The Wolfe Wager (4 page)

Running her fingers along the polished edge of her dressing table, Vanessa stared at the closed door. It would be most unfortunate if Lord Brickendon was as boring as the other men who had vied for her hand.

She frowned and pushed Lord Brickendon from her head. She must think of only one thing … her brother. She went to her chest of drawers and knelt to open the lowest one. Each night she took out the packet that was wrapped in a strip of cambric, and each night she returned it to its cache beneath her small-clothes in the bottommost drawer.

Tears filled her eyes, but she allowed none of them to fall as she unwound the material to reveal a miniature in a circular frame. She pressed her finger to her lips, then to the tiny face. Looking into eyes of the same gray as her own, she sat back on her heels.

“Corey, nothing yet, but don’t lose hope. I shan’t.”

“Lady Vanessa?”

Vanessa hastily wrapped the portrait and hid it. Closing the drawer, she jumped to her feet. Vanessa did not dare to trust even Leale with her hopes. She was unsure if Leale would speak of them to Aunt Carolyn. She did not want her aunt to discover she still clung to the hope her brother was alive on the opposite side of the Channel.

Corey Wolfe, heir to the title of Lord Wulfric, had defied their father’s edict and had purchased a commission as an infantry captain. Sent to fight the French, his bravery had brought honor to their family in the tradition of their ancestors who had come from Normandy with William the Conqueror. Then, after a fierce battle during which many of his comrades had been killed, he had vanished. Their bodies had been recovered. His had not.

There was nothing to give her hope yet nothing to let her mourn. She had been offered only empty condolences by an indifferent government.

She was certain Corey must not be dead. He was alive. Somewhere he was alive, perhaps in hiding, perhaps as a prisoner of that horrible Corsican. No one else shared her optimism. Aunt Carolyn refused to listen to her, telling Vanessa that her wish to see her brother would fade with time. Vanessa would come to see the truth when she allowed herself to grieve for Corey. Time and the delight of men vying for her hand during the Season would take her mind from imagining her brother might come home.

The government had proven even less sympathetic. The Prince Regent’s ministers had turned as deaf an ear to her entreaties for their assistance in discovering Corey’s location. One pompous secretary in the Prime Minister’s office had told her coldly that the government would soon be destitute if every relative of every man lost in the war demanded an individual accounting and the return of the corpse. There had been not the least bit of compassion in his voice when he added that some of the dead would never be identified, for there was little left to identify in the wake of cannon fire. She would not give up her dream of seeing him home and safe.

Standing, she said, “I think I’ll retire now, Leale.”

“Then you don’t wish—”

“I’ll blow out the candle myself. Good night.”

Although her abigail’s face held a bewildered expression, Leale left the room. Vanessa waited until the door clicked closed, then slipped to her writing table. Checking that the drapes at the two windows were pulled tight, she lit the small lamp atop the table. She opened a drawer. From it, she took a rosewood box and set it on the desk. Her hands clasped the box, pulling it close to her breast. She sighed and leaned forward until her head rested on the carved lid.

She lifted a chain that hung around her neck. At the end of the glittering gold was a tiny key of a tarnished brass. She slipped it into the box and opened the lid. Taking out the topmost page, she put it on the desk. There was no need to read it, for she had memorized every word of Corey’s last missive. His brash courage and his determination to best Napoleon’s forces shone from every dim word, but the date at the top reminded her how long it had been since he had penned this note.

Putting it back in the box, she lifted out a piece of clean paper. She opened the ink and bent to her task. She was not sure how long it would take to find her brother, but she would not stop until she had written to everyone who might help her. The vow she had sworn as she stood on the family crest set into stone in the chapel of Wolfe Abbey was sacred. Only when Corey was home in England and had assumed the title of Lord Wulfric would she think of her own life and the future Aunt Carolyn was firm she should have.

Chapter Three

Vanessa would have rather been anywhere else this evening, but she was at Almack’s. To her, the Assembly Room epitomized the Season, for here the
ton
thronged to file before one another in gowns that where
à la modality
and in dark coats with the white breeches the patronesses deemed
de rigueur
. The room was filled with the prattle that served in lieu of the stimulating conversation she had shared with her father and brother at Wolfe Abbey.

But, worst of all, it was the place where she had to suffer the eager glances of the ardent men who wished to marry her for her father’s fortune. Her few attempts to dissuade Aunt Carolyn from insisting that they attend the Assemblies had met with failure. Her aunt remained resolved that Vanessa would marry before the end of the Season. Nothing less would do.

“After all,
yours
is not the only reputation at stake,” Aunt Carolyn had told her the first time Vanessa had complained about her discomfort at Almack’s. “Each of your cousins was betrothed within weeks of me firing her off. What would be said if I failed with you?”

“That I was an incurable bluestocking who would as lief see my pretty aunt receiving court-promises than abiding them myself.”

Vanessa grimaced as she recalled her aunt’s laughter. Such honesty had served her well in Wolfe Abbey, but failed miserably in Town.

So—once again—she sat on one side of the crowded Assembly Room while her thoughts were elsewhere. Quigley might be receiving an answer to her latest query even now. Impatience gnawed at her, but she hid it as she spoke to those who were anxious to lure her into conversation.

Mayhaps, she told herself sternly, you might find an ally here. Surely there was someone who could help her locate her brother. While she had sat in antechambers of a minister’s office, she had watched how the gentlemen were greeted with more respect and how easily they were granted an appointment. She had called on nearly every office herself and gained nothing. If she could persuade a gentleman to ask the questions for her, she might obtain the answers she needed.

She cautioned herself to choose her ally with care. Not just any gentleman would do, for the one she selected must be willing to pose her questions to the military and the government without asking
her
too many questions. She needed to find a man who was well-connected with Whitehall, but who did not want to involve himself further with her. Nor could the man be any of the ones in Aunt Carolyn’s vast circle of friends. Word of Vanessa’s continued search for the truth would then reach her aunt’s ears. Certainly among the
ton
there must be a man who fit her needs. If she had to be here to meet this unknown ally, then she would.

She smiled at compliments heaped on her and replied graciously. Leale deserved the lauds for her hair that was piled
à la Sappho
and her white gown which was adorned with a ruffle along its decorous neckline and at its hem. She fought not to play with the ribbons dropping from the high waistline that emphasized the curves of her bodice. When she realized her velvet slippers were tapping restlessly, she halted the motion. No one must guess what she was really thinking.

Aunt Carolyn patted her arm. “My dear, I have never seen you enjoy Almack’s so much.”

“You were right.”

“
I
was right? About you coming to Almack’s?” Her aunt chuckled lowly. “What has caused this unexpected change of heart?”

“You said to look at each person as if he or she might be special.” Vanessa glanced away, so her aunt would not guess how she was stretching the truth. “So I shall. Who knows whom I might meet?”

“Who, indeed? Look who’s arrived!” She snapped her fan open and fluttered it fiercely in front of her face. “Tonight shall be interesting.”

Vanessa looked past her aunt, expecting to see one of Aunt Carolyn’s bosom-bows. Her eyes widened as a tall man walked toward them. Although she had met him but once, she could not mistake Lord Brickendon. His shining dark hair, his confident stance, the stylish clothes he wore so well, she recalled all that as she stared at him. Swiftly she dropped her gaze before he could discover her gaping at him like a love-sick air-dreamer. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared he would hear it above the bibble-babble of the Assembly.

“Good evening, ladies,” the viscount said with a curt nod.

“Good evening, my lord. I—” Vanessa gasped as Lord Brickendon continued past. She blinked, astounded that he would be so rude. He had not rushed to her side, anxious to lather her with compliments, as other men had. She had not expected him to do that, but no one was in such a hurry at Almack’s. Everyone stopped to speak politely to those sitting by the edge of the floor.

Everyone but Vanessa Wolfe.

Vanessa flinched at the thought. How many people had she treated as the viscount was treating her? Until now, she had not guessed her cordial coolness might be construed as tactlessness. Talking endlessly of the right
modiste
and who was seen with whom in the Park always filled her with
ennui
when she wanted to ask who might help her find Corey. A flush of dismay flooded her as she wondered if she had—in not much more than a score of words—bored the viscount when she met him at Mrs. Averill’s party. What irony that would be when he was the first man she had met since the start of the Season who seemed to have an iota of sense about him.

She clasped her hands in her lap. She should care nothing for his opinions. After all, she had no wish for Lord Brickeridon to pay court to her. Such frivolities would demand time she could not squander. She must think only of Corey. She must—

Vanessa’s thoughts were cut short when her hand was grasped in one that was as soft as unbaked dough. She gasped as her gaze focused on a bacon-face.

A wide grin matched the sparkle in the man’s blue eyes as he rumbled in a surprisingly deep voice, “My lady, I beg you to pardon my impertinence in presenting myself without formal introduction. I am Sir Wilbur Franklin.”

“It’s my honor to meet you,” she said quietly, becoming disconcerted again that his words brought to mind Lord Brickendon’s. Seeing her aunt’s astonishment at her subdued answer, she averted her eyes. She must not let Aunt Carolyn guess what she was thinking
now
.

“Nay, you’re being too kind,” the portly man gushed. “’Tis
my
honor. Forgive me for being so anxious to speak with you that I failed to wait for your dear aunt to introduce us.”

“You are forgiven.” She refrained from adding that if he was going to spend the rest of the evening atoning for such a small sin, she would give the brown-haired man his
congé
posthaste. Hating the hypocritical words that burned her tongue, she added, “I must say this meeting is overdue. I have seen you at other gatherings, sir, but I fear circumstances have prevented us from meeting.”

Aunt Carolyn said, “How wonderful those circumstances have been dealt with! I trust your sister is better, Sir Wilbur.”

“You are most kind to inquire of Ethel. She has risen from her sickbed, so we can hope her situation will continue to improve.” He beamed at the older woman, and Vanessa wondered if she had misread his intentions. Sir Wilbur Franklin must be older than Aunt Carolyn by more than a half-dozen years, so he might be eager to turn his eye on her. Such a match would be a good one, bringing together two old families from the north of England. Easily Vanessa could imagine Aunt Carolyn presiding over the baronet’s estate in the country with its generous expanse of gardens and its deer park.

Her hopes vanished as Sir Wilbur turned to her again. “Would you give me the honor of standing up with me for the next set of dances?”

“You do
me
an honor, sir. I am delighted to accept.” She held out her hand and let him bring her to her feet. As she put her fingers on his arm, she risked a glance at her aunt.

The older woman was staring at her in disbelief, her mouth open. No doubt, Aunt Carolyn had been planning to urge Vanessa to accept the gracious invitation. A mischievous thought tickled Vanessa, and she winked at her aunt. Aunt Carolyn’s fan began to flutter furiously, as it did when she was trying to hide her smile.

Vanessa did not hide hers. Things would be fine with Aunt Carolyn now, and Vanessa would not have to explain why she had accepted this invitation. Explaining was the thing she hated most, especially when she doubted if she could explain why she was so bothered by a man she had spoken to only twice. Dancing with Sir Wilbur was sure to be the antidote to her uneasy thoughts of Lord Brickendon.

Even more important, it would offer her the chance to discover if Sir Wilbur was the ally she sought. She knew too little about the pudgy man. It could be he had the very connections she needed to discover Corey’s whereabouts. The thought lightened her feet as she thanked him when he bowed to her and stepped back to take his place for the quadrille.

Vanessa quickly discovered her escort had little grace. She forgave him courteously the first dozen times he stepped on her toes in the first dance, then suggested they step out of the set and have something cool to drink.

As deeply as he had to concentrate on the not very intricate steps of the dance, every effort to draw him into conversation had been futile. He seemed as impatient to be done with the dance as she and quickly brought her a glass of lemonade.

“Have you found your first Season to your liking?” Sir Wilbur asked, hooking his thumb in a pocket of his white silk waistcoat. The pose accented the breadth of his belly, which bounced on every word. “Hardly a young girl of my acquaintance has not anticipated her first Season greatly.”