The Bride Behind the Curtain

by Darcie Wilde

  Therefore he must find another way to erase his debts and gain the money for fresh investments. That left him only one path.

  Benedict turned his penetrating gaze on James. “I thought you’d given up the tables.”

  “I wanted to,” said James. “But it seems Dame Fortune will not let me go so easily. The game will be whist, for a while, at any rate. I need a partner I can trust.”

  Benedict’s mouth twitched. “This has something to do with Lady Adele, doesn’t it?” But James said nothing and Benedict sighed. “This is a bad idea, James. Pursewell’s a cheat, and he’s already killed one man for calling him out on it. You could be risking more than your money playing with him.”

  “Let me worry about Pursewell. All I ask is that when Valmeyer starts to sweat, you beg off from the game. Say that it is too rich for you, all right?”

  But Benedict hesitated. “You should know, James, Valmeyer’s not very well-disposed toward me right now. He thinks I’ve an eye for his stepsister, and he doesn’t want . . .”

  James waved these words away. “That only helps us. It will make him even more reckless than usual and get him out of the game that much faster.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, James.”

  “I hope so, too, mon frère. I hope so, too.”

  ***

  The card room of Bassett’s continued the general Renaissance style. The plaster trim was gilded, and statues of nude women and gamboling fauns watched from the corners. Most of the space, though, was taken up by tables covered in green baize cloth, and most of those were occupied by gentlemen of varying degrees of wealth, and sobriety. Those who were not playing circulated among the tables, watching the games and laying their own side wagers as to which of the players would eventually win, or lose.

  “Beauclaire!” cried Pursewell from the corner table. Valmeyer just raised, and downed, his glass of wine as James threaded his way between the others to stand beside him. “I thought you had other . . . business this evening.”

  “I changed my mind.” James felt Benedict’s gaze boring into his shoulder. “If the offer’s still open, I thought we might have that game after all.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Pursewell smoothly. “No objections, Valmeyer?”

  “None,” answered the other man. “Though, I warn you, Beauclaire, Lady Luck’s been entirely with me tonight.” He caressed the thigh of the nearest plaster nymph.

  What that meant was Pursewell had been letting him win. Beauclaire laughed as he and Benedict settled down on opposite sides of the table.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you at cards, Lord Benedict,” Pursewell remarked, signaling for a fresh pack of cards, and more wine, of course.

  “Too busy with his paints,” laughed Valmeyer. “Still, the ladies do love a brooding artist. Just needs to be more careful who he tries to charm.” He winked broadly. Benedict’s smile was thin, but James watched his eyes very carefully breaking the man down into his component, and vulnerable, parts.

  “Well, what shall it be, gentlemen? Whist?” Pelham took the cards from the waiter’s tray. Valmeyer took the bottle.

  They all signaled their agreement, and Pelham broke the seal on the cards. He began to shuffle with practiced, easy motions, his long hands moving dexterously as he manipulated the cards.

  James sipped his wine and watched those hands with great care.

  ***

  No. 48 was not a large house, and there was only one spare room, and one bed, for guests. Fortunately, the bed was a large piece that Miss Sewell had inherited from her grandmother, with plenty of room for all three of the girls. Adele had imagined this night would be a delightful party, with the three of them laughing and chattering about the dance and everything that had happened there.

  Instead, they were all three in their nightdresses, lying stiff as boards, except for Helene, who was curled up tight with her face turned toward the wall. Madelene turned onto her side and stared miserably at Helene’s hunched shoulders.

  “It was a success, wasn’t it?” she murmured.

  “Of course it was,” Adele said. “We’re going to be answering cards and invitations all morning.”

  “When there will be plenty of time to talk about it,” muttered Helene. “As opposed to now, when some people are trying to sleep.”

  “Won’t you tell us what happened?” begged Madelene, but Helene did not answer.

  Adele stared up at the canopy, her own thoughts and feelings a snarled mess. At last she kicked her way out from under the covers.

  “Where are you going?” Madelene whispered.

  “To the parlor,” Adele said. “I’m going to get some hot milk.”

  “Please do be quiet about it,” snarled Helene. “And close the curtains.”

  Adele bit back her retort and instead found her wrap and tiptoed down the stairs.

  She found the green parlor lit and warm. Miss Sewell sat before the fire, bundled in her own cozy burgundy wrapper, her slippered feet stretched out on the fender.

  “I thought one of you might turn up. Milk?” She gestured toward the saucepan warming on the hearth along with three crockery mugs.

  “Thank you.” Adele sat in the chair that had been drawn up to the fire.

  “You should all be very pleased with yourselves.” Miss Sewell poured some steaming milk into a mug and handed it to Adele. “Despite having to leave early. You and your dresses created just the right kind of sensation.”

  “Yes.” Adele wrapped both hands around her warm mug. “So how has everything gone wrong? Helene won’t talk about what happened, and Marcus was there and he won’t talk, either, and he’s acting very odd, and then James . . . Monsieur Beauclaire . . .” She sipped her milk and scalded her tongue, but it was better than stammering, or crying.

  Miss Sewell looked into her mug. “Adele, do you love him?”

  “I do,” Adele whispered. “And he loves me, I think.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “How can I possibly be sure? No one’s ever loved me. They’ve pitied me. A couple chased me. Some tried to make a bargain of me for the title, even when there wasn’t any money, but they’ve never loved me. How do I know what love looks like or feels like?”

  “But you do feel it’s different with James?”

  “Something’s different,” Adele admitted. “New. Wonderful. But is it really love? How do you know?”

  “You don’t,” answered Miss Sewell. “You hope. You trust. You try.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” The last word threatened to choke her, and Adele took another swallow of milk.

  “Then you’re wrong.” Miss Sewell stared into the fire. “We also all make mistakes. Some of them . . . some of them stay on to haunt us. But mostly we cry, and we regret, and eventually, we heal.” She lifted her head and smiled, but Adele sensed a great effort behind the expression. “One thing I do know. Mistaken fear can cause as much regret as mistaken love.”

  “But I am afraid, and it’s not a mistake. I saw something in James’s eyes tonight . . . He’s lost some of the money he was investing. He’s in trouble, Miss Sewell, or he means to make trouble.”

  “But he told you nothing?” Adele shook her head. Miss Sewell reached out and touched her hand. “Then all you can do is wait. If he comes to you . . . When he comes to you, then you’ll know the right thing to do.”

  Adele made herself smile. She tucked her feet up under her and drank her milk and stared into the fire.

  Please, she prayed. Let it be true. Let him come to me. And let me know what’s right.

  ***

  Benedict leaned over James’s shoulder, ignoring the meaningful stare that Pursewell leveled against him. “James, don’t do this.”

  The round of whist had been even stormier than James anticipated. Valmeyer was in a reckless m
ood, betting wildly, pushing the stakes higher, and higher yet in an attempt to unnerve the other players. It was a strategy that might have worked among the dandies and dilettantes, but Pursewell was a professional, and James, well, James just wanted the nuisance that was Valmeyer out of the game as quickly as possible.

  Now Valmeyer paced back and forth beside the table, glowering and gulping glasses of wine he poured from what was probably the fifth bottle. James had not kept track of Valmeyer’s drinking. He’d been too busy watching Pursewell. And losing. He’d been very occupied in losing, and losing heavily.

  He lost at whist until Benedict caught his signal, and Valmeyer’s increasing unease, and retired from the game.

  “Pity,” murmured Pursewell, as Benedict pushed his chair back. “What do you say, Beauclaire?”

  James shook his head in a great show of reluctance. “I think I’ve had enough. The night is clearly yours.”

  “Oh, come, come, don’t be that way. Maybe a change of game brings a change of luck. What would you say to piquet?”

  James paused, pretending to consider. Piquet was a two-handed game, so it would be just him and Pursewell, and the deck of cards between them.

  Exactly what he’d been hoping for.

  “Well,” James drawled. “All right. But only for an hour or so.” He raised his hand toward the waiter, who promptly brought a fresh pack of cards.

  That had been three hours ago, and since then James had lost steadily. Not completely. Every so often he’d take three, even four hands in a row, only to lose again. The pile of notes and coin in front of Pursewell looked big enough to open a private bank. He had James’s watch and his gold ring. Everything, in fact, except one thing.

  “This is a damnably bad idea,” whispered Benedict in James’s ear. “If she finds out . . .”

  “I’m going to tell her myself. The minute this is done.”

  This declaration did nothing to ease the worry in Benedict’s eyes, and James felt himself vacillating. He forced his doubt away. The only other option was to leave the table, and he’d leave with nothing at all.

  “Well, what do you say, Pursewell?” James made himself smile brightly. “How much will you stake me against the Windford dowery?”

  ***

  The sound of someone pounding furiously at the front door jerked Adele instantly and painfully awake. She’d fallen asleep curled up in her chair before the fire. Before she could shove her hair back from her face, Miss Sewell was on her feet and out the door into the foyer.

  “You’ll let me in, damn it!” cried a man’s voice. “She’s my sister and I will speak with her!”

  Adele shrieked and ran into the foyer to stare. But the very drunken man shoving Miss Sewell’s housekeeper to the side wasn’t Marcus. It was Lewis Valmeyer, and he was weaving toward the staircase.

  “Maddie!” he bellowed. “Damn you! Where are you?”

  Madelene was coming down the stairs, pale as her nightdress. Helene was right behind her, one hand hidden behind her back.

  “Lewis.” Madelene stopped on the landing. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? What are you doing here instead of being at home where you’re needed?”

  “Who needs me?”

  “I do. Specifically, I need your purse.” He stumbled toward the stairs, but Miss Sewell stepped into his path, and Adele joined her so they stood shoulder to shoulder.

  “I have nothing with me.” Even as Madelene said this, Adele saw Helene step in front of her and start down the stairs.

  “Don’t lie,” Lewis sneered up at his sister. “You always have something, or have these pretty pigeons convinced you to turn against your family?”

  “Lewis, you’re drunk and . . .”

  “Of course I’m drunk!” he hollered. “You would be, too, if you’d just been cheated to hell and gone by some damned frog . . .”

  “What?” cried Adele.

  Lewis leaned forward. The wine fumes on his breath were enough to set her reeling. “Oh, it’s you. Well, well, I should choose my words more carefully. Not some damned frog, m’lady Adele, but your own personal damned frog is playing cards at Bassett’s right now, and he’s wagered your dowry against Octavian Pursewell’s fortune . . .”

  “He’s what?” Adele stepped forward so suddenly Valmeyer staggered sideways and slammed against the wall. The man barely seemed to notice. He just laughed at her.

  “Oh-ho! Have I put the cat among the pigeons? Well, well, how delightful. Yes, indeed, Lady Dumpling.” He spoke the insult with particular relish. “Your darling beau had been gambling and losing all night and has staked his expectations of marrying you on a fall of cards. How precious you are! How much he trusts and adores you.” He swung, or rather staggered, around. “Now give me what you’ve got, sister, so I can go and . . .”

  “You will leave now, Mister Valmeyer,” said Miss Sewell. She’d moved from the staircase to the front door and, rather absurdly, clutched an umbrella in both hands.

  “No, damn it, I will not!”

  For an answer, Miss Sewell stabbed her umbrella straight into Lewis’s solar plexus.

  His eyes popped, and he grunted and doubled over. As he did, Helene slammed the candlestick she’d held behind her onto the back of his head. Lewis gave one more grunt and toppled over.

  Miss Sewell rang the bell, but her man of all work appeared so fast, Adele suspected he’d already been on his way, probably summoned by the housekeeper. “Taggert, take this outside and get it into a hackney. It is to be delivered to the Valmeyer residence.”

  “Yes, miss.” Taggert grabbed Valmeyer by the collar and the waistband and heaved him out through the door Miss Sewell held open. Madelene watched this treatment of her brother and said nothing at all.

  Adele watched, too, but suddenly, it all seemed very distant.

  “James.” She was whispering his name. “James.”

  He was gambling with her dowry. Her fortune. He hadn’t even married her yet. He hadn’t even asked. He’d gained her heart, he’d raised her most precious hope. He’d made her trust him. And then . . . and then . . .

  “I’m sorry, Adele,” whispered Madelene.

  Adele looked at her. The room had taken on a peculiar angle, and the light was failing. In a moment, it would be quite dark.

  In a moment, it was.

  ***

  “Well.” Marie folded her arms. “It is a pretty sight, is it not? I feel as if one of us had turned privateer.”

  They sat at the parlor table. On the plain blue cloth lay a heap of notes and coins such as their family had not seen in decades. There was a watch and a ring and a ruby stick pin, and a promissory note as well. There was, in fact, the whole of Octavius Pursewell’s fortune glittering in the light of their small fire.

  And as James gazed on it, all he felt was sick.

  The moment James had been able to gather his winnings, he’d run from Bassett’s assembly rooms to the livery stable. He’d roused the boy to hire a horse so he could race to Wimpole Street. The sun had just been coming up when he rang at Miss Sewell’s door, to be confronted by the lady novelist herself.

  “She will not see you, monsieur,” she said. “She has heard what happened.”

  She has heard what happened. She will not see you. He had no memory of what he babbled. He thought he might have tried to push past Miss Sewell, but she’d remained unmoved. He backed up into the street and shouted up at the curtained windows. The curtains did not move. Adele was behind them, again, but this time she was not coming out to him. This time, he had gone too far.

  “What will you do now?” Marie asked James.

  “I will do nothing. There is nothing to do here. I will take the money to Paris and help our father.” He began gathering up the notes, tapping them into tidy piles.

  “You will run away,” Marie
corrected him.

  “You say going to help our father is running away?”

  “I do say it,” Marie shot back. “And it is exactly like you.”

  He pocketed the first heap of bills. He’d need a money belt. He tucked the ring and the ruby pin into another pocket. Those could be sold quickly for the price of his passage. “You are talking nonsense,” he muttered.

  “Am I?” said Marie. “Brother of mine, you have always stumbled away to find yourself a new problem. You do not want to go to Paris, so you become a gambler and blame your inability to help us the way you wish on bad luck at the tables. You cannot do enough at the tables, so you become a fortune hunter. You do not like becoming a fortune hunter, so you stumble between heiresses. You break things with your heiress, you stumble off to Paris with no idea at all how you will be able to help your father, but I’m sure you’ll find some way to make a mess of that as well.” She threw up her hands. “Peste! I am done with you. Go. Break your heart and milady’s. Break our father’s heart and the last of our mother’s health. Drown yourself in the Channel while you are at it and see if any of us care!”

  James concentrated on the banknotes as tightly as he had ever concentrated on the cards. He would leave enough money for three months, he told himself. There would be plenty. As to the rest . . .

  But Marie slapped her hand across his, forcing him to stop and look up at her.

  “Before you do go, mon frère,” she said grimly, “think on this. Milady believed in you. She trusted you. You must decide, James. Will you be the man she believes in, or the man you believe in?”