The Wagered Widow (3 page)

“Oh—it would be lovely, of course,” said Albinia, flustered. “But—if Snowden feels…”

De Villars sighed. “I cannot endure the suspense. What
do
you feel, Boothe?”

Snowden's tightly compressed lips and the glitter in his eyes left little doubt as to what he felt. Alarmed, Rebecca intervened, “Oh, please, Snow. I should like it of all things. It has been such a
very
long time since I went to a party.” She crossed to take his arm as she spoke and smiled up at him in the coaxing way he could never resist.

His anger eased. He thought, “Poor little chit, it
has
been hard on her.” “We-ell,” he said, reluctantly. “There must be no dancing, mind.”

“Lord, what a clodpole,” muttered de Villars, his voice unfortunately audible.

Boothe's head jerked to him. He said through his teeth, “Your pardon, sir?”

De Villars smiled and with a languid wave of the cane and a lift of his Satanic brows said innocently, “The muffin man yonder—came dashed near to losing his entire tray.…”

*   *   *

“I have seldom seen Snow so angry.” Rebecca paused at the laden table in the busy warehouse to inspect a bolt of green velvet. “But—oh, did
ever
you see such speaking eyes? Or so fine a figure of a man?”

“Very speaking eyes,” her aunt agreed, frowning a little. “And I'll allow that I have always been partial to the athletic type. Truly a splendid leg and very good shoulders, but—as to disposition…” She pursed her lips doubtfully.

“Oh? I thought him delightful. Do you not think this green would become Anthony with his auburn hair?”

Mrs. Boothe nodded absently. “And a fine grade of velvet. But velvet is so difficult to sew on, love. And if you mean to do it yourself … He would be dangerous, and not an easy man to handle. Though he is the type that—were his heart once given it would be for ever, I fancy.”

“I
must
do it my—” Rebecca checked and, glancing up at her aunt, echoed, “Dangerous? I thought him all gentleness; all sweet amiability.”

“You
did?
With that chin? That devilish smile? Lud! I sensed danger in every line of him!”

“For mercy's sake! I was speaking of Sir Peter! Not that nasty de Villars!”

Her aunt's brows went up. “Ward? You aim high, love.”

“Perhaps, but—how could you have thought I meant de Villars? Had I been a man I should have knocked him down, if only for the ways his eyes prowled over me! At one point I feared I had forgot to put on my overdress!”

Mrs. Boothe smiled. “He could not take his eyes from you, I'll admit, and never has cared who he antagonized. Have a care, child. Snowden don't like him above half, and from what I hear of de Villars, a duel with
him
does not end with a polite sword thrust in the arm.”

“I knew it!” Startled, Rebecca lowered the blue satin she had taken up. “He has a reputation, then?”

“With swords
and
women. Dreadful!”

“Then thank heaven I want none of him! What about this blue?” But before her aunt could respond, she asked hopefully, “Do you know aught of Sir Peter?”

“Very little, dear. I have not heard of a wife, however.”

They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Striving to be sensible, Rebecca said, “Still, there might be one. In the country, perhaps. Oh, I
do
wish Snow had not gone off to his club! I can scarce wait to ask him a
hundred
questions.”

As it transpired it was late the following afternoon before Snowden Boothe put in an appearance in John Street. He wore evening dress, and his aunt and sister exclaimed proudly over the whaleboned coat of blue satin embellished with silver braid on cuffs and pocket flaps, the silver lace of the cravat, and the white satin small clothes. “And blue clocks on your stockings, love,” smiled Rebecca. “La, but you put me to shame!”

He grinned, sat in the chair to which they ushered him, took the glass of Madeira that was offered, gazed into it, then set it down on the drum table beside him. “I'd best tell you now,” he sighed. “I couldn't raise the wind, Becky.”

She was well acquainted with cant, having grown up with two brothers, and although she had not really expected him to rescue her from her financial embarrassments she hid a little pang of disappointment as she patted his hand and told him not to fret. “I've a plan or two of my own,” she said, with more confidence than she felt.

He eyed her uneasily. “Now see here, my girl, I'll have nothing smoky! Lord, but Jonathan would never let me hear the end of it did you open a gaming house, or some such—”

He was interrupted by a faint scream from his aunt, who lay back on the sofa, fanning herself.

“The very thought of it,” she moaned. “My poor heart! I shall be in my grave before Christmas! I know it!”

“Fustian!” scoffed her unfeeling nephew. “You're strong as any carthorse, Aunt Alby. Do not try to flimflam us! Come now, Rebecca. What is this mysterious plan of yours?”

Rebecca's plan was quite daring and, uneasily aware that Jonathan would not approve and that even the more flamboyant Snowden might forbid it, she wished she had kept silent in the matter. “Oh, nothing definite,” she said airily. “I shall tell you when I have all the details clear in my head. But, meanwhile, Snow, tell us of Sir Peter. What do you know of him? Aunt thinks he is quite a Non Pareil.”

Half Boothe's mind was still worrying at her obvious evasions. He stared at her blankly. “Sir Peter—who?”

“Odious boy! Ward, of course! The gentleman we met yesterday.”

“Oh.” He took up his glass and sampled the wine. “Haven't seen him for years. Been rusticating, I understand. He has a beautiful place in—er, Bedfordshire, I think. Spends most of his time up there.”

“He must have a very amiable wife,” said Mrs. Boothe, all innocence. “Most ladies would wish to spend more time in Town.”

“Hmmmnn,” said Snowden, maddeningly.

“She must be very beautiful,” persisted Rebecca.

Snowden, who had been thinking how delightful it must be to own a country seat, looked up at this and enquired vaguely, “Who must?”

“Lady Ward.”

“Oh. As to that, I could not say. Never met the lady. Heard she was a beauty, did you? Surprising, at her age.” He added a hasty, “Don't intend no disrespect, mind. I
had
Heard the old lady was a real Toast in her day, but—”

“Old lady?”
gasped Mrs. Boothe, titillated. “Did he marry for money, then?”

“Oh, I doubt that. No, come to think of it, he couldn't have. Ward Marching has been in the family since the Conquest, I should think.” He chuckled. “They likely brought it over with them.”

“Then—why—” Rebecca broke off, her bewilderment replaced by amusement. “Snowden—impossible creature! Of whom are you speaking?”

“Ward's grandmama, of course. You said ‘Lady Ward,' did you not?” And shaking his head as his relations dissolved into laughter that was more relieved than he could guess, he asked, “Are you sure you two girls ain't been at this decanter before me?”

“No, you wretch. We were referring to Sir Peter's
wife,
not his grandmama!”

“Then you were fair and far off from the start,” he said triumphantly. “Ward don't have a wife. Oh, he was betrothed once. Years ago. I believe the lady went to her reward. Shame. She was a great Fair, so they say. Ward never got over it. I heard he hasn't looked at a girl since. Silly gudgeon.”

“I think it noble in him to be so loyal,” said Rebecca, shocked by such callousness. “There are not many gentlemen would mourn a lady so steadfastly.”

He grunted. “I should hope not. Dashed silly thing to do. Now do not fly up into the boughs! I ain't saying a man shouldn't go into blacks for a year or so. But—
six
years? Drivel! If the lady loved him, she'd likely want him to be happy, not wear sackcloth and ashes into his dotage.”

“From what I saw of Sir Peter yesterday,” Mrs. Boothe murmured, “he was far removed from sackcloth and ashes.”

“Nor anywhere near his dotage,” added Rebecca.

“Well, whatever he is,” said Snowden, preparing to take his leave, “he's lost to the matchmaking mamas. They've all thrown up their hands over him, although he's quite the best catch in Town. Full of juice, y'know. From what de Villars told me, there was a time when poor Ward could scarce set one foot after t'other without foundering, he was so deep in the handkerchiefs dropped for him.”

“Indeed?” Rebecca walked with her brother to the hallway and said with a faint frown, “De Villars? I thought you purely disliked the gentleman?”

“Did.” Boothe winked at the maid as he accepted the tricorne she offered blushfully. “Misjudged the fella. Had a good chat with him last night at Brooks'. Never dreamed he could be so jolly.” He bent to plant a kiss on Rebecca's cheek. “Teach me not to go making hasty judgements, eh?”

“Hasty judgements, indeed!” said Rebecca disparagingly when she relayed this conversation to her aunt. “If that horrid man was ‘jolly' to Snow, it was because he has some mischief in mind.”

“Yes, and involving you, child! I saw how he looked at you!” Mrs. Boothe shivered. “Like a cat with a mouse. It fairly turned my blood cold.”

“Well, I shall be no mouse for Trevelyan de Villars!” Rebecca declared, the mischievous gleam bright in her dark eyes. “I am after bigger game!”

“I knew it!” Gripping her hands apprehensively, Mrs. Boothe moaned, “You mean Sir Peter! Oh, but this is going to be frightful, I can feel it in my bones! What do you mean to do to the poor man?”

Rebecca twinkled at her. “Well, that,” she admitted, “is one of the details I've not quite worked out as yet. But I shall catch him, never you fear! Papa once told me that if a person wants something badly enough, no matter how difficult it may seem, it can be done.” She held out her skirts and danced around the room. “Lady Peter Ward.… Oh, Aunt! Does it not sound delicious?”

Mrs. Boothe uttered a heartfelt wail and reached for her vinaigrette.

CHAPTER
2

Rebecca sat at her dressing table, leaning forward, the small round patch balanced on her slender forefinger, her hand wavering as she critically considered her features. With a decisive swoop, she placed the patch slightly below and to the right of her tender mouth. “There!” she said with a pleased air.

“Oh!” gasped her aunt, shocked. “The
Kissing?
” Her niece responding with nothing more than a bright nod, Albinia shook her head and retired to perch on the bed. She already wore her ball gown, a charming creation of dark blue sarsenet embroidered in lighter blue, with the bodice and train also of the lighter colour. Her wig was tall and decorated with clusters of violets, and she looked rather astonishingly youthful. Her eyes, however, were apprehensive, and the mirror informing her of this, Rebecca stood and asked archly, “What is the matter, dear? Do I not look well?”

“You look very well, my love. Save for that naughty patch! And you are causing my poor heart to flutter most distressfully, for I dread to think what you may have plotted against that poor—”

The door swung open to the accompaniment of a hurried scratching, and six-year-old Anthony raced in. “Mama! Mama!” he cried, “I had the most—” And he stopped, his green eyes widening so that they looked enormous in his pale face. “Oooh…!” he breathed, and went over to touch the white silken gown with one fine-boned hand. “Are the pink flowers stuck on?”

Rebecca laughed, and bent to kiss his cheek. “No, my darling, they are part of the material.” She pirouetted for him. “Do you approve of your mama?”

His awed eyes answered for him, but he whispered, “You are very pretty, ma'am. I never saw you look … like that.”

“Well, you see, love, I no longer have to wear only black, or dark colours.” Hands on waist, Rebecca surveyed her reflection. The Watteau gown really was elegant. It had been dreadfully dear, but, following Snowden's oft-repeated instructions on How to Proceed When Under the Hatches, she had ordered four new dresses from Madame Olga and ignored the frightening balance of the bills already stuffed into the bottom drawer of her desk. Madame's smile had been a little strained, but she had said nothing, and Aunt Albinia had attributed this to the advertising that so lovely a patron would achieve. Nonetheless, Rebecca's heart had been thundering with nervousness when they had left the modiste's discreet shop, and she wondered now if ever she would be able to pay the half of what she owed. “I suppose I should not have bought it,” she sighed.

“Of course you should,” said her aunt loyally. “It might have been fashioned for you; how could you resist it after all this time in blacks?”

Rebecca threw her a grateful smile. “I own I love the pleated train and the flattened paniers. But do you know, they say that in France they are starting to turn away from the back pleats?”

“And I suppose the next to go will be the stomacher! The French will stop at nothing! Never have! But, as to those ruffles at the neckline, dearest,
très chic,
but—” She glanced to the child's worshipful face. “A little—ah,
décolleté,
no?”

Rebecca contemplated the expanse of her creamy bosom and had the grace to blush. “The tools of conquest,” she murmured provocatively.

Mrs. Boothe gasped quite properly, but her dimples quivered.

Millie, Rebecca's abigail, her voice as blunt as her face was square, asked gruffly, “Which rings, Mrs. Rebecca? With the little roses you'll likely want the pearls and rubies?”

“Yes, thank you, Millie. And my pink tulle scarf, if you please. You really powdered my hair beautifully.”