Authors: Mary Balogh
“Can’t say I blame you, Eversleigh,” Darnley said sympathetically. “Oliver Cranshawe ain’t everyone’s cup of tea. The ladies love him, of course. Oozes charm.”
“He’s a smarmy devil, right enough,” Denning agreed.
“Is he giving you a rough time, old boy?” Horton asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” the duke replied. “But I find it does not help one’s digestion too much to have the fellow inviting himself to breakfast and making a mental count of every silver fork and spoon on the table and sideboard. Especially when one knows that one is being mentally consigned six feet under at the same time.”
“I’ll still wager that you are not serious about choosing a wife at random, though, Marius,” Denning persisted. “Why, it was you, man, who suggested our forming this club eight years ago, and you have been its staunchest supporter.”
Eversleigh drank slowly from his glass. For a while it seemed as if he would not answer. Eventually he looked up at Sir Wilfred, his eyes keen behind the heavy lids, a cynical smile playing about his lips.
“Now what would that wager be, Wilfred?” he asked.
Sir Wilfred leaned back in his chair and steepled his smooth fingers beneath his chin. The light of a new game shone in his eyes. In fact, all the occupants of the room suddenly looked less melancholy and riveted their attention on the two central players.
“If you are serious, Marius,” Sir Wilfred said, “I wish to see your betrothal announcement in the
Morning Post
within the month and your marriage vows given within two.”
Eversleigh’s eyes were steady on his challenger. The smile that was not quite a smile curled one side of his mouth even further. “Ah, but you make things almost too simple, Wilfred,” he said quietly.
Sir Wilfred smiled too. “Very well, Marius. If you insist on talking yourself into a quite impossible corner. Shall we say six weeks?”
Eversleigh’s expression remained unchanged.
“I say, old boy,” Horton said, interrupting the air of interested tension in the room, “aren't you acting rather hastily here? As Wilfred said a while ago, we are talking life sentences here, you know. It s no topic for a light bet, Marius.”
Eversleigh showed no sign of having heard him. “And if I win?” he asked Denning.
Sir Wilfred considered for a moment. “I have too much regard for your good sense to believe that you will carry this through, Marius,” he said. Then he smiled. “If you win, Eversleigh, my matched grays.”
Eversleigh’s brows rose. “You must be confident, my dear chap,” he said lazily. “I have been trying all winter to get you to sell me those horses. And now you are prepared to give them away?”
“I do not believe I am in any danger,” Sir Wilfred replied.
Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the other steadily. “And if I lose, Wilfred?”
Denning did not twitch a facial muscle. He paused for effect, until all attention was focused on his answer. “Mrs. Suzanne Broughton,” he said finally.
Eversleigh lowered the quizzing glass unhurriedly. He rose to his feet and sauntered to the sideboard again, where he took his time to refill his glass. He crossed the room again and took up his old position against the mantel.
“I have no intention of losing this wager, Denning,” he said, “but even if I did, how can I give what is not mine to give? Mrs. Broughton is her own person, dear boy. She clearly has a mind of her own. I am not even her, er, protector, you know.”
“We all know what you are to Suzanne,” Sir Wilfred said. “But let us face facts, Marius. If you would take your title and your wealth and your damned good looks out of the way, I have reason to believe I would stand next in line to her good graces.”
“Ha! The modesty of the man!” observed Horton.
“All I ask, Marius,” Sir Wilfred continued, directing a quelling look at Horton and patting his curls into place again, “is that you undertake to cut all ties with the lady if you lose this wager.”
Eversleigh considered. “You would leave me very womanless, would you not, Wilfred?” he observed dryly.
“A true knight of freedom!” someone remarked.
Eversleigh pulled himself upright and extended his right hand to Sir Wilfred Denning. “I accept the wager,” he said.
“Splendid!” Rufus Smythe declared. “Bring us the betting book, Horton, and let us have the matter properly recorded.”
It was duly entered into the book that by Friday, May 25, four weeks from the date of the entry, the Duke of Eversleigh’s engagement to a lady as yet unknown must be publicly announced, and that his marriage must take place on or before Friday, June 8. If either event did not transpire, the duke was to break off all connections with the widow Mrs. Suzanne Broughton. If both events occurred on or before the dates specified, Sir Wilfred Denning was to relinquish to the duke his pair of matched gray horses. Both men signed their names to the bet. Sir Rowland Horton and another member of the club signed as witnesses.
Soon afterward, Rufus Smythe decided that it was time to see “poor” Hanley home to his bed. A hackney was summoned and the inert form of the unhappily betrothed man was carried out to it. His departure was a signal for the breakup of the whole party, it being little short of three o’clock in the morning.
Sir Rowland Horton walked home with the Duke of Eversleigh, his own home being close to the duke's residence on Curzon Street.
“You're going to regret this wager in the cold light of day, dear boy,'' he said, shrugging deeper inside his greatcoat as the chill of the April night penetrated his consciousness.
“I think not, Rowland,” the duke replied coolly. “A wife I must have. I cannot imagine ever finding a woman whose companionship I would enjoy for the rest of my life. Taking time to make a choice would be a pointless exercise. Anyone will do.”
Horton laughed uneasily. “Why not Suzanne, Marius? She is beautiful, witty, experienced, and I am sure she would have you at the drop of a hat.”
Eversleigh cocked one eyebrow and glanced sidelong at his friend. “Are you quite mad, Rowland?” he asked. “Marry my mistress? The situation would be quite intolerable.”
“Why so?” Horton persisted. “It would not be like marrying a light-skirt. Suzanne is accepted by all the highest sticklers; she is independently wealthy.”
“She also knows our world too well from the inside,” Eversleigh reminded him cynically. “One would not be able to live one's own life and forget her existence during the day. She would demand too much. And frankly, Rowland, I would not bet on her fidelity. As things are now, it matters not to me if someone else occasionally occupies my place in her bed. But to be a cuckolded husband, Rowland? It is out of the question.”
“Well, never say I did not warn you,” his friend concluded sagely.
“You may depend upon it,” Eversleigh assured him, slowing his steps as they approached the gate of Horton's house. “Will you be at Jackson's in the morning?”
“Yes, I think I shall need a good workout at the punching balls,” Horton said, patting ruefully his liquor-filled stomach.
“I shall see you there, then,” Eversleigh said. “Good night.”
* * *
Later the same day, in a remote corner of the estate belonging to Sir Peter Tallant in Sussex, four youths could be seen walking their horses on one side of a hedge, keeping to the shade. They were avoiding the unexpected heat of the April afternoon sun, having galloped and dared one another over fences for the past hour or more.
George Hyde and Douglas Raeburn were spending the day with their longtime neighbor and friend Giles Tallant. Henry Tallant had tagged along with them, as so often happened. The three friends were reminiscing about their days together at Oxford University, now still in recess for Easter. Henry listened with avid interest.
“Do you remember old Boner’s face when Freddie Cox smuggled Bessie Lane into the dorm one night and then took her out the front door the next morning as bold as you please?” Douglas said.
There were three hearty guffaws.
“What happened?” asked Henry.
“They met old Boner, our warden, at the bottom of the stairs,” Giles explained. “He turned six shades of purple.”
“Old Cox didn’t turn a hair,” George continued. “He introduced Bessie to old Boner with as much civility as if she had been a lady being presented at court. And old Boner was so taken aback, he bowed as formal as you please, and said, ‘How d’ye do, ma’am?’ After that, he could not very well do anything to Cox. He just pretended to forget the whole incident.”
This time there were four guffaws.
“The funniest part was that, as he bowed, old Bessie curtsied,” Douglas chortled. “He got more of an eyeful than he had ever had in his life, I’m willing to bet.”
Giles cleared his throat and the three friends suddenly showed signs of discomfort. Douglas glanced furtively at Henry.
Henry stared candidly back. “You mean she had a large bosom?”
Douglas suddenly found it imperative to check his horse’s shoes. He muttered something about suspecting that the horse was limping.
Giles and Henry strolled ahead. They were remarkably alike in appearance, both slim and lithe and youthful. Both had short, tumbled auburn curls, healthy suntanned faces, and sparkling eyes. Both were dressed informally in breeches and loose-fitting shirts, open at the neck. The only noticeable difference was that Henry was a head shorter than Giles.
“Well, this is it, then,” Giles said, smiling ruefully down at his companion, “our farewell to Roedean Manor. Tomorrow we will be on our way to London. And I suppose life will never be quite the same again.”
“When Papa died last year,” Henry said seriously, “and Peter inherited, it seemed like a blessing that a year of mourning had to be observed. It seemed like such a reprieve when Peter allowed the twins and me to spend the year here instead of dragging us immediately to London.”
“Yes, but time passes so quickly,” sighed Giles.
“And it is quite horrid to think of having to move to town,” Henry agreed. “I don't think I can live without room in which to move. Papa was such a brick. He let us grow up as we wished and never cared for appearances. And he never ever suggested removing any of us to London.”
“The twins will be like monkeys in a cage, too,” Giles said. “Before we know it, Peter will have Phil at Eton, and poor Penny will be learning embroidery and pianoforte and such.”
“Ugh!” Henry sympathized. “If it weren't Peter, of all people, that we have to live with! Can you believe that he is our own brother, Giles? He is so prosy and starchy. And our sister-in-law, Marian!” Henry rolled bright eyes to the sky.
“Well, there is nothing we can do about it,” Giles said philosophically. He snickered suddenly. “Can you see Marian’s face when the twins arrive with Brutus? She will not know whether to put the dog into a kennel or a stable.”
“Well, he is rather large,” Henry conceded. “Let us just hope, Giles, that he does not take a liking to Marian. She may find herself on her back half the time fending off his loving tongue.”
They both snorted with mirth.
“What about Oscar?” Giles said, and they both doubled up with loud glee.
“He is rather a naughty parrot,” Henry allowed. “The landlord of the Pigeon should never have given Philip leave to bring him home. Goodness knows who abandoned him at the inn.”
“Probably someone who could not tolerate his bad language any longer,” Giles suggested. “But really, Henry, the one I feel most sorry for is Manny. You know how she can be reduced to a quivering jelly by anyone who says a cross word to her. And I think old Peter and Marian will be blaming her for your lack of behavior, not to mention the twins.”
“That would be most unfair,” Henry said, temper flaring in defense of their longtime governess, Miss Eugenia Manford. “Manny does her best. Can she be blamed if we have learned to twist her around our little fingers? And I shall tell Peter so, you may be sure.”
George Hyde and Douglas Raeburn had caught up with them by this time. “It is certainly going to be different around here without any Tallants living at Roedean,” George said.
“It is all very well for you to talk,” Henry said, “and for Giles, too. You can be at university and have lots of fun. And Giles will not miss Roedean as I will. Even during the Christmas vacation he stayed in London most of the time, socializing.”
“Well, if it’s socializing you want, Henry”—Giles grinned—“you will soon have plenty of it.”
“You are not going to mention that, are you?” Henry asked with a menacing frown.
“From tomorrow on, my dear Henrietta,” her brother taunted, “it is going to be ball dresses and slippers and frizzed curls and bonnets and gloves for you. And balls and breakfasts and routs. Marian has your come-out all planned, you know.”
“Don’t be horrid!” Henry said, throwing herself in fury at her brother’s chest and punching him soundly with flailing fists.
“Hey, watch it, you little termagent,” he yelped between laughs. He grabbed for her wrists. “There will be a line of suitors a mile long coming to throw themselves at your feet, and bouquets and posies and proposals by the score,” he continued, tempting fate.
“Oh, you!” Henry blustered, aiming a kick at her brother’s shin. “I should rather die. I won’t do it, so there! And I shall tell Marian so, too. She can’t force me into anything so horrid.”
“I don't think you need worry, anyway, Henry,” Douglas said soothingly, but not too wisely, “I don't think you are in any danger of taking with the
ton
.”
“Oh?” Henry had gone very still, her fight with her brother forgotten.
While George coughed warningly and Giles grinned appreciatively, Douglas continued. “Well, look at you, Henry,” he said. “Even with girl's clothes on, you look rather like a boy masquerading. You do not do anything as ladies do.”
“I do not have a large bosom, either, Douglas,” she said, fixing him with a severe eye.
He had the grace to blush. “I was just trying to reassure you that you do not have to worry about attracting the men,” he mumbled uneasily.
“Do you want to bet?”
“A wager? You see what I mean, Henry?” he said in exasperation. “Ladies do not make wagers.”