The Wagered Widow (4 page)

Glancing with fond pride at the richly upswept curls and the pink velvet ribbons she had wound amongst them, Millie said, “Is it very special tonight, ma'am?”

Mrs. Boothe put in, “It well may be!”

Rebecca smiled and turned to her son. “How did you go on in the park, dear? Your cheeks are rosy as any apples.”

“I had a jolly good time, Mama.” He sank to his knees beside her as she again sat at her table, adjusting the shawl Millie draped across her shoulders. “We met the kindest gentleman. He had a boat. A model galleon. With guns and—and everything! And he let me sail her in the lake. He was a friend of Uncle Snow's. And Uncle Snow took me up with him on Pax, and it was the best afternoon ever!”

She ruffled up his thick auburn curls lovingly, then frowned. “Your hair is wet!”

“Oh. Well—I sort of fell in,” he confessed, with a guilty grin. “A little bit.”

“A little bit!” She scanned the delicate features in immediate anxiety.

From the open doorway, Mrs. Falk, the housekeeper, tall, starched, angular, and greying, proclaimed in her nasal twang, “The boy was soaked, marm. I told him not to go near the edge, for it is very slippery just there. The gentleman fished him out and thought it most amusing.”

“Oh, yes. He was a great gun,” declared Anthony, his eyes flashing merrily.

With a grim look at Rebecca, Mrs. Falk said, “Is not the term I had in mind, marm. Nor I do not think you would have—”

There was no time for more, for at this point Snowden entered, a vision in purple and gold. “What's to do?” he asked breezily. “You ladies ready? I fancied you would be waiting downstairs. Jolly decent of old Forty to invite us for dinner, y'know. Shouldn't keep him waiting. His cook's a tiger!”

Typical of the man who is himself invariably late, he was all impatience, and his charges were obliged hurriedly to gather up fans, shawls, and reticules and trip down to the waiting carriage. Once inside, and with the coachman whipping up the horses, Rebecca blew another kiss to Anthony and, settling back against the squabs, said, “How nice it is that one of us still can keep up a carriage. How you manage it, Snow, I cannot guess.”

“Couldn't get along without one. There's always some way to arrange these matters. Shouldn't have let yours go. At all events, mine is at your disposal, as I have said. You should use it more often, if only to take my nephew for a drive. Little varmint enjoys sitting up on the box.” He added thoughtfully, “He is looking much less down pin these days, Becky. A touch pale, but better.”

“Yes. He has recovered nicely, I dare hope. But that dreadful illness has left him much too frail. How I would love to take him into the country for a while.”

“It's a frail lad with a lion's heart,” he said bracingly. “Never fret, m'dear, he'll be a fine man some day. And his mama is certainly a fine figure tonight. That's a nice gown. But remember—no dancing, lest the
ton
think you disrespectful to poor Forbes.”

“As you say, dear,” said Rebecca meekly.

“She will be the new Toast,” declared Mrs. Boothe, with fond prejudice. “Mark my words, Snowden, no lady can hope to outshine your sister tonight!”

They enjoyed a light dinner at the charming flat of Lord Graham Fortescue, a good-humoured Tulip of the
ton,
who enjoyed the rather dubious distinction of being often referred to as “that young fribble who's a bosom bow of Snow Boothe.” His lordship journeyed with them to the ball, and it soon became apparent that Albinia's expressed hopes for her niece had been a trifle premature. They had turned onto Clarges Street and taken their place in the procession of vehicles discharging guests before Sir Peter Ward's large house, when Mrs. Boothe exclaimed excitedly, “Look, Becky! Only look at that
glorious
gown! And the
wig!
I never saw anything so elegant! Who is she, Fortescue?”

Obediently craning his neck, his lordship's brown eyes skimmed the crowd. “The tall girl? That's The Monahan. She's— By Jove! Snow, look at this! D'ye see her escort? You never think…”

Snowden looked, and whistled softly. “So
she's
his interest! I'd heard the gossip, but— Gad! They're bringing it into the open, eh?”

“Who? Who?” Trapped by her paniers and trying vainly to glimpse the gentleman with the lady in the magnificent gold brocade robe
volante,
Rebecca said, “I cannot quite— Oh.” Her nose wrinkled disdainfully. “'Tis Mr. de Villars.”

“Yes. And speaking of dress—look at his!” Snowden chuckled. “Black and silver, to her gold! He'll cause a flurry with the lady on his arm!”

Rebecca asked, “Are you quite sure of their—er, relationship, Snow? The lady is so lovely, surely she could not view
him
with favour?”

“Not much for looks, is he?” Snowden agreed cheerfully. “Yet the women melt at his feet, Lord knows why. I never could believe he'd actually snared The Monahan.”

“She seems entranced,” murmured Mrs. Boothe, curiously. “Is he very wealthy, Fortescue?”

“Pockets to let from what I've heard, ma'am. Still, he keeps up appearances, don't he?”

“He does indeed,” Snowden agreed, with a grin. “The Monahan is expensive, that I
do
know.”

Rebecca turned to him, much shocked. “You
do?
How—”

“He—he ain't clutch-fisted, neither,” Fortescue interposed, desperate but ever loyal. “No lady leaves his protection with rancour, so they say. And—”

“My—
lord!
” gasped Mrs. Boothe.

“Oh—egad!” groaned his lordship.

“Here we are, at last!” said the vastly diverted Snowden. “Get your pretty selves together,
mesdames.
And remember, Becky: No dancing!”

*   *   *

Had anyone ever told Rebecca that she could have a wonderful time at a ball without once dancing, she would not have believed it. On this warm May evening, however, she thoroughly enjoyed herself. Before they were through the reception line she had become a centre of attention, and she could scarcely have been more pleased than to have two gentlemen vying for her attention when she came up to give her hand to the host.

Sir Peter's greeting was the essence of charm and manners. His hair, heavily powdered, was tied back in the English style. The great cuffs of his green velvet coat were frogged with pale green satin, the pocket flaps and stiffly pleated skirts free of further ornamentation. It was a rather austere habit for so young a man, but Rebecca, entranced, thought that very austerity emphasized his good looks.

Once in the ballroom, she was besieged, as her aunt had foretold, gentlemen pressing in around her, and old friends struggling through the crowd to embrace and congratulate her upon her return to social functions. When she was asked for her dance card, and replied demurely that she would not be dancing, her decision was obviously applauded. Several would-be partners claimed her for the duration of a dance, nonetheless, either walking with her through the cooler halls, or taking her on to the terrace to admire London's myriad lights and the clouds that drifted across the quarter-moon.

Shortly after midnight she was led into the refreshment room by a long-time friend, Major Hilary Broadbent. He was a pleasant young man, with sandy hair (now hidden by powder) and the pale skin and freckles that so often accompany such colouring, and he looked very dashing in his scarlet regimentals. His long, narrow tawny eyes had brightened when they fell upon Rebecca, and, although she might yearn for the escort of a certain baronet, she was very well pleased to accept the major as her supper partner.

The large room was warm, bright with flowers, crowded with guests, and ringing with chatter. Mrs. Boothe was already seated with some of her cronies, and from the corner of her eye, Rebecca saw Trevelyan de Villars, distinguished by his height if not his behaviour, as he flirted with his lady love at the centre of a covey of friends.

Major Broadbent said, “Oh, there's The Monahan. She's the latest Toast. A striking pair, eh?”

She had deliberately avoided a direct look at the group, but now glanced that way. De Villars' twisted grin flashed, and he raised his glass in a brief salute that managed somehow to embarrass her. She nodded frigidly and turned away.

Surprised, Broadbent said, “I'd not realized you was acquainted. Should you like to join them?”

“No. Thank you.”

He looked at her sharply, then chuckled. “Taken him in aversion, have you? As well. He's no fit friend for you, m'dear.”

She rapped her fan lightly on his wrist. “And you have not the right to so name me, Hilary Broadbent!”

“Those dimples make me want to say a deal more,” he said with fond impudence. “But first, I'll get your supper.”

He seated her at a small table for two and went off. Rebecca allowed fancy to drift. Moments ago, she had seen Sir Peter lead a pretty girl into the minuet. Soon, the dance would end. He would come in search of the widowed Mrs. Parrish, for he
must
have been struck by the beauty of her gown, and his eyes, when first she arrived, had been full of admiration. He would stay beside her, chatting politely, and she would be her most gracious self. Not a trace would she reveal of the “hoydenish starts” that sometimes caused dear Aunt Alby to throw up her hands in despair. Tonight, she would be all demure and pretty propriety, and Sir Peter would be charmed … intrigued, even.… He would say—

“I give you good even, Mrs. Parrish.”

The subtly taunting voice stiffened Rebecca's back, but she looked up and extended her hand politely.

His grey eyes gleaming, de Villars bowed over it. (One had to admit The Creature was graceful.) “A charming picture you make, ma'am. And—all alone? Criminal! By your leave…” He did not wait for her leave, however, but in a sort of easy swoop disposed his long self in the chair.

“Oh!” Rebecca blinked. “But—that is Major Broadbent's place, sir.”

“We shall guard it for him, you and I. Now tell me, my Fair, of what were you thinking? You looked as enchanted as enchanting.”

She did not immediately reply, but surveyed him thoughtfully. The thick, crisp hair was expertly powdered and brushed into a style that softened his sardonic features. The magnificently tailored black jacket hugged his broad shoulders without so much as a suggestion of a wrinkle. The silver frogging was dramatic, and the white satin waistcoat, embroidered with black roses, made him look even more suave and sophisticated. She thought, with an unconscious curl of the lip, “Even more raffish!”

Belatedly, she became aware that he was laughing softly. Aghast, she stammered, “Oh! Your pardon! I was—er—”

“Summing me up. And not flatteringly, alas. Is an unkind return for an innocuous remark.”

“To tell a lady you scarce know that she is enchanting, is
not
innocuous, Mr. de Villars!”

He leaned closer, his eyes quizzing her wickedly, his long-fingered hand straying dangerously close to her own upon the tablecloth. “Then we must better our acquaintance, and speedily, so that I
can
tell you how truly enchanting you are.”

Rebecca snatched her hand back and began to ply her fan. “I expect your lovely partner must be sighing for you, sir.”

“Oh, no. Rosemary is accustomed to my comings and goings. And I left her in good hands.”

“Indeed?” Hoping that her down-drooping eyelids would convey her utter boredom with him, his lightskirt, and his comings and goings, Rebecca looked elsewhere. And thus found herself gazing straight at The Monahan and the “good hands” in which she had been “left.” Her eyes widened in dismay. She turned away at once, but de Villars had seen and, raising his quizzing glass, directed a keen stare in the same direction. His brows went up. “Aha,” he murmured, “my dear friend Ward. So that is the way the wind blows.…” He grinned as Rebecca's haughty stare returned to him and, with a revoltingly sympathetic air, remarked, “You waste your hopes, my dear. Peter, alas, is not in the petticoat line.”

“Oh!” she gasped, shutting her fan with a snap. “Oh! How
dare
you!”

He stood, leant one hand on the table, and said, soft-voiced, “Here comes your military rattle, so I shall leave you. For the time. But—you have much to learn, ma'am, about what I would—dare.”

Rebecca smiled past him and said warmly, “How nice that looks, Hilary. I am very ready to do it justice.”

The major, a laden plate in each hand, frowned from the flushed cheeks of the lady to the sneer on the face of the gentleman. “Look here, de Villars,” he began.

“As you wish,” said de Villars, equably. “Ah, yes. An excellent selection. Thank you, Broadbent.” And appropriating a cheese tart, he bowed to the lady, waved his prize in appreciation to the scowling officer, and wandered off.

Rebecca's sense of humour, seldom far from the surface, was tickled by such blatant insolence, and she struggled to subdue a giggle. The major did not share her amusement. “That … fellow!” he fumed.

“De Villars?” she said, with arch unconcern. “Is he not droll?”

Broadbent ground his teeth and, looking after that debonair departing figure, snarled, “Droll … indeed.”

*   *   *

“It is that wretched de Villars,” Rebecca hissed. “He means to bring me to a stand, I know it! I've had scarce two words with Sir Peter all evening!”

Mrs. Boothe, sharing the secluded sofa in the wide corridor, had a rather different notion of what Mr. Trevelyan de Villars intended to bring Rebecca to, but, her eyes lighting suddenly, she murmured, “Then he has not yet succeeded, love. Here is Sir Peter coming.”

Their host hastened towards them, bowed gallantly to Mrs. Boothe, and implored that she permit him to capture her niece for a stroll in the garden. “For if I have to dance another quadrille,” he said with his grave smile, “I vow the soles of my shoes will melt away.”