by the collar of her shirt and dragging her backward. The couple who had just alighted attempted again to go around her. In the meantime, another carriage had drawn up and the other doorman had helped two couples down onto the pavement.

Penelope tore herself away from her captor and flung herself screaming to the ground. “Me pa’s dead,” she shrieked, “an’ me mum’s dyin’. The young uns is starvin’ an’ only me to provide for ’em. Have pity, ladies and gents. Have pity.”

Everyone’s attention was riveted to the ragged little figure rolling its eyes and drumming its heels on the pavement.

“Ere, Jake,” said the first doorman, “ ’elp me clear the beggar away from the entrance.”

Jake came forward obligingly, a menacingly burly figure as viewed from Penelope’s vantage point on the pavement.

“Poor little soul,” said a lady’s voice, and Penelope looked up into the heavily painted but kindly face of an overweight lady from the second carriage. “Give him some coins, George. And please let him go in peace,” she instructed the disappointed doormen.

Both George and the footmen obeyed, and within moments Penelope was slinking off down the street, a shilling clasped in one hand, while the street behind her was returning to normality. She noticed as she passed the pillar that Philip was no longer behind it.

Philip had taken advantage of the commotion that his sister had created in order to slip through the doorway into the opera house. The ruse had worked even better than he had hoped. But now came the hard part. How was a scruffy urchin to be able to roam around this grand old building, which teemed with richly dressed men and women, without attracting suspicion? He ducked into a dark corner, removed his hat, and took from inside it a cloth apron such as the kitchen boy wore and a white cloth. The apron he tied quickly around his waist; the cloth he clutched in his hand. He smoothed his hair as best he could without either comb or mirror, abandoned the cap, and walked purposefully along the narrow corridor that circled around the auditorium behind the ground-level boxes. He hoped that his air of open confidence would allay suspicion and convince anyone who might wonder that he had been sent about some clean-up job.

Philip’s eyes darted sharply over every figure he passed and through every open doorway, in search of the sister he had come to protect. He came upon her finally, quite unexpectedly, in a shadowy doorway in the corridor. It was unmistakably she, even though she was enveloped in a green domino and wore a green mask. Her hood had fallen back and those short, unruly auburn curls could belong to no one but Henry. She was clasped in the close embrace of a black domino and was being very masterfully kissed. But her clenched fists were between her own ribs and his, Philip noticed as he stood still and gaped in shock for a moment.

CHAPTER 9

T
he Duke of Eversleigh threw his cards into the center of the table, his face impassive, though he had won a considerable amount of money in the first two games of the evening.

Lord Horton threw in his cards, too. “I should know from experience never to play against you, Marius,” he sighed. “You’re always a lucky devil!”

“We miss you at the club, Eversleigh,” Rufus Smythe commented. “Tell us, do you still believe you were wise to choose a bride so carelessly?”

Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass and eyed his questioner slowly, his face still expressionless. “Ah, but I never do anything without care,” he answered.

Sir Wilfred Denning smoothed the lace of his cuffs over his well-manicured hands and shuddered delicately. “You certainly chose fast enough, Eversleigh. I am still smarting at the loss of my grays. I see you have given them to her Grace. A nicely ironic touch, that!”

“Indeed you have brought the duchess into fashion, Marius,” Horton commented. “She is all the rage, I understand.”

“Henry is one of a kind,” Eversleigh answered enigmatically.

Rufus Smythe laughed. “I see that even your cousin has taken a fancy to her,” he said.

Eversleigh toyed with his quizzing glass again, but did not lift it to his eye.

“I lunched with him at Watier’s today,” Smythe continued. “It must be pleasant, Eversleigh, to have a relative willing to relieve one of the tedium of accompanying one’s wife to all the social functions.”

Eversleigh s hand, clasped around the quizzing glass, stilled. The half-closed eyelids hid eyes which had sharpened. “To which event in particular are you referring, Smythe?” he asked with a languidness that was at odds with his alert eyes.

“Oh, he was taking her to something or other tonight, was he not?” said Smythe, gathering the cards together and proceeding to shuffle them.

“Ah, tonight, yes,” said Eversleigh, and prepared to play the hand that was dealt him.

At the end of the game, which he again won, Eversleigh rose to his feet in leisurely fashion and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his coat sleeve. He turned to his host. “This has been pleasant, my dear fellow,” he said, “but I have another engagement for tonight that I cannot avoid.”