The Wager

“I am the ward of Uncle Horace,” Marianne whispered.

They were the same words Carstairs had said to him, the same words he had laughed over and repeated to Abbot and Phillips, almost the exact words Mrs. River had employed to announce Miss Trenton’s arrival. Why, then, did they mean something so very different when the girl whispered them?

“Yes, of course,” Desmond murmured. “Nevertheless, I do not believe you should return to Mr. Carstairs’s establishment.”

He watched her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to his decision. Would she quarrel with him and be difficult? Did she want to return to that pit?

She shook her head, but did not venture any comment.

Desmond nodded briskly. “Right. I should tell you then, I have been into London to consult with legal counsel, reviewing the situation in which we find ourselves.”

Marianne’s expressive face registered surprise. After what Mr. Desmond had done, how could he go to a representative of the law?

“I do not know if you are fully aware of the circumstances that brought you here, Miss Trenton, but Mr. Carstairs wagered his guardianship of you and lost. I won.” He could not keep the ironic tone from his voice. “My lawyer informs me that, though unusual, such a transfer of responsibility can be legal. There are papers and signatures involved, but Mr. Bradley assures me that dating from my meeting with Carstairs and the others at the Grand Hotel, you may be considered in my legal custody.”

“Oh.”

It was a very small sound, but Desmond hoped there was more surprise in it than fright. But there was some fright in her eyes, which cut him to the quick. Seeing her here, clothed in dress and pinafore that made her look like a child fresh from the nursery, Mr. Desmond was, as his housekeeper had been, struck by how young she appeared. If she had arrived at Kingsbrook dressed this way, or had come to supper that night in this outfit instead of that indecently provocative green gown that seemed to set her hair ablaze, Desmond would never have attempted what he had.

Now the gentleman hitched his back in discomfort against the hard rocks, but kept his shoulders squarely against the pillar. “It is my intention to enroll you in a respectable boarding school.”

He had arrived at that happy solution in the long waking hours of that night before he left for London, though he was not prepared for the amount of money such a solution would cost. Mr. Bradley, his solicitor, had informed him a “good” school would cost every bit of the money his mother sent him each year. It was lucky for Desmond that he had done the girl no physical harm, or this damned conscience of his, which had chosen a most inconvenient time to reintroduce itself, would have had him selling Kingsbrook to recompense her.

As it was, he would be required to tighten his belt and pass up his forays to Paris and Monte Carlo for the next few years. As he discussed the proposition with Bradley and contemplated the sacrifices that would be required of him, his resolve had faltered a bit. He might have been willing to seek another solution, but as the lovely young girl sat quivering on the cold stone bench before him, his chin firmed and he determined to limit his gambling trips to London and Liverpool as long as she was enrolled, if need be.

By gad, it felt good to be noble!

“I have made no inquiries yet, so if you have a preference for the part of the country in which you wish to be located, or for a school you may have heard about, I will certainly give your choice consideration.”

“I—I attended Miss Willmington’s classroom on Miller Street for a while,” she whispered.

“You have had some schooling?” Desmond asked, surprised. He had assumed the girl, though not a professional yet, was merely some street urchin Carstairs had picked up, preparing her for market.

The girl nodded.

“You can read and write, then?”

She nodded again.

“And work figures?”

Her lips turned up unconsciously, and Desmond drew in his breath at the delightfully whimsical effect the slight change in her expression produced.

“Some,” she said softly. Marianne’s introduction to, and practice with, numbers had been grueling, the difficulty compounded by any help her father tried to give.

At the thought of her father, the glimmer of a smile left her lips, and Desmond exhaled in disappointment. “Well, that will make a difference, of course,” he said. “Do you wish to return to Miss Willmington’s school?”

“I finished there,” she said softly. “It was for children.”

“I see.” He swallowed heavily. The girl before him was still barely more than a child. “Very well. We must find another place then, but now I see I do not have to look for a classroom that offers the most elementary instruction, but can place you with girls your own age.”

Marianne continued to stare at him wordlessly, with large, disconcerting eyes.

“I shall set the works in motion then,” he said. “It may take a week or two, but I will take rooms in Reading until I find a place for you. You may make yourself at home here in Kingsbrook, and Mrs. River will help you with anything you need. Do you have any questions about your schooling?”

He paused to give the girl a chance to speak, but she shook her head.

“If you think of something, you may ask Mrs. River. I will leave complete instructions with her. If I do not see you again before you leave, Miss Trenton, once more allow me to express my regrets over our little misunderstanding.”

He took a deep breath of relief. There. It was over. He had done all he could in redemption for bringing the girl here and behaving like an animal, and now, if he was lucky, he would never have to see her again and could put this episode behind him. In the future, he would be happy for the solitude of Kingsbrook, thankful for the privacy of his bed. He was even tempted to give up gambling, though he did not go so far as to make the personal pledge. His losses he could cover; it was his winnings that were so appalling.

He pushed himself away from the pillar.

Marianne had dropped her eyes, seeming to be fascinated by the fingers twisting in her lap. “Mr. Desmond, what if…” she began softly, timidly, unable to let him go without asking her most fearful question.

“Yes?” he said, encouraging her as gently as he could when it appeared she would not finish her sentence.

“What if I am pregnant?” she whispered.

Desmond’s shoulders fell back heavily against the pillar. In fact, it was fortunate the solid pile of stones was there to catch him.

“You are not pregnant, Marianne,” he said. There was a gruffness in his voice that suggested how touched he was by the child and her anguished question.

“But after that night…”

“Nothing happened that night.”

“Nothing?” She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes opened wide in doubtful wonder. “But you—you…”

“I behaved like a brute, but I assure you the act was not consummated that night. You are as pure and inviolate now as you were when you left Mr. Carstairs’s home in London. And you are safer here than you ever were there.”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears of relief. “Really?” she asked uncertainly, hopefully.

He wanted more than he had ever wanted anything in his life—more than he had wanted Galston’s Way to win the Derby that year when he might still have repaid his grandfather; more than he had wanted that ace of clubs that would have finished his straight flush and sent him home victorious at least once before his father threw him out of the house; more even than he wished, sometimes late at night as he lay in some narrow cot in a strange city, that good old Ronny Withers had sunk to the bottom of the English Channel before he ever came to Ketterling—to gather this trembling girl in his arms and smooth away the fear and distrust he had taught her. But he had promised he would stay where he was, and the finger of God could not have moved him from this place.

“Really,” he replied earnestly.

She gave a shuddering sigh and dropped her eyes again.

She was not going to have a baby.

Marianne had been terrified by the events of that night and totally confused. Her perception of the sexual act was based solely on the cheap novels she read. In them the man kissed the woman—very much as Mr. Desmond had kissed her—clothes were discarded and body parts exposed, and in the next chapter the woman was with child.

Her fear had been practically paralyzing, and now her relief made her bones feel gelatinous. But she believed Mr. Desmond. Not only because he knew more than she did about what had happened that night and how much more was actually required to produce a baby, but because of the look on his face and the timbre of his voice when he spoke.

“Good,” she whispered, but he did not answer, and when she looked up she was alone in the gazebo again.

As she stared across the empty space, out into the deep green of the bower beyond the columns of stone, her mind was cleared of the dark pall of fear that had held her in its grip. But in its place, she heard Mr. Desmond’s words again and was free to contemplate their meaning.