‘Good. Now, is it true you’re marrying the Black Raven woman?’
‘No!’ Oliver’s eyes widened. His voice rose to an alarming and ungentlemanly-like pitch. The dog on his lap whimpered, and Oliver realised his fingers had squeezed the poor creature. ‘Where did you hear that?’
Aunt Petunia looked disappointed. ‘The doctor mentioned you were the talk of the ton. I had hoped there was a smidgen of truth to it.’
‘Old sawbones,’ he muttered, letting the dog lick his hand in forgiveness of his rough treatment of a moment ago.
‘Bellamy!’ Aunt Petunia reprimanded, albeit with a smirk.
‘The Countess of Blackhurst and I…’ How to explain something he was yet to understand himself.
His aunt sat forward. ‘Yes? You do know my dying wish is to see you married, don’t you?’
He watched her as she looked at him with pleading eyes. She reminded him of one of her dogs whenever there was a treat on offer. Oh, his aunt was at her mischievous best today. ‘Are you not worried about her reputation?’
She flapped her hands around in a dismissive gesture. ‘Reputation? Oh, you mean about her husband? Henry said he was a shockingly rude fellow with no sense of propriety.’
‘Did he indeed? Some say she killed him or had him killed. What do you say to that?’ Oliver watched as his aunt processed all this information with little more than a raise of her greying eyebrow.
‘Do they? Well, he probably deserved it, like my Harold.’
‘Harold?’
‘My first husband. He was like a petulant child. Always wanted everything his way. Never happy to wait. Always had to butt in where he shouldn’t. He was killed by a wine cork, you know.’
Oliver sat back in disbelief. ‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘They wanted to blame the poor footman but I was there and so were several others. Harold had been an impatient man. He grabbed the champagne bottle off the dear boy and popped that cork right into his own temple. He was gone from this Earthly plane before he even hit the Persian rug.’ She looked off into the distance for a moment before redirecting her eyes to him.
Shocked, Oliver shook his head. He had never known any of this. He had just assumed that Uncle George had been her only husband. ‘So then you married Uncle George?’
‘George? Heaven’s no.’
‘No?’
‘After Harold there was Charles. He had an unfortunate reaction to something and hiccupped himself to the other side.’
Oliver shut his mouth and wondered how such a thing was even possible. ‘How…awful,’ he replied, horrified. And yet he had to swallow a bubble of laughter which threatened to escape.
‘Oh, it went on for months,’ she said. ‘We were all quite relieved in the end, including Charles, I suspect.’
‘I’m almost afraid to ask if there are any others.’
‘I think seeing three husbands to the grave is more than enough for any poor woman, don’t you?’
‘I agree. So, do you think Lady Blackhurst did kill her husband then?’
‘If she was not found guilty then she must be…not guilty.’
Well, he supposed that made sense but…
She frowned at him. ‘So, are you going to marry the girl or not? Henry fancied her, you know. Were he still alive you might have had a fight on your hands. He would talk of no one else. Her dark hair, her lovely eyes, her complexion. It was quite nauseating, I have to say.’
Now it was his turn to frown. ‘I had no idea he and Lisbeth had met.’
‘Is that her name? That is pretty.’ His aunt smiled, happiness evident on her wrinkled face.
A face that was a constant in his life, the only constant he had left. He would not even entertain the thought of her not being part of his life. ‘What did he say?’ Oliver asked.
‘About what, dear?’
‘About the Countess of Blackhurst.’
‘Who?’
‘The lady I am not marrying? The Black Raven?’
She stared at him for a moment, a look of pleasure sweeping over her face. ‘Are you getting married?’
He shut his eyes briefly and took a breath. ‘No.’ Her face fell in disappointment, which made him feel like pond scum.
‘Bellamy, you are confusing me on purpose. Do not be cruel, I am dying, you know.’
‘You are not…’
She grabbed at his hand, which made the dog jump from his lap. ‘I want you to settle a small cottage on Mrs Turner when I go. Somewhere near her daughter would be nice. I can give her a small allowance.’
‘I will do my best, but, Aunt, you are not dying.’
‘I am and I will see our dear Henry again, and George, and no doubt Charles and Harold, too. Won’t that be a jolly party? I do hope that Henry will be in a convivial mood. He was so peculiar before he passed.’ She looked over at the fire and seemed to be mesmerised by the goings on in the grate.
‘In what way, Aunt?’ He reached out, touched her arm. ‘Aunt?’
She looked over at him and appeared to be surprised to see him. ‘Eh? Oh, Bellamy. Do I have to be ready to go to my reward before you visit me?’ She looked over at the window. ‘Strangest weather we are having lately. It is almost as if the sun had decided to go on a holiday.’
He smiled. He should have known this conversation was doomed to run amuck sooner or later. Oh, but he wanted to know more about Henry and his peculiar mood.
Aunt Petunia’s chin was already dipping towards her chest, indicating that she would be snoring within moments. This was the first time she had been specific when talking about Henry. Usually, she just reminisced about them as children. The news about him knowing Lisbeth was intriguing. If his aunt’s ramblings were true, how did they know each other? Lisbeth had told him she had not known her husband’s business partners. He assumed this included his brother.
He looked around him, looked at his aunt, and wondered what he should do. He had the urge to bang down the Countess’s door and demand answers. This would be impulsive and pure folly considering the source. No, he must bide his time. Study her. Get under her defences and into her confidence if he were to find out about Henry and her part in the speculation.
He gave his aunt a kiss on her forehead and left her to rest. In the hall Mrs Turner met him and followed him to the door.
‘She seemed well today, considering her diagnosis,’ he remarked.
‘Yes and no. She says the strangest things to me some days but I cannot make out whether they are memory or imagination.’
‘She said some strange comments to me today as well, about Henry.’
‘I would not take too much stock in what she says, my lord.’
‘No, well, I suppose you are right. I’ll take my leave now, Mrs Turner, and bid you a good day.’ As he walked away, despite what Mrs Turner had said, he could not stop his thoughts from turning to his brother and the woman who would be on his arm tonight.
***
It was cold, again, but this time Oliver didn’t have the benefit of a flask of brandy to keep him warm, nor did he have the heated affections of the woman sitting opposite him. Despite the warming bricks at their feet, the cold seemed to be seeping in from every crevice of the carriage. He was sure that Rollands had something to do with his missing flask, no doubt perpetrated by Madame le No-Fun sitting opposite him. Perhaps her icy demeanour was making the carriage seem so chilly.
‘Is it really necessary to go to Lady Fortesque’s tonight?’ he asked. ‘Can we not write something more entertaining in the schedule than wasting an evening with that critical old battle-axe? There is a masquerade at Covent Garden which would be infinitely more diverting.’
Lisbeth looked at him, her eyes huge with shock. ‘No, you cannot just write something better in my schedule! Besides that old battle-axe is my grandmother! Goodness, Bellamy, next you will be proposing that we attend a gaming hell or a…boxing match!’
A choke of laughter escaped him before he could control it. ‘I would, actually,
but not with you. I suspect you would take too much pleasure in causing a scene.’
Pure astonishment came over her features. ‘Me! Cause a scene? I’ve never heard such a ridiculous thing in all my life!’
‘Would you go to a boxing match…if it were on my list of wagers?’
She turned to look out the window again. ‘Certainly not!’
‘Ah, but, Countess, you did say I could collect on any and all wagers, did you not?’
Lisbeth paled. She had agreed with those terms. They were, in fact, terms she had made up herself. What if he insisted that she go through with the wager? Looking back towards him she saw his self-satisfied smile and realised he was bluffing. There was no odious boxing match on his list at all! Scoundrel!
‘I believe I said within reason. I would, of course, honour any wager as per our agreement.’
Oliver laughed again, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of comedic exercise. ‘Liar! You have yet to see the list but still you seem so confident.’
‘Correction, Bellamy, I have seen the list. I simply could not read it. A legible list will present itself in short order, I expect, or I will march into White’s Club and gain a list of my own.’
At this point he knew her well enough to believe her mad enough to do just that. As humorous as it would be to see her bodily removed from White’s, it would also effectively put an end to his chance to make any money out of this debacle. Although everyone seemed to know what he was doing they did not realise that the Countess also knew or that she condoned it. He had to keep it that way.
‘I should have known you and the battle-axe were related,’ he said on a heavy sigh. ‘Well, won’t this be fun?’
They entered the house on Grosvenor Square and were ushered through a mirrored hall to a large rectangular room furnished in blue, white and silver. It was a stunning room. Full to the brim with small but expensive antiquities and bric-a-brac that Lisbeth explained had been her grandfather’s passion.
Part of Oliver wanted to stop and study each piece but, he reminded himself, he wasn’t on a trip to a museum. Plaster mouldings framed arches in white with the interiors the same blue as the outer walls. More moulding in the shape of silver grape vines connected each arch. A brilliant fresco occupied the entire scope of the ceiling depicting a confrontation of ancient Greek gods, all vying for their immortal positions. He spared a glance at Lisbeth, wondered if she would miss him if he were to lie down on the floor somewhere and just study the ceiling for the night. He had seen many marvellous things while travelling with the army—some that he was trying diligently to forget—but he did like a good piece of art.
Fascinated by the architecture and decoration, Oliver hardly noticed the occupants of the room at all, until one of the guests bowed in front of him. He bowed in return, smiled, but did not stay to have a tête-à-tête. It was then that he saw couples dancing and others playing cards.
Above the din of the music and conversation he could hear the battle-axe’s voice. It was husky, harsh and full of authority. The kind of vocal pattern which could only develop over years of constant ordering about and belittling of lesser beings. Lying on the floor, even though it would completely ruin his jacket, still seemed the best way to pass the evening. It would be worth his valet’s wrath.
***
As soon as Lisbeth heard her grandmother’s voice, her legs faltered and refused to move another step. They mirrored her feelings exactly. She did not want to be here. Her heart seemed to be hiding down somewhere near her liver, quivering with anxiety. She wanted to turn and run out of this house as fast as she could. Pretend she had not accepted her grandmother’s surprise summons.
It was far too late to turn and run, and besides, she had not done anything wrong. It was not she who had abandoned her own flesh and blood. Her grandmother had turned her back on her when Lisbeth needed her most. Disowned her, thrust her from her life like an unwanted burden, without even bothering to ask if the rumours were true. She had simply chosen not to acknowledge her as her granddaughter. It had been a hard lesson to learn. Lisbeth had tried several times to contact her grandmother for support during those early days but had been denied at every turn. It had stupefied her. Did her grandmother actually think her capable of murder? The dawning of this realisation had made her weep with a shame she had no reason to feel.
Lisbeth had grieved for the loss of her family, defeat colliding with hopelessness in an all-consuming terror. Had she really lost them? Lost them all?
When she thought of the tears she’d shed, the pain she’d felt, the days she’d spent waiting to wake from the nightmare of her life, the old anger welled up inside her and threatened to choke her. However, Lisbeth was no longer that weak woman who had hoped and prayed they would come to realise their error and come back into her life and want to love her again.
If her grandmother now wanted to repair the ties she had so viciously severed, she would have to beg for her forgiveness on her knees before Lisbeth would even consider such a thing. Even if she could forgive, she would never forget.
‘Are you alright?’
Bellamy. She’d forgotten about him. She closed her eyes for a moment, fearing he would see, from her tears, the torment she was suffering and realise how close she was to teetering over the edge.
‘Of course.’ She took a deep breath. A sob rose in her throat. Panic took over. Her whole being began to shake.
I can’t do this.
No! She was not going to collapse and make a fool of herself.
Not here. Not now.
Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
Behind her she heard, ‘Perhaps you should have a drink first. Lord knows I could do with one.’
She felt Oliver’s hand curl around her elbow, warm, strong, supportive. She could see nothing in front of her as he led her to the side of the room, to a shadowed corner where he could shield her from the inquisitive eyes of the other guests in the room. He handed her a drink and guided it up to her lips.
‘Drink,’ he commanded softly.
She obeyed and choked on the strong liquor as it burnt a trail down her throat. ‘What in God’s name was that vile concoction?’
He steadied her and took the glass away, searching her face. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know. Feel better?’
He always seemed to make her feel too many emotions. In any other circumstance she would have resented his actions. This time, however, he made her feel protected. Safe. Something she hadn’t felt for a long time. She nodded.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘You were as pale as a ghost and I couldn’t have you swooning on me.’
Lisbeth looked up as he adjusted a small curl, tucking it behind her ear. His eyes held concern. Concern for her? Surely not. And yet, somewhere in those chocolate coloured depths she saw a flicker of something else too. Compassion? Pity? She couldn’t bear to look any further in case she saw something worse than pity in his gaze.
‘I’m not practiced in the art of dealing with fainting females, you see,’ he said in a soft whisper.
She looked at him and his ridiculous sideways grin. Lord help her, but she wanted to kiss him. Kiss his lips and pretend nothing else existed. Kiss him and let him kiss her, let him take her away from this place, both body and mind. She realised she was staring at his lips when she felt a finger under her chin and her eyes rose once again to his. They were warm, brown and steady in their regard.
‘Do not let her best you. You are the Black Raven,’ he said. ‘Act like it.’ Then he turned her back towards the room.
He was right. She was the Black Raven. She was the woman who turned young men grey overnight and made children eat green vegetables. The woman who made people cross themselves as they crossed the street. Lisbeth would forever be grateful to him for reminding her to play the part she had been given.
He offered her his arm. ‘I’ll be right here if you need me.’
Shaking her head she said, ‘I won’t need you. There is no reason why you should be
hauled into this any more than you already have. In any case, I daresay this won’t take long.’
‘As you wish, my lady,’ he replied. ‘I am sure Venus and I shall get along famously until you return. Although, I must admit, she does not look much of a conversationalist.’
Lisbeth nodded her thanks, flung her shoulders back, tilted her chin up, and walked off in the direction of Lady Fortesque.
Her grandmother was a woman of considerable age, but even so Lisbeth was shocked when she saw her. She had lost weight and her hair had turned completely white. Her skin seemed paper-thin and fragile. It was inconceivable. She couldn’t imagine her grandmother ever being fragile. Her eyes were the only thing that seemed not to have changed. They now narrowed on her and Lisbeth took a breath and held it as she took the last few paces to put herself in front of the woman. She curtseyed, more out of habit than politeness.
Her grandmother was sitting on a sofa with her favourite whippet panting by her side. Her other guests were soon shooed away and they were alone. Lisbeth’s heart hammered as if she was standing before a judge.
Lady Fortesque looked her up and down.
Lisbeth held her gaze. She would not let her see any weakness.
Her grandmother’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, it is true. You have returned. I have to say I’m surprised.’
‘I can’t see why. It has been two years.’
‘Yes, two years. One would think you have been mourning your husband, but we both know that would be untrue.’
‘One might think many things whether they are true or not.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Why did you summon me?’
‘I wanted to see for myself if the rumours are true.’
‘To which particular rumour do you refer?’
‘Yes, there are so many to choose from, are there not? Your presence here answers one of them. The other, I see, is standing by the statue of Venus, pretending not to listen. You may call him over now.’
‘No! He is not to be brought into this,’ Lisbeth said.
‘And why not? Is he not part of this little game you are playing?’
A Scandalous Wager Page 9
