by Wicked Wager
The sergeant seized the coins and pocketed them. “Lord, Cap’n, don’t be flashing yer blunt on this street! There’s them what would cut yer throat fer a pence!”
Suddenly an idea occurred. “Can you paint?” Tony asked the sergeant.
The man blinked at him. “Ye mean—houses?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant scratched his head. “Never done none, but I reckon I could, Cap’n.”
“Then come round to North Audley Street tomorrow morning. There’ll be work and coins for doing it.”
“Aye, sir, I will. And thank ye, sir.”
“No thanks necessary. King and country, eh?”
The sergeant saluted. “King and country, sir! Now, let me lead ye out afore some cutpurse fancies yer horse!”
As he rode off, he had to smile, imagining the look of horror on Carstairs’s face when the grimy sergeant appeared on their doorstep. But his humor soon faded.
’Twas an outrage that men who had answered their country’s call and the families who depended on them had been cast aside and forgotten like refuse in that alley gutter. Reduced to thievery, begging—or worse, Tony thought, recalling the babe the woman held to her chest.
He would scrape together as much as he could spare to help this small group, but his meager earnings would not stretch to maintaining nearly two dozen folk. Furious about the situation and his own helplessness, he rode back to the comfortable streets of Mayfair. But as his anger cooled, a potential solution occurred.
His own resources were limited. But if he could find words eloquent enough to describe their plight, perhaps he could persuade Jenna to intervene. Having spent much of her life tending those among her father’s regiments who’d been sick, wounded or destitute, surely she would be moved to compassion by their urgent need.
As soon as he cleaned off the dust of his encounter with the sergeant, he would call on her.
JUST BEFORE LUNCHEON, Jenna stared sightlessly over her book in the sitting room that adjoined her chamber, trying to shake off the lethargy into which she’d fallen since returning home last night.
Her mind kept replaying her odd encounters with Anthony Nelthorpe. Not sure whether she meant to honor the ridiculous bargain he’d forced on her in the park, she’d planned to avoid him the rest of the evening—and yet paradoxically, when she’d felt as if she’d run mad if she didn’t escape Lady Charlotte’s reception, she’d been enormously relieved to stumble across him again.
He’d lived up to her instinctive trust, seeing her home in merciful silence, then bidding her good-night.
It hadn’t been one.
Unhappy dreams, no doubt inspired by the poisonous allegations uttered by the Blaine woman, had troubled her rest. Dropping her book with a thump, she shook her head. She simply mustn’t allow the woman’s claims to upset her. In her heart, she didn’t truly believe them. And besides, with the only other witness to the supposed event long dead, she would never be able to determine whether the countess’s assertions were true or not.
Lucinda Blaine was a vain, frustrated beauty who could not bear to believe her former love had found someone to replace her, Jenna told herself. Perhaps she was repenting her decision to choose wealth and title over youth and affection—if she had, in fact, ever loved Garrett.
Jenna ought to dismiss the incident from her mind—if only she could remove that last tiny splinter of doubt.
A rap at the door interrupted her troubling reflections. Instead of Sancha, Jenna found Lane Fairchild upon the threshold, smiling at her.
“May I come in? I feared, when I learned you’d requested a tray here rather than taking your meal below, that you might have overtired yourself last night.”
“No, I’m perfectly fine.” Wondering why he felt it necessary to track her down in her private sitting room, Jenna waved him to a chair.
“You did leave Lady Charlotte’s party rather abruptly. I’d scarcely arrived when I saw you departing. I wish I had had time to make my presence known, that you might have requested my escort home.”
He must have seen her with Nelthorpe. Did he also know what had passed between them at Badajoz? Jenna felt her face coloring. “That is kind of you, cousin, but as you can see, I arrived back safely.”
“For which I can only be profoundly grateful!” He hesitated, then continued, “Jenna, I hope you will not think I am presuming to try to choose your friends, but I strongly advise you to avoid Lord Nelthorpe.
“Please—” he held up a hand to forestall her protest “—hear me out. I understand that Viscount Nelthorpe apparently served with honor in the army. However, before he put on regimentals, he was known to be a womanizer and a fortune hunter. You, who have spent your life around soldiers like your father and Garrett, might not realize that a uniform can hide a badly flawed character.”
Touched by his chivalry, but also a bit annoyed, Jenna said, “Cousin, I am not so naive that I do not realize the army contains rascals as well as gentlemen.”
“Perhaps not,” he conceded, “but your goodness leads you to expect it in others, and your recent…losses may cloud your judgment. Nelthorpe might take advantage.”
Relieved that her cousin evidently didn’t know what had happened between herself and Nelthorpe, Jenna hid a smile. Lane’s warning came several years too late.
“I appreciate your concern, but I believe it groundless. After three years of wartime service, Lord Nelthorpe is most assuredly no longer the same man he was when he left England.”
“One would hope his character has improved,” Lane said. “Though I doubt such a man ever fully reforms.”
She had doubts about that herself. “Perhaps not. Still, I do not believe Lord Nelthorpe will harm me.”
Listening to the words she’d just spoken, Jenna suppressed a laugh. To be again defending Anthony Nelthorpe! Yet she realized she truly believed what she’d said—had believed it before Harry vouched for him, despite the taunt of seduction with which he’d sealed their wager.
“You may be right,” Fairchild was saying. “But Nelthorpe’s reputation is still tarnished enough that being seen with him cannot but reflect poorly on your own. I understand he’s looking for a rich Cit’s daughter to marry.” Fairchild sniffed. “She’ll have to be wealthy indeed to keep Nelthorpe and his father—who is even more profligate than the son—in liquor and harlots.”
So Nelthorpe was hunting a wife? she thought in surprise. Though she shouldn’t be. How else was an aristocrat with no profession to repair his fortune?
Obviously misreading that emotion, Lane patted her hand. “I didn’t mean to distress you! I speak only from the sincerest desire to protect you. Indeed, though I realize ’tis far too soon to mention such things, I hope that at some future time, you may grant me the privilege of caring for you—permanently.”
There could be no mistaking his inference. Jenna looked away, uncertain how to respond. Since arriving in London, she’d noticed subtle things—a warmth of tone, a touch here, a guiding hand at her elbow there—that indicated Fairchild might be coming to view her in a warmer light. She’d been telling herself she was reading too much into what were only gallant gestures.
Apparently her instincts had been correct.
Best to put the matter firmly to rest. “I am, of course, honored,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But much as I esteem you, I do not foresee developing between us more than a…cousinly affection.”
“No more talk of it now,” he said with a sweep of his hand, as if brushing aside the words—and her protest? “For the immediate future, I hope you will continue to reside at Fairchild House.”
“Thank you. I expect I shall stay until the holidays at least.” She already knew that residing permanently with the Fairchild clan—and in the midst of the ton—was not what she wanted. But she’d promised Nelthorpe to remain until Christmas, and she would honor her word.
“Excellent!” Fairchild said. “Since you will be with us indefinitely, I’m afraid I must p
ass along another warning. Please be…careful in your dealings with Bayard.”
“With Bayard?” she echoed. “Careful in what way?”
“One not well acquainted with him might think him mild-mannered, if somewhat rough-spoken. That is not always the case, regrettably. Though he is indifferent to estate matters not related to his scientific explorations,” Lane’s voice took on an aggrieved note, “any person he perceives to interfere with those causes him to become extremely agitated. A few months ago, one of the footmen moved some of Bayard’s chemicals in order to fetch some port from the wine cellar. Bayard flew into a rage and flung the man against the wall, breaking his arm.”
“Bayard hurt someone?” she gasped, unable to credit her husband’s brusque cousin capable of such violence.
“It seems fantastical, but I’m afraid it’s true. I was present when the doctor examined the footman. So I suggest you avoid the area near his laboratory.”
Jenna smiled to counter the little shiver that skittered down her backbone. “As I don’t expect to be sneaking about the cellars filching your claret, I imagine I shall be safe enough.”
“So I should hope!” he replied, returning the smile. “I would caution you to beware of Bayard’s valet as well. Were it up to me, I should turn the surly fellow off in an instant. I’ve often urged that Bayard replace him with someone who could turn him out more in the style befitting a Fairchild! But for some unfathomable reason, Bayard’s quite attached to him. And by now,” he concluded with a wry shake of his head, “you must be thinking you’ve stumbled into a household straight out of Bedlam.”
“I did think upon first seeing him that Frankston seemed more like a Spanish brigand than a gentleman’s gentleman,” Jenna said. “Is he as dangerous?”
“I’m sure he is not! His conduct does not approach the standards I would require of a servant at Fairchild House, but I did not mean to imply he might threaten anything other than your patience. The man seems to have no notion of the deference he owes to his betters.”
“Then I may sleep safely in my bed?” she teased.
“Of course,” he replied, his smile fading. “I know you are funning, but your safety is no joking matter. Also, please know that anytime you have need of an escort, I should be honored if you will call on me.”
“You are very kind,” she murmured. If Nelthorpe were in fact occupied in pursuing a middle-class bride, she might not have to honor the ridiculous bargain they’d made last night. But whether or not the viscount came calling, she didn’t wish to encourage Lane—who seemed not at all put off by her little speech about cousinly affection.
He bowed and walked to the door, then hesitated. “Though I have no authority over you, of course, I must admit I should feel easier if you could assure me you did not intend to see Viscount Nelthorpe again.”
A knock sounded at the door, followed by Sancha’s entry. “Pardon, señora,” she said with a curtsy. “But Lord Nelthorpe is here. Shall I tell him you come down?”
“Lady Fairchild is occupied,” Lane said.
Jenna threw him a sharp glance. She might appreciate his concern for her welfare, but she wasn’t about to let him dictate her actions. Besides, much as she regretted last night’s hasty promise, she had made it, and if the viscount held her to the bargain, she would honor it.
“Tell Lord Nelthorpe I will be down directly.”
After the maid withdrew, she turned to Lane Fairchild, whose lips had pressed together in a disapproving line. “Having escorted me home last night, it is only polite that Nelthorpe call. And only polite that I receive him. Besides, though I appreciate your concern, do me the credit of believing I am capable of managing my own affairs.”
The glint in his blue eyes turned decidedly frosty. “If you say so, cousin. I shall not intrude upon you further, then.” After a stiff bow, he walked out.
What a charming morning, she thought with a sigh. Cousin Lane was definitely displeased with her.
And Anthony Nelthorpe waited below.
CHAPTER TEN
HAVING RIDDEN HOME as quickly as the congested London streets would allow, it wasn’t until he stood in her parlor, a disapproving Sancha dispatched with a message to fetch her mistress, that Tony paused to reconsider his plan.
Despite the protests of his knee, he limped about the room, doubts beginning to assail him.
He’d managed to tease, annoy and cajole a bargain out of Jenna last night, but in the saner light of day, would she choose to honor it? Or, as had happened each time he’d called during her convalescence, would Sancha return to inform him Lady Fairchild could not receive him?
Tony prayed with all the fervency he possessed that she would receive him, though he feared less for her safety now than he had last night, when he’d seen moonlight and desperation reflected in her eyes. More important than the desire, stronger than he cared to admit, to spend time with her, the plight of the displaced soldiers demanded redress.
How could he help them if she repudiated him?
Wexley, St. Ives and others of their ilk were unlikely to care enough to offer a ha’penny, and Ned Hastings had no independent income of his own. Tony could think of no other wealthy acquaintance in London—except Banker Harris. Aside from the fact that he’d be loath to return again, hat in hand and asking for money, would a self-made man like Mr. Harris have any sympathy for unfortunates many in society would judge to be worthless vagrants who should bestir themselves to find honest work?
So what would he do if Jenna refused to meet him? Modest as the needs of the former soldiers and their families were, he knew his limited resources wouldn’t stretch to meeting them for long.
He paced faster, seared by the same agonizing sense of helplessness that had seized him at Waterloo after the Union Brigade’s charge, while he watched his exuberant fellow horsemen, having decimated the French ranks before them, ride recklessly onward, deaf to the recall being sounded by their bugler. Ride on far behind the enemy lines, to the very foot of the French guns. Where, scattered and outnumbered, they were cut to pieces.
Bile rose in his throat and a shudder ran through him. Shaking his mind free of the memory, he forced himself to concentrate on the present.
No French cuirassiers stood between him and the salvation of the little band residing off Thames Street.
Should Jenna fail to appear, he supposed he could write her a letter describing the situation. He was just starting to mentally compose such a note in his head when the lady herself entered the parlor.
“You wished to see me, Lord Nelthorpe?”
For a moment he let his hungry eyes feast on her while the potent force she always exerted over his senses drew him inexorably to her side. “Jenna,” he murmured, bending to kiss the fingertips she extended as he inhaled deeply of her scent, savoring the too-brief touch of her skin.
He felt the tension in her hand, as if she wished to jerk it free. Would she honor their bargain? Perhaps he ought to determine that immediately, for if she had come down only to disavow it, he wouldn’t get a chance to plead the soldier’s case.
Tightening his hold, he kissed her hand again.
This time she did pull away. “When you do that, I wonder at my wisdom in permitting you to call.”
She was not going to repudiate him, he thought, relief flooding him. How then to introduce the matter of Sergeant Anston? Deciding he might need more than the few minutes allowed by a morning call to convince her, he said, “Allow me to take you riding. I’ve a matter I’d like to discuss.”
“At least it’s not a proposition,” she muttered.
He grinned. “See? Already you’re exerting a beneficial influence.”
“I’d heard you intended to make yourself agreeable to some…bourgeois heiress. Would dancing attendance on me not interfere with those plans?”
Had she cared enough to check on him? Reason damped down his momentary gratification. Probably her kinsman had heard he was gathering information in the City.
�
��Should you be disappointed if I were?”
She raised an eyebrow. “If you pursue a lady of wealth merely for her fortune, and she chooses to accept you solely for your title, I think you would both be getting what you deserve.”
He had to laugh at that. “I must agree. So I am happy to assure you that, for the moment at least, I have managed to escape that fate. Which leaves me free to escort you to routs, musicales, breakfasts and any other activities you choose to attend. During which, you will instruct me on how to behave as a gentleman. Unless,” he added, unable to resist the urge to tease, “I can persuade you instead to allow me to act the rogue?”
“We’ll tread the path of virtue, to be sure.”
“Are you sure?” he asked softly.
She leveled a severe look. “Absolutely.”
He heaved a regretful sigh, not entirely for show. “Virtue it shall be, alas. Now, hurry to change, lest we miss more of this lovely day.”
“It…it wouldn’t be convenient to ride now.”
She was trying to fob him off. An urgency unconnected with the plight of the soldiers surged through him. Instead of accepting her refusal, he blurted, “Why not?”
“It…I…I’m not dressed for riding,” she said, obviously taken aback at his persistence.
“I can wait while you change.”
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“Well, I mind making you wait.” Her tone aggrieved, she sat back in her chair. Another moment, and she would be ringing for the butler to escort him out.
Abandoning caution, he seized her hand. “Please, Jenna, just this once. When you asked me to go with you last night, I came without question, didn’t I?”
Though she pulled her hand free, her defensive posture softened. “Y-yes. And I do thank you for that.”
“One ride is all I request. After that, if…if you prefer, I’ll not force you to honor our bargain.”
She straightened, a martial light gleaming in her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to renege on our agreement—foolish though it was! I never break my word. I was merely…”
