The Wagered Widow (42 page)

“I—I told you he is—a harsh man. He has the oddest notions. He did not seem to … to want a wife who…”

He stepped closer. So close that she could smell the winkles very strongly. “A wife who—what?”

“Whose heart was given to … another gentleman.”

She heard him gasp. From the corner of her eye she saw him reach for her, but that outstretched hand stopped, clenched, and fell away. There was a long silence. Waiting, praying, certainty became doubt, and doubt—fear. She glanced around. He had left her and was sitting on a chair beside the door, head down, and hands clasped between his knees.

“Treve!” She was at his side with a flutter of petticoats, bending to touch his shoulder, her anxious eyes scanning him frantically. “Is it your arm? Oh, my dear one, I—”

“Do not! For the love of God! Do not call me that!” He bowed his face between gripping hands for an instant, then, his head still lowered, asked in a stifled voice, “When did you return Peter's ring?”

“Yesterday. I had to, before he sent the notice to the newspapers.”

“And you had not met my uncle before today?”

“No. Well—yes, long ago, as it chances, but I never
spoke
to him until today. Is that what you mean?”

He nodded. “And—you said he told you … all about…”

“About you and that perfectly wretched girl. Oh, my love—never grieve so. She was not worth one minute of—”

He stood, and faced her with a look of such anguished desperation that Rebecca was aghast. “Is that
all
Uncle Geoff told you? Nothing about my inheritance?”

“No.” Confused, she said, “I knew he had cut you off, of course, but—Treve, is that what so distresses you? It is worrying, I know. But I have thought and thought. I have existed for so long on the edge of insolvency. And I am sure we could manage, if—”

He groaned. And she was seized and crushed to him while he gazed down at her with such yearning, such a depth of love that she waited in trembling eagerness for his kiss.

“Dear God, how I love you! Oh, Little Parrish, if only…” He flinched, his head lowered and he spun away, one hand pressed to his temple. “But—you do not know! You do not
know!
”

“Do not frighten me so. Treve—I love you, too. Whatever it is cannot be so base that I could
stop
loving you!”

“Oh, can it not!” He laughed, a wild bitter laugh that heightened her fear. Then he turned, but he could not force his eyes to meet her anxious ones and concentrated instead on a small tapestry on the far wall, just beyond her head. “When Constance betrayed me,” he said stiffly, “I was utterly disillusioned. I had brought the whole ghastly imbroglio on myself, for any man with half an eye could have seen what—what manner of lady she was, except—”

“Lady!” Rebecca intervened hotly. “She was a scheming witch! Not worthy to clean your shoes. And you—a gentle, trusting, honourable boy! How could you have known?”

De Villars closed his eyes. When he opened them, Rebecca was aghast to see them bright with tears. “Please,” he managed huskily. “Please, do not defend me. You must—understand.… I have lied to you. From the first.”

Thoroughly frightened, she stared at his averted face.

“In my colossal arrogance,” he went on grimly, “I decided that women were all alike: predatory, scheming, fortune hunters.”

At this, Rebecca shrank away, still gazing at him.

“Wallowing in my misery,” he said, “I decreed that until I found one who could…” He bit his lip and turned his head farther away. “Who could pass my test, I would not marry.”

She whispered, “Your test…?”

“Yes. You see, the final irony was that my grandfather died suddenly of heart failure. He was a miserly old recluse who had always claimed he could scarce afford to buy candles. Everything he had came to my father, and when my father followed him to the grave a year later, I inherited. It turned out to be a considerable fortune. Suddenly, I was a very rich man. I thought of how Constance had schemed to get her hands on Dutton's wealth, and I vowed no girl would do that to me. So I set it about that my great-uncle, the dearest, kindest, most generous of men, had control of the funds, and had cut me off, leaving me to manage on a small competence. By then, my reputation would have more than justified such an action, but I was too selfish to think of his feelings, or that it must necessarily restrict our meetings. Nor had I the right so arrogantly to condemn all womankind. I know that!” He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Rebecca was moving away. His heart twisted. To lose her now—just when he had been given a chance for love and happiness, did not bear thinking of. “Becky,” he pleaded. “Oh, dearest Little Parrish—can you not understand…?”

“I—do understand,” said Rebecca faintly. “When you asked me just now for how long I had been here … when you said it was—
logical
for me to be here now … you thought I had learnt that you were rich. Is that it?”

His head bowed. Racked with shame, he could not answer.

“I see.” She felt dazed, and went and took up her reticule. “Of course,” said she, pausing. “It is true, really. You were quite right. I
was
a fortune hunter.” And she moved away.

He ran after her. And not touching her, pleaded, “Do not leave me! Oh, Becky—most brave and lovely and adored girl—please,
please
do not go out of my life. I am not worthy—God! How well I know it! I have been all—and worse than you know! But I swear I will do everything in my power to make you happy! I will try to—to be better, if only—”

“I do not think that possible, Mr. de Villars,” she said, still turned from him. “You see … in my entire life I have known only one gentleman who could have so instantly won the hearts of a lonely little boy and girl; only one gentleman who would so valiantly risk his life to save an unknown fugitive and ask nothing in return. Only one, sir—and he is the finest gentleman I have ever met. The man who stands here beside—” She turned then, her eyes soft with love, but de Villars was not standing beside her.

On his knees, he gazed up at her, a look of such humble adoration on his pale face that she cried, “No, my dearest! Pray get up!”

He raised one hand. With a twitching attempt at a grin, he said, “You had best not cut this short, love. I—I doubt I shall ever manage it again.” The levity disappeared. In a very shaken voice, he went on, “My beloved girl. If you can stoop to lift this … truly wretched rake to the—the glory of your arms … as God be my judge, I will never,
never
give you cause to regret it. Little Parrish … you cannot know how … I worship you.”

“Treve. My darling…” She reached down, took his hands, and drew him to her arms. “Oh, Treve, I do wish…”

“What, my treasure?”

“That you would stop talking so much, and just—kiss me.…”

It was several dizzying moments before Rebecca put back her head and, looking up into his adoring eyes, said softly, “Treve … you really
do
love me?”

For answer, he bent to her again, but she put a finger across his lips. Kissing it tenderly, he murmured, “With all my heart … and soul … and for ever.”

“No matter how naughty I am?”

He laughed rather unsteadily. “How could you be naughty, my heart?”

“Well, I think I must be, dearest. Because—do you know, I simply cannot help thinking how much nicer it is that—that you are very rich.…”

CHAPTER
17

“Mr. de Villars, ma'am,” beamed Mrs. Falk, opening the door to the cosy parlour of the little house on John Street.

Rebecca stood and reached forth both hands, and Trevelyan de Villars came eagerly to take them, press each to his lips and then drop a kiss on her dewy cheek. “Are we to be alone for a space?” he breathed hopefully into her ear.

“Mr. de Villars!” cried Anthony, bounding into the room and seizing the skirts of an impeccable coat. “Come and see how I have mended the boat you gave me!”

“Cease hauling at me, vile brat,” said de Villars. “Can you not see I am occupied?”

“Come along, sir! You can kiss Mama any time. Though why you want to is beyond me.”

“Is it indeed? If you do not desist, I shall return her hand to Sir Peter!”

Anthony stared his dismay. “That knock-in-the-cradle? Oh—no, sir!”

“Anthony!” exclaimed Rebecca, horrified.

“Repulsive whelp,” de Villars said with a broad grin.

Anthony laughed joyously, and dragged his protesting captive towards the steps.

The door opened. “Treve!” said Mr. Melton. “I hear our mutual friend is clear? That was well done, my dear fellow!”

Shaking hands with him, de Villars said, “Thank you, George. I hope you shall be dining with us?”

“I shall be, as a matter of fact. You look prodigious well. Be dashed if Cupid don't agree with you!”

De Villars laughed, but Rebecca thought lovingly that it was truth. The cynicism was gone from Treve's eyes. He looked younger, and completely happy. “And I shall keep him looking so,” she vowed silently.

Mrs. Boothe hurried in. “So there you all are! Patience, hurry up, dear. They're in the parlour.”

Anthony, who had begun to look glum, brightened joyfully, but he said with proper male boredom, “The shrimp is here? Well, that will make mice feet of everything!”

Patience ran happily down the steps, stumbled, and sprawled at his feet. “Cawker,” he said, bending to help her up.

She hugged him briefly, then squealed, “Mither De-Vil! Mither De-Vil!”

De Villars swung her into his arms and was the recipient of a smacking kiss.

Half strangled, he looked at Melton. “She means you, of course. Must.”

Melton laughed. “An apt name, I'll admit. But I disclaim the honour.”

“No,” cried Patience, pulling de Villars' ear. “I meaned
you!
”

Anthony asked condescendingly, “Want to come and see my boat, shrimp?”

“Oooo! Yeth, pleath, Anthy!”

“Fickle wench,” mourned de Villars, setting her down.

“We told Ward we would keep her for the week.” Mrs. Boothe threw an apologetic glance at her radiant niece. “I hope you will not object, love. The dear mite was so lonely, and poor Sir Peter really has no faintest notion of what to do with her. Besides which he is—ah, so busy just now.”

Rebecca sat beside her and said anxiously, “Is he? I am so glad. He was so despondent when I—er—”

“Jilted him?” put in de Villars, with a condemning shake of the head.

Rebecca blushed. “Wicked creature! There is no shame in you!”

“None, thank God! But I am sure our Peter is up to his ears in feathers, eh, Aunt Albinia?”

Mrs. Boothe looked startled by this form of address, then gave a ripple of laughter. “Not feathers—
nephew
—exactly. Though his—ah, new friend does affect exotic … plumage.”

Rebecca, her eyes very round, breathed, “The Monahan?”

De Villars said exuberantly, “Excellent! They will deal very well.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Rebecca protested. “They are worlds apart. I shall always have an affection for Rosemary Monahan—how could I do otherwise when she helped protect you, love? But—” She was interrupted, de Villars slipping an arm about her. Their eyes met and held through a hushed pause.

Her eyes alight, Mrs. Boothe gave a small cough.

Rebecca started, and went on hurriedly, “But what can they possibly have in common? She so—so clever and sophisticated. And Peter—”

“Such a bumbling ornithologist.” De Villars grinned. “No, do not eat me! I am quite aware how much I owe the good fellow. But you mistake it, my dear. Rosemary is both kind and a sensible lady. She knows exactly what she can expect from Peter, and will ask no more of him. For her part, she will be devoted and patient. She will set up her court and her cicisbeos, Peter will have his birds, they will lead totally different lives with much amiability, and likely develop a deep affection one for the other.”

“I hope so,” said Rebecca dubiously. “But whatever is to become of dear little Patience?”

“I have already asked Ward if he will allow us to adopt her,” said Melton rather shyly.

“How splendid!” exclaimed Rebecca.

“Yes,” said de Villars. “But she must spend part of the year with us, if you please. She and Anthony quarrel so happily together. Besides which, she will keep that repulsive brat out of my hair!”

“It is far more likely you'll have 'em
both
in your curly locks, old chap,” said Snowden Boothe, coming in and handing his lady down the steps.

Letitia ran to kiss Rebecca. “Dearest! Only guess! Uncle Geoffrey has given us his blessing! How may I ever thank you?”

Rebecca looked narrowly at her right hand. “By telling me where you got that dragon ring!” She looked at her future sister-in-law wonderingly. “I thought it belonged to—”

“Rosemary Monahan? It did. I admired it after the Midsummer's Eve Ball, and she gave it me.”

“You mean—
you
were the lady in Treve's carriage when—…”

“When he went in to say goodbye to you. Yes, dear. I was worried, because I know how he will never admit it when he is feeling poorly. Why?”

“I share your mystification,” said de Villars. “Why, Rebecca?”

“Because, I saw … and I thought…” Rebecca stopped, gave a tiny sigh, and, her eyes like stars, said, “It doesn't matter. Oh, it does not matter at all! How lovely this is. All of us together. What a jolly evening we shall have!”

The room was becoming quite crowded, but a new voice was heard. “Do you fancy one more person could squeeze in?”