Wicked Wager

But a board creaked as she crossed the landing and a moment later Aunt Hetty called out, “Jenna, is that you? Come in! We are planning Garrett’s memorial service.”

Swallowing her irritation, she bowed to the inevitable and reluctantly entered the parlor. From his seat beside Aunt Hetty, Lane Fairchild, one of the two cousins who had also accepted Garrett’s invitation to reside at the family townhouse, rose at her entrance. The other cousin, Bayard, seated at a distance from his other relations, continued to stare out the window, apparently oblivious to her arrival.

Slighter and darker than his golden-haired first cousin, Bayard wore the abstracted expression that, she’d noted on her previous sojourn with the family, seemed to be his habitual mien whenever he was forced to remain in company. Probably he was mulling over one of the alchemy experiments on which, Cousin Lane had told her with faint contempt, he spent most of his time, hidden away in the basement room he’d converted into a laboratory.

And to which, if the pattern she’d observed held true, he’d soon escape. A privilege that, as Heir Presumptive and supposed head of the family, Aunt Hetty allowed him.

Lucky Bayard, Jenna thought with a sigh.

A thin, older woman wrapped in a quantity of shawls, Aunt Hetty inspected Jenna with disfavor. “About time you returned. I cannot comprehend this penchant for riding! To promenade in the afternoon with the rest of the ton is quite proper, but to hare about at all hours with naught but a groom is simply not suitable in a viscountess.”

“Now, Aunt Hetty, she has been a viscountess for less than a year and a Londoner for but a few days,” Lane said soothingly as he came over to kiss Jenna’s hand. “After a time, she will master the intricacies of ton behavior.”

Giving her fingers a sympathetic squeeze, he continued, “How could anyone object, when the exercise seems to agree so well with you? The roses in your cheeks are as lovely as our Damask’s finest late blooms. Manson, a dish of tea for Lady Fairchild, please.”

“Prettily said, cousin,” she replied, allowing Lane to lead her to a place beside him on the sofa and accepting the steaming cup the butler poured for her.

After the butler bowed himself out, Aunt Hetty sniffed. “Well, I think it’s more than past time that Jenna gave due thought to her condition.”

Stung, Jenna lost her grip on her temper. “I am quite protective of my ‘condition.’ After Waterloo, the doctors assured me most particularly that if riding eased my mind—and it does—I need on no account give it up. Do you really think I would risk Garrett’s child?”

The peevish look on Aunt Hetty’s face faded and Lane’s expression turned shocked. “Do you mean to tell us,” he said slowly, “that…that you are carrying Garrett’s child?”

“Of course that’s what—” she began. Stopping abruptly, she glanced at Bayard, still sitting distracted near the window. “I wrote Cousin Bayard several months ago, as soon as I was certain. He…he didn’t tell you?”

“Aunt Hetty, did you know?” Lane demanded.

“I had no idea!”

“Well, this does put a new complexion on things,” Lane murmured, pacing over to his cousin.

“Bayard,” he said, giving his shoulder a shake, “did Jenna write informing you she was in a delicate condition?”

Bayard flinched, as if unwilling to be brought back to the present. “Oh, that,” he said, jerking away from Lane’s fingers. “Yes, she did. Of what importance is it to you?”

“It’s of importance to any Fairchild! Dammit, man, she might be carrying the next heir!”

“Precisely. But since that eventuality would affect only me, I cannot see why you expected to be informed.”

“Trying to play autocratic head of the family, Bayard? ’Tis a role that don’t suit you.”

“Boys!” Aunt Hetty reproved. “This is excellent news!” she said to Jenna. “After the despair of Garrett’s loss, what a joy that he shall have an heir!”

“A joy indeed, Cousin Jenna,” Lane said, smiling. “Please don’t think that I am not also delighted. ’Twas only—” he threw an aggrieved glance at Bayard “—that it came as somewhat of a shock.”

“The babe could just as easily be a daughter, so it’s quite possible Bayard will still inherit,” Jenna reminded them. “As the child is not due for some months, I would prefer not to make any public announcement just yet. ’Tis…’tis my last link to Garrett and I should prefer to keep it a private matter.”

“We shall respect your wishes, of course,” Lane said. “But you must take special care! Are you certain riding is wise? Bayard, as head of the family—” he imbued the words with a trace of sarcasm “—do you not think you should forbid Jenna to put herself at risk?”

Bayard shrugged. “I expect she knows what’s best.”

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of Cousin Bayard’s personal servant. A swarthy bear of a man, he resembled less a manservant, Jenna thought with an inward smile each time she encountered him, than one of the convicts who’d chosen to join Wellington’s army rather than face punishment at home.

The man bowed to the assembled company with a swagger that belied the deferential gesture. “Beggin’ your pardon, your ladyships. Master, the supplies you ordered are being delivered. You need to show me where to stow ’em.”

“Thank you, Frankston. I’ll come at once.”

“Bayard, you cannot leave now! We haven’t yet settled the details of Garrett’s service!” Aunt Hetty protested.

“I’m sure you can arrange something suitable without me,” Bayard said. “I’ve more important work.” Ignoring Hetty’s wail of protest, he strode out the door.

Frowning, Lane watched his cousin leave. “Work more important than upholding the honor of the Fairchild name? Dash it, Jenna, I hope to heaven Garrett’s child is a son!”

“As long as the babe is healthy and safely delivered, I shall be content,” she replied.

“So do we all hope! Finish your tea, cousin. You must keep up your strength now—and we shall have to take special care to see that she does, shall we not, Aunt?”

“Naturally. Now, about the service.” Hetty glanced at Jenna, the frown returning to her face telling Jenna her sojourn in that lady’s good graces had just ended. “It must be something suitably solemn and impressive. Though ’tis scandalous, to be reduced to holding a memorial service for a viscount whose family can trace its roots back to the Conqueror! I can’t imagine why you had Garrett buried in heathenish foreign land, rather than bringing his bones back to rest among his ancestors at Fairland Trace.”

Half-choking on her tea, Jenna swallowed the mouthful in one gulp. Did the woman have no discernment? Given the extent of Garrett’s wounds—knee, thigh, chest, shoulder—did she not realize to what condition his poor lifeless body would have been reduced after the several-day transit in July heat from Brussels to distant Northumberland?

A flash of memory seared her—finding Garrett, after a frantic all-day search, lying among the dead on the Waterloo plain, no more than a valiant spirit stubbornly holding on in a ragged scrap of flesh. Nausea seized her stomach and her throat closed in anguish.

She couldn’t bear to remember. Tea sloshed over the rim as she set her cup down. “It—wasn’t possible.”

Shooting Aunt Hetty a warning look, Cousin Lane took her hands in his and rubbed them gently. “I’m sure it wasn’t. You did everything you could, under the most ghastly of circumstances. We realize that.”

The older woman sniffed. “All the more reason to hold the most impressive of services. St. George’s, Hanover Square, I should think. Prinny and the cabinet will certainly attend, and Wellington, of course. We could have a funeral cortege from the house—”

“No!” Jenna cried. “No funeral. I’ve buried him once. I will not do it again.”

“Now that I am aware of your delicate condition, my dear,” Hetty said with a thin smile, “I will make some allowances, for ladies in your circumstances sometimes take the most peculiar ideas into their heads. But the decision isn’t yours alone. There’s the family’s honor to be considered, and I would be failing in my duty if I allowed Garrett’s passing to be commemorated in less than a fashion befitting a Viscount Fairchild of Fairland Trace.”

“What was being viscount to Garrett?” Jenna exclaimed. “He never expected it, was shocked to learn of the accident that brought him the title. Garrett lived and died a soldier. He’s buried near the field where he fell. Let him rest in peace!”

“Please, ladies, don’t upset yourselves!” Cousin Lane appealed to them. “Surely we can arrange something which will accommodate Jenna’s grief while still upholding the dignity of the family. Aunt Hetty, why do you not plan on a memorial service like the one we discussed? I believe Society would understand if Jenna does not attend, given the recentness of her bereavement. She could receive the mourner’s condolences at the reception here afterward.”

He turned to Jenna. “Do you think you could bear that, Jenna? Just a reception, to honor Garrett and let his friends mourn with you?”

Jenna took a shuddering breath. Could she force herself to nod and shake the hands of the gawking curious, most of them strangers? But at least she’d be spared the torment of a long funeral service lamenting Garrett’s loss and extolling his many virtues.

She had that litany of regret by heart.

Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly weary, tired of tussling with Aunt Hetty over the running of the house, of dealing with her petty criticism of everything Jenna did—or didn’t do—of carrying the crushing burden of grief. Slumping back, she said, “Yes, I suppose I can endure it.”

“You look fatigued, my dear,” Lane said with concern.

“I am, a little,” she admitted.