Lady Allerton's Wager (3 page)

‘There you are! I had almost given you up and gone to bed…’

Her smile faded as she looked from her brother’s stony face to Beth’s flushed one.

‘Oh, dear. What has happened?’

‘Ask your cousin,’ Kit said shortly, stripping off his white gloves. ‘I will be in the book room, enjoying a peaceful glass of brandy!’

Charlotte’s gaze moved round to Beth. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said again, but there was an irrepressible twinkle in her eyes. ‘What have you done, Beth?’

Beth wandered over to the big red wing-chair opposite and curled up in it. She was beginning to feel annoyed as well as guilty.

‘It is all very well for Kit to act the moralist, but it was his idea to go to the Cyprians’ Ball in the first place—’

Charlotte gave a little squeak and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Beth! You told me you were going to Lady Radley’s rout!’

‘Well, so we did, but then Kit had the idea of the Cyprians’ Ball!’ Beth wriggled uncomfortably under her cousin’s horrified stare. ‘We were masked, so I
thought there would be no harm…’ She looked defiant. ‘Very well, Lottie, I admit it! I was curious!’

‘Oh, Beth,’ Charlotte said in a failing voice. ‘I know I cannot accompany you about the town, but I thought you would come to no harm with Kit!’

‘Well, you were wrong!’ Beth said mutinously. It suddenly seemed much easier to blame the whole thing on her cousin. ‘None of this would have happened if Kit had not decided to have some fun!’

‘None of what?’ Charlotte asked, in the tone of someone who was not entirely sure they wanted to know the answer.

Beth yawned. She was very tired and suddenly wanted her bed, but equally she wanted someone to confide in. Her cousin had been as close as a sister this year past, closer than they had ever been in childhood when Charlotte’s five years’ seniority had put Beth quite in awe of her.

Beth, Kit and Charlotte had grown up together, but time and differing fortunes had scattered them. Charlotte had married an officer and followed the drum, Kit had spent several years in India and Beth had been orphaned at seventeen and left penniless. Friends and relatives had murmured of schoolteaching or governessing, but two days after her bereavement, Sir Frank Allerton, a widower whose estate marched with that of the Mostyns, had called to offer her an alternative future. He had not been a friend of the late Lord Mostyn, but Beth knew that her father had esteemed him as an honest man, and so she had accepted.

She had never regretted her decision, but she did regret the lack of children of her marriage. Her home and parish affairs had given her plenty to do, but
when Frank had died, leaving her a widow at nineteen, she had been lonely. Though Kit had inherited Mostyn Hall and the title he was seldom at home, and it was Beth who kept an eye on the estate. Then, a year into Beth’s widowhood, Charlotte had lost her husband during the retreat from Almeira and had come back to Mostyn. Fortunately she and Beth had found that they got on extremely well. Charlotte was cool and considered where Beth was impetuous and tempered some of her cousin’s more madcap ideas. Beth’s liveliness prevented her cousin from falling into a decline.

‘So what has happened?’ Charlotte asked again, recalling Beth’s attention to the lamp-lit room. ‘You went to the Ball…’

‘Yes. We only intended to stay for a little, although I think Kit might have lingered if he had been there alone!’ Beth said, with a sudden, mischievous grin. ‘At any rate, it was not as I had imagined, Lottie! There was the most licentious behaviour—’

Charlotte looked exasperated. ‘Well, what did you expect, Beth? You were at the Cyprians’ Ball, not a Court Reception!’

Beth sighed. ‘Yes, I know! Everyone was staring at me—no doubt because they thought me a demirep!’ she added, before her cousin could make the observation herself.

‘Yes, well, it was a reasonable assumption—’ Charlotte looked at her frankly ‘—and you do have a lovely figure, Beth! The gentlemen—’

‘Spare me,’ Beth said hastily, remembering the disturbing heat in Marcus Trevithick’s eyes. ‘I thought you wished to hear what had happened, Lottie?’

‘Yes,’ her cousin said obligingly, ‘what did?’

‘Well, Kit and I had a few dances and, as we were waltzing, the behaviour was becoming more and more uninhibited so I decided it would be wise to come home. Then a gentleman came up to us and asked me to dance.’

Beth looked away. When Marcus Trevithick had first approached her she had been amused and some dangerous imp of mischief had prompted her to play along. She had not known his identity then, but she had been tempted by the atmosphere, tempted by
him
…

She looked back at Charlotte, who was waiting in silence. ‘We danced a country dance together and he introduced himself as Marcus Trevithick. I had had no notion—I have never met Trevithick before, and although he knew who Kit was he did not know me, though he made strenuous attempts to find out my name…’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Charlotte said drily. ‘Did he proposition you, Beth?’

‘Lottie!’ Beth looked shocked, then smiled a little. ‘Well…’

‘Well, who could blame him?’ Charlotte seemed torn between disapproval and laughter. ‘The poor man, thinking you Haymarket-ware and no doubt getting a set-down for his trouble!’

‘It was not quite like that,’ Beth admitted slowly. ‘Yes, he did…make his interest plain, but I did not discourage him exactly…’ Suddenly, foolishly, it seemed difficult to explain. Or at least difficult to explain without giving some of her feelings away, Beth thought hopelessly. And Charlotte was no fool. She would read between the lines and see all the things that Beth had not admitted.

‘It is just that I thought of Fairhaven,’ she said, in a rush. ‘You know that I had been intending to make Trevithick a financial offer for the island! Suddenly I thought how much more fun it would be to make a wager…’ She risked a glance at her cousin from under her lashes and saw that Charlotte was frowning now, all hint of amusement forgotten.

‘So I suggested that we step apart, and then I challenged him to a game of Hazard, with Fairhaven as the stake—’

‘Beth!’ Charlotte said on a note of entreaty. ‘Tell me this is not true! What did you offer against his stake?’

Beth did not reply. Their eyes, grey and blue, met and held, before Charlotte gave a little groan and covered her face with her hands.

‘Do you wish for your smelling salts, Lottie?’ Beth asked, uncurling from her armchair and hurrying across to the armoire. ‘You will feel much more the thing in a moment!’

‘I feel very well, thank you!’ Charlotte said, although she looked a little pale. ‘I feel better, in fact, than you would have done if Trevithick had claimed his prize! I take it he did
not
win?’

‘No, he did not!’ Beth felt the heat come into her face. ‘I won! And if I had lost I should not have honoured the bet! It was only a game—’

‘No wonder Kit cut up rough!’ Charlotte said faintly. ‘Stepping aside with a gentleman who already thought you a Cyprian, challenging him to a game of chance, offering yourself as the stake…’ She took the smelling salts and inhaled gratefully. The pale rose colour came back into her face.

‘I have shocked you,’ Beth said remorsefully.

‘Yes, you have.’ Charlotte’s gaze searched Beth’s face before she gave a slight shake of the head. ‘Each time you do something outrageous, Beth, I tell myself that you could not possibly shock me more—and yet you do!’

‘I am sorry!’ Beth said, feeling contrite and secretly vowing not to tell Charlotte any more of the encounter. ‘You know I am desperate to reclaim Fairhaven!’

‘Not so desperate, surely, that you would do anything to take it back!’ Charlotte sat back and patted the seat beside her. ‘This obsession is ridiculous, Beth! The island was lost to our family years ago—leave it in the past, where it belongs!’

Beth did not reply. She had learned long ago that Charlotte was practical by nature and did not share the deep mystical tug of their heritage. Beth could remember standing on the cliffs of Devon as a small child and staring out across the flat, pewter sea to where a faint smudge on the horizon signified the island that they had lost. The tales of her grandfather, the dashing Charles Mostyn, and his struggle with the dastardly George Trevithick, had captured her child’s imagination and never let it go. Lord Mostyn had lost the island through treachery and, fifty years later, Beth had vowed to take it back and restore the family fortunes. In her widowhood, a woman of means, she had twice offered George Trevithick, the Evil Earl, a fair price for the island. He had rejected her approach haughtily. But Beth was persistent and she had fully intended to repeat the offer to his grandson, the new Earl. It was one of the reasons that she had come up to London. Fate, however, had intervened…fate, and her own foolish impulse.

But perhaps it had not been so foolish, Beth
thought. Whatever the circumstances Fairhaven was hers now, won in fair play. And she intended to claim it.

‘What sort of man is Marcus Trevithick, Beth?’ Charlotte asked casually. ‘What did you think of him?’

Beth jumped. She was glad of the lamp-lit shadows and the firelight, for in the clear daylight she did not doubt that her face would have betrayed her.

‘He is perhaps of an age with Kit, or a little older,’ she said, glad that she sounded so casual herself. ‘Tall, dark…He has something of the look of the old Earl about him.’

‘The Evil Earl,’ Charlotte said slowly. ‘Do you think that his grandson has inherited his character along with his estates?’

Beth shivered a little. ‘Who knows? I was scarce with him long enough to find out.’

‘Yet you must have gained some impression of his nature and disposition?’ Charlotte persisted. ‘Was he pleasing?’

Pleasing? Who could deny it? Beth remembered the strength of Marcus’s arms around her, the compelling demand of his lips against hers. He was a man quite outside her experience. But he was also a liar and a cheat. She saw again his mocking smile. She turned her hot face away.

‘No, indeed. He was a proud, arrogant man. I did not like him!’

Charlotte yawned and got to her feet. ‘Well, I am for my bed.’ She bent and dropped a soft kiss on Beth’s cheek, pausing as she straightened up. ‘You did not tell Lord Trevithick your name?’

‘No,’ Beth said, reflecting that that at least was true.

‘And though you were with Kit, you were masked.’ Charlotte sounded satisfied. ‘Well, at least he will not know your identity. For that we must be grateful, I suppose, for it would cause the most monstrous scandal if it were known that you had attended the Cyprians’ Ball! People would assume—’ She broke off. ‘Well, never mind. But perhaps you will think twice in future before you play such a hoyden’s trick again!’

The door closed softly behind her. Beth lay back on the cushions and let out her breath in a huge, shaky sigh. Charlotte was in the right of it, of course—it would be very damaging for it to become known that she had been at the Cyprians’ Ball. And what Charlotte did not know was that whilst she had not given Trevithick her name, he had seen her face without the mask. Beth stared into the fire. Well, it mattered little. She would send Gough to call on the Earl’s man of business in the morning, and once the title to Fairhaven was in her pocket, she would leave for Devon without delay.

Even though he had said he would not honour his bet, Beth could see no reason why Marcus Trevithick would decline to surrender the island to her, for it could not be worth much to him. He had lands and houses far more valuable and there was no sentimental reason for him to hold on to the least important part of his estate. If he persisted in his refusal, however, she was still prepared to pay him, and, Beth thought with satisfaction, one could not say fairer than that. She had heard that his pockets were to let
and she was certain that he would see the sense of the matter.

She raked out the embers of the fire, doused the lamp and went upstairs to bed. It should have been easy to put the matter out of her head but for some reason the memory of the encounter—the memory of Marcus Trevithick—still lingered as she lay in her bed. She told herself that she had seen the last of him, but some unnerving instinct told her that she had not. Then she told herself that she did not wish to see him again and the same all-knowing voice in her head told her that she lied.

‘A
gambler, a wastrel, a rake and a vagabond!’ the Dowager Viscountess of Trevithick said triumphantly, ticking the words off on her fingers.

There was a short silence around the Trevithick breakfast table. The autumn sun shone through the long windows and sparkled on the silver. There were only three places set; one of Marcus’s married sisters was coming up from the country for the little Season but had not yet arrived, and the other had gone to stay with friends for a few weeks. Only Marcus, his youngest sister Eleanor and the Dowager Viscountess were therefore in residence at Trevithick House.

‘A vagabond, Mama?’ Marcus enquired politely. ‘What is the justification for that?’

He thought he heard a smothered giggle and looked round to see Eleanor hastily applying herself to her toast. Although she appeared to be the demurest of debutantes on the surface, Marcus knew that his sister had a strong sense of humour. It was a relief to know that the Viscountess had not crushed it all out of her during Marcus’s years abroad.

‘Traipsing around the courts of Europe!’ the
Viscountess said, giving her son a baleful glare from her cold grey eyes. ‘Drifting from one country to another like a refugee…’

Marcus folded up his newspaper with an irritable rustle. He had a headache that morning, no doubt from the brandy that he and Justin had consumed the night before, and Lady Trevithick’s animadversions on his character were not helping. In fact, he was surprised that she had not added drunkard to the list.

‘I scarce think that a diplomatic mission accompanying Lord Easterhouse to Austria constitutes vagabondage, Mama,’ he observed coolly. ‘Your other charges, however, may be justified—’

‘Oh, Marcus, you are scarcely a wastrel!’ Eleanor protested sweetly. Her brown eyes sparkled. ‘Why, since your return from abroad I have heard Mr Gower say that the estates are already better managed—’

‘Enough from you, miss!’ the Dowager Viscountess snapped, chewing heavily on her bread roll. ‘You are altogether too quick with your opinions! We shall never find a husband for you! As well try to find a wife for your brother! Why, Lady Hutton was saying only the other day that her Maria would be the perfect bride for Trevithick were it not that Hutton would worry to give her into the care of someone with so sadly unsteady a character! So there is no prospect of
that
fifty thousand pounds coming into the family!’

Marcus sighed. It was difficult enough having a parent who was so frank in her criticism without her holding the view that he was still in short coats. How Eleanor tolerated it, he could not imagine. He knew that if he had been in her shoes he would have taken the first man who offered, just to escape Lady
Trevithick. Marcus was also aware that his friendship with Justin did not help either. The Dowager Viscountess had never got over her disapproval of her nephew and barely acknowledged him in public, a sign of displeasure that Justin cheerfully ignored. Families, Marcus thought, could be damnably difficult.

As if in response to that very thought, Penn, the butler, strode into the room.

‘Mr Justin Trevithick is without, my lord, and enquiring for you. Shall I show him in?’

Marcus grinned. ‘By all means, Penn! And pray send someone to set another cover—my cousin may not yet have partaken of breakfast!’

The Dowager grunted and hauled her massive bulk from the chair. ‘I have some letters to write and will be in the library. There is the possibility that Dexter’s daughter may be a suitable wife for you, Marcus, but I have some further enquiries to make!’

‘Well, pray do not hurry on my account, Mama!’ Marcus said cheerfully, gaining himself another glare from his parent and a covert smile from his sister. ‘Miss Dexter would need to be very rich indeed to tempt me!’

‘Marcus, you make her much worse!’ Eleanor whispered, as the Dowager Viscountess left the room. ‘If you could only ignore her!’

‘That would be difficult!’ Marcus said drily. ‘I curse the day she appointed herself my matchmaker!’ His expression softened as it rested on his sister. ‘How you tolerate it, infant, I shall never know!’

Eleanor shook her head but did not speak and, a second later, Justin Trevithick came into the room. He shook Marcus’s hand and gave Eleanor a kiss.

‘Eleanor! I’m glad that Lady Trevithick did not whisk you away—’

The door opened. ‘Her ladyship requests that you join her in the library, Miss Eleanor,’ Penn said, in sonorous tones. ‘Lord Prideaux has called and is with her.’

Eleanor gave her cousin and brother a speaking glance, then dutifully followed Penn out of the room. Marcus gestured towards the coffee pot. ‘Can I offer you breakfast, Justin? And my apologies for my mother’s transparently bad manners at the same time?’

Justin laughed. ‘Thank you. I will take breakfast—and for the rest, please do not regard it! The only thing that concerns me is that Lady Trevithick considers Prideaux more suitable company for Eleanor than myself! He is a loose fish, but then, I suppose his parents were at least respectably married!’

‘So were yours,’ Marcus commented.

‘Yes, but only after I was born!’ Justin leant over and poured some coffee. ‘How do you feel this morning, old fellow? Must confess my head’s splitting! That brandy was nowhere near the quality it pretended!’

‘The coffee will help,’ Marcus said absently, reflecting that the brandy had proved to be the opposite of his mysterious adversary of the previous night. She had been Quality masquerading as something else and today he was determined to get to the bottom of that particular mystery. He had told Justin an expurgated version of the whole tale the previous night over the maligned brandy bottle, and his cousin had been as curious as he as to the lady’s motives. Justin had been closer to the fifth Earl than Marcus because their
grandfather had taken Justin up deliberately to spite his elder son, but despite his far greater knowledge of the old man’s estates and fortune, he could throw no light on why anyone would want the island of Fairhaven.

The door opened for a third time as Penn came in. ‘Mr Gower is here to see you, my lord. He says that it is most urgent.’

Marcus frowned, checking the clock on the marble mantelpiece. It was very early for a call from his man of business, but if Gower had managed to find him rooms well away from Albemarle Street, then the earlier the better. Remembering the previous night, his frown deepened. There was another reason why Gower might have called, of course…

‘Thank you, Penn, I will join Mr Gower in the study shortly,’ he said.

The door closed noiselessly as Penn trod away to impart the message. Justin buttered another roll. ‘Shall I wait here for you, Marcus, or do you prefer to join me at White’s later?’

Marcus stood up. ‘Why don’t you come with me to see Gower?’ he suggested. ‘I have the strangest suspicion that this relates to the business last night, Justin, and I would value your advice.’

His cousin raised his eyebrows. ‘Your mysterious gamester, Marcus? Surely she does not really intend to claim Fairhaven!’

‘We shall see,’ Marcus said grimly.

Mr Gower was waiting for them in the study, pacing the floor with an impatience that set fair to wear a track through the rich Indian rug. He was a thin, aesthetic-looking man whose pained expression had come about through years of trying to make the iras
cible old Earl see sense over the running of the Trevithick estates. There was a thick sheaf of papers in his hand.

‘My lord!’ he exclaimed agitatedly, as the gentlemen entered. ‘Mr Trevithick! Something most untoward has occurred!’

Marcus folded himself negligently into an armchair. ‘Take a seat and tell us all, Gower!’ he instructed amiably. ‘What has happened—has one of the housemaids absconded with the silver?’

Mr Gower frowned at such inappropriate levity, but he took a seat uncomfortably on the edge of the other armchair, placing his shabby leather briefcase at his feet. Justin strolled over to the window, still eating his bread roll.

‘This morning I had a call from a gentleman by the name of Gough who has chambers close to mine,’ Mr Gower said, still agitated. He shuffled his papers on the table. ‘He is a most respected lawyer and represents only the best people! He came to tell me of an agreement between one of his clients and yourself, my lord, an agreement to cede the title deeds to the island of Fairhaven, which is—’

‘I know where it is, thank you, Gower,’ Marcus said coolly. He exchanged a look with Justin. ‘Gough, is it? Did he tell you the name of his client?’

‘No, sir,’ the lawyer said unhappily. ‘He told me that his client expected—
expected
was the precise word used, my lord—that I would have the deeds to the island ready to hand over immediately. Naturally I told him that I could do no such thing without your consent, my lord, and that you had issued no such authorisation. He therefore suggested…’ Mr Gower shuddered, as though the suggestion had been made
with some force ‘…that I call upon you to gain your approval forthwith. Which I am doing, sir. And,’ he finished, apparently unable to stop himself, ‘I do feel that I should protest, my lord, at the cavalier manner in which this transaction appears to have been handled, putting me in a most difficult position with a fellow member of my profession!’

There was a long silence. ‘You are right, Gower,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘The whole matter is damnably out of order and I apologise if it has put you in a difficult situation.’

‘But the island, my lord!’ Gower said beseechingly. ‘The deeds! If you have an agreement with Mr Gough’s client—’

‘There is no agreement,’ Marcus said. He heard Justin draw breath sharply, but did not look at him. ‘Tell Gough,’ he said implacably, ‘that there is no agreement.’

‘My lord…’ Gower sounded most unhappy. ‘If there is any way that such a contract could be proved, I do beg you to reconsider!’

Marcus raised one black eyebrow. ‘Do you not trust me, Gower?’ he asked humorously. ‘At the very most it could be construed as a verbal contract and there were no witnesses.’

Gower blinked like a hunted animal. ‘None, my lord? Can you be certain of that?’

A smile twitched Marcus’s lips. ‘Perfectly.’

‘But even so…’ Gower glanced across at Justin. ‘A verbal contract, my lord…’

‘I think Mr Gower feels that you should honour your pledges, Marcus,’ Justin said, with a grin. ‘Even in a game of chance—’

‘A game of chance!’ Gower looked even more dis
approving. ‘My lord! Mr Trevithick! This is all most irregular!’

‘As you say, Gower,’ Marcus murmured. ‘Have no fear. Gough’s client will never sue. I would stake my life on it!’

Justin grimaced. ‘Can you be so sure, Marcus? She sounds mighty determined to me!’

Gower, who was just shuffling his papers into his briefcase, scattered them on the carpet. ‘She, sir,
she
?’ he stuttered. ‘Good God, my lord, not even the old Earl would have indulged in a wager with a female!’

‘He was missing a trick then,’ Marcus said coolly, ‘for I found it most stimulating!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Good day, Gower. Give Gough my message and if you find his instructions are that he persists in his claim, refer him direct to me. Penn will show you out!’

‘Marcus,’ Justin said, once they were alone, ‘do you not consider this a little unsporting of you? After all, the girl won the bet, did she not?’

‘She did,’ Marcus conceded. He met Justin’s eyes. ‘Truth is, Justin, I would like to meet her again, find out about this passion she has for Fairhaven. It intrigues me.’

‘And this is how you intend to flush her out?’

‘Precisely!’ Marcus grinned suddenly. ‘I could go to Kit Mostyn and ask for his help, of course, but I would wager he will not grant it! So…if I refuse to honour the bet, my mysterious opponent may show her hand again!’

Justin’s lips twisted. ‘You’re a cunning devil, Marcus! But what is your interest in the lady herself?’

Marcus’s grin deepened. ‘That depends—on the lady and who she turns out to be!’

‘And you would recognise her again?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘I would recognise her anywhere, Justin.’

‘Pull your chair up a little closer, my love,’ Lady Fanshawe instructed her goddaughter, gesturing her to move to the front of the theatre box. ‘Why, you will not be able to see anything at all from back there! But do not lean out too far! It is not good to lean excessively, for the gentlemen will stare so! Oh, pray do look, Beth!’ Lady Fanshawe leant as far out of the box as she could without falling. ‘It is Mr Rollinson and Lord Saye! I do believe they will call upon us in the interval!’

Beth edged her chair forward an inch and leant backwards at the same time. She had every intention of effacing herself until she was practically invisible. The invitation to the theatre was a longstanding one and could not be avoided, for Lady Fanshawe had been her mother’s closest friend. That was the only reason why Beth had come to Drury Lane that evening, although the play, Sheridan’s
The Rivals
, would normally have been sufficient to tempt her out. Normally, but not now. The matter of Marcus Trevithick and her ill-conceived wager with him had suddenly become so very difficult that she had no desire to risk meeting him again.

Beth chanced a glance over the edge of the box at the crowded auditorium below. Fortunately it would be easy to be inconspicuous in such a crush. People were milling around and chattering nineteen to the dozen: dandies, ladies, courtesans…Beth drew back sharply as a passing buck raised his quizzing glass at her in a manner she considered to be odiously famil
iar. Lady Fanshawe did not notice for she was waving excitedly to an acquaintance in the crowd.

It was already very hot. Beth fanned herself and looked around idly. Kit had escorted her again that evening but as soon as they had arrived he had left her in Lady Fanshawe’s company and could now be seen in a box to the left, chatting to a very dashing lady in green silk with nodding ostrich feathers. Lady Fanshawe had taken one look and remarked disapprovingly that one met with any old riff-raff at the theatre and that Kit need not think to foist his
chère amie
on their attention! Beth had been a little curious, but had tried not to stare. She thought that the dashing lady looked rather fast but, given her own performance at the Cyprians’ Ball, she was scarcely in a position to comment.