Once Upon a Wager (28 page)

• • •

As Father stepped from the Chessher's carriage onto the sidewalk outside Marchmain House, Annabelle pasted a bright smile on her face to disguise her fatigue. Despite Alec's admonition, she'd barely slept the previous night. She'd been too caught up in her despair. “How was the trip from Nuneaton?” she asked. “How well you look.” And it was true. Everything about her father—from his gaze to his attire—seemed less confused.

“It was liberating, my girl. There is no other word for it. On some stretches of road, we went so fast, I imagined I was flying, soaring up from the earth, untethered and free.” He rushed forward, folding her into his arms. “All around us, there were signs of rebirth and renewal,” he continued, stepping back to smile down at her. “And I've discovered that the unfamiliar can hold unexpected surprises.”

She could feel her eyes widen with shock. “I am so glad to hear it. Has Mrs. Chessher been keeping you very busy, then?”

“Well, she has no patience for cataloging specimens, which was quite upsetting at the start. She made me take several walks into town, and I even went to services at St. Mary the Virgin. I was certain that no one could hear the vicar over the pounding of my heart. In the churchyard afterward, I saw the most beautiful butterfly perched on the stone wall there. I've never seen its like. I can't wait to show it to you.”

“You must slow down,” she said, laughing now. “I can't keep up with everything you say.” As the doctor and his wife descended from the carriage behind them, she called out. “What have you done to my father? I can't remember the last time he was so talkative.”

“He has been a dear,” Mrs. Chessher said, stepping forward. “He is doing right well, too. I'm proud of him.”

“I can't thank you enough for seeing him here safely. Are you certain you cannot stay? Lady Marchmain and I had hoped you would rest here before continuing on to Dover.”

“I wish we could, Miss Layton,” Dr. Chessher said with a quick bow. “I don't often get the chance to take time from my duties in Hinckley. We need to be under way as soon as possible.” He glanced down at her. “Has your leg been giving you trouble?”

“It rarely pains me, Dr. Chessher, and for that, I have you to thank.”

“I may have bandaged your leg,” he said approvingly, “but your determination kept it. You were my bravest patient.”

“I hardly felt so at the time,” she replied. In truth, she'd had no choice but to be brave. The only alternative had been the darkest despair. But she would not think of such things today, not when Father was doing so well. After the coachman removed his bags and the Chesshers departed for Dover, she moved with him up the steps to the house. “Are you excited to see London, Father?”

“I am, my dear, but I'm happiest to see my glorious girl again. Come show me where you have lived these many long weeks.”

They passed through the doorway into the impressive entrance hall, with its dizzying expanse of marble and gilt. “Aunt Sophia wishes to give us a few minutes,” she said with a warm squeeze of his hand. “Let me show you to the drawing room. We will wait for her there.”

“Were all of these sent to you, Annabelle?” he asked as they crossed into the room, still filled with flowers, arrangements of every size and color.

“It seems the thing to do. If a gentleman speaks with you, he must send you flowers.”

“I am not so old that I don't remember the rituals of courtship,” he said. “Before your mother and I were married, her drawing room was always filled with flowers. She was the toast of London, just like her daughter.”

“I have received a flattering amount of attention,” she said quietly, “but I'm hardly the toast of London. I'm not even sure I would want to be.”

“Haven't you been enjoying your time here? Is it wrong to hope that you might wish to return home?”

“Society is capricious. People admire you in one moment, only to turn away in the next. The lies of one person can shake the foundations of everything you've tried to be.”

“My dear, whatever is the matter?”

“People have told the most outrageous lies about Alec,” she said as a now-familiar anguish settled upon her. “Everything that he is and has worked for is being threatened.”

“Alec?

“Alec Carstairs. The Earl of Dorset. Did you know, Father, he did not abandon me? I'd thought he wanted nothing to do with me because of the accident, but Mother banished him from Astley Castle. She destroyed my letters to him, so he didn't know I had asked for his help. He needs my help now.”

Father had gone decidedly pale. “Mrs. Chessher has told me it is a very bad thing to hide from yourself,” he said slowly, his eyes wary. “And even worse to hide from the things you have done.”

“But Alec did nothing wrong. Don't you see? It is Digby's fault, that horrible man who raced with Gareth. He is here in London, and he's made up vicious lies about Alec, not only about his service during the war, but also about the accident. He has hinted that Alec caused Gareth's death.”

“That man … he is here?” he said haltingly, as if speaking was suddenly difficult. “In London?” A faint sheen of perspiration had appeared on his brow, and he looked as if he might faint. She should have known better than to burden him with such things. He'd seemed so much better, so like the father she'd known as a child that she'd run to him, like a little girl, eager to confide her worries. He was not the same man. She'd been foolish to forget it.

Moving quickly, she guided him to the striped settee, sitting down beside him. She loosened his cravat, fanning her hand in front of his face to stir the air. “Can I get you something to drink? Shall I call for a doctor?”

Slowly, though, his color returned. He took a shuddering breath, hanging his head between his shoulders. “I am sorry, Annabelle,” he said, nearly overcome. “I did not mean to worry you. The journey was more than I'm accustomed to. I will be all right.” Something in his voice, however, gave lie to that statement.

Before she could ponder it further, Aunt Sophia swept into the room, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile. It was quickly extinguished when she saw him on the settee. “Frederick, you are shockingly pale.”

“He was overtaxed by the journey, but I was too careless to notice,” Annabelle said. “I was telling him about Alec and the letters and Corporal Digby. It was too much for him.”

Father looked up then, hollow-eyed and sad. “Please, my dear. You mustn't blame yourself for my weakness. She is always trying to protect me from myself,” he added to Aunt Sophia.

“I've noticed that.” Her aunt's voice was oddly sharp as she watched him carefully. “Grown men should not be coddled, Annabelle. Let us get him settled into his rooms.”

She helped Father stand, alarmed by the sudden and debilitating change in his behavior. He'd walked into Marchmain House with such confidence, but he shuffled now. His nervousness became even more pronounced when Aunt Sophia turned and said, “You should rest, Frederick. I need to speak with you privately before dinner is served.”

• • •

As he sat in the study of his bachelor lodgings on St. James Street, Alec couldn't set aside a nagging thought. Two days ago in Hyde Park, Annabelle had asked him about Digby's whereabouts in Badajoz, about whether or not they could be ascertained with any degree of certainty. He'd replied that it was impossible to track a single solider in a battle involving thousands. And that was true. Tracking a soldier's regiment, however, was another matter.

Fitzsimmons and Digby could not have had much time to work out their scheme. After all, little more than a week ago, Alec had been dancing with Jane at the Hertford Ball while her father looked on in delight.

Might the two men have overlooked crucial details in their story?

On the floor of the Lords, Fitzsimmons had claimed that Digby was just back from the Peninsula, which assumed that his regiment had been engaged in the battles there. But given what he knew of the 10th Hussars, a horse-mounted unit more frequently assigned to gaudy displays at the prince's Royal Pavilion in Brighton, it seemed unlikely.

Had Digby served with other regiments on the Continent, and if so, when? Where had he been stationed on the evening of April 10, 1812? If Alec could find that out, and thus prove his suspicions, all of their lies would unravel.

Of course, in the midst of this scandal, he was in no position to ask the War Office for service records. They would probably toss him out on the street if he tried. But fortunately, he knew someone who'd be met with a more favorable reception.

He'd just dipped his quill into an inkwell, ready to pen a letter, when a knock sounded at the door. “No, thank you, Potter,” he called out. “I have no appetite.”

“I'm not bringing the lunch tray, my lord. You have a visitor.”

“Send the man away. I'm in no mood for another journalist hoping to interview the butcher of Badajoz.”

“My lord, it is an older man, and a nervous one at that, if you'll permit me to say so. I have brought you his card.” Potter walked forward to hand it to him. “He claims to know you from Nuneaton.”

Alec felt a frisson of alarm as he read the name on it. Sir Frederick Layton was hardly the sort to pay a social call. “Please send him in immediately.” Moments later, Annabelle's father walked hesitantly through the doorway. He was hardly more than fifty, but there was an unsettled grief that hung over him, making him appear older. He also seemed remarkably anxious. Alec stood, indicating that the older gentleman should take the leather armchair opposite his desk. “Sir Layton, it has been a very long time. I know your daughter has been looking forward to your visit. I hope nothing is wrong?”

“Annabelle has told me about the accusations against you, Lord Dorset,” Layton said quietly as he took his seat. “She is very worried for you.”

“Please tell her that I am fine,” he lied. “Things will right themselves. Your daughter has grown into a remarkable woman.”

“She has become so without my help, I can assure you.” Layton was looking down at his lap, as if unwilling to meet his gaze. “I didn't want to come here today, but Lady Marchmain told me I must. There are things … that must be said.”

Alec stiffened. He knew what was coming. “I have already resolved to keep my distance from your daughter. I'll not let this scandal touch her.”

At that, the older man looked up in surprise. “No, Lord Dorset. I'm not asking you to stay away from my daughter. That would hurt her, and I have hurt her enough already.”

Layton stood then and began to pace. “I am referring to the day that changed everything. I should have known, you see. I had just returned from the fields with a singularly large Death's-head hawk moth, when he came up the drive with Gareth.”

“Who was with Gareth?” He was confused by the abrupt change in topic. Was the man talking about the accident?

“Most collectors want nothing to do with them,” Layton continued, as if Alec had not spoken. “They are a portent of grave danger. I should have remembered that. Perhaps then my son would not have died. My dearest girl wouldn't have suffered.”

“Sir Layton, who came to see you with Gareth?”

“Digby has blamed you for my son's death, but it was his fault. He brought death with him that day.”

Was Layton mixing the past with the present? He wasn't making any sense. “Digby can be blamed for many things, but not Gareth's death.” He knew that better than anyone. “It was a terrible accident.”

Layton stopped his pacing and dropped his head, his shoulders bowed with grief. “It was no accident. That is what I've been trying to say. I have the linchpin from your carriage to prove it.”

The room tilted wildly then. To steady himself, Alec gripped the corners of his desk, his knuckles white with the strain.

“He sawed through it partially, so it would snap during the race,” Layton said, his anguish evident. “I found it that night, when I returned to Two Boulders Road. I'd seen Digby combing the wreckage, and I knew he was looking for something.”

“Why didn't you confront him?” Alec cried. “Why did you never report this?”

“Gareth was dead. Annabelle was horribly injured. I worried Digby would come back for the money that was owed. I needed leverage against him. How else could I protect what was left of my family?”

If Layton had known about his son's debts, why hadn't he done more to stop his destructive behaviors? Why hadn't he gotten justice for Gareth? For Annabelle? “Hiding away the linchpin accomplished nothing. Why did you not at least tell me? Damn it! My father was the magistrate of Nuneaton. You could have gone to him.”

“I did not want you to know. Can you imagine the shame of it? Astley Castle was on the verge of insolvency. Annabelle is the only reason it still stands today.”

Alec leapt up from his chair in disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me you kept her there, hidden away from the rest of the world, to cover up your shame?”

“No, I kept her there so that she would be safe.” Sir Layton's eyes filled with tears. “And yet I don't know what I would have done without her. My wife was no longer herself. Annabelle was all that I had left.”

It was then that Alec knew, and the realization stunned him. “Did you also destroy her letters?” he said. “The letters she sent to me?”

Layton covered his face with his hands, openly weeping now. “God forgive me. I never sent them. Mary, her maid, brought them to me, but I hid them away. When she found out what I'd done, I dismissed her, so that Annabelle would never know.”

Were he any other man, Alec would have struck him. It would have been a small price to pay for the damage he'd done. As it was, it took all his determination not to turn away from the man in disgust. Perhaps Sir Layton hadn't been able to bear the thought of Annabelle leaving him. Alec could understand that. But he couldn't forgive him. “What did you do with the letters and the linchpin, Sir Layton?” His voice was bitter with anger.