The Wagered Widow (13 page)

“Do you doubt your sister's morals,” de Villars interpolated coldly, “one might suppose you would speak to her yourself.”

“No, well, I don't! It—it ain't
that
exactly, but—” Boothe bit his lip and blurted, “Fiend seize it, man! Everyone is talking such infernal balderdash! All I can make of 't is that my sister Parrish has landed some poor fish, and be damned if I can find out who 'tis!”

The sound of de Villars' laughter could even be heard in the quiet bedchamber where The Monahan frowned thoughtfully at her diamonds.

*   *   *

Although Snowden Boothe dealt his repentant sister a severe scold in the matter of her fishing prowess, he was secretly amused and not a little proud of her because of the incident. Sensing this, Rebecca was encouraged to broach the subject of Ward's request that their aunt guide Miss Patience Ashton to her come-out. She proceeded with caution, neglecting to mention the extremely generous amount Ward had offered by way of payment. It was as well, for Boothe's pride was affronted and his temper flared. How had Ward
dared
suggest so infamous a thing? Did he fancy them to be in dire straits that he must offer Mrs. Boothe employment? Did he suppose Snowden so incapable of providing for his relations that his aunt must hire herself out as a
menial?
Mrs. Boothe wept and wailed that she had
known
this was how it would be! and even Rebecca, quite sure that she could talk her fiery brother around her thumb, decided to let a few days pass before she attempted to do so.

Both ladies were astounded, therefore, when, while walking beside their chair next afternoon, en route to a musicale, Snowden informed them he had decided they could accept Ward's offer. “Talked to Forty about it,” he said. “Seems Ward told him we grant him a great favour. True, of course, though I'd not thought of it in just that light. Forty says that under the circumstances, and in view of our family name being what 'tis, the arrangement is quite unexceptionable.” He grinned and added a teasing, “Wouldn't do for
you
to trot down there and serve as ape leader, Becky. But, being as it's my aunt, it will serve.”

Overjoyed, Rebecca avoided Mrs. Boothe's anguished eyes and said she thought it quite the outside of enough for Sir Peter's cousin to have dealt him such a turn, and that dear Aunt Albinia would likely prove so indispensable to Miss Ashton that Ward must be eternally grateful. “Who knows,” she said brightly, “the lady may prove to be as beautiful as she is rich, and after one glance at her, Snow, your heart be won.” She sighed dreamily. “How wonderful that would be, for Sir Peter would, by then, be so in our debt he could not refuse the match. All London would envy you.… It would be the wedding of the year, and you and Patience live happily—”

“Thunder and turf, but she's off again!” Snowden exclaimed indignantly. “I'll tell you what it is, Becky, my girl. This romancing of yours will land you in the suds one of these days! Marry Patience Ashton, indeed! A girl I never so much as heard of, much less saw! Ten to one she'll have a face like a frog, and if you think I'd wed such a one only to help you captivate your sainted Ward—think again, sister mine! Think again!”

Snowden was not known for his perception, and this was Rebecca's first intimation that he'd been aware of her
tendre
for his handsome friend. Thrown into confusion, she blushed scarlet and was relieved when they reached Tanterdale House and she was able to mingle with the other guests climbing the steps of the mansion. Miss Boudreaux was amongst the throng in the foyer, escorted by a clerical young man almost as tall as herself, whose raw-boned awkwardness was offset by a winning smile. She introduced him as her brother, FitzWilliam. His pleasant grey eyes had widened when they rested on Rebecca, and he proceeded to hover about her with such inarticulate but earnest admiration that Mrs. Boothe, desperately anxious for a private word with her niece, was denied the opportunity, and it was not until the interval following an excruciating recital by a vast soprano that she was able to take Rebecca into the garden for a breath of air.

Leading the way to an isolated marble bench, Mrs. Boothe seated herself and, when Rebecca had occupied the space beside her, wailed, “Whatever are we to do
now?
Snowden will straitly
forbid
you to accompany me! You know he will! And I shall
not
go to Bedfordshire alone. No—do not attempt to sway me, for nothing could tempt me to be isolated from my near and dear. I had come to think it might be a jolly summer, but—oh, Becky! You must tell Sir Peter we cannot accept.”

Rebecca patted her trembling hand and said a consoling, “Good gracious, ma'am. What a piece of work to make over so simple a matter. Snowden has not forbade me to go. Not in so many words. Exactly. No, listen, dearest. All I have to do is avoid any direct statement of the nature of—of our plans, and we shall be—”

“
Our
plans! Naughty minx! You know very well—”

“My plans, then.” Rebecca's conscience was somewhat strained by the prospect of deceiving the brother she adored, but Anthony's future (she told herself) was of even more import, and despite some sleepless nights, she had refused to abandon her scheme. Mrs. Boothe was tearing her handkerchief to shreds. Removing the tattered lace from her fingers, Rebecca soothed, “Never worry so. We shall come about, wait and see.”

As it developed, their worries were needless. The following morning Snowden rode up on a dapple-grey thoroughbred he had lately purchased from Lord Fortescue. After the somewhat hazardous business of dismounting without being trampled by this animal, he called a passing link-boy to hold the horse, ran up the front steps, and came into the house with rather less than his usual cheeriness. He responded with an abstracted air to Rebecca's bright greeting, settled himself into his favourite chair in the sunny parlour, stared blankly at his sister, stood up, then sat down again.

Alarmed, Rebecca asked, “Snow? Are you quite under the hatches, love?”

“Eh? Oh, no. Had a turn of luck, in fact.” Instead of elaborating on this phenomenon in his customary manner, he rose once more, took a turn about the room, and stood with one hand on the mantelpiece, gazing down into the empty grate. “It is no use your getting up in the boughs,” he remarked, frowning. “Cannot take you to the Dawes' rout party tonight. Nuisance, I know, but—there 'tis.”

Snowden had agreed to escort them tonight, only because Major Broadbent, whose plea to partner The Little Parrish to the party had been accepted, was now suddenly recalled to duty, and a hastily scribbled note declaring that he was shattered, desolate, and utterly distraught had arrived too late for Rebecca to accept any of the other offers she had received. There had been many of those, for her popularity had bloomed after the weekend at Ward Marching. News of her merry good humour, her unstilted nature, her charm and beauty had swept the
ton.
She had, Snowden acknowledged with a grin, won the heart of every ramshackle rattle in Town, to say nothing of several very well to pass older gentleman who were excellent matrimonial prospects was a girl prepared to wed a man thirty years her senior.

Rebecca had looked forward to the party on two counts. Firstly, because she knew Sir Peter Ward was expected to arrive in Town today and there was a chance he might be in attendance, and secondly, because she had hoped her brother would have such a jolly evening he would be in an expansive mood and she might be able to tell him she meant to accompany her aunt to Bedfordshire, if only for a few days. One look at Snowden's unusually grim expression drove such plans from her mind. She crossed to place her hand on his arm and, her eyes anxious, she asked, “Whatever is wrong, dear? I care nothing for the party, but—if you are in difficulties, please tell me.”

“Nothing to tell,” he said, adding a severe, “And don't you go making up no ridiculous Cheltenham tragedy, Becky! If truth be told, Forty's—ah, well he's got himself into the most caper-witted bumble broth, and—he ain't fit to go, y'know, at the best of times. Nothing for it, but I must go up there and see can I bring him about.”

The suggestion that as irresponsible a young Buck as Snowden Boothe could bring
himself
about, much less rescue a friend, would have sent several gentlemen in London's Corinthian set into whoops. Even his doting sister might have registered stupefaction at this expansive statement had not her own brain been busily spinning webs in other areas. The truth was that she was overjoyed by the news that her brother meant to leave Town, and, instead of delving deeper into the matter of Lord Fortescue's embarrassment, she enquired, “Go up where?”

“Newcastle.”

Rebecca stared. “Newcastle? Upon-Tyne?”

“What? Lord, I don't know what it's on! Is there another one, then?”

“Well, I expect there is. We seem to have so many towns with the same name. But if you mean the one in the north, Snow, it must be hundreds of miles distant! What on earth would take Forty up there?”

“Nothing that makes any sense, I can tell you!” Snowden stared broodingly at the grate, then exclaimed, “Jove, but you're right! Do I ever inherit the title—which it stands to reason I won't with all the dirty dishes on the other side of the family cluttering up the succession—but if ever I do, I dashed well think I shall stand up in the Upper House and register a protest about the whole dirty mess! Blest if ever I come to think about it before, but it is an absolute disgrace and should be stamped out before it goes on into perfidy or whatever that jawbreaker is.”

“Perpetuity, love,” supplied Rebecca, fond but baffled.

“All right. Before that.”

“Do you really suppose Forty's troubles will—”

“Thunderation, Rebecca! I ain't speaking of Forty! It's the towns I mean. Look at Dorchester, for instance. We've a Dorchester in Dorset and another in Oxfordshire. And there's Farnham in Dorset and another in Surrey and Lord knows how many more lurking about! Too dashed confusing is what it is! And no call for it. Lots of good names. Something should be done!”

Accompanying him to the door, Rebecca said, “Yes, but—Snow, how long shall you and Lord Fortescue be gone, then?”

“Forty ain't going with me.”

Surprised, she exclaimed, “But I thought you said he was in some kind of difficulty?”

“Well, he is. But it would pay no toll to take him. He's such a block, he'd just muddy the waters.” He turned at the door to put both hands on her shoulders. “Now you be a good chit. No more hare-brained starts, mind! Forty will keep an eye on you. Did I tell you he will take you to the party tonight? Said he'd bring the carriage round at nine, so don't be late.” He kissed her, told her not to worry and that he'd be back in a week or two, and ran lightly down the steps to where the link-boy had resorted to wrapping the reins around a tree trunk and hanging on for dear life. At the foot of the steps, Snowden bethought himself of something and came running back up again.

“About that fellow de Villars…” He hesitated. “Has he been causing you any—ah, embarrassment?”

Rebecca answered cautiously, “I've not seen him since the boat party. Why? I understood you to say—”

“Never mind what I said. Someone mentioned— Well, at all events, you stay clear of him! And if he makes any—I mean, if he says— Hell and the devil confound it,
must
you stand there looking so blasted angelic? You know dashed well what I mean!”

She laughed. “Yes, dear. But why you should think de Villars has eyes for me, when I understood you to say it was The Monahan who—”

Suddenly very red in the face, her brother coughed, and intervened with a stern stricture that she put up with “no humbug from ramshackle rakes!” He next advised her with a fond grin that she wasn't up to the rig, that widows was fair game but with Forty and Aunt Alby to chaperone her she'd be all right and tight, and took himself off to rescue the wailing link-boy.

Rebecca waved her goodbyes wondering if he'd completely forgotten that Aunt Albinia was going to Bedfordshire. Dear Snow, she would miss him. But, “Two weeks!” she breathed, her eyes bright with anticipation. It must
surely
be ample time in which to captivate one very lonely gentleman!

*   *   *

Rebecca had visited several country seats, but she had never lived in one and although she enjoyed their peace and beauty, it occurred to her that to spend a few days at an isolated estate as one of a merry throng of guests was one thing, but to live in such a setting for any length of time might be a touch lonely. It was perhaps for this reason that she had so looked forward to attending the Dawes' rout party before journeying into Bedfordshire.

She had chosen a gown of dusty rose pink silk that she and her aunt had worked feverishly to bring up to style. It had always been a charming dress, but with the addition of many tiny satin bows, gathering the soft material into a ruched effect, and a billowing underdress of lace, also embellished with the little bows, it looked very pretty indeed, and she felt quite pleased with herself when she descended the stairs with her aunt.

Lord Graham Fortescue awaited them in the drawing room, a vision of sartorial splendour in a powdered bag wig, a coat of scarlet cloth with quantities of gold lace, and white satin knee breeches. Gold ladders adorned his stockings, and on his high-heeled shoes ruby buckles glittered. He jumped up as the ladies entered, and presented each with a corsage of white roses.

“Thank you, dear sir!” said Rebecca gratefully. “It is very good of you to step into the breach like this. I trust you were not discommoded.”

He was, he assured her, not only pleased, but proud to be escorting a lady who had become quite the rage. He was a cheerful and attentive escort, and Mrs. Boothe remarked that it was delightful to receive such courtesies. “I vow”—she smiled—“you will pamper us just as much as would Snowden.”