A Bargain With Fate

He opened the door. She moved past him, ignoring the arm he held out to her. She hastened down the curving staircase to the hallway. His butler sprang to open the door. To her vexation, Lord Stamford trailed her down the steps and followed her to the waiting hackney carriage.

‘Are you in London often, Lady Jeffreys?’ he asked conversationally as if nothing had passed between them.

‘Rarely,’ she replied without looking at him.

He leaned towards her, the sun glinting off his raven hair. ‘I thought not. Then you should know it’s most improper of you to call on me in this fashion,’ he said kindly, but his eyes danced. ‘I am surprised your husband allowed it.’

‘Not that it is any of your business, my lord, but I am a widow, not a young girl. I can do what I please.’

‘Perhaps so, but you should have at least brought a maid with you. My reputation is not the most sterling. Respectable ladies know better than to call on me and certainly not unchaperoned.’

Completely taken aback, she stammered, ‘I…I trusted you would behave like a gentleman.’

He grinned at her in a maddening fashion. ‘I am afraid you sadly misplaced your trust. I am no gentleman.’

‘That’s nothing to boast about,’ she replied tartly.

‘I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Jeffreys.’ Without removing his eyes from her face, he captured her hand and raised it to his lips.

Rosalyn jerked her hand away. ‘Since I do not move in the same dissipated circles as you, there is not likely to be another meeting.’

He looked startled at that but quickly recovered. ‘Shall we make a wager on that, my lady? I think we shall meet again—and soon.’

‘Goodbye, my lord,’ she said. He merely smiled in his infuriating way and insisted on handing her into the coach.

Rosalyn settled back into the hard cushions. How she wished she were a man! Planting him a facer or, better yet, running him through with a sword would give her unbounded satisfaction.

Her anger quickly gave away to depression. She had completely failed in her mission. James was no better off; their home had been lost to a stranger. A tear trickled down her cheek, quickly followed by another. She fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief, grateful she had been too angry to cry in front of the abominable Lord Stamford.

‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. Could this day possibly get any worse? Her favourite fan was missing, undoubtedly lying in Lord Stamford’s elegant drawing room.

‘Damn!’ Michael muttered as he entered his study. He threw his long frame into the chair in front of his desk, a frown marring his brow. The whole business of this estate was proving to be a blasted nuisance. He’d never meant to gamble Whitcomb out of his estate, but the chance to foil Edmund Fairchilde, a man he disliked, was too tempting. And in spite of himself, he’d felt a flash of pity for the young man, clearly in over his head and about to be ruined, which he surely would be if he fell in Fairchilde’s clutches.

To complicate matters, he discovered the Dowager Countess of Carlyn was James Whitcomb’s maternal grandmother. Lady Carlyn was a friend of his aunt, Lady Spence. Michael could quite imagine his aunt’s words upon learning her nephew had gambled Whitcomb out of his estate. They would hardly be complimentary to Michael’s character.

And now Lady Jeffreys. What in the devil possessed him to insult her in such a fashion? He had known the instant he first looked into her sweet face and clear honest eyes, her bonnet charmingly askew, that she was a lady in every respect.

He spent too much time with the demimonde, rendering him far too cynical. Most women of his acquaintance would have no compunction in trading their charms to pay off a gambling debt. It would not have been the first time he had been made such an offer.

He rose, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He reluctantly admitted she interested him despite her very real dislike for him. She was quite lovely in a quiet sort of way. Her prim grey gown could not completely disguise the soft curves of her breast and hips or detract from her luxuriant chestnut hair and large hazel eyes. Michael quite looked forward to their next meeting, although she would most likely cut him dead, as he undoubtedly deserved.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft cough of Watkins, his butler, hovering in the doorway. ‘M’lord.’

‘What is it, Watkins? Not another unexpected visitor, I trust.’

A feminine voice spoke from behind the butler. ‘I shall show myself in. I do not wish to be told again that my nephew is not at home.’

Michael inwardly groaned as Lady Margaret Spence swept into the room, a determined look on her aristocratic face. He wished Lady Jeffreys to the devil for her ill-timed visit. He should have been at White’s by now and out of reach of his aunt and her unwelcome business.

He bowed over Lady Spence’s gloved hand. ‘My dear aunt, I am delighted to see you,’ he murmured.

Lady Spence fixed intelligent blue eyes on her nephew’s face. ‘I doubt it. This is the first time I’ve managed to catch you at home. I am almost inclined to think you’re avoiding me.’

She drew off her kidskin gloves in a businesslike manner and seated herself in the chair near his desk. In her mid-fifties, she possessed the figure and posture of a much younger woman. Today, she was fashionably dressed in a powder-blue round gown with a matching pelisse which set off her greying blonde hair becomingly.

Michael seated himself on the other side of his desk. ‘Why would I wish to avoid you? You know I am always pleased to see you. And how is my uncle? I have not yet seen him about town.’

‘Frederick is quite well. However, I did not call to exchange pleasantries with you. You know very well why I am here, Michael, so I suggest you stop fencing with me. You cannot avoid this discussion forever.’ She impaled him with ice-blue eyes. He sunk back in his chair with all the enthusiasm of a fox run to ground by a pack of hounds.

Nearly an hour later Michael entered the portals of White’s. He was shown to a table in the corner of the dining room where he was greeted by a stocky blond man attired in a bottle-green coat and striped waistcoat, his starched cravat elaborately tied in an oriental knot.

‘Michael, my boy!’ the gentleman exclaimed. ‘I thought you weren’t going to show. I’ve nearly starved waiting for you and was forced to order.’

Michael glanced at his cousin’s ample figure and laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s too much danger of that, Charles,’ he said pulling up a chair. ‘I’ve been besieged by visitors today. First I had a call from—’ he broke off, frowning. ‘Never mind. The last caller was my Aunt Margaret.’

‘Been after you again about that chit? You’ll end up with your neck in the parson’s noose before you know it. I’m glad your Aunt Margaret ain’t my relative. Don’t envy you your father either.’

‘They’re bad enough apart, but together—I’d rather face a firing squad. I’d have much better odds.’ Michael frowned at the glass of dry sherry the waiter set in front of him. ‘My aunt came to inform me my bride-to-be will arrive in town within a fortnight. There’s been a slight illness in the family that prevents her from coming any sooner. I’ll have a reprieve at any rate.’

‘Don’t see how they can force you into marriage. Good lord, you’re thirty, well past your majority,’ Charles said.

‘Well, would you care to oppose my father?’

‘Good point,’ said Charles hastily as the waiter brought his meal. ‘Don’t know how anyone could oppose your parent when he fixes you with that damned devilish stare. Sets me to quaking in my boots every time. I’d marry a woman with a horse-face and freckles before crossing swords with Eversleigh.’

There was silence for a few moments while Charles dove into his food with all the vigour of a man who hadn’t eaten for weeks. Michael sipped his sherry in contemplative silence, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

His father, the Duke of Eversleigh, was notorious for his iron-fisted management of his family’s personal affairs. Several weeks ago he had summoned Michael to Eversleigh Hall. There, in his formidable study, the Duke had coolly informed his heir it was time he married. Since his son did not seem capable of choosing a suitable bride for himself, a bride had been chosen for him. The young lady was Miss Helena Randall, the granddaughter of a long-standing friend. She was to be presented at Court this season. After a suitable period, unless there were major objections on the part of either party, their betrothal would be announced.

Michael could see any number of objections, starting with the fact he had no desire to marry a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. Argument with his father appeared useless. The Duke wore the implacable expression that meant he’d made up his mind and would brook no opposition. In addition, the Duke’s health was poor due to a recent severe bout of pneumonia that nearly claimed his life. Michael hesitated to come to cuffs with his father in his still-weakened condition.

Charles, who always thought better on a satisfied stomach, dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘What you need, my boy, is a fiancée!’

Michael eyed him as if he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Exactly what I’ll end up with if my father has his way. That’s what I’m trying to avoid.’

‘Would save you a lot of trouble,’ said Charles earnestly with all the experience of a happily betrothed man. ‘Now that I’m betrothed to Beth I never worry about matchmaking mothers trying to foist their daughters on me. Not that I’ve ever had the number you’ve had. No more hounding from my mother about finding a suitable wife. And Beth’s a good girl; doesn’t have odd fits or expect me to escort her to any of those damned musical evenings.’

Michael was fascinated. ‘I never realised there were so many advantages attached to a betrothal.’

‘Well, the point is, Michael, if you were already betrothed your family could hardly expect you to offer for Miss Randall.’

‘Very true. It would be awkward. But the problem with fiancées is that one is expected to marry them.’

Charles downed several slices of ham, his brow creased in thought. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and looked up. ‘You could hire one.’

‘Hire one? One what?’

‘A fiancée! Remember when Greely hired an actress to be his wife so he could inherit from his old uncle in Manchester or some other ungodly place? Worked too; the old man fell for it and Greely got the money. Dare say he had to pay that actress a bundle.’