A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Her own heart, however, could not keep itself hidden as she talked about her husband.

  And bless Mr. Stanford, he knew. He smiled and offered his advice, repeatedly stating that he had no assurances that his advice would be at all effective, as her husband was a mystery.

  That she knew well.

  Hence her current hesitation.

  But she was not, and never had been, a ninny.

  She raised her hand and knocked with as much firmness as she could muster.

  “Come.”

  She held her breath and entered the dark, masculine room. “I bring you the greetings of your aunt, and the wishes of Lady Raeburn for your attendance at her musicale.”

  Lucas looked up from his desk only briefly. “And how is my aunt?”

  “Very well,” Gemma said with a smile. “She looked positively radiant.”

  “She does that,” he muttered, going back to his work. “Did anyone notice the two of you being overly social?”

  Gemma scoffed. “Of course they did. Lady Riverton took notice of poor Lady Blackmoor, a little nobody everyone is ignoring these days.”

  That brought his head up with a jerk.

  “But she only paid me polite attentions,” Gemma reassured him, a bit taken aback by the darkness in his gaze. “She was generous in her praises and before the luncheon was over, I had several new acquaintances and more invitations. That is all. No one suspected anything, I promise.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then looked back down at his work. “Good.”

  “And will you come to Lady Raeburn’s musicale?” she asked, wondering why his mood was so foul. “I am to be playing, after all.”

  “I doubt it,” he said in an offhand way.

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “What? Why?”

  “I don’t need to give a reason.”

  “Perhaps not for everyone else, but I would like one,” she retorted. “I have been practicing for weeks, you’ve heard me.”

  “All the more reason not to, I know how brilliantly you play.”

  “Lucas, that is not the same thing!”

  He glanced up at her. “Isn’t it? You said so yourself, you are very sought after now. I am not. It would be better for you if I left you to it.”

  She was shaking her head before he finished. “No, they will say what they have been saying. That you have tired of me. That I am not enough to sustain your attentions. That I have thrown you over. You have left me so alone that nobody knows what to make of either of us, and now I am talked about as much as you!”

  He slowly raised a brow at her. “Perhaps you regret our marriage now that you know what it entails.”

  She frowned in response. “That is not what I said.”

  He snorted in derision and sat back in his chair. “What are you saying, then?”

  His manner was so unlike the man she knew that she had no inkling of how to respond. “I… I miss you,” she said simply.

  A barely imperceptible twinge flickered across his face. “I am where I have always been,” he replied with a slight gesture of his hands.

  “No, you are so far away I hardly recognize you,” she murmured. Then she raised her chin a touch. “Perhaps it is you who regrets our marriage.”

  He glowered at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Something spurned her into impudence. “Am I? I never see you anymore. We never talk as we used to.”

  He sighed and picked up his pen, going back to his work. “I have responsibilities, Gemma. I am busy.”

  She would not be put off like this, to be brushed aside like some insignificant acquaintance. “Too busy for your wife?” she demanded. “You used to have all the time in the world for me.”

  That struck him, and he went so still she wondered if he even breathed.

  “Walk with me, Lucas,” she begged softly, knowing he was not as unfeeling as he was behaving. “Just the park. Please.”

  He looked up at her for a long moment, then sighed and stood, coming over to kiss her brow gently. “All right.”

  There was barely time for her heart to thrill at it before he had her out the door and walking briskly, as if that was what she meant. As if it were only an errand to be completed.

  As if she were merely a duty.

  They walked on in silence, side by side, but worlds apart. It was not at all what she had intended, but she would take it, if that was all he would give.

  Without a word, he led her to the grove of trees she’d come to treasure, where they had once kissed and confessed all sort of things. Once safely within, the tension in him seemed to fall away. He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

  “Lucas?” she prodded with some concern, laying a hand on his chest.

  He turned and seized her face, his lips crashing down on hers with a fierceness and intensity that stole her breath. She responded in kind, fisting her hands in his shirt, passion rising within her as a torrential flood.

  He pressed her back against a tree, wild and unfettered, his mouth eager and insistent. She had longed for this, dreamed of it, craved it… But it would solve nothing. Knowing this still burned beneath the surface encouraged her, emboldened her, and she took her chance.

  She broke off the kiss and cupped her husband’s face. “Lucas, tell me what is wrong,” she whispered, her lips grazing his. “Tell me the trouble.”

  He instantly stiffened, jerked back, and removed her hands from his face. “No. I’ve told you not to ask me, and I mean it!”

  He shook his head at her, then turned and strode out of the grove.

  “Don’t leave me alone again!” she called, her voice cracking.

  He stopped at once, hands clenching at his side, then turned to look back at her.

  She didn’t bother to hide her tears as they began to course down her cheeks. “Don’t leave me alone,” she pleaded, biting down on her lip.

  He stared at her for a moment, his hands on his hips, exhaled slowly, then came back to her and held out his hand. “Forgive me. Come.”

  She noted that he did not apologize, only asked for her forgiveness. For some reason she could not identify, that seemed a significant omission. But she swallowed back her pain and distress, took his hand, and they silently continued their walk.

  He did not leave her alone in the grove, but it was not the grove to which she had been referring.

  When they returned home, when this painful interlude ended, would she be alone again?

  She was very much afraid that she already knew the answer to that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Never in his entire life had Lucas felt this level of depression.

  Considering the plethora of opportunities with darkness and discouragement that had been presented to him over the course of his life, that was saying a great deal.

  There was nothing to smile about, should he have been at all tempted to do something so irrational. There was nothing to lessen the burdens currently weighing on him. There was no relief to be found, no comfort he could receive.

  His wife was miserable.

  And it was his fault.

  More than that, he was the one making her miserable.

  Surely there was no circle of hell dark enough for that.

  He sat alone in his darkened study, no candle, no fire, draperies drawn as much as they could while still letting in light enough to see and work by. He ran a hand over his face, wincing at the stubble and sensitivity of his skin. He had sequestered himself in this room for days, sleeping in his chair, taking his meals within… He was becoming more of a recluse than he had ever been in his life, and he couldn’t see a reason to change that.

  He only caused more damage when he attempted to be human.

  Gemma had stopped looking for him. Had stopped sending for him. Had stopped caring, for all he could tell. And it was only right that she should. He was destroying what was most precious to him.

  His reasons were sound, honorable even. But what good were reasons when he was slowly d
ying every day? Soon his wife would despise him, just as Celia had. Would she also seek for entertainment and comfort elsewhere? Would she turn cold and hard? How could she stand remaining with him?

  Celia had stayed, but only to torment him. He had never abandoned her as he was doing with Gemma. She had taken matters into her own hands, not finding him to be enough for her. He had never been enough for her.

  For anyone.

  And now he was not enough for Gemma.

  And there was no one to blame but himself.

  He groaned and leaned back in his chair. He could catch snippets of her voice every now and then, faint echoes of laughter, complaints of a missing handkerchief, compliments of a meal, the soft strains of her violin echoing down the hall…

  He was desperate for anything of her, but he could not bring himself to face her. To see the light in her eyes dim with his presence. To long to touch her while knowing it would abhor her.

  Celia had been hell for him.

  But Gemma…

  He was hell for her.

  Lady Raeburn’s musicale was in three days. He had sworn not to attend to give himself further distance from his wife. But the more he thought on it, the more he decided that was pure folly. His wife was a talented musician and he had admired her gifts for years, long before he loved her. He had to make an appearance at some point; avoiding the world was irrational.

  And he could see Gemma without having to speak to her, or explain himself, anything to ruin his plan to protect her by distance.

  In fact, avoiding Lady Raeburn’s musicale would do more harm than good. He had always gone, and he could not afford the affront to Lady Raeburn now when she had always been so generous where he was concerned.

  And she adored Gemma. Anything he did to deliberately wound his wife would come back upon his head a hundredfold.

  No, he would clean himself up and go. But discreetly. And separate from his wife.

  For her sake.

  A knock at the door roused him and he called for entrance, his voice sounding harsh and raspy from lack of use.

  “This just arrived for you, sir,” a lanky footman with an expressionless face said, handing out a tray.

  Lucas frowned and grabbed the thick letter. “From whom?”

  “Did not say, sir,” the footman reported. “Courier said he had no information on that score.”

  Lucas nodded, his stomach curling. “Thank you. You may go.”

  The footman bowed and exited without a word.

  He wasn’t ready for another mystery. He could barely handle the ones currently plaguing him, more would be truly excessive.

  Nothing this large had ever come without address, and yet it was not heavy enough to be strictly correspondence within.

  He broke the seal with an increasing sense of uneasiness.

  A bit of fabric fell into his lap, and he reached for it, glancing at the paper surrounding it.

  There were only two words, written in a clean, perfect hand he knew all too well, far different from any of his other missives.

  So close.

  He dropped the paper as if he had been scorched by it, and his hands shook as if he had been.

  The penmanship was Celia’s

  He’d know it anywhere.

  But Celia was dead. He’d seen her broken body, he’d carried her back himself, he’d seen to every detail of her burial, for heaven’s sake.

  Yet her handwriting was before him, staring him in the face.

  He looked at the fabric that had fallen out, and jolted to his feet, tossing it onto the desk.

  Gemma’s handkerchief, her apparently missing one, bearing her initials on the corner. She’d embroidered it at Thornacre with her new monogram, proudly showing him the work when it was done. She’d stated it was the only thing she’d ever embroidered worth beans, and he’d praised her for it.

  Now it was sent to him with his late wife’s handwritten threat.

  She couldn’t have written it.

  She couldn’t be alive.

  She wasn’t.

  So close…

  Whoever this was, they were close to Gemma. They knew Celia. And they knew exactly how to twist the knife in Lucas’s stomach with maximum damage.

  He began to shake uncontrollably, pacing the room like a madman. What could he do? It was beyond imagination, horrors upon horrors now facing him and his wife, and he’d been doing the only thing he knew how to protect her. Nothing was working. He couldn’t protect her, not even from himself.

  She had no idea what could happen if…

  His knees buckled and he collapsed into his chair again, breathing frantic, vision spotting before him.

  There were no options left.

  Beverton could do nothing about this, he had limited power in London as compared to Hampshire. Kit would want to involve his brother, and Lucas did not know enough of Colin Gerrard to know if that would be sensible or worthwhile. He had run the course of what he could manage on his own, and he dared not attempt to hire Bow Street or anyone else, for there were details in his past that even he wished to forget.

  His eyes snapped open as another name flitted through his mind, and he seized upon it like mad. He’d never employed him thus, feeling awkward about doing so with a friend, but there were literally no other options.

  And after all, it was what he did.

  But how could he communicate properly with him?

  What was the name he went by?

  It came to him and he scribbled out a few inconsequential lines on a spare bit of parchment. Then he went to the door and called for the same footman from before. James, he thought. And he was quite certain the lad hailed from London and would know what to do.

  “Here, sir,” he replied, coming to him.

  “Have you a set of common clothes at the ready, James?” Lucas asked him without any preamble.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And do you know your way around London?”

  The lad grinned. “Born and raised here, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.”

  Lucas nodded firmly, and handed the note. “You will please deliver this note and wait for instructions.”

  He took it, then frowned at the blank address. “Where am I to deliver it, sir?”

  Lucas exhaled slowly, forcing back the last of the pride and restraint he had left. “I need you to take it to the Gent.”

  Recognition, understanding, and awe dawned on the young man’s face, and he nodded, his jaw firming. “Yes, sir. I shall be discreet.”

  “Thank you.” He indicated with his head for the lad to proceed now, and he did so.

  Then, still shaking with slight tremors, Lucas went to the gallery, the only other place he dared venture anymore. Perhaps answers would lie within.

  Or perhaps only more questions.

  “And I’ve asked, but the servants tell me he only sits in there and stares at her portrait. He’ll be in there for hours, and he is not to be disturbed unless it is of utmost importance. I thought one of the maids would cry out of terror from having to disturb him.”

  “Was he cruel to her?”

  Gemma shook her head quickly, sighing as Marianne set her glass aside. “No, he never is. But his behavior is scaring them. It’s scaring me.” Tears swirled in her eyes and she blinked them back hastily. “I cannot reach him, Marianne, and I don’t know why.”

  Marianne took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I wish I knew what to tell you, Gemma. You know I did not have an easy time with Kit when we first came back to London, but then it passed. You do know your husband cares about you, yes?”

  Gemma nodded glumly. “Of course. I can see it in the rare moments he still sees me, and I cannot deny what has passed between us. But I wonder if he cares enough. Mr. Stanford says…”

  “Mr. Stanford?” Marianne interrupted bluntly, raising a brow. “Bennett Stanford? Lord Oliver’s brother?”

  She nodded in response, unable to keep from smiling. “We have become more acquainted of late, a
nd he has become a dear friend of sorts. He knows how worried I am about Lucas, and he knows and cares about him, so offers some advice.”

  Marianne frowned. “Kit knows Blackmoor and cares about him. I cannot see how Mr. Stanford can be of more help than him.”

  “Yes, well, I can hardly converse easily with Kit in the park about Lucas, now can I?” Gemma snapped, disgruntled by Marianne’s lack of enthusiasm. “Your husband talks only a little more than mine does.”

  Marianne snorted softly, her delicate lips curving as her eyes sought out her husband on the far side of the room. “I know, but what he does say is really quite marvelous.” She looked back at Gemma and her smile faded. “I will only say this: be wary of being too friendly with a gentleman, particularly an unattached one. I know little enough of Mr. Stanford to his credit or discredit, but you are not in a position where you can be who you once were where he is concerned. People will talk, Gemma.”

  “I know that,” she muttered, looking away. “He is constantly reminding me of propriety.”

  “Mr. Stanford?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, at least one of you is sensible.” Marianne squeezed her hand again, forcing Gemma to look up at her friend and catch the teasing glint in her eye. Instantly she relaxed, at ease once more. “Now, you were saying something about what he told you?”

  “Yes.” She straightened up, trying to remember. “He said that he can tell that my husband cares about me a great deal, and is very protective, but for some men it will always be the first wife who reigns supreme in their minds.” Her heart had broken a little as he’d said that, but it felt truer every day. “Obviously, he does not know with Lucas, and he would not presume to guess, but it would make sense.”

  Marianne frowned, her eyes suddenly troubled. “I admit I know little of his first wife. Her final Season was my first, and I was hardly the creature I became at that point, but I envied her so. She was everything I wanted to be.” She shook her head, chewing her lip slightly. “From outward appearances, at least. Kit doesn’t say much on the subject, but I don’t think it was a happy marriage.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Gemma murmured. Indeed, it was all she thought about these days. How did she measure up to Celia? How did Lucas compare the two?