The Wagered Widow (6 page)

“Six.”

“I wonder you put up with me. I have always been a burden to my friends.”

He sounded sincere. Glancing at him, Ward wondered if he was. Ever. How little one knew the man and what was behind his sneering mouth and cold eyes. He could be so insensitive, so merciless, yet at times a boy almost, full of teasing and laughter. “I shall never forget how kind you were, when—when Helen was killed,” he said simply. “Yet—sometimes I do not …
can
not like what you do. Sometimes, I think I know you not at all.”

“But I know you. Is sufficient.”

“Is it?” Ward said with a faint smile, “You probably find me a bore at times. Own it.”

“I find everyone a bore. And there dawns the frown, very predictably.” Definitely bored, de Villars stood and put down his glass. “I shall bid you goodnight, mine host.”

Ward said nothing.

At the door de Villars paused and, his hand on the latch, turned back. “Peter,” he said softly, “I have never taken a woman who was unwilling. And no lady has suffered—because of me. I am a rascal, I own it. But—I trust I am not a rogue.”

Ward looked at him levelly. “I suppose we none of us really know ourselves.”

“Oh, very good!” But with a suddenly wistful smile, de Villars said, “Do you know, I have few real friends. I should purely detest to lose one.”

“A most unlikely eventuality,” Ward acknowledged, returning the smile.

De Villars swept him a bow. “In the matter of The Little Parrish?”

“I—er, scarce know the lady.”

“Nor I. We start even. Shall we make it a wager? Do I obtain a ‘yes' from the lady, you owe me a thousand. A ‘no,' and you win. What say you?”

“'Tis something steep, considering I've not said I seek a wife. What have I to gain?”

“A very great service. Only think, if the chit is willing to me, then she's no proper wife for you. And
your
wife must be proper—no?”

Ward looked steadily into the jeering grey eyes. “Oh, yes. Assuredly.”

“A double incentive, then. Do I fail, you get one thousand guineas and the knowledge she is
sans reproche.
For I tell you this, Peter, if she is persuadable, I'll persuade her.”

“I believe you might.” Ward's lips curled a trifle. “And—the limits?”

“One month from today.
Still
the man cavils! What now?”

Ward said hesitantly, “It does not seem quite—honourable. Almost as though we tested the lady.”

“If she is chaste and pure, she has nothing to fear from me, I swear it.”

“Very well, Treve.” Sir Peter reached out. “You've my hand on't.”

CHAPTER
3

Rebecca tilted her white parasol so that the pink silk fringe cast a dappled shade across the pink damask of her gown. “No,” she said reluctantly, her mournful gaze on Anthony and his boat. “'Twas not an upset but a full-fledged disaster, dear Aunt. I failed us all.”

“What fustian you do talk, my love.” Mrs. Boothe shifted her position on the wooden park bench they occupied, having paid a groat for the privilege, and patted her niece's hand comfortingly. “Was you to ask me, many gentlemen were captivated, for I seldom have seen you in better looks. Besides, only Sir Peter and Mr. de Villars saw your tumble, and de Villars is very obviously interested.”

“Oh,
very
obviously! And has already stated he fancies himself ‘in love' with me!”

With a squeak of shock, Mrs. Boothe cried, “He never did! Oh, but dearest, it will not do! ‘Any port in a storm' may be well enough, but not
that
port! The gentleman has a reputation from Land's End to John o' Groats! He has fought four duels that I know of, and had to leave the country for six months only last year when poor Lord Kadenworthy nigh died after their meeting. His birth is impeccable, I grant you.” She shook her head and hove a wistful sigh. “And his person. Such a leg! And those magnificent shoulders—what a waste! But the best you would get from him would be a slip on the shoulder, certainly not a gold wedding band. He is not the marrying kind. And as to fortune, I have learnt now that he was cut off with no more than a competence after he ran off with a poor child barely out of the schoolroom, so if you—”

“For mercy's sake!” cried Rebecca, breaking into this lengthy indictment with considerable indignation. “How could you think I would even
consider
such a—a reprobate? I—Anthony! Have a care, dearest! I would sooner lie in my grave in Potter's Field!”

Mrs. Boothe blanched and flapped her dainty handkerchief in the general area of her cheek. “Do not say such dreadful things! Now I shall dream of it, I know I shall! And me in the next box to you! Oh!” Her wail was brief, however, and she sat straighter, exclaiming, “Yet it is all flimflam, for after the stir you created last night, I will be amazed are you not inundated with callers and cards of invitation. You may have to cross Ward from your list, as you say, but—”

“Oh, but I did not say that,” contradicted Rebecca with a tiny smile.

Mrs. Boothe blinked. “But—I understood you to imply…”

“That I failed. Which I did. But”—Rebecca bestowed a dimpling glance upon her—“'twas just the opening hand, as Snowden would say. The game is scarce begun yet, and already I've an ace up my sleeve.”

“You have? God bless my soul! What—”

The ladies had been too engrossed in their discussion to notice the gathering of bandsmen, but now a sudden roar of music shattered the quiet of the warm early afternoon, sending pigeons rocketing into the air and causing a dozing elderly gentleman to topple from his chair.

Anthony, his pale face alight with excitement, added to the embarrassment of the casualty by clamorously aiding him back into his chair. This done, he galloped up to deposit his dripping yacht in his mother's lap. His aunt foiled this dastardly scheme by snatching the yacht and setting it on the grass. He threw a beaming grin at her, and panted, “May I please go and listen to the band, Mama?”

Being conversant with the mental processes of small boys, Rebecca refrained from pointing out that the efforts of the musicians could probably be heard in Hampstead. “Yes, dear. But please stay where I can see you.”

He darted off. Mrs. Boothe watched the vigorous pumping of those bony knees, but she had not lost track of the conversation and probed, “Now, as to this ace of yours…?”

“Well,” said Rebecca gleefully, “it seems that Sir Peter has become temporary guardian to the daughter of a cousin. He means to launch the girl properly, and wishes her to be groomed for her come-out by an exceptional, er—companion or governess.”

“Very good of him, I'm sure. But I do not see how this happenstance can be viewed as an ace card for you, love.”

“But only think! Sir Peter is an only child. What can he know of the type of lady who would be suitable for such a post?” Seeing that her aunt was preparing to enter a caveat, she rushed on, “It seems to me that were I to offer to help him in selecting a suitable candidate, 'twould be logical enough that I must also meet his charge, no?”

“It is scarce a certainty, and—”

“And from what he told me of her upbringing, the poor girl has known little of love and less of guidance.” Her eyes dreaming, Rebecca went on, “She has been sickly, and is likely a dowd, poor creature. 'Twill be a positive joy to instruct her. I shall take her to Madame Olga, perhaps, and by the time I am finished, will have transformed the girl into a poised debutante of whom Sir Peter can be proud.”

Mrs. Boothe mulled this over in silence. Life, she knew, had not been easy for her niece since, at seventeen, she married Forbes Parrish. Rebecca had accepted her father's choice of a husband with no outward evidence of dismay. They had made a handsome couple, she thought, with a nostalgic smile. Forbes, the most generous and well meaning of men, had gone through his quite respectable fortune within three years of the marriage, however. The jewels he had showered upon his bride had been the first casualties to result from his gaming, and had kept them solvent for another two years, but the luck he was sure would come to his rescue had (after the fashion of such capricious commodities) deserted him, and only his aunt and his widow knew how perilously close they now were to bankruptcy.

Rebecca's tendency to fantasize was well known to Mrs. Boothe, who had judged the trait a blessing that enabled the dear girl briefly to escape harsh reality. Besides the romantical, however, Rebecca harboured a wilful streak, and an occasional disregard for the bounds of convention that could be alarming. What other lady would have paid heed to that old man who had fallen in the middle of Bond Street last winter? Why, he had given every appearance of being inebriated and, if the gentlemen passing by chose to ignore him, a
lady
should certainly not rush into the traffic to aid him. Much less a lady wearing
blacks!
It made one palpitate just to remember the uproar it had caused. Especially when Becky had demanded that those two unwilling chairmen convey the man to a doctor, and then paid for the chair (which she could ill afford!). She had insisted the victim was not intoxicated, and admittedly one could not smell wine upon his breath, but the entire unhappy fiasco was so typical of her headstrong nature. And then there had been the instance of those wicked boys and the little brown cat, and Becky running from the house to lay about her with Snowden's amber cane, and getting properly clawed for her trouble when she had untied the creature's tail from the back of the carriage! Mrs. Boothe sighed. The cat had remained with them. He not only ate like a horse, but was grown so fat and lazy he could likely never chase a rat, much less catch one! Whisky's affectionate nature was undeniable, but— Mrs. Boothe sighed again and cast an oblique glance to her niece. The big dark eyes were faintly smiling. She was undoubtedly indulging a dream in which she accompanied Sir Peter's radiantly transformed cousin to her triumphant come-out ball.…

At this point, Mrs. Boothe became aware that the air rang with laughter and that the rhythm of the music had become erratic. She turned to the bandstand, and cried, “Becky! Look!”

Rebecca was jerked from a rosy dream that had progressed much further than her aunt guessed. She looked, and said laughingly, “Oh, that scamp!”

Anthony had beguiled his way onto the bandstand, and a grinning bandmaster watched as the boy wielded his baton to the amusement of the musicians and the delight of the crowd. The selection lurched to a stop, the crowd applauded, and the maestro pro tem bowed low.

“What a way he has, dear child,” said Mrs. Boothe, clapping heartily. “He will go far, mark my words.”

Whatever his future prospects, Anthony was not going far at the moment. Rebecca watched curiously as a man wearing green livery spoke with her son at some length. She was about to go and join them when Anthony nodded, seized the man's hand, and led him towards her.

“This is Hale, Mama,” he announced cheerfully. “Hale, this is my aunt, Mrs. Boothe, and my mama, Mrs. Forbes Parrish. My papa is dead, you know, but I remember him very well.”

Hale expressed polite regrets and ventured an understanding smile to the ladies. He handed an engraved card to Rebecca, remarking that he had been charged to deliver it into her hands at once, then bowed and left them.

Rebecca read the brief message and gave a squeal of triumph. “Aunt Alby!” she cried joyously. “It is from Sir Peter. He begs that we join his party for the weekend at his country seat in Bedfordshire.”

“How splendid!” exclaimed Mrs. Boothe. “Becky, you clever minx!”

“Uncle Snow!” shrieked Anthony, hurling himself at the gentleman who strolled towards them on the arm of a friend. “Oh, you
do
look funny!”

Snowden, awesome in a high French wig and puce satin, snatched up his nephew and rounded on his companion in high dudgeon. “There! Now blast you, Forty! Did I not say it?”

Choking on a laugh, Rebecca said, “Oh, dearest! You never cut off all your pretty curls?”

“'Tis the fashion, Mrs. Rebecca,” pointed out Fortescue, striking in yellow brocade. “You must own that Snowden looks much more the thing in his wig.”

“May I try it on, Uncle Snow?” begged Anthony, tugging at one glossy ringlet.

Snowden all but cringed. “Do not touch the curst contraption! Already, I scarce dare turn my head for fear it will fall off and reveal my nakedness!”

Mrs. Boothe gasped and blushed fierily.

“Really, Snow!” Rebecca scolded. “Anthony, leave your uncle's wig alone.” She smiled at Graham Fortescue, causing that shy young Buck to blush almost as deeply as Mrs. Boothe. “Sir Peter Ward,” she told her brother, “has been so good as to invite us to join a weekend party at Ward Marching.”

Snowden set his nephew down and took the card Rebecca handed him. “Hmmnn,” he said dubiously. “Don't know about this.” He gave the card to Fortescue. “What d'you think, Forty?”

His lordship scrutinized the invitation critically. “Not too bad. A touch plain, perhaps. Ward never was much of a one for frills, and—”

“Not the
card!
” Snowden exploded. “The message, you slowtop! Is it proper for my sister Parrish to jaunter off to Bedfordshire with Ward?”

“Oh,” said his lordship, grinning. “Well—why not? You will be going as well, so—”

Boothe threw him an irked scowl. “No, I shall not! No more shall you!”

“What? But I am invited, and—” His lordship encountered the full force of Boothe's meaningful grimace, and his indignant protest faltered to a halt. He said lamely, “Forgot. Sorry. No, we cannot go, of course.”

“Do you say I cannot either?” wailed Rebecca, who had waited out this odd discussion with much anxiety.