Knave's Wager by Loretta Chase
Still, Robert told himself as he brought the carriage to the mews, he would press, because she must be got to go away peaceably. Good God—what if she took to haunting him, as Lady Caroline had haunted Byron all last year? What if they met up in public and Elise created a scene?
She very well might. Julian had warned about that only the other day. Cecily might understand, but her aunt—Gad, if Elise enacted any scenes in front of the widow, he and Cecily would be done for.
Julian. Of course. Julian always knew what to do. First, unfortunately, there’d be hell to pay about borrowing the curricle. Still, he’d only rip up fierce for a while, and after, he’d order brandy. Then Robert would ask his advice.
Accordingly, when Julian had returned to the house to change for the evening, Lord Robert squared his shoulders, marched up the stairs, and knocked at the door.
He found the marquess standing by the window, staring out. “What do you want now?” Julian asked.
Stammering a good deal, Robert made his confession to his cousin’s back.
“Sims would not have let you take the curricle if he did not trust your skill,” was the dispassionate response. “Feel free to drive yourself to perdition.”
“Yes, well, that’s very kind of you,” Robert said nervously.
“Indeed, I am a model of every Christian virtue.’’
Julian turned round. His face was its usual mask of boredom. Obviously, then, he could not be miserable, regardless what Cecily believed. Tired, perhaps.
“I hate to bother you,” Robert said, trying for airiness, “but I’m in a devil of a fix, don’t you know? You see, I borrowed the curricle so I could take Miss Glenwood driving—”
The black eyebrows rose slightly. “Her aunt permitted the girl to drive with you?”
“Well, not exactly—though I don’t see why she shouldn’t. Anyhow, she’d gone to Lady Enders’s. Still, Mrs. Wellwicke didn’t raise any sort of fuss. Don’t see why she should. No harm in a fellow taking a girl out for a drive in an open—’’
“Good God.”
I beg your pardon?”
The marquess turned back to the window. “Get out,” he said.
“But, Julian, I have to speak with you. It’s very important. Elise—”
“Go to hell.”
Man of honour or no, Lord Robert saw no alternative but to confide these latest developments to Cecily. Julian clearly was not going to be any help. He was apparently in a perfectly hideous fit of the blue devils. Even Hillard had quietly advised Robert to keep out of his cousin’s way.
If Julian wouldn’t help pacify Elise, the poor distracted woman might very well do something rash. It was only fair to prepare Cecily for that eventuality.
The information was relayed that night in short bursts while they danced.
Cecily accepted the news with her usual imperturbability, and told him not to worry about that. The major problem at present was Aunt Lilith.
“She was terribly disappointed in me because I went driving with you,” said Cecily. “And so we had another heart to heart talk, and now you and I must be exceedingly cautious.”
Caution, it turned out, meant that Lord Robert was not to attend every single affair she did. Cecily had promised her aunt she’d not spend so much time with him.
Cecily had not promised anything else, which must have made her conscience perfectly easy regarding the notes which thereafter travelled surreptitiously between the marquess’s and the widow’s town houses.
While these letters were being exchanged, the owner of a few dozen far more torrid ones was weighing her prospects.
Elise suspected within three days of the event that the widow had given Lord Brandon his conge. Elise heard of his reappearances at several of his old haunts, and saw him herself at the performance of Othello.
Therefore, she put off Lord Robert, visited with her friends, and listened to the shop girls’ talk. Before a week had passed, her suspicions were confirmed: Society noted with disappointment that Lord Brandon had once again vanished into the depths of the demimonde.
Little more than a fortnight remained of the stipulated seduction period. He would lose, as Elise had been certain he would. She was equally certain his pride would not permit him to revert to his previous threats.
Perhaps he no longer cared what became of the letters or of Robert. On the other hand, what of the girl Robert was so eager to marry? Surely the marquess would wish to forward this oh-so-suitable match. In that case, he was bound to offer more than a mere half of Robert’s paltry trust fund—and more likely to pay. Once wed, Robert might conveniently forget what he owed his mistress for two years’ fidelity. Besides, Robert could not legally promise any portion of his trust fund until he was twenty-five. He might be wed before then.
Mille. Fourgette concluded that, of her two options, the marquess was the lesser risk. She would gamble on him.
When, at the end of her week’s recovery, Lord Robert called to renew his pleas, Elise was adamant: she would never give him up. He’d made a terrible mistake, but she’d forgive him, and would wait until he came to his senses. She did not, however, promise to wait quietly.
***
My Darling Cecily,
I’ve done my best but it’s just as you feared and I know we’re bound to raise the very Devil of a Dust but there’s no Choice. Julian and your Aunt are too wrapped up in their own Troubles. Do forgive me Dearest Darling Cecily because I should of known better and been Patient, you are always so LevelHeaded. Now I only wait for you to give the Word only please let it be Soon as possible, we can’t wait much longer and don’t dare. I know I can’t wait much longer to make you Mine.
Your Adoring,
Robert
Miss Glenwood did not, as was her custom, tear this missive to tiny pieces and burn it. She only smiled and murmured to herself, “Dear Robert. How sweetly you write—and so cleverly to the purpose.”
Susan entered a while later, looking for the reply she knew must be forthcoming. “You’d better make haste, miss,” she warned. “Hobbs can’t be lingering about much longer.”
“There’s no need for him to linger,” said Miss Glenwood. Tell him the answer is Tuesday.”
On Tuesday evening, Lord Brandon stood before his glass and stabbed an emerald pin into his cravat. The pin set off admirably the green embroidery of his satin waistcoat, and the combined effect drew riveting attention to his eyes.
This effect might not have been altogether desirable, considering his eyes were edged with deep shadows, the lines at the corners clearly evident, even in the flattering candlelight of his dressing room. In a few years, the lines would set deeply, and the furrow between his dark eyebrows would harden and deepen too. His face, like those of his older acquaintances, would reflect the empty, corrupt life he lived. In another few years, he’d look like every other aging roué.
Still, so long as he had money, he’d never lack for company. Even a troll could find some trollop to warm his bed, so long as he had the gold to persuade her.
Not that this night’s harlot would require any great expenditure, he reflected. He was not decrepit yet, and though he’d not troubled to exert his notorious charm, the woman was willing. Another actress—but then, weren’t they all?
He turned from the glass as Hillard entered.
“I’ve conquered the thing at last,” his lordship said, with a brief glance at the heap of discarded neckcloths he’d flung onto a chair. “Still, even Brummell has his share of failures.”
“So he does, m’lud,” said the valet, taking up his master’s black evening coat. As the marquess thrust his arm into the left sleeve, a folded piece of thick stationery fell out. Hillard picked it up and handed it to him.
Five minutes later, Lord Brandon was running down the stairs, shouting for his curricle.
“The bloody fool!” he raged as he stomped to the vestibule, “I’ll hang him myself! Where the devil is my curricle?”
A trembling footman wrenched op
“He’s taken it?” Lord Brandon repeated, glaring at his tiger.
“I was just comin’ to tell you, my lord. I was out, enjoyin’ a pint with Hobbs and Jem, and these others,” Sims said indignantly, glaring at two much abashed stable lads, “didn’t know any better.”
“Never mind. Ill take the other carriage. Only, be quick, will you?”
While he waited for the carriage to be readied, Lord Brandon considered his options. He could go after them himself—now. They could not have more than an hour’s start of him, more likely less. But Lilith—did she know yet? He hoped not. That idiot Bexley would be no help. His plodding nags would be better employed behind a plough.
“Had Hobbs any word for me?” he asked his tiger.
“He only said his mistress was going to Lady Jersey’s, and the young lady—Miss Glenwood, that is—was sick at home. The other lady was staying with her. I meant to tell you, my lord, but I come back and these numskulls—”
“It doesn’t matter. Where’s Ezra?”
“You gave him the night off, my lord.”
“Damn.” The marquess briefly considered taking his horse, but quickly discarded that idea. The closed carriage was best. More discreet.
“Cover the crest,” he told Sims. “And I’m sorry to offend your dignity, but you must serve as coachman this night.”
When they reached the Jerseys, Lord Brandon remained within the vehicle and sent Sims round to the servants’ entrance with a few gold coins and a message.
A quarter hour later, Mrs. Davenant was hurrying out the door and up the carriage steps.
She stopped short when she saw who was within.
Quickly he yanked her inside, and the carriage rumbled into motion.
“You—you—”
He put his hand over her mouth. “It’s not a trick, and I’m not abducting you. Your niece is in trouble.” Then he took his hand away and gave her Robert’s note.
“What is this?” she cried. “How am I to read it in the dark?”
“I’ll tell you what it says, but you may read it later if you don’t believe me. They’ve eloped—my blasted fool of a cousin and your niece. That’s why you were strongly advised to come alone. How did you keep your loyal fiancé from following, by the way?”
“He was talking with the Prince of Orange. I only repeated the message: that Cecily had taken a bad turn and Emma had sent Mary in a carriage for me. He offered to come, but I could not see what use he would be.”
“Quite right. Men are useless when it comes to illness. I shall take you home, so that we can make certain Miss Glenwood is gone, and then—”
“She can’t be,” Lilith insisted. “I can’t believe Cecily would do such a thing.”
“Judging by Robert’s purple prose, they consider themselves in desperate case.”
She stared blindly at him a moment “Oh, no,” she said faintly, dropping back against the thick squabs. “It’s my fault. I had no idea there was any—any serious feeling between them. I warned her repeatedly against him—but it was only to prevent her discouraging her other suitors. Oh, she couldn’t have run away with him. She couldn’t have misunderstood me so. I’m sure I never expressed any dislike of him.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said while inwardly cursing his cousin and Miss Glenwood. Desperate or no, couldn’t they have considered how this woman would suffer?
“Still, I lectured. Too much, I see now. To think how the poor child must have wanted to confide the true state of her feelings—and didn’t dare. She must have suffered terribly, or she would never, never do such a shocking thing.”
Lord Brandon decided to keep his own counsel on the subject of Cecily’s sufferings. His cousin, he was convinced, had neither the forethought nor the intelligence to plan an elopement. This had obviously been planned. Had he known sooner about Miss Glenwood’s “illness,” the marquess would have smelled a rat. Cecily Glenwood was the type of girl who never took ill. Left naked in a monsoon, she’d come away without so much as a sniffle. Furthermore, unless he was very much mistaken in her character, Miss Glenwood had planned everything, down to the last detail.
Except perhaps the note. The girl would not have been so careless as to leave clues. The note must have been Robert’s own fevered piece of work. Quite the correspondent that boy was.
Miss Glenwood, as the marquess had predicted, was not in her room, or anywhere in the house.
All that turned up after a frantic search was one crumpled note—again Lord Robert’s. Emma found it by the wardrobe door, where Cecily must have accidentally dropped it.
Lilith read it, then handed it to Lord Brandon.
His lip curled as he glanced over it. “It only confirms the obvious. They’ve been planning this some time,” he said, thrusting the note into his pocket. “I’d better be off. They’ve nearly two hours’ start by now, and a speedier vehicle. Still, I have no doubt Sims will make up the time. With any luck, I’ll have them back before morning.”
“We shall have them back,” Lilith corrected. “You can’t believe I’d stay behind. My niece will need me.”
He paused at the doorway and turned around.
Lilith had been too overwrought to spare him more than a glance. Now, she was taken aback by the grim set of his countenance and the deep shadows round his eyes. He looked ill—as he had when she’d first met him. Or more ill, perhaps. His face was thinner, older, and his green eyes were dull with fatigue.
“You can’t come,” he said. “You’ll be jolted to pieces for hours on end. Besides, there’s always the chance I won’t be in luck, and you must be here to keep off the scandalmongers.”
Lilith turned to Emma. “You’ll see to that, won’t you?”
The plump lady nodded. “Certainly. I’ve only to mention the ailment is contagious, and everyone will keep away.” She threw Lilith a reassuring smile. “I’ll see to everything here. Naturally, you must go. If nothing else, Cecily must come back chaperoned.”
As she spoke, Emma was opening drawers. “I’ll put together a few things for Cecily—and you must take some necessaries yourself. You don’t know how long you’ll be upon the road.”
The marquess glanced from one woman to the other. “I’ll wait downstairs,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
They sat in opposite coiners of the coach, staring out the windows. Not until they were well out of London did Lord Brandon break the silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s hardly your fault,” Lilith made herself answer. “If anyone’s to blame in this, it’s I—”
“That’s not what I meant. Or at least, it’s not all. My aunt—Robert’s mother—has no high opinion of the men in our family. A lot of contemptible rogues, she thinks us. Some weeks ago she told me... well, it doesn’t matter— but I do wish it hadn’t been my own cousin, of all men, to bring you such trouble. You’ve been injured enough. By God, Lilith, I’m sorry.”
Her throat ached. She waited until she could control her voice then said, “They will have to stop to change horses. Cecily will not let him abuse your cattle. I shall pray the ostlers are very slow.”
“Lilith.”
“She packed very little. Perhaps they’ll have to stop to purchase—”
“Lilith, please. I’m not asking you to forgive me—but there’s something you must know.”
She returned her gaze to the window. “We shall likely be journeying together many hours, my lord. You had meant to travel alone. Perhaps it would be best to behave as though you were doing so.”
There was a moment’s heavy silence in the dark carriage.
Then he said wearily, “Yes, perhaps, as always, I am.”
Though the carriage stopped frequently so that Lord Brandon could make enquiries, he had by sunrise still no word of Cecily and Robert.
“I don’t understand it,” the marquess said as he climb
The widow’s hand was pressed to her temples. Her head must be aching horribly.
“I begin to think they may not be headed for Gretna after all,” she said. “Perhaps the note was written to mislead.”
“But where else would they go? I doubt my cousin could have obtained a special license. It’s not as though the bishops hand them out to every hot-headed young idiot who comes along.”
“You’re right. Very likely they’ve merely made a few detours. But they must return to the Great North Road at some point, mustn’t they?”
Her voice, as always, was evenly modulated, low and controlled. Another woman would have spent the journey in complaints or hysterics. Not Lilith Davenant. For hours she’d sat mute, staring into the darkness. This was the longest conversation they’d had since his abortive attempt to... to what? Apologise? Explain? As though there could be any apology, or explanation.
He’d had ample time to reflect, and thus to wonder why he’d believed it could signify in any way that he’d wanted her from the first, and wanted her yet. Regardless the motive, his aim had always been seduction. He’d never had her best interests at heart. All that had moved him was desire.
He’d struggled, all these hours, to keep from looking at her. He’d been trying, all these last endless days, to banish her image from his mind. Now he must begin all over again. All the same, in spite of his resolutions, his glance stole to her white, still face. She had not wept—not once. But her fine, slate-blue eyes were red-rimmed, her proud countenance tired and drawn. She’d seemed exhausted even before they started out, yet she refused to rest, and she’d scarcely touched a morsel when they stopped. She remained calm and upright by sheer force of will.