Phaedra was taking a turn in the garden just as the pearly dawn began to creep over the horizon. A shawl covered her shoulders. Despite the budding warmth of spring—May would soon give way to June—mornings were still a little chilly and dewy. And she wore a newer dress, a buttercup yellow dimity gown she had just altered, one of the ones that Deborah had given her. Vanity. So much to do in the world, so many troubled people, so many with little to eat and illness to plague them, and she had spent a few hours the night before making over a dress so she would appear prettier to an idle peer of the realm. It was foolishness and vanity, and she would stifle it, if she could.
But still, there was no sense in changing out of the pretty yellow gown, was there?
• • •
“You look like sunshine this morning, Phaedra,” Hardcastle said, following her about the room with his eyes only. It had seemed a long and dreary morning until she had come in, the sunshine of her smile more radiant than the comely yellow dress.
She turned and smiled at him. “As soon as we can get you up and about, you may experience a little of the real thing, sir, and then my false radiance will seem a little dimmer.”
“Why do you do that?”
Puzzled, she gazed steadily at him as though trying to read his eyes. “Do what?”
“Turn a compliment away. You shun it like a bold stranger at your door.”
“Do I?”
“Often, yes. I have never met a woman who did so. You are pretty; own up to that, at least.”
Phaedra shook her head and laughed. She finished tidying the room and sat down next to him in a chair by the bed. “You must be bored. I will leave the chess playing to my father—he enjoys the game but I do not much like it—but would you like a game of cards?”
Hardcastle brightened and said, “I didn’t know you would play cards. I had always thought parsons objected to card playing on moral grounds.”
“Not all parsons are so stiff and righteous, you know. You must have guessed by now that my father is no ordinary vicar.” Phaedra hopped up and retrieved a pack of cards from the drawer of a small table by the window.
They played, her sitting in the little chair and he propped up in the bed on pillows. She was good, Hardcastle found, though why that should surprise him he did not know. They played a few hands of piquet, but changed to euchre at Hardcastle’s request. She was good at that, too, and won as many games as she lost, but as the stream of sunlight moved across the covers of the bed, Hardcastle found the challenge waning with no incentive. He glanced up at Phaedra speculatively and said, “Why do we not play for penny stakes? It will add a little excitement to the game.”
“Gamble?” She paused in mid-shuffle and lost a card.
Hardcastle found the shock in her voice amusing. So, she had a little of the Puritan in her after all. “Penny stakes, my dear, the merest tiny wager to add a little fun to the game.”
“I don’t think I could gamble,” she said, retrieving the fallen card and adding it back in to the pack.
“Don’t prim up on me, Phaedra. Is it the money you don’t like? All right, how about instead of penny stakes we play for little favors?”
Phaedra frowned. “Favors? What do you mean?”
A devilish idea entered Hardcastle’s brain and would not go away. Since the kiss the previous night, he had felt an increasing hunger for the sweetness of her lips, but instinctively he knew that in the light of day she would shy from such contact like a nervous filly. “I mean small favors, little things, inconsequential deeds.”
“I still do not follow you, my lord. What can you do for me from your bed, and what do you need that I have not already done for you?”
He shifted impatiently, glancing down at the hand she had just dealt him. She was far too reasonable and far too unlikely to flirt. Another woman would be playing the coquette at that moment, and would have guessed what “favors” he had in mind. But then, was that not one of the things he liked about Phaedra, her refreshing lack of coquetry? “Perhaps there is nothing I may do for you at this moment, but—” He had a sudden brainstorm and glanced up. “But I’m sure there are those in your parish who could use a few favors. Are there no young men who could use an apprenticeship at England’s best stable? Are there no youthful scholars who could use a patron to further their schooling? Could the village poor box not stand to be enriched?”
She shook her head in dismay. “You would gamble for such things? The poor box is meant to be charity and good for your soul, not the object of a gambling wager.”
He chuckled. “My dear, you must know that after all you have done for me I will do some of this anyway—I’m not ungrateful, after all—but humor me and let me name these boons as gambling wagers. It will hurt no one and would add to the enjoyment of the game for me. And you can see that I lose just as often as I win.”
Sighing, she said, “Very well. But what may I do for you if I lose?”
He waved his hand and said airily, “I will think of something, my dear, never fear.”
He was almost tempted to deliberately lose, just to soften her and lull her into overconfidence. But it went against every instinct and every notion of honor to cheat, even to lose. There was no point to a game of chance if the participants did not play fairly and pay up honorably if they lost. As luck had it, he did not need to try to lose. She was good and she was lucky, and she won. Before long, in a string of winning games, she had gained a generous contribution to the new roof for the church, two apprenticeships, one in his stable and one in his estate house, and a goodly tithe to the local almshouse. But finally he bent all his effort to winning. He had never in his life failed to win when he put all of his effort and skill into it. To his surprise, he still lost one more game before finally winning one. It was very close, but he did finally win.
Flushed and pretty, enjoying the gambling far more than she would likely admit to him, she said brightly, “And now, sir, what may I do for you?”
He pretended to think hard, knitting his brows and pondering the question with gravity. “I would ask as my boon, one kiss.”
Her face paled. “You would wager for something like that? Th-that is not what I thought we were playing for!”
She was flustered. This was not good. Or was it? Had the kiss the night before meant as much to her as it did to him? He could hope.
“Come, Phaedra. It’s not so much. Nothing more than a little brotherly salute, if that is what you wish to make of it.”
Stiffly, she put aside the deck of cards and said, “I have made a wager and I will keep to it, sir, never doubt that.” She moved closer to him and sat on the edge of the bed. “Shall it be a kiss on the ch-cheek, then, or-or—”
He watched her for a moment. In her present state of mind he would likely get a cold and formal peck, and that was not at all what he had in mind. She sat primly, her hands folded on her lap, looking the very picture of a prudish vicar’s spinster daughter, not at all the warm, tender bundle of the previous night.
“I think that I shall defer my prize until a later point.”
“Why?” She shook her head. “No, forget that. No doubt you have your reasons.” She stood. “I must see if Mrs. Lovett is here, and we shall see if we can get you up and about. I’m sure by now you would like a change of scene.”
“I must confess,” he said. “I have made the attempt and find I can stand well enough, if with some pain. I’ll need a little help to manage the staircase, but I think I can do it.”
“Good. Then it’s past time you got some exercise.”
Phaedra bustled around and found a robe for the earl. She brought it to him and then shyly handed him a pair of carpet slippers.
He glanced up at her. “Surely your father and I do not have the same size foot.”
“No, I-I made them for you. You have no footwear and I—” She shrugged.
“You made them for me?” Hardcastle felt a twinge of embarrassment, but that was quickly overwhelmed by the awe he felt on findi
ng that someone had thought of him enough to take so much time over his needs. He had often laughed at his married friends, and their pride in their wives’ accomplishments, but at that moment he would gladly have boasted in any London salon of Phaedra’s neat stitches and professional handiwork. More than that, it left him feeling ashamed of the trickery he was indulging in just to gain a kiss. Not ashamed enough to forgo his prize, just enough to feel uneasy over his method of obtaining it.
An hour later, robed and slippered, and with Mrs. Lovett’s strong shoulder to lean on, he had made it down to the neat parlor that overlooked the walled garden and the barn beyond. It was a curiously powerful delight, after five days, to be in a different room with different surroundings.
“Just give me a call when you need to get ’im back up the stairs,” Mrs. Lovett said as she exited the parlor to go about her business.
Hardcastle looked about himself. Phaedra followed his gaze and wondered if he found the room unbearably shabby. To her it was comfortable and familiar, but he was used to such grandeur, such elegance, no doubt. She noted with chagrin the tattered upholstery and faded curtains, the worn rug and small dimensions.
“This is marvelous,” he said. “You cannot imagine how wonderful it is to see a fresh view when one has been in one room for over a week.”
“I do know,” Phaedra said, relieved by his honest enjoyment of his surroundings. She should have expected it of him. She knew, by now, that he was not ungrateful, nor was he a snob. “I remember when I was afflicted with one of the usual childhood diseases and spent the week in my room. When I recovered somewhat my mother let me come down to the breakfast parlor in the vicarage. It was as if I had never seen the room before.” It was odd, she thought, that though Hardcastle was indubitably used to more elaborate surroundings, he seemed to be fitting himself to the room in some way; he was absurdly at his leisure in a wing chair by the parlor window, with a cup of tea at his elbow, like some genial country squire. Or a comfortable husband wearing his wife’s handiwork on his feet.
He looked down at his slippers, holding one foot out and admiring how it was shod. “You have an elegant stitch, my de . . . uh, Phaedra. I have never had such a perfect pair of slippers since I was a lad of nine or so, when a maiden aunt made me a pair while I was ill.”
“Don’t be absurd, my lord. You undoubtedly have most elegant slippers in your London home, made by the best of cobblers.”
“Ah, but while cobblers understand very well the art of making the perfect Hessians, they know nothing about the comfort a man needs in his slippers. I am convinced only a woman’s touch can do that.”
He was being preposterous, and she was tempted to laugh, though she was trying to maintain a cool demeanor in the light of his outrageous behavior in claiming a kiss as the result of winning a wager. She still didn’t know what to make of that, whether to be offended, or flattered, or to feel trepidation. And she never knew what to make of him, for one moment he was the frosty, collected aristocrat, and made her feel unsure and shy, and the next minute he was making absurd jokes and putting her very much at her ease. At that moment there was a rap at the door, and Sally poked her head in. “Miss Gillian, Dick Simondson was just at the back door, and ’e says as ’ow ’e an’ Roger found that there fine ’orse of ’is lordship’s. They was wanting ’im to know as ’ow they was lookin’ after ’im fine.”
“What marvelous news,” Phaedra said, glancing over at Hardcastle. “They actually have Pegasus?”
“Aye, miss. They say as ’ow ’twere a bit o’ a struggle, but the ’orse gentled some once they fed ’im some oats. ’E’s in the squire’s barn now, they say.” She curtseyed with an alarmed glance toward the earl, and left, letting the door close behind her.
Phaedra opened the parlor door, pointedly, and left it open. She was not going to let Sally get any more ideas as to what was going on in the cottage. It had been annoying in the extreme to find that the girl had the soul of a gossip, and she had been taken to task for talking to the other neighborhood serving staff. From now on, the door would always be open, Phaedra had vowed, when she was with Lord Hardcastle alone, even in his bedchamber.
Brightly, she turned to Hardcastle, willing to let bygones be bygones—she would think about that infernal wager later—and said, “You have never yet told me, sir, what you were doing riding to Ainstoun in the middle of the night.”
Hardcastle stretched and folded his arms behind his head, crossing his legs at the ankle. He winced a bit, but then said, “I was not riding to Ainstoun, except in the most indirect sense. Tell me, do you know all of the gentry of these parts?”
Phaedra sat back down in the other wing chair and admired the way a ray of sunlight caused blue-black light to blaze in the earl’s hair. She shook herself out of her thoughts, though, and said, in answer to his question, “I do. I have lived here my whole life, after all. Were you set to visit someone? Should I have notified someone of your trouble? I would be glad to do so even now, and could have a message sent anywhere.”
A devilish grin twisted Hardcastle’s lips. “Oh, no, my dear. This was to be a surprise visit. I only hope I am not too late and the rascal has not fled to the Continent.”
“What do you mean?” A thrill of presentiment passed through Phaedra, but she could not understand the meaning. What had this to do with her? Nothing, she presumed, and yet she felt sure that something was about to happen.
“Do you know of a young man, a Baron Charles Fossey? Does he live nearby, do you know?”
“Well, yes, I know Charles. He lives about ten miles from here, a very pretty estate called Thwicke House. He is several years younger than me, and so I do not know him so very well—he has been away at school and in London, you know—but well I know his sister, who is . . .” She trailed off as she watched the earl’s expression harden.
“He’s the reason I’m here. We made a bet and he lost, and the scoundrel fled without paying me my due.”
“Charles? I have never heard him to be a gambler. What did he gamble?” Phaedra felt her heart thumping in her chest as she remembered Deborah’s desperation and her assertion that only the most dreadful calamity could keep Charlie from speaking to her. She jumped up nervously and went to a side table to pour herself another cup of tea from the china pot.
“We played a friendly game of euchre. I put up my stable and he put up his estate and he lost. I have come to claim my winnings.”
Her legs quivered unsteadily, but she refused to collapse. Carefully, carefully, she put the pot back down and turned to look at the earl. “He put up his estate, you say. What part? The farm? The orchard? The stable?”
“Please give me some credit, my dear,” the earl said with a sardonic lift to his eyebrow. “My stables are renowned throughout the country. He put up his entire estate against my stables and he lost.”
“He lost his entire estate? On a game of euchre?” The sunlight dimmed and Hardcastle was shrouded temporarily in the gloom of shadow cast by the draperies. She moved to stand in front of him and stared down at him.
Frowning, he said, “Such a wager is not unusual. But most losers are man enough to own up to their debt and settle it in an honest manner.”
“But Charles is the sole support of his mother—she is almost sixty—and his sister. Poor Anna is a widow, just my age or a little older, and has no other means of support. Surely Charles would not—you would not—” She was shocked beyond speech, but willing to find that she was mistaken. Charles Fossey would not gamble his whole estate on a turn of the cards, and merely for some dilettante’s stable! He had always been a reasonably sensible young man, though his head had been turned in the last year by his sudden ascension to his baronial title. Hardcastle was joking. In a moment he would quietly say, “You do not think I really would, do you, my dear?” Wouldn’t he? Please, she prayed, let it be an ill-timed joke on his part. She watched his face, noting the hard jaw, the tight mouth, the bright gleam of his black eyes.
“Fosse
y did and I certainly will! He will not rob me of my just winnings.”
Phaedra examined his face. A bright ray of spring sunlight found its way through the gathering clouds and streamed in the window. “You don’t understand,” she said, kneeling in front of him and laying her hands over his. “It is all they have, the estate. It is how they support themselves. Anna has no pension from her late husband, and had to come home to her mother and brother after his death. Lady Fossey is in poor health and afflicted with a nervous disorder since the death of her husband.”
Hardcastle gave a mirthless chuckle. “Do you know how prevalent are tales of woe in London? Every other person has an ailing mother or a sickly child, especially if they have just lost at cards.”
Phaedra was taken aback at the callous tone in his voice. She sat back on her heels and gazed up at him, searching for signs of clemency, looking for pity or mercy—something! Some tender emotion. “But this is true! This is not Charles telling you, it is I, and—”
“It does not matter,” he said, putting up his hand. “He lost the estate. It is legally mine, and yet the whelp reneged and slunk back here to Oxfordshire. That’s why I was riding in the middle of the night along this road. I intended to be at his estate at first light to confront him with his dastardly flight.”
This was it, Phaedra thought. This was the reason fate had intervened. He had been waylaid and stripped and beaten to keep him from impoverishing poor Charles Fossey and his blameless sister and mother. It would be up to her to convince Hardcastle that he must not claim his debt. She had come to know him. He didn’t seem the despicable kind of creature who would toss an elderly woman and a widow from their only home. Surely not! She would appeal to his better nature.
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