Wicked Wager (17 page)

‘What happened to me, Mary?' Celeste whispered, touching the shadows beneath her eyes, unable to believe she was the same young woman she'd been just days before. ‘You were there.'

It was unsettling Mary couldn't meet her eyes. ‘I don't rightly recall, miss,' she muttered, before seizing upon a lace tippet which had fallen behind the curtain as a chance to change the subject.

As Celeste stared at her reflection, she imagined how wonderful it would be if all her dreams of being in Harry Carstairs' bed and a furious Lord Peregrine looming over in the middle of the night were simply figments of a fevered imagination.

Her aunt's visit quickly disabused her of the notion that her true situation was remotely better than she feared. The older woman twisted her hands, her agitation clear. ‘Dear Lord, Celeste, what is to be done? When you were conveyed here from the home of Mrs Carstairs I believed everything I was told: that you'd fallen ill and been nursed at her home. But now I find this is far from the
whole
truth.' She narrowed her eyes. ‘You didn't tell me the rest, my girl, and now I fear I have no choice but to believe what hitherto I would have dismissed as scandalous rumours with utterly no basis in fact.'

Celeste put her hand to her lips while her head swam. A terrible agony rose up in her chest. ‘What
are
people saying? I don't understand any of it, Aunt Branwell.' Her body felt heavy and unresponsive as she picked up a brush to run through her hair, then quickly gave up the idea. ‘Raphael was evasive when I questioned him directly, though he seems to know more than I.' She put her face in her hands and moaned softly. ‘I was drugged, Aunt Branwell. I don't know why, but I was.'

Her aunt hovered, unable or unwilling to catch her eye. She shook her head. ‘What can I do but tell you the truth, Celeste?' She sounded angry rather than perplexed. ‘You told me you were going to play cards with Miss Brownhill, but you didn't go there, did you? You deliberately directed the coachman to take you to Harry Carstairs' aunt's house. Did you know that she was away in Cornwall, though she returned unexpectedly that evening? Still, that's of no comfort. The scandal that you were discovered in Harry's bed is spreading and I have no more idea of how to nip it in the bud than fly to the moon.'

Celeste's weakened constitution meant she succumbed easily to her tears and she leaned over her dressing table, weeping. Aunt Branwell said nothing, but after a few moments she put a hand on her shoulder to soothe her.

‘How could you could be so naïve, Celeste? You went to consort with a gentleman …
alone
?'

‘I didn't go off to consort with a gentleman. I was sent a note.'

‘A note?' Aunt Branwell cocked her head. ‘Then show me the note, Celeste. If you have been ill used, as you claim, perhaps this may be all the evidence that's required.'

Celeste hung her head. ‘I burned it,' she muttered.

Her aunt's opprobrium was no surprise. ‘You burned the note? Well, who on earth would do such a thing unless they had something to hide?'

‘Well, at least Raphael doesn't think ill of me,' Celeste returned hotly.

Her aunt shook her head. ‘There's the wonder of it. He still intends escorting you to Lord Montague's ball tonight, though I've counselled strongly against it in view of all this vile chatter. I've had three visits from friends who cannot believe the stories they've heard.' She gave a despairing sigh, then summoned Mary with a peremptory wave of her hand before turning back to Celeste. ‘Once your hair is done properly, Celeste, and the rabbit's paw has rendered its magic powder and rouge, you have no choice but to venture forth into the public arena and at least pretend to the world that you were tricked.' Then her aunt's shoulders slumped and she looked stricken as she added in a whisper, ‘My dear Celeste, I really don't know what is to become of you. Thank God you'll soon be leaving the country.'

Celeste stared at them both in the looking glass. She looked as helpless and desperate as she felt. ‘I'm still ill,' she whispered. ‘I don't want to go.'

‘Raphael insists.'

Celeste closed her eyes once again. ‘And if Raphael insisted I rise from my deathbed and don angel wings for his amusement, I'd have to do that, too,' she whispered.

Her aunt sighed. ‘We are women, Celeste, and we must obey. One day, I hope, you will be happy.'

At this thought, Celeste's previously dissipated spirits were soundly shaken back into life.

But then confusion set in. What
did
Raphael mean when he'd talked about Lord Peregrine's wager and the fact Celeste had saved Harry Carstairs' life? How? She'd been too drowsy to properly quiz her cousin.

And what of her plans with Lord Peregrine? What would happen now? A mantle of ice seemed to cloak her and she shivered as Mary began to fuss about her, readying her for this ball she had no wish to attend.

No! Surely Lord Peregrine couldn't believe the travesty of justice in which she'd been embroiled, despite what he'd seen.

And who was responsible? She cast around for her aunt to ask more questions but she'd gone, and when she once again demanded the same of Mary, her maid merely mumbled, ‘I can't rightly tell you anything, miss, other than that the pound cake wot I was give'd in the servants hall at that strange house we went to was mighty tasty.'

Taking a few breaths to regulate her heartbeat, Celeste tried to reassure herself that once she told Lord Peregrine that she'd been tricked, he would become her ally in ascertaining who would do such a thing.

Surely she had the power to first erase his angry doubts, and then to melt his heart?

Chapter Thirteen

Raphael was already in the saloon waiting for her when she made her appearance after a lengthy stint in front of her looking glass.

Tonight she'd been forced to do his bidding and, after Mary had worked magic with her hair and dress, her aunt had walked in and declared that at least in looks, Celeste was everything Raphael could want in the woman he was soon to take as his wife. However, more urgent was Celeste's desire for this to be so for Lord Peregrine.

If he was going to judge her he must allow her to put her case to him. Not for a moment had she wavered in her desire to become his wife. He offered her everything she desired: passion, honesty and genuine regard. She'd have none of that with Raphael, that was certain.

If Lord Peregrine truly were the man she believed he was, then he would listen to her, believe her and try to help her.

‘My dear Celeste, you are a vision.'

At least Raphael's admiration seemed genuine.

Nervously she smoothed the figured silk of her polonaise and forced a smile.

‘Thank you, Raphael. I'm glad I was well enough to go out this evening.'

‘I had the devil of a time persuading Aunt Branwell to allow it.' Was it her imagination, or did she see a flash of something akin to guilt cross his face?

Then it was gone and she realised she must have imagined it, for Raphael never felt guilt. Nor would a man of Raphael's pride have been a party to seeing his future wife put in an uncompromising position, she was sure of it.

But what did anything matter when he was being kind to her? Life was so much easier when Raphael was kindly disposed towards her. Tonight, of course, it was because Harry had been found alive. She wondered if he had seen him.

Shame and disgust swept over her as she remembered the feel of Harry's hairy legs against her own, but there was not much time to dwell on either past or future, for the Mayfair townhouse to which they were being conveyed was only several blocks away. And in the melee of sedan chairs, carriages and sumptuously dressed guests being ushered into Lord Montague's grand abode, Celeste could only think of responding to greetings with the requisite poise, and ensuring that she deport herself as Raphael would wish.

For a brief moment she thought she spied Lord Peregrine and her heart performed a strange contortion in her chest. Then she realised she must have been mistaken, for despite everything, she knew he would seek her out. He'd made her a marriage offer because he believed in her. He would have no choice but to listen to her side of this ghastly story.

Raphael seemed intent on proving the perfect escort. Celeste had never experienced such care and solicitude from him. But as the evening wore on his limpet-like attention became cloying. Though she smiled and inclined her head and laughed politely at all the right times, she never lost an opportunity to dart quick glances into all corners of the room. The desperation to unburden herself to Lord Peregrine was nearly as strong as her fear as she cast about for a sight of him. At such an illustrious event he had to be here somewhere.

With Raphael by her side, people addressed her with the usual respect, but Celeste was keenly aware of the curious and often suspicious glances slanted in her direction. Why had Raphael insisted she come? Surely it would have been better to simply have kept her hidden until their wedding. Not that Celeste would have meekly remained confined to her room. Lord Peregrine would make contact.

Her stomach contracted again. This time with fear.

While listening to Raphael and an elderly politician discuss terms of trade, Celeste's restless gaze at last alighted upon the gentleman she'd been seeking, and the shock was so great she could barely breathe. Lord Peregrine was shrouded in a dimly lit corner, deep in conversation with a woman whose back was to Celeste until, turning slightly, she saw it was Lady Busselton. Jealousy spiralled through her, for the pair's attitude towards one another seemed disconcertingly familiar.

‘Where are you going?'

Raphael's question was sharp and Celeste blinked. ‘The lady's mending room.'

She was surprised he seemed reluctant to relinquish her. Was it fear of what the mob might do to her without him by her side? What did he know that Celeste did not?

But now the freedom of not having to cling to Raphael's arm was overlaid with the deepest trepidation. Celeste was conscious of the way not only Raphael's eyes followed her, but the covert scrutiny of everyone else, it seemed.

Was this to be her future? A life of living in the public arena, her every movement dissected, and Raphael her gaoler? His possessiveness was not based on affection, that she well knew.

The closer she got to Lord Peregrine the quicker her heart raced, though she did her best to move with languid grace, taking comfort from the knowledge that he had to give her a hearing at which she was confident she'd make him understand she'd been used. Raphael had said it himself.

Stopping by a plinth supporting an enormous Sevres vase, Celeste bent down on the pretext of adjusting her shoe as she assessed Lady Busselton. The woman was uncommonly beautiful. Her flaxen hair was not powdered tonight and threaded through with tiny glittering stars. Her gown was of the richest brocade decorated with gold thread. Celeste wondered who funded her wardrobe, for such an ensemble was worth a king's ransom.

The knowledge that she and Lord Peregrine had known one another for a decade couldn't ameliorate the little stab of pain she felt when Lady Busselton tittered with laughter and tapped the viscount playfully on the nose with her fan.

Well, Lord Peregrine would soon hear Celeste's account of matters and then he'd understand she was still pure. He'd be enraged to learn of her terrible ordeal and then they'd be married. If he loved her as he'd sworn he did, he would champion her.

Yet as she brushed past the pair as she headed for the doorway that led into the back passage, she received no sense he was as aware of her as she was of him.

She consoled herself with the knowledge he'd not wish to give any hint to Lady Busselton his feelings, as she sat heavily on the banquette in the mending room. Lord Peregrine was simply involved in a charade for Lady Busselton's benefit. Right now he must be seething with horror at Celeste's plight but unable to communicate safely with her for the moment.

Returning to the ballroom, she observed that Lord Peregrine was now in conversation with several older gentlemen, yet still he showed no signs of being aware of her. She set her course for Raphael's side, but when suddenly the man with whom Lord Peregrine had been conversing bowed and stepped away, she could not lose her opportunity. ‘Lord Peregrine.'

He raised an eyebrow, his look enquiring. Ironic. ‘Miss Rosington.'

Where was the outrage? The concern for her?

Her throat was suddenly dry and her breath harder to summon as the truth came to her with all the force of a heavy blow to her head. Why, Lord Peregrine had been summoned to witness her shame … and he
believed
what he'd seen.

She returned his greeting, dropping her little ivory fan with a feigned but impossible-to-ignore gasp, and within a moment Lord Peregrine was at her side, brandishing the article, and a smile that was far from friendly.

‘I'm surprised you can look me in the eye,' he muttered, handing the fan back to her.

‘You surely don't believe—?'

He snorted but before he could reply—if he even intended doing so—she whispered urgently, ‘I was sent a message to go to that house. I was a prisoner in that room. Someone put something in my wine and then ensured you witnessed my … shame. If I am guilty of any wrongdoing it is because of … loving you!'

There! She'd said it! All the doubts and fears that had besieged her during the past twenty-four hours burst from her in a tirade of fear. Fear that it was true and fear for what had become of her.

Her words had little effect on him, for the curl of his lip only grew more exaggerated.

‘A strange way to show it. Do you really think me so credulous?'

He truly believed she could be so untrue after she'd pledged her heart to him on the day before she'd been so cruelly hoaxed? Curling her palms into fists to fight the pain, she whispered, ‘I am the victim of someone's plan to make you think ill of me.' She wondered if her legs would buckle. Did he not have enough faith in her to at least look at her with mildly less disgust? ‘I was tricked.'