Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon
By Way Of A Wager (10 page)
His advent put an end to more private discussion, much to Miles's whimsical frustration. Breakfastâor lunch to the viscountâproved to be a lively affair, the young Lyndale seeing fit to regale his elders with gossip gleaned from the previous night, including the latest odds at Brooks. It seemed, although Cassandra was not perfectly clear on this point, that Brummel had bet Bollinger an egg-sized ruby that the regent would appear in blue for the fireworks display the following week.
The finishing touch to this little impromptu gathering was the zany entrance of the twins. They'd decided, quite naturally, that a second breakfast would be most satisfactory. Miles's voice was lost to their chatter. He gave it up. There'd be time enough shortly.
EIGHT
The duke had not minced his words the previous night. Harrington winced at the thought and unconsciously rubbed his swelling jaw. His eyes narrowed as he recalled St. John's insulting words and the blow with which they were delivered. So! His Grace did not consider him enough of a gentleman to accord him the dignity of a duel. Well, he would live to eat those words! Sir Robert inwardly seethed, his body still bearing the humiliating marks of his evening's encounter. His face was tender, his cheeks puffy, and the bridge of his nose alarmingly sensitive to the touch. A suspicious patch of yellowy-blue was beginning to form on the underside of his right eye, a circumstance not unreasonably giving rise to a certain degree of wrath.
The damnable fact was that the incumbent earl of Surrey simply could not be certain of his man. The duke might well prove too haughty a fellow to roll up his sleeves and involve himself in a sordid kind of wrangle. Jackson's Boxing Saloon was simply not his style. Harrington's brows knitted together at the thought of the double humiliation he'd suffered the night before. He'd get even if it was the last thing he did. And that fool of a girl, Cassandra? He'd find her and make her sorry, no idle boast!
Her whereabouts still remained an unresolved mystery. Despite the fact that he'd sent his groom, the Surrey chaise, and a number of footmen he considered relatively loyal servants to locate her, they had yet returned empty-handed. Notwithstanding the hours of impatient pacing, the search had proved mysteriously fruitless. The problem, however, was of no great moment, since she was bound to return at some time or another. Why his mother had seen fit to discharge her was beyond his torturous reasoning.
How much better it would have been had he been able to deal with her once and for all on their return. Even now he could have had her safely in his clutches. Bedded or wedded, it was all the same to him. Forty thousand pounds would be within easy reach. He could only hope now that she would keep her mouth tightly sealed about the events of the masquerade. It would not redound to his credit were she to reveal the shortcomings of her sojourn at Surrey Manor!
His ruminations were brought to a timely conclusion by the arrival of the morning's mail. The silver platter was laden with watermarked envelopes, very few, he noticed, bearing the coveted franks of the elite. Those that did were pointedly directed to the Honorable Miss Beaumaris, a circumstance that made a foul day fouler still. A cursory glance at the remainder revealed bills, bills, more bills. How he was to fight off the duns was well beyond his knowledge. Wedding the unwilling second cousin was now a compulsory measure if he wished to show his face about town. At least few could quibble at the size of her portion. How maddening it was that all his well-laid plans were confounded. He would have to contrive again, that was all there was to it.
Vague instinct made Sir Robert look up and notice the uniformed lackey hovering in the vicinity. His eyes narrowed as he caught the singularly anticipatory expression that conveyed life to his habitually wooden features. Remarking this, Harrington frowned. Perhaps there was a missive he'd missed. He screwed up his eyes thoughtfully, wincing from the shock of unexpected pain as he did so. The footman, one of his own creatures, would be unlikely to lose his composure at the sight of yet another statementâthey were too commonplace by far.
“Cat got your tongue?” He sounded waspish as he rounded on the servant. “Stop hovering, man, and tell me what you find so particularly curious!”
The footman muttered something inaudible under his breath and Harrington dismissed him in disgust. Alone, he pushed some of the shattered glass to one side, then peeled off his tan riding gloves. Placing the salver gingerly on a small but elegant occasional table, his hand alighted finally and with decision on an envelope franked impressively in blue and red. It was at once remarkable for bearing the seal of state.
Eagerness etched his features as his fingers clumsily ripped at the single wafer. Here, he hoped, was the answer to his nightly prayers. Confirmation at last of the demise of the sixth Earl Surrey. Lord Frances Beaumaris could surely be no more. He smothered an anticipatory grin. He could not help but feel the missive to be in the very nick of time. His mind wandered feverishly as his fingers made short shrift of the letter's folds.
He'd hold a banquet and invite all his creditors. Serve them humble pie, too! He sniggered. Then they'd regret their insinuating ways and niggardly harassment! Debtor's jail indeed! Those days were gone as surely as he was the Lord Robert Harrington, seventh Earl Surrey. What a pleasant ring the title had, to be sure!
The paper rustled as he unfolded it. He smoothed it down hastily with a practiced flick of the wrist. The words jumped out at Harrington unpleasantly. For a moment he thought he must have misread, but the hope was dashed instantly. Disappointment turned Harrington's sallow features haggard, then calculating, as he took stock of the contents.
In all Robert's long and decidedly eventful life, he'd never suffered such a devastating setback to one of his lifelong obsessions. It was funny how three formal sentences, iterated on His Majesty's stationery, could have such a profound effect. For an instant the room spun round. When it stopped, the germ of a notion had begun to formulate.
The second footman, standing in an agony of suspense outside the heavy wood door, found himself recalled to the room. If he suffered disappointment at his failure to catch a glimpse of the missive, he was certainly not granted sufficient opportunity to bewail the fact. Before he knew what he was about, he'd been ordered to the Running Footman, a dubious little watering house on the outskirts of the Surrey estates, there to exchange pleasantries with a fellow answering to the rather unlikely name of “Cutthroat Jake.”
The said person was in his late forties and looked altogether like a pugilist gone to seed. Heavy framed, the stubble that arose from his chin was of the hard, black variety, har-shening his already asymmetrical features. When all was said, his appearance went a long way to reminding the unfortunate servant of a bull terrier on a very short leash. This impression remained unaltered, even after the consumption of two long draughts of the innkeeper's finest.
The black stout served its purpose by means of introduction, but also went a long way to causing the beleaguered lackey to fair pass out. Lolling on the inn's beechwood benches, he came close to casting up his accounts, an event that did not elevate him in the eyes of the seasoned likes of Jake. The interest of the said highwayman-cum-jack-of-all-dubious-trades seemed to increase in direct proportion to the amount of silver the footman now saw fit to lay across his palm. He was awake to the fact that he had within easy grasp a pigeon ripe for the plucking.
By the time he'd pocketed his sixth shiny piece and ascertained there was more to be expected on completion of a small, but unspecified “consideration,” he was prepared to bestir himself from his slothful state and balefully head for the door. It was all the lackey could do to prevent himself from succumbing once more to the somewhat demeaning effects of the stout.
Sir Robert found that he'd judged his man aright: Jake was most gratifyingly receptive to the scheme he'd devised in the ill-fated moment he believed all lost. It seemed singularly unfair to the second footman, however, that after all his trouble he should be dismissed so summarily. The door had been firmly shut in his face, only minutes after presenting his charge. It was an insult he found unbearably hard to swallow. Cursing his luck, he bent down low, straining to hear snippets of the conversation taking place from within.
It was not to be expected that this transgression should go unnoticed. Indeed, the first footman, who caught him bending with his ear pushed tight against the keyhole, had much to say on this score. Since his misdemeanor was compounded by intoxication, he was fortunate, indeed, to escape the requisite dismissal.
On consideration, the penalty had been vetoed by the redoubtable butler. With more than a hint of regret he'd decided against turning the man off without a character. If truth be known, his mercy had more than a little to do with his own curiosity. Although he would die rather than admit it, he was extremely anxious to hear of the proceedings taking place under his very nose.
The second footman, spared the indignity of a dismissal, was constrained to satisfy his peers with lengthy descriptions of the rogue Jake and his manner of business. The servants' quarters fair hummed with speculation. What Lord Harrington wanted with such riffraff was anyone's guess, but it was manyâincluding Stanfordâwho offered up a silent prayer for Miss Beaumaris's safe return.
“Cutthroat Jake” would have to live up to his unsavory name if he were to pay his way. Sir Robert found himself fervently hoping that the appellation was rightfully gained and not an idle boast. It was a strange thing, he'd noticed: people were perfectly willing to rob and maim and loot. When it came to a question of murder, however, the average Englishman balked at the thought.
He scoffed in contempt. Not a flicker of doubt shadowed his mind as he went through the possibilities logically and without incident. He marveled at how easy it all was. Hardly even a challenge. Why he'd not had this plan formulated as contingency before he could not say. How fortunate Cassandra had mentioned the little sloop Surrey kept anchored off the coast of Brussels. The very thing, he was quite certain! Jake would sail posthaste to France, then travel by mount cross-country to Antwerp, where the sloop would be anchored. He, of course, would commute at a more leisurely pace to the coast and await Jake's arrival with the jubilant news of the unfortunate earl's safe disposal.
After the whole matter was satisfactorily settled, he'd deal with Cassandra. How much better in the unchallenged position of peer of the realm. The thought excited him. He wished, suddenly, to be alone. A lifelong dream was but an ocean-length away. The moment was too exhilarating to share with a lowlife like the rapscallion before him.
With a conspiratorial flick of the thumb that nevertheless conveyed an element of deep contempt, the dubious Jake was ushered from his presence.
Time enough in the morning to discuss contingencies and refine further upon the details. The evening was one to savor and savor it he would. Silently, he lifted his glass in half salute to a man lying in a hospital camp some way off from La Hay Sainte.
An acid laugh saw him toss his head back and drain the drink whole.
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A discreet cough broke in on Lord St. John's innermost thoughts. It is to be inferred that these deliberations were definitely on the pleasant side, since a tiny gleam of humor was to be detected lingering at the edge of his wide, wholly masculine mouth.
His lady love had just flung down the gauntlet and he was not the man to resist. What self-respecting fellow would turn his back on such a challenge, after all? Especially one that came wrapped as delightfully as this one did. How his heart's delight had sparkled as she named the stake. A throw of the dice, a hand of cards, a game of chess. Winner to take all. Well, well, and well! She must have been very sure of herself, the wench, to hazard so high.
He could only guess at the feelings that had willed her on to provoke him in this manner. Like chess, indeed like most earnest challenges, attack was the best form of defense. It troubled him that she still had cause to be defensive. He understood her, however, and made allowances. Besides, he admired her. He was hard put to think of another who would so willfully throw her fate to the gods. What a dear, spirited, brave girl to make light of life's troubles in the singularly novel way she had done.
He knewâperhaps more than mostâwhat it was like to be fettered by society and its expectations. She'd defied the social code, and nothing short of a miracle could restore her to her rightful position. Well, for better or worse he intended to be that miracle. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to shield her, to devote himself to her preservation and safety.
That she refused the ultimate protection of his name only endeared her to him more. Whether she knew it or not, she would be his. She belonged to him in more than just the physical sense, although that was certainly a part of it.
The thought of releasing the clips of her hair and running his fingers through smooth, silken, unencumbered locks was fast becoming an obsession with him. The dull ache within his body was yearning for a matching passion. Never before had he been so sensitive to a warm, laughing presence. They belonged together and not to be bonded in the most ultimate of all ways seemed an incalculable sin.
He had known her for a few snatched hours long ago and now this. Another mere sprinkling of time, but the hours were an eternity unto themselves. This was no passing fancyâhe was all too well-acquainted with thoseâthis was the real thing, Shakespeare's stuff of dreams that he had been so cynical about. Before the fortnight was out, she would be his wife. The special license he'd been carrying on his person all day bore testimony to this most incontrovertible of facts.
Miss Cassandra may rest easy in the belief that she'd won herself a reprieve. Miles knew better. For starters, he was an old hand at playing cards. How fortunate that Rupert had not been present to warn her off. The young gadabout was forever complainingâoften quite volublyâthat he had too uncanny a grasp of the order of play.
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