The Wagered Widow (41 page)

“Trevelyan,” Boudreaux began slowly, “was not quite eighteen years of age when he fell in love with Constance Rogers. She was the child of neighbours at his parents' country estate. Not a great beauty, exactly, but she had a fascinating way with her, and Treve worshipped her. He used to call her his Madonna, so his mama wrote me. I was in Holland at that time, and I was not ‘my lord,' but plain Major de Villars, for a cousin and a brother were before me in the line of succession. However, I did know the families, and gained a fair picture of what happened. Constance had been always much courted and indulged. Her house was not a wealthy one, nor was his, but Treve had an adequate competence, and Constance would have a dowry of five thousand pounds, so that they were not like to have starved. All went well for a time, but then it began to be apparent to Treve that Constance was distressed. It developed that a very wealthy lad named Dutton had fallen head over heels into love with her. He was, I suppose, a pleasant enough boy, but his father was a Cit. The girl was horrified by Dutton's advances. Her family, however, was impressed by his riches, and her father heartily approved of him as a suitor. Trevelyan was frantic and begged his own parents to intervene, but he was so young, and they knew Constance … Well, at all events, they represented to him that he was under age, and that it would be several years before he should even be thinking of taking a wife. Time passed, and Constance grew ever more harassed until at last, driven to desperation, Treve took her away, and they made a dash for the Border.”

“Gretna
Green?
” breathed Rebecca.

“He fancied it their only chance. But Mr. Rogers and his son and young Dutton came up with them.” His lordship's hand clenched. He said after a brief pause, “There was a duel, of course.”

“My heavens! But—he was just a boy!”

“True. But Dutton thought to use his horse whip. Treve was a high-couraged lad … but he was only eighteen. Dutton was not only five and twenty, but a most skilled swordsman. It was a—desperate affair. Some passing travellers chanced by, just at the finish of it. Otherwise—I shudder to think what might have occurred. As it was, the girl was packed off home in deep disgrace, and Treve was flat on his back for six months.”

“Dear God! How awful.”

“So we thought. We discovered that was not the worst of it, alas.” He took a breath, then went on harshly, “The truth came out at length—as always it must. It was all a ruse, ma'am. At the start I believe Constance truly had a fondness for Trevelyan, insofar as she was capable of that emotion. But when young Dutton came along she found him handsome and was flattered by the interest of an older man. More compellingly, she discovered him to be immensely rich. She determined to have him, but—contrary to what she had told Treve—her parents were most violently
opposed
to the match. Dutton's father was in the City, as I said. He had no name, no background. Nothing would move Mr. Rogers, whose house goes back into antiquity, and who was, besides, a man obsessed with pride. Constance decided there was but one way to achieve her ends. She would allow herself to be compromised by Treve, and in the process be so disgraced that her parents must only be grateful to marry her to any man who would have her. Need I add that she was very careful to arrange that her father would catch them before the knot was tied; and also to engineer wide circulation of the horrible scandal her family were desperately attempting to suppress. A scandal that quite ruined my nephew.”

Appalled, Rebecca stammered, “I—cannot
credit
it! What lady would ruin a man's life? See him almost slain just—just so as to marry wealth? And he cared deeply, you said? Poor boy! How frightful! I wonder he did not die.”

“He is made of stronger stuff than that, praise be! But his father's health was broken by it all. He had never been strong, and his pride in his son was such that it was a terrible blow to him. The more so because the Rogerses had put it about that there had never been an elopement; and that Constance had in fact been abducted. Philip suffered a heart seizure, and my poor sister had two invalids to care for. When I learnt the facts of the case, I advised her to tell Trevelyan. She was distracted, poor soul, convinced it would send him into a decline. But I was right, thank God! At first he would not believe. When he knew it for truth, he just lay there, day after day, saying not a word. But it saved him. He was so enraged that he was soon on the road to recovery.” Boudreaux paused, then went on soberly, “Before the tragedy—for I can only call it such—Treve was a happy, warm-hearted boy. He recovered as a cynical, embittered man. He had many loves after that, but he swore that never again would he be so foolish as to give his heart. And so far as I am aware, has not done so. Until—recently.” His gaze flickered to the silent girl. “I hope I have not offended you by so savage a tale, my dear.”

Rebecca turned a pale, horrified face. “I never dreamed people could be so cruel—so heartless! I hope—oh, I
hope
that evil girl was repaid! I hope she is miserably unhappy!”

“I wish I could say that she is. However, I believe her to be an extreme satisfied woman. Her husband died a year or two ago, so the entire fortune is hers now. Retribution does not always follow wickedness, does it?”

“No.” Her brow puckered. “But—I still do not understand. If it was as you say, whyever did you—”

She checked as the door opened and the man they had been discussing came into the room. His rapid steps halted. He all but staggered with shock as he saw Rebecca.

“Treve!” Boudreaux sprang to his feet. “Is it done, then? Did all go well?”

His unblinking gaze fixed on the blushing girl, de Villars offered a stiff bow. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parrish.”

Speechless, Rebecca inclined her head.

Boudreaux glanced from one nervous face to the other, and smiled faintly. “Trevelyan?” he prompted.

“Oh!” De Villars started. “Your pardon, sir. Yes—it went along very nicely, I'm glad to say.”

“And—you are feeling…”

“Satisfied?” de Villars said hurriedly. “Perfectly, sir.”

“Are you—alone?”

“Yes. We—ah, separated. It seemed—expedient.”

My lord frowned uneasily. “Still, there must be financial arrangements. I will go and—”

De Villars' chin tilted in the way Rebecca had come to know was associated with an affront to his pride. “No. I thank you, but there is not the need.”

“Fustian, m'boy! Why should you stand the huff—which must have been considerable?”

Beneath their long lashes, de Villars' grey eyes slanted quickly to Rebecca. “A most imperative need. A—right, in this particular instance.”

“I see. Well, I must have a word with your wilful cousin, so—” Boudreaux started to the door.

“Sir!” cried Rebecca in alarm.

“I—w-wish you will stay, Uncle,” stammered de Villars.

“Trevelyan, pray try to be not
quite
so foolish,” quoth his lordship, and took his leave.

De Villars stared helplessly at the closing door, then gathered his wits and swung around. “Mrs. Parrish.” He lifted his quizzing glass and scanned her with slow impertinence. “How very fetching you look in that gown. I am sure my uncle must have enjoyed your visit. I was not aware you are acquainted.”

“Well, we are.” Managing not to reveal that her heart was lodged somewhere in her throat, Rebecca stood, and once again retrieved her reticule. She took a step towards the door, and stopped, peering at him. “You are excessive pale, Mr. de Villars.”

He shrugged. “My life of debauchery, alas.”

“Your life of stuff and nonsense,” she countered, frowning.

He blinked at her. “You have been here long, ma'am?”

“Yes. And if you are wondering what your uncle has told me about you, be at ease. He told me everything!”

The faint flush in his thin face faded to a dead whiteness. “Did he so?” His mouth twisted into the cynical sneer she hated. “Then, how very logical that you should be here.”

She tilted her head, confused. “Oh. Yes. Indeed it is. Treve, oh,
Treve,
why did you not tell me you were ill that day? Your idiotic high in the instep pride! If only I had guessed your colour was the result of fever, I would—that is, I might—”

At the start he had listened, his lips tightly compressed. Now, sauntering to the mantel, he stared at the large Chinese urn full of hollyhocks that occupied the empty grate, and interposed a sardonic, “Might have done what? Accepted a penniless rake? Taken an odious, womanizing lecher to husband?”

Rebecca winked away a renewed onslaught of tears. This was no time to be a watering pot. If he truly loved her and was trying not to reveal how deeply she had hurt him, she must somehow bring him up to scratch again—she
must!

“Perhaps not,” she said sadly. “For my mind was quite made up, you see.”

He laughed shortly. “Oh, I
do
see. Well, you made an excellent choice, ma'am. Now, if you will excuse me, I've an engagement, so—”

Frightened, she summoned her courage and marched to stand in front of him. The top of her head came to his lips. She glared up at him ferociously. “Enough of this nonsense! Trevelyan de Villars, I demand—” She broke off, sniffing. “Where have you been?”

“In a most—delicious bower,” he leered. “A place of silken sheets, warm, soft arms, and a heady alluring perfume—”

“Of winkles!” she cried, triumphant. “Oh, you wicked liar! You wretched, wretched man! Tell me—do pray
tell
me! My brothers? Oh, for God's sake, Treve, do not dissemble! I
know
you were with them, risking your life again, even though you are not nearly as well as you claim. Are they safe?”

A reluctant smile dawned. “And well,” he acknowledged. “And Johnny en route to La Belle France.”

She closed her eyes, bowed her forehead against his cravat, and breathed a small prayer of gratitude. And thus did not see the agony of longing in the grey eyes, the strong white teeth that clamped down on his lower lip, or the fists that clenched at his sides to keep from seizing her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace.

“Madam,” he drawled, as soon as he could trust himself to speak, “you must remember you are promised to my best friend. This is not seemly.”

She looked up into stern eyes that held all the warmth of an icicle. “You think to stop me from thanking you.” She stood on tiptoe. “I will!” She put her hands on his shoulders.

De Villars uttered a stifled exclamation and wrenched away. “'Fore God! Have done, woman! Is not one conquest enough for you? I am as much a rogue, as unprincipled a lecher as ever. Go to your model of perfection! Go!”

Rebecca touched one loving finger between the broad shoulders thus presented to her, her mind busy. “I am here,” she sighed, wandering back to the sofa, “to yet again ask your help.”

De Villars glanced up. His haggard eyes found her reflection in the great convex mirror that hung above the mantel. How little she looked, huddled at the end of the sofa. How utterly dejected. Intrigued, he half turned and murmured idly, “You require the services of a—lecher, ma'am?”

Her voice almost inaudible, she said, “You once told me … that if ever I needed you…” The great eyes came up, so desolate that hurt and pride were banished on the instant.

“My Lord! What is it?” He strode to her, then jumped back so hurriedly that he all but fell into the chair behind him.

Rebecca bit her lip. Fortunately, de Villars mistook its quivering for distress. He sprang up. “You are distraught—why? If Ward has made you unhappy—! No, by God! It's that hound Broadbent has been terrorizing you! I'll have his liver out!”

Her eyes opened wide. Lud, but the man was a flame! “Oh, pray do not! It is not Hilary, it is … Peter.”

He stared his astonishment.

She added, blinking pathetically, “He is—a harsh man…”

There was no doubt but that she had been weeping. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen. A blinding rage possessed him. “That damned milquetoast? Lord, I'd not have thought him capable of— What did he do? Tell me, ma'am, did he dare— Did he lay hands on you?”

Rebecca bowed her head into her hands, convulsed, but gasped as she was seized and dragged to her feet.

“That stinking swine!” he uttered through shut teeth. “I might have known he'd be all gentleness in public and something quite different—!” He all but flung her from him and, his face livid, marched for the door.

Rebecca was appalled. She'd not dreamed in her playacting that he would react with such Puritanism. Especially when he himself had dared far more than she had implied, and with far less justification! She ran to throw herself against the door. Looking up into his grim face, she said, “Treve! Wait! I—”

“Stand aside!”

“What do you mean to do?”

“Get my sword! He'll answer to me, damn his eyes!”

“Good God! You cannot!”

His hands closed over her wrists. She tore free and gripped his arms desperately. “No—do but listen—” He pulled away, and her grip instinctively tightened so that he gave a sudden gasp, his face twisting.

She drew back her hands as though he had burned her. “Ah! I have hurt you! Forgive me!”

De Villars stared, grasped her wrist, and gasped, “Your—your ring…? I heard you wear the Ward ruby?”

“He—took it back,” she said, yearning to cherish the pained bewilderment from his eyes.

“Took it—back?” He peered at her. “Why?”

The pained bewilderment was vanishing of its own accord. Blushing, Rebecca slipped away and went back to stand beside the sofa, her heart beating a thunderous tattoo.

“Little Parrish.” His voice was so close behind her. So husky, and tremblingly uncertain, and dear. “Answer me. Why? Why did Peter take back that ridiculous monstrosity?”