Wicked Wager

“But then I wouldn’t be able to try to charm you out of some toast to accompany it—or perhaps something from last night’s supper?”

“It ain’t fittin’ fer ye to be eatin’ here, not with ye a man grown, but no sense ye takin’ that leg up two flights of stairs. Sit ye at the table and I’ll have ye some kidneys, eggs and bacon ready in a trice.”

Once, Tony might have thought himself too important to take his porridge in the servants’ kitchen, but after reaching the Peninsula he’d eaten in much humbler venues. Gratefully he took the seat indicated. “What would I do without you to watch over me?”

“Haven’t I been doing so, ever since you sneaked down here begging more of my gingerbread when you wasn’t but a lad?” She sniffed, her brows creasing in disapproval. “Seein’s how them what shoulda watched ye seldom did. Besides, I’ll never be forgettin’ what you did for my da, may he rest in peace!”

Uncomfortable, Tony opened his lips to make some light remark, but the cook cut him off with a wave. “Nay, don’t go on about bein’ too castaway to remember all the blunt ye gave me for his medicines. For all yer seemin’ careless ways, ye’re not like him.” Her face darkening, she jerked her chin toward the ceiling. “Ye may tell me I oughtn’t be sayin’ it, but say it I will! I woudda left last winter with the others and took Carstairs with me, too, save fer knowin’ sooner or later ye’d be comin’ home.”

As disturbed as he was touched by her confidence, Tony searched rather desperately for some teasing remark to defuse it. Don’t be looking at me as if I were some sort of savior, he wanted to shout.

“I…I’m afraid your confidence may be misplaced,” he said instead.

“Stood up to him last night, Baines said.” Betsy nodded approvingly. “’Tis the first step, Master Tony.”

“I shall certainly try to put things right, Betsy.”

She nodded again. “Well, here’s yer breakfast now, so tuck into it! Bye-the-bye, if’n ye is to need aught at any hour, ye just ring, and me or Sadie will see to it. Can’t be healing that leg on an empty stomach.”

He should know by now, Tony thought ruefully, that there was nothing one’s servants didn’t learn. He might have attempted a reproving reply, but at that moment Betsy placed in front of him a plate heaped high with such a delicious-smelling assortment of bacon, eggs, sausage and kidneys that his mouth was fully occupied watering in anticipation of that first bite. To delay would be an insult to Betsy’s skill.

“Good, hearty food and lots of it—that’ll do the trick,” she said as she refilled his coffee cup.

“Excellent! Ah, the times out of mind we slept on a soggy field, dreaming of waking to a meal like this!”

She smiled with gratification. “Thank’ee, Master Tony. Meadows said to tell you your horse be ready whenever you are.”

Half an hour later, Tony guided Pax into Hyde Park and gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of a hard gallop.

Good fresh English air did do wonders to clear the mind, and with a full belly, he could almost believe he was capable of anything. By now it was blindingly clear that at least Hunsdon’s London retainers were looking to the heir, rather than the head of the family, to halt the downward slide of the family fortunes.

But by the time he guided the spent gelding to a walk, his initial euphoria began to fade.

He was near to thirty, with a face most women called handsome and a tall figure that, in the days before a limp disfigured it, had been deemed striking. He still rode well, played—despite his sire’s disparagement—an excellent hand of cards or dice, could drink nearly any man under the table, and was accounted a witty conversationalist. But he had no profession, little knowledge of estate management, none of handling investments and, most likely, next to no blunt to start with.

How was he to rescue the fortunes of his family—and safeguard the retainers in his care?

Well, he might be a farce of a “hero,” who’d puked his stomach dry before every engagement and barely been able to hold the reins, his hands shook so badly before the charge, but somehow he’d managed to get through years of war with most of his troopers alive. Even better, England held no adversaries wishful of putting a bullet through him.

Except perhaps, he thought with a grin, Jenna Fairchild.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, suddenly he saw in the distance a lady whose graceful carriage on horseback proclaimed her identity as loudly as a herald’s trumpet. Signaling Pax to slow, he gave himself up to admiring her.

A little voice whispered that Lady Fairchild’s fortune would go a long way to restoring his shattered finances. But attractive as the idea might be of wedding—and bedding—the delectable Jenna Montague, he couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter in London who’d have less chance than he of getting his grubby fists on the Montague wealth.

Though he might—depending on just how dire was the news soon to be imparted to him by the family solicitor—be able to stomach cozening up to some Cit’s daughter more interested in his title than his person, Jenna Montague’s kindness, valor and integrity demanded more in a partner than a half-crippled man with a sordid past. She would want another Garrett, a man of substance, courage and impeccable reputation—none of which virtues Tony had any pretense of possessing.

Best to think of her as his battlefield angel and leave it at that. As he’d learned long ago, depending too much on one’s paragons was a mistake.

A memory suddenly flooded back, bringing a slight smile to his lips. He hadn’t thought of Miss Sweet, his much-older sister’s governess, in years. Probably because the young man he’d become after leaving childhood had not been looking to angels for his model.

She’d been the only friend he could remember from his lonely childhood, scolding when he tormented his timid tutor, challenging him to prove he could learn Latin and Greek, praising his efforts, laughing with him.

Listening to him.

And then one winter night, Miss Sweet had suddenly left Hunsdon Park without a word of goodbye.

Gathering his courage, he’d inquired about her, prompting his father to a diatribe on the perfidy of females in general and Miss Sweet in particular. Giving almost no notice, the ungrateful jade had abandoned them, his father said, to accept a better-paying position.

Tony had been devastated.

Yes, admiring from afar allowed one to focus on the inspiring illusion that perfect goodness existed. Heaven knows, he could use some inspiration.

Despite the sensible conclusion that he ought to keep his distance, as always, something about Jenna drew him irresistibly. Knowing no one would forestall his approach—her groom was grazing his horse at the opposite side of the park—he couldn’t help but follow her.

She was riding a different mount this morning—surely not her own, for even now that she’d reached the open expanse of Rotten Row, the placid beast seemed disinclined to exceed a trot. Wondering how long so intrepid a rider would content herself with so stodgy a pace, he had to grin when, a moment later, she gave the mare a light tap with her riding crop.

The smile faded when the horse jerked to a halt, then reared up, lunging and bucking as she attempted to unseat her rider. Before he could even shout a warning, Jenna tumbled sideways out of her saddle and landed facedown on the rocky path.

Chapter Six

SPURRING PAX TO A GALLOP, Tony reached Jenna before her groom even noticed his mistress had fallen. Quickly he secured his horse and limped as fast as he could to where she lay, still ominously unmoving.

Awkwardly he lowered himself to the ground, the familiar taste of fear bitter in his mouth. “Jenna!” he called, patting her shoulder. “Jenna, can you hear me?”

There was no response. He touched her wrist, overjoyed to feel a faint pulse against his shaking fingers. Though she lay with her face in the mud, he dare not move her until he knew the extent of her injuries.

Detachment settling in, he traced down her limbs, then up from the base of her neck. Relief flooded him when he determined that, as best he could tell, the spine appeared intact and no bones had been broken.

By this time the thunder of approaching hoofs told him the groom must have finally seen his fallen mistress. A moment later, a panic-faced lad skidded to a stop beside Tony. “Cor, m’lord, be she dead?”

“She breathes still—no thanks to your diligence,” Tony said acidly. “Help me turn her—gently!”

Tony discovered, as he’d suspected, a purpling contusion on her temple. Her even breathing and steady pulse reassured him somewhat, but he knew a brain injury could be as dangerous as a fracture to the spine. She might also have suffered other, not yet apparent hurts.

Though he was tempted to wait for a carriage to convey her home more gently, his battlefield experience argued that the longer she lay on the cold ground, the greater the danger that she might never recover consciousness or that the chill might settle in her lungs.

Horseback it must be.

“You—” he gestured to the boy “—fetch my horse, over there. Once I’ve mounted, you must hand Lady Fairchild up to me as gently as you can and lead us back to Fairchild House. I don’t want to jostle her any more than necessary, but we must get her home as quickly as possible and summon a physician. Return for her mount later.”

While the lad did as he was bid, Tony thanked God he had his horse available. With his arms well-developed from wielding a saber, lifting Jenna from the groom and balancing her before him in the saddle proved easy enough a task. He knew he’d never have been able to support her weight, slight as it was, were he on foot.

For an instant Tony wondered why Jenna’s seemingly docile mount had suddenly turned so fractious. Far too worried about her condition to spare more than that moment on the thought, he hugged her limp body to his chest.

The transit home seemed to take an age. By the time Upper Brook Street came into view, he was sweating, even his well-trained muscles strained by the effort of holding her as motionless as possible.

Just as they reached the townhouse, Jenna moved at last. Eyes still shut, she murmured and nestled against Tony, as if snuggling into his warmth. Or as if, slowly rousing from sleep, she were seeking her lover.