The Double Wager (27 page)

Henry was thankful when they stopped longer than usual at two inns on the way and there was time to get out and stretch. Although she was hungry at both stops—she had had nothing to eat since the supper at last night’s ball—she dared not have more than a glass of lemonade each time. After paying for her coach ticket, she had very little money left. And it had to last until she found a position somewhere. She smiled with gratitude, then, when the plump lady nudged her painfully in the ribs and passed her half of a meat pasty. Henry felt she had never tasted anything so good in her life.

The only thing that gave her any comfort at all on the interminably slow journey was the plan that gradually took shape in her mind. She would see Oliver Cranshawe plead and beg and squirm within the next few days. Revenge on him would never begin to make up for the ruin of her marriage and the loss of Marius, but at least it would give her great satisfaction and occupy her thoughts for a few days. She composed in her mind the words she would write to him.

It was late afternoon when Henry finally finished trudging the three miles from the coach stop to Roedean. How dearly familiar the house looked, she thought as she approached the main door. If only the door would open and she could find inside her father and Giles, the twins and Manny. How happy she would be! But perhaps not. Always from now on there would be Marius. His memory would prevent her from being completely happy ever again.

The butler himself answered the door to her knock. He and the housekeeper and a few underservants were the only ones who had been kept on by Sir Peter Tallant on a permanent basis. Other servants would be hired from the village when the family came down for the summer in a few weeks' time.

“Miss Henry!” he exclaimed in surprise, rushing forward to relieve her of the valise that was beginning to feel as if it was loaded with gold bricks. “I mean, your Grace! What brings you into Sussex? If we had known, we could have prepared. And where is your carriage?” He peered beyond her into the empty driveway.

“I came on the stage, Trevors,” she replied, “and I wish my stay here to remain a secret. Please, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“Of course, Miss Henry, if you say so,” Trevors assured her. She had always been a favorite with the house staff. She could twist them all around her little finger, her father had been fond of saying.

The saying proved to be still true. While Henry sat in lone state in the dining room partaking of a cold dinner, the housekeeper bustled around upstairs making sure that her bedroom was properly cleaned and aired. All the servants promised that no word of her whereabouts would be given to anyone. They did not ask questions, though they must have wondered what their little girl was doing at home scarcely six weeks after causing a local sensation by marrying a duke.

Henry waited until next morning before writing the letter to Oliver Cranshawe that she had planned the day before in the stagecoach. But she wanted to make sure that it went on the day’s mail coach so that he would receive it the next day. She did not wish to be sitting around waiting forever. She enjoyed writing it a good deal more than she had enjoyed writing to her husband.

Dear Oliver,

You were quite right, of course. You said that I should be forced to see things your way soon. I see clearly that I have no choice but to comply with your demands for settling my debt. I propose to accept defeat gracefully. You will find me at Roedean. Marius believes me to be visiting for a week. So you see you will be able to claim your night with me without fear of interruption. If I like what transpires— and I begin to think that, after all, I may—perhaps I shall allow you to extend your stay. I shall be awaiting your arrival hourly.

Yours, etc.

The letter was sealed and handed to the butler. He promised to see that it was taken to the mail coach with some letters that Sir Peters bailiff had ready. Neither of them remembered that the bailiff had arrived at the house that morning and had not been informed of the secrecy of Henry’s visit. One of his letters was a weekly report of estate business to Sir Peter Tallant.

Henry’s next task was to visit her father s gun room. He had been an avid hunter and had taught all four of his children to shoot. It was several years since Henry had held a gun in her hand; she would need practice, she knew. She examined them all and noticed that they were all gleaming. Someone in the household, probably Trevors, took pride in keeping them in top condition. After much deliberation, she chose a dueling pistol. It could be held and fired easily in one hand. It would be easier to hide on her person than a larger gun would be.

She found ammunition for the gun in a drawer. She carefully loaded it, scooped up a palmful of extra bullets, and ran up to her room, the pistol clutched in her other hand. She had noticed the night before that the breeches and shirts she had always worn for riding were still in her closet. She pulled on the breeches now and selected a loose white shirt. She filled her pockets with bullets, carefully pushed the pistol into the waistband of the breeches, beneath the shirt, and strode out to the stables.

She regretted the absence of Jet. She wondered briefly if Marius would keep him or send him back to Roedean. Either way, it would not matter to her. She would not be able to take him where she was going. She chose the only horse from the stables that was likely to be reasonably fast, saddled him, and set out for the lower meadow, which was out of earshot of the house and of the tenants’ cottages. It was almost completely surrounded by high hedges, and a fence ran down one side of it, too. Henry had never been able to understand why it was there. Of what possible use could a fence be on one side of a field?

However, it suited her purpose now. She gathered some leafy twigs from the bushes, balanced them one at a time on top of a fence post, and used them for target practice. For an hour Henry shot at the twigs, varying the distance and the angle. Finally she was satisfied that her aim was accurate, even allowing for the pistol’s slight kick to the left.

“Now, you may come whenever you wish, Oliver Cranshawe,” she muttered with a grim smile as she swung herself up into the saddle again.

* * *

The following morning Giles was picking moodily at a plate of eggs and ham, letting the conversation of Peter and Marian wash over his head. He was feeling worried and guilty. He had spent much of the previous day at Eversleigh’s house, going over and over again with Manny and the twins and that Ridley fellow the train of events that had led to Henry’s disappearance. How could she have been such a little idiot as to have got herself into such trouble, and all for his sake? And where could she have gone? The only apparent possibility was Roedean, and Eversleigh had already had that checked with no luck. Ridley had thought it probable that she had very little money with her, and Betty was willing to swear that she had taken nothing of any value, except the sapphire ring. And Giles was pretty sure that she would never sell that. Even her gold wedding ring had been found in her jewelry case.

There were only two pieces of comfort. One was that Eversleigh had paid off the moneylender; so they at least knew that Henry was in no danger from him. The other was that Ridley’s spy had reported that Cranshawe was behaving in no way out of the ordinary. He was still at home or frequenting his usual haunts. He had had no visible contact with Henry.

But those were small comforts. Giles cursed himself now for ever having been weak enough to accept help from his sister. He should have been man enough to go to Peter or Eversleigh and begged a loan. He might have known that Henry did not have that sum on hand, that she would do something silly in order to get it.

The worst aspect of the situation was that one felt so helpless. One did not know where to start looking or where to make inquiries. Giles had made some afternoon calls on mutual acquaintances. But the necessity of making his inquiries in such a roundabout way that no one would suspect the truth was frustrating in the extreme. He longed to grab each person by the throat and demand to know if she were hiding Henry in a closet somewhere. He did not know what he would do today. It seemed fruitless to go back to Eversleigh’s, and yet he could not imagine himself staying away from there.

“What the devil is Henrietta doing at Roedean?” Peter was saying.

Giles stared, the words so pertinent to his thoughts that his mind could not grasp the meaning for the moment.

“Henrietta at Roedean?” Marian echoed.

The fact finally registered on Giles’ mind that Peter was holding a letter in one hand.

“What is that? Let me see!” he cried, grabbing the sheet of paper from his brother s hand.

“Giles, really,” Marian said, shocked.

“Evans says there that she arrived two days ago, alone,” Peter explained to his wife.

“How very peculiar!” said Marian. “She had quarreled with Eversleigh, you may depend upon it, my love. I always knew that Henrietta was too undisciplined to cope with marriage to a duke.”

“Yes, and he is not the man to help her cool her heels, either,” her husband agreed. “I confess myself disappointed in Eversleigh. I had thought him to be made of sterner stuff.”

“So she is there, after all,” Giles was muttering. “I deserve to have my nose punched for not guessing. Of course, the little numbskull would get the servants on her side.”

“This needs to be investigated personally,” Sir Peter said decisively, throwing down his napkin beside his empty plate. “I shall see about having the carriage made ready immediately after luncheon. My love, will you have a valise packed for me? I shall be away from home for at least one night, I should think. I shall write to Eversleigh and tell him where he may find his wife.”

“If he wants her back,” sniffed Marian.

“I shall come with you, Peter,” Giles decided impulsively. He abandoned his plate of still-untouched eggs and followed his brother from the room.

* * *

Oliver Cranshawe had gone riding before breakfast. He had hoped to see the little duchess in the park. She had been lying low for the past two days—avoiding him, he believed. The silly little chit! Did she think she could avoid him forever? If she did not reappear very soon, he was going to have to pay her a call. And to hell with Marius if he were there too. He could hardly prevent his cousin and heir from entering the house.

Cranshawe was quite determined to press his advantage. He must be very close to winning. And what a victory it would be. Once he had bedded the chit, he would inform Marius of the fact—probably by letter. He would go to France until the worst of his cousin’s temper had cooled. Cranshawe did not fool himself into thinking that he would stand a chance in a duel with Eversleigh, even if he had the choice of weapons. But the marriage would be ruined. The duke was too proud a man to take her back after another man had possessed her, especially his heir.

When he returned to his house, Cranshawe thumbed idly through his morning mail before going in to breakfast. Nothing but a thin trickle of invitations; the Season was coming to an end. There was one letter that had apparently come from out of town. He took it into the dining room with him and set it beside his place on the table while he went to the sideboard to fill his plate with steaming food. He opened the letter after the first pangs of his hunger had been satisfied.

Suddenly Cranshawe’s fork clattered to his plate and he leaned back in his chair, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

“So, my dear Henry,” he mused aloud, “we have come to the play’s last scene. And I predict it will be a lively and a satisfying one. I think you owe me that extra time, my dear, though I shall not be able to avail myself of more than one night. I have never had to wait so long for a woman, but I find that the longer I wait, the greater my appetite.”

He proved that one of his appetites, at least, was in no way dulled. He finished his breakfast before ordering that his horse be resaddled immediately and brought to the front of the house, and that his curricle and pair be ready to leave in one hour s time. Before leaving the house, he ordered his valet to pack a bag for him with enough clothes to last him for a couple of days, and a trunk to be taken to Dover the following day in preparation for a trip to the Continent.

Cranshawe rode directly to Suzanne Broughton's house and followed the butler upstairs to that lady's bedchamber. A maid answered the knock on the door and would have barred the way into the room, saying that her mistress was still in bed, but Cranshawe shouldered his way past both the butler and her.

“Why, Oliver, my dear boy,” Suzanne said, startled, “to what mad passion do I owe this honor?”

Cranshawe ignored the flimsy and scantily cut nightgown, the long, thick hair that fell around her shoulders, and the seductive smile that spread across her face.

“I don't have much time, Suzanne,” he said. “Dismiss the servants, please.”

Suzanne waved away the pair, who were still standing in the doorway, and slid lower on her pillows. “Well, Oliver?” she asked.

“I have all but achieved my goal,” he began. “The dear duchess has invited me to her brother’s house in Sussex. She is alone there. Once this day’s work is over, Suzanne, I believe you will find your way quite easily back into Eversleigh’s graces. Who knows? Perhaps he will even divorce the little whore and marry you.”

She smiled. “And why have you raced over here to tell me this, Oliver?” she asked.

“I want you to drive him mad, my dear,” he said. “See him today and tomorrow. Drop hints in his ear, sympathetic hints, of course, that will help you gain your own ends. You must not, of course, tell him where he may find us. But your word in his ear will make my letter the more credible when he does receive it.”

“I have always said you are the devil, Oliver;” Suzanne commented. “Now I perceive that you are on your way to hell.”

“But what a way to go!” He laughed.

“I believe you really fancy the freckle-faced redhead,” she said.

“I must confess that I do not expect to find the process of seduction at all unpleasant,” he replied.