The Wagered Widow (40 page)

“Oh, la! Yes, yes!” She clapped her hands, quite forgetting to be regal and distinguished, the unaffected gesture brightening the glow in Boudreaux's eyes. “You are my poor man who was taken ill and those stupid people would not help!”

“And you are my avenging angel who swooped down to rescue me before I was trampled to death! I had been struck with the pneumonia, but recovered, as you see. My dear child! How ever may I express my gratitude? If it is within my power…” He gestured expansively.

The delight in Rebecca's eyes faded. “You—ah, you
do
know who I am?” she asked cautiously.

“Your card proclaimed you to be Mrs. Parrish, I believe.”

She sighed. “Ah. I see you do not know who I am, sir. My maiden name was Boothe. And my brother is—”

“Oh, dear,” said his lordship. “Well now, we have rather a pretty predicament, do we not?”

A faint flush of embarrassment lit his fine features.

Ever impulsive, Rebecca reached out to place a consoling hand on his wrist. “No. I shall not take advantage of your gratitude. If I am to win you over, it must be because of my dear brother's sterling qualities. Not because you quite mistakenly consider yourself beholden to me.”

The corners of the well-shaped mouth twitched. He leant back, his elbow on the arm of the sofa, his chin against the palm of his hand, while regarding her with faintly amused anticipation. “May I ask, dear ma'am, why you feel my indebtedness to be ‘mistaken'?”

She hesitated, searching his face, but if there was a smile in his eyes, it was a friendly smile, and not the kind that would lead to mockery. “Because, my lord,” she said earnestly, “you gave me a very rare chance to make amends. Only think of how many times one sees a poor soul who is crippled perhaps, or maimed, or blind. Or one meets a bright young person so full of brilliant promise, yet doomed from some dread affliction, and one's heart is wrung. If
only,
you think, you could give them a magic potion, or tell them some cure, or know of a physician who could help. But there is
nothing
you can do! How lucky was I! You were there—needing help, and I
was
able to help you! Do you see?”

His eyes, initially puzzled, had become very soft. He said gently, “Yes. But you said, ‘make amends.' For what, child?”

“Oh.” She flushed and looked down. “So many things. Kind words I have left unsaid; gossip I have repeated; my dreadful daydreaming which quite drives my poor aunt into the boughs; my improvidences! My”—she smiled at him, awakening a roguish dimple in her cheek—“my hoydenish behaviour and often dreadful temper!” She sighed. “Perhaps, when we
are
able to be of help to someone, it may be noted down on our—our celestial records, do you not think, sir?”

He chuckled. “And be a golden mark to wipe out some black ones? A lovely notion, my dear, though it would seem to me that your sins are small indeed—compared to most.”

“Perhaps,” she said dubiously. “But they are an exceeding heavy burden at times.”

“Then you must be faint under such a weight.” He stood and crossed to tug at an embroidered bell-pull. “Allow us to refresh you—a dish of Bohea, a glass of ratafia, and some cakes perhaps. And then you shall tell me why you think your brother would make my very beloved grandniece a good husband.”

His eyes twinkled merrily at her. How gracefully he moved, and with what sweet courtesy he spoke. “A true gentleman,” thought Rebecca, and blessed the lucky chance that had enabled her to be of service to him. She felt as though she had known him for years. Surely, it would be easy to convince him of Snow's worth.…

Half an hour later, she was far less confident of success. She had spoken of her brother's warm-heartedness and loyalty, of his unfailing care and kindness to her and Anthony after her husband's untimely death. Of his excellence at all things athletic, and of his high courage, but although Lord Boudreaux's questions had been few and gentle, they had also been dismayingly shrewd, and had proven difficult to answer in such a way as to refute the obvious impression that, having no fortune of any size, Snowden had done little to better himself, and did, in fact, continue to dress and conduct his life as though he were a very wealthy young man, existing as did so many others on the expectation of a lucky win at the track or at play, and managing somehow to stay always one jump ahead of the constable. Biting her lip after one such daunting admission, she looked up to find a grave and level gaze fixed upon her.

Disheartened, she said, “Oh, I know what you must think, sir. But, truly he is
not
a wastrel. He showed a marked bent for engineering and cartography at university. As a young boy he was most desperately eager to be a naval ensign, only Mama made him promise he would not go, and Snow never breaks his word, you see.”

“He certainly has a most eloquent defender,” said his lordship with his kindly smile. He put aside his teacup and asked mildly, “Tell me but one thing. You are a mother; had you borne a daughter instead of a son, would you wish her, when the time comes, to marry such a one as Snowden Boothe?”

It was a home question. Hesitating, Rebecca stammered, “W-well, I—yes! Snow may not have a comfortable independence, but—but we do have a small income from the funds that we share each Quarter Day.” (She did not add that it was invariably spent before they got it!) “And he is loving and kind. The lady who weds him will know what it means to be cherished.”

He smoothed a wrinkle from his peerless sleeve and said gently, “And—do you think that will weigh with her when she cannot close her desk drawer for the bills that clutter it? When her daughters cannot have pretty clothes, or her sons be enabled to attend Eton or Harrow, or go to university? When she has to weep in secret, each time the reckoning arrives from the milliner or the mantua maker, or the grocery shop?”

Rebecca whitened and stood suddenly, so that he at once followed suit.

“Ah, sir!” she said accusingly. “You
do
know of me, then. And use my own weaknesses against me!” She reached for her reticule, but he was before her, to sweep it up and hold it behind his back.

“I did not know you when you first arrived. When I learnt who was your brother, I knew also that you were the lady of whom my grandnephew has spoken so often.”

“And—and so,” she said unsteadily, “you teased me and made mock of my pleas. That was cruel, sir. I will go now, if you please.”

“I do not please. And there are many kinds of cruelty, my dear.… In truth, I had not meant to hurt you. Even though…”

“Even though—what, sir?”

“I have no right to speak for another. Yet—” He frowned. “You have accused me of judging your brother harshly. I wonder if you, too, perhaps, have judged—not being aware of all the facts of the matter.”

Rebecca caught her breath.

His lordship sighed, and held out her reticule. “But—I have no right. I will think on what you—”

“What—what facts, sir?” she interposed tremulously, taking her reticule but sitting down again with it clasped very tightly to her bosom.

Lord Boudreaux bowed his head to hide a sudden smile, and seated himself also.

“You meant Tre—I mean, Mr. de Villars,” she said in a rush of anxious words. “You cannot know how
grateful
I am for all he has done. I should never have answered him in such haste and—and anger. If you but
knew
how I have reproached myself! No wonder you hold us in contempt, for if he told you what I said…! Unforgivable!”

He leant forward to remove the reticule from her nervously twisting fingers. “My nephew has told me very little. I know only that when he recovered, he—”

“Recovered?”
Her eyes huge and dark with fright, she faltered, “But—he was almost well when he left Ward Marching.”

“No, ma'am. He had come to such a state when he arrived here that he was, for a week, very ill indeed. But surely you must know that a musket ball seldom inflicts a trivial wound?”

“He said he was perfectly fit! And—he seemed well!” She realized she was babbling, and bit her lip to steady herself. “I—I had no notion— Oh, my lord, tell me, I beg you. Is he very ill now? Is he here?”

Boudreaux regarded her thoughtfully. “He is much better, praise God. And out at the moment, which would enrage our estimable physician. The ball nicked the bone, you see, and aside from the fact it was excessive painful, we were afraid—well, the fever was extreme high, and Treve apparently with no will to fight it, so— Good God!” Aghast, he stood, looking down at the lovely face that was suddenly drenched with tears. It was most improper, but my lord's heart was as warm as that of the lady he hosted and, unable to resist that crumpled little face, he sat beside her, put an arm about her shoulders, and drew her into a fatherly embrace. “There, there,” he said, in time-honoured fashion. “My poor girl, how very unhappy you are.”

“Oh, yes,” sobbed Rebecca, clinging disastrously to his Mechlin lace cravat. “I have made … such a dreadful mull of … it all. Tr-Treve was so—so sneery at first, and such a
wicked
flirt! And then, when I knew him better … he seemed more kind. And so full of—of laughter and fun. And the children
loved
him, which I should have paid more … heed to. Only, I did not, and when he was shot, I felt so … oh, so
awful!
”

“And saved his life, right nobly,” he soothed, managing to detach her death-grip from his laces and contriving to extricate his handkerchief so as to offer it.

Rebecca wiped her eyes and blew her nose lustily, but did not relinquish either the handkerchief or her position, resting her head comfortably on his lordship's long-suffering and very damp cravat and not appearing in the slightest offended by the arm that again cherished her. “Yes,” she sniffed, “I did help save his life. At least, I did
that
right. But then—when he offered, I was—oh, horrid! I kept thinking, just as you said, about the bills and Anthony and—Lud!” She sat up suddenly, and fixed him with a watery but militant eye. Wiping tears from her chin, she exclaimed, “Oh, how naughty you are! Tr-Treve is no better than Snowden, for he asked me to wed him, well knowing he has not a sou! And you refuse Snow for the self-same reason!” She gave a shuddering little gulp, but continued to fix him with that shocked frown.

His lordship sighed. “I am devious,” he admitted. “Was that why you refused him?” He added with a rather apologetic smile, “I'd no idea he had offered. He told me only that his case was quite hopeless.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. “Well—no. It was not that, entirely. It was mostly my…” She gulped again, and said threadily, “My wicked jealousy. And—and … well, he really has such a
dreadful
reputation, and Snow had insisted I have nothing to do with him, and—”

“Yes, and fought for your honour,” interpolated Boudreaux, approvingly. “I begin to think better of your brother, my dear.”

She stared at him. “You—you do? But—if you love your grandnephew, which I had thought you do not…”

“But I do. Very deeply.”

“Yes, but—you said … and you cut him off because he ran off with that poor lady. So I thought … oh, dear!” She put one hand to her brow. “I do not know
what
to think!”

“Of course you do not, poor child. And if you keep on trying to understand it all, you are sure to get the headache. May I ask you just one thing, however? I flatter myself that I am a broad-minded man, but—I'll own it does seem just a shade odd to me that a lady so newly betrothed should be cast into despair in behalf of a—er, another admirer.”

He saw at once that his question, however gently voiced, had been unwise, for those great dark eyes began to glisten ominously, and that tender mouth to tremble in the way that really was heart-rending.

“Yes,” said Rebecca on a sob. “I know what you mean—exactly. It is purely dreadful, and has been since—since first I met your nephew, and I might, I might have done differently had he not been so
very
naughty. Well, there was his deathbed in the London house, you know, to say nothing of manoeuvring Peter and the children with the bat and ball—as though we were all the merest
puppets!
—only so as to … and then that
awful
thing with—with the mice! And then, when I saw him lying there—and stood over him, but he pulled at my— Oh,
wicked!
But—worst of all—The Monahan was in his
coach
 … even while he—he offered for
me
…!”

Lost in all this, but vastly titillated, his lordship seized upon the one item he could comprehend. “No—was she? How very stupid of him.”

“Yes, wasn't it? And then he—he threw an offer at me—like—like a dog to a bone. Oh—I mean a bone to a dog, of course. A
prize,
I mean, sir. Or in payment for—for services rendered. And then—” The tears were flowing in earnest again. “And—then,” she wailed, “he said he hadn't
meant
it!”

“Good God! What a gapeseed! I wonder you did not strike him!”

She sniffed, and essayed a watery smile. “I—felt like it. But I did not dream how ill he was, poor— But—but even if he
was,
oh, you
see
how hopeless it is. He is just … just a natural born lecher, I suppose.”

His lordship's brows shot up. Hurriedly, he put a hand across his mouth. Rebecca disappeared into his handkerchief once more. She looked very small, and grieved, and forlorn. Touched, he recovered his aplomb. “My poor girl. I can see I must divulge some secrets. Not that I have the right. But under the circumstances…”

He was briefly silent, and when Rebecca emerged from the handkerchief his expression had become so grim that she was dismayed.