Lady Allerton's Wager

‘Eleanor! I’m glad that Lady Trevithick did not whisk you away—’

The door opened. ‘Her ladyship requests that you join her in the library, Miss Eleanor,’ Penn said, in sonorous tones. ‘Lord Prideaux has called and is with her.’

Eleanor gave her cousin and brother a speaking glance, then dutifully followed Penn out of the room. Marcus gestured towards the coffee pot. ‘Can I offer you breakfast, Justin? And my apologies for my mother’s transparently bad manners at the same time?’

Justin laughed. ‘Thank you. I will take breakfast—and for the rest, please do not regard it! The only thing that concerns me is that Lady Trevithick considers Prideaux more suitable company for Eleanor than myself! He is a loose fish, but then, I suppose his parents were at least respectably married!’

‘So were yours,’ Marcus commented.

‘Yes, but only after I was born!’ Justin leant over and poured some coffee. ‘How do you feel this morning, old fellow? Must confess my head’s splitting! That brandy was nowhere near the quality it pretended!’

‘The coffee will help,’ Marcus said absently, reflecting that the brandy had proved to be the opposite of his mysterious adversary of the previous night. She had been Quality masquerading as something else and today he was determined to get to the bottom of that particular mystery. He had told Justin an expurgated version of the whole tale the previous night over the maligned brandy bottle, and his cousin had been as curious as he as to the lady’s motives. Justin had been closer to the fifth Earl than Marcus because their grandfather had taken Justin up deliberately to spite his elder son, but despite his far greater knowledge of the old man’s estates and fortune, he could throw no light on why anyone would want the island of Fairhaven.

The door opened for a third time as Penn came in. ‘Mr Gower is here to see you, my lord. He says that it is most urgent.’

Marcus frowned, checking the clock on the marble mantelpiece. It was very early for a call from his man of business, but if Gower had managed to find him rooms well away from Albemarle Street, then the earlier the better. Remembering the previous night, his frown deepened. There was another reason why Gower might have called, of course…

‘Thank you, Penn, I will join Mr Gower in the study shortly,’ he said.

The door closed noiselessly as Penn trod away to impart the message. Justin buttered another roll. ‘Shall I wait here for you, Marcus, or do you prefer to join me at White’s later?’

Marcus stood up. ‘Why don’t you come with me to see Gower?’ he suggested. ‘I have the strangest suspicion that this relates to the business last night, Justin, and I would value your advice.’

His cousin raised his eyebrows. ‘Your mysterious gamester, Marcus? Surely she does not really intend to claim Fairhaven!’

‘We shall see,’ Marcus said grimly.

Mr Gower was waiting for them in the study, pacing the floor with an impatience that set fair to wear a track through the rich Indian rug. He was a thin, aesthetic-looking man whose pained expression had come about through years of trying to make the irascible old Earl see sense over the running of the Trevithick estates. There was a thick sheaf of papers in his hand.

‘My lord!’ he exclaimed agitatedly, as the gentlemen entered. ‘Mr Trevithick! Something most untoward has occurred!’

Marcus folded himself negligently into an armchair. ‘Take a seat and tell us all, Gower!’ he instructed amiably. ‘What has happened—has one of the housemaids absconded with the silver?’

Mr Gower frowned at such inappropriate levity, but he took a seat uncomfortably on the edge of the other armchair, placing his shabby leather briefcase at his feet. Justin strolled over to the window, still eating his bread roll.

‘This morning I had a call from a gentleman by the name of Gough who has chambers close to mine,’ Mr Gower said, still agitated. He shuffled his papers on the table. ‘He is a most respected lawyer and represents only the best people! He came to tell me of an agreement between one of his clients and yourself, my lord, an agreement to cede the title deeds to the island of Fairhaven, which is—’

‘I know where it is, thank you, Gower,’ Marcus said coolly. He exchanged a look with Justin. ‘Gough, is it? Did he tell you the name of his client?’

‘No, sir,’ the lawyer said unhappily. ‘He told me that his client expected—expected was the precise word used, my lord—that I would have the deeds to the island ready to hand over immediately. Naturally I told him that I could do no such thing without your consent, my lord, and that you had issued no such authorisation. He therefore suggested…’ Mr Gower shuddered, as though the suggestion had been made with some force ‘…that I call upon you to gain your approval forthwith. Which I am doing, sir. And,’ he finished, apparently unable to stop himself, ‘I do feel that I should protest, my lord, at the cavalier manner in which this transaction appears to have been handled, putting me in a most difficult position with a fellow member of my profession!’

There was a long silence. ‘You are right, Gower,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘The whole matter is damnably out of order and I apologise if it has put you in a difficult situation.’

‘But the island, my lord!’ Gower said beseechingly. ‘The deeds! If you have an agreement with Mr Gough’s client—’

‘There is no agreement,’ Marcus said. He heard Justin draw breath sharply, but did not look at him. ‘Tell Gough,’ he said implacably, ‘that there is no agreement.’

‘My lord…’ Gower sounded most unhappy. ‘If there is any way that such a contract could be proved, I do beg you to reconsider!’

Marcus raised one black eyebrow. ‘Do you not trust me, Gower?’ he asked humorously. ‘At the very most it could be construed as a verbal contract and there were no witnesses.’

Gower blinked like a hunted animal. ‘None, my lord? Can you be certain of that?’

A smile twitched Marcus’s lips. ‘Perfectly.’

‘But even so…’ Gower glanced across at Justin. ‘A verbal contract, my lord…’

‘I think Mr Gower feels that you should honour your pledges, Marcus,’ Justin said, with a grin. ‘Even in a game of chance—’

‘A game of chance!’ Gower looked even more disapproving. ‘My lord! Mr Trevithick! This is all most irregular!’

‘As you say, Gower,’ Marcus murmured. ‘Have no fear. Gough’s client will never sue. I would stake my life on it!’

Justin grimaced. ‘Can you be so sure, Marcus? She sounds mighty determined to me!’

Gower, who was just shuffling his papers into his briefcase, scattered them on the carpet. ‘She, sir, she?’ he stuttered. ‘Good God, my lord, not even the old Earl would have indulged in a wager with a female!’

‘He was missing a trick then,’ Marcus said coolly, ‘for I found it most stimulating!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Good day, Gower. Give Gough my message and if you find his instructions are that he persists in his claim, refer him direct to me. Penn will show you out!’

‘Marcus,’ Justin said, once they were alone, ‘do you not consider this a little unsporting of you? After all, the girl won the bet, did she not?’

‘She did,’ Marcus conceded. He met Justin’s eyes. ‘Truth is, Justin, I would like to meet her again, find out about this passion she has for Fairhaven. It intrigues me.’

‘And this is how you intend to flush her out?’

‘Precisely!’ Marcus grinned suddenly. ‘I could go to Kit Mostyn and ask for his help, of course, but I would wager he will not grant it! So…if I refuse to honour the bet, my mysterious opponent may show her hand again!’

Justin’s lips twisted. ‘You’re a cunning devil, Marcus! But what is your interest in the lady herself?’

Marcus’s grin deepened. ‘That depends—on the lady and who she turns out to be!’

‘And you would recognise her again?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘I would recognise her anywhere, Justin.’

‘Pull your chair up a little closer, my love,’ Lady Fanshawe instructed her goddaughter, gesturing her to move to the front of the theatre box. ‘Why, you will not be able to see anything at all from back there! But do not lean out too far! It is not good to lean excessively, for the gentlemen will stare so! Oh, pray do look, Beth!’ Lady Fanshawe leant as far out of the box as she could without falling. ‘It is Mr Rollinson and Lord Saye! I do believe they will call upon us in the interval!’

Beth edged her chair forward an inch and leant backwards at the same time. She had every intention of effacing herself until she was practically invisible. The invitation to the theatre was a longstanding one and could not be avoided, for Lady Fanshawe had been her mother’s closest friend. That was the only reason why Beth had come to Drury Lane that evening, although the play, Sheridan’s The Rivals, would normally have been sufficient to tempt her out. Normally, but not now. The matter of Marcus Trevithick and her ill-conceived wager with him had suddenly become so very difficult that she had no desire to risk meeting him again.

Beth chanced a glance over the edge of the box at the crowded auditorium below. Fortunately it would be easy to be inconspicuous in such a crush. People were milling around and chattering nineteen to the dozen: dandies, ladies, courtesans…Beth drew back sharply as a passing buck raised his quizzing glass at her in a manner she considered to be odiously familiar. Lady Fanshawe did not notice for she was waving excitedly to an acquaintance in the crowd.

It was already very hot. Beth fanned herself and looked around idly. Kit had escorted her again that evening but as soon as they had arrived he had left her in Lady Fanshawe’s company and could now be seen in a box to the left, chatting to a very dashing lady in green silk with nodding ostrich feathers. Lady Fanshawe had taken one look and remarked disapprovingly that one met with any old riff-raff at the theatre and that Kit need not think to foist his chère amie on their attention! Beth had been a little curious, but had tried not to stare. She thought that the dashing lady looked rather fast but, given her own performance at the Cyprians’ Ball, she was scarcely in a position to comment.

As time wore on without mishap, Beth started to relax a little. She felt comfortably nondescript in her rose muslin dress. She had chosen it deliberately because it was so unremarkable and she had tried to disguise herself further with a matching rose-pink turban, but Charlotte had positively forbidden her to leave the house looking such a dowd. Beth sighed. It was a terrible shame that Charlotte could never accompany them, but her cousin had had a fear of crowds ever since she was a girl and the glittering hordes that thronged the ton’s balls and parties terrified her. It was odd, for Charlotte was perfectly comfortable in society she knew, and could travel and visit amongst friends quite happily, but she was never at ease with strangers.

Beth watched as Kit took a fond farewell of his companion and turned to rejoin them for the start of the play. He was just making his way back to their box when Beth saw that his attention had been firmly caught by a slender young lady, very much the debutante, who was just taking her seat opposite. Intrigued, Beth watched as the young lady saw Kit and faltered in her conversation. For a long moment the two of them simply gazed at each other, then the girl gave Kit a half-smile and turned hesitantly away. Beth smiled to herself. Kit seemed smitten and she must remember to quiz him on the identity of the young lady…

She froze, all thought of Kit and his romantic entanglements flying from her mind as she saw the gentleman who had entered the box behind the girl. She recognised his height, the arrogant tilt of his head. She could even imagine those smooth, faintly mocking tones that she had last heard at the Cyprians’ Ball, but which had positively leapt from the page of the letter he had sent her via Gough earlier in the week: