by Mary Balogh
The Double Wager
Mary Balogh
Mary Balogh
The Double Wager
Chapter 1
"It's a melancholy fact," philosophized the young dandy Viscount Darnley, squinting through the brandy in his raised glass, "life ain't what it used to be." He turned his whole body and eyed the faces of his companions. His head would not move without taking his torso with it, imprisoned as it was between the high points of his starched collar.
"Darnley's right for once!" The haughty voice belonged to Sir Wilfred Denning, a satin-clad exquisite, who threw down his cards on the table and yawned delicately behind a white, well-manicured hand. The same hand patted his fair curls to make sure that no hair had strayed from the careful coiffure during the exertions of the game he had just played, and lost. "One wonders if any of us will be left at the end of another five years."
Rufus Smythe, at the other side of the card table, checked the folds of his neckcloth, smoothed white lace over the backs of his hands, and gathered together the guineas and vouchers he had just won. He tried to feign indifference, as if the winnings would not be the first hard cash to line his pockets for several weeks.
"Poor Hanley," he commented. "One wonders which one of us will be the next to go."
"Poor" Hanley was slumped in the depths of a leather chair drawn close to a dying log fire. He sighed pitifully, not removing his eyes from the blaze. "Mama insisted," he said plaintively.
"A life sentence, Hanley," Sir Wilfred reminded him. "She wouldn't take no for an answer," Hanley explained. "Then Papa took her part. Ganged up on me."
"I say, old fellow, that wasn't too sporting, you know. Gad, it's too bad when a fellow's father throws in the chips with his mama on a subject like this." The speaker, Lord Rowland Horton, a small, vivacious man, made his way from a sideboard, where he had been replenishing some empty glasses, and handed one to his luckless friend.
"He never could withstand her," Hanley bleated. "Nobody can. My brother-in-law tried when he married Fanny. He ended up getting a post in India and taking my sister with him. Said he would rather risk the fever there than have to pay duty calls on Mama at least once a month."
Having finished this long speech, Hanley lapsed into his former semicomatose state, the now-almost-empty glass of port dangling from his limp fingers.
Lord Horton stood in the middle of the floor and let his glance stray around the room to take in the other ten occupants. All were in a state of dejection induced by hours of drinking and playing cards, and by the melancholy of the occasion. He smiled.
"Well, gentlemen," he began, "our number is now down to ten, not counting Hanley, who is, to all intents and purposes, a goner. What is to happen to the Knights of Freedom Club? Are we to renew our vows and continue, or have we all changed our convictions since we began with such high ideals eight years ago? There were seventeen of us then."
"It was all very well eight years ago to pledge our allegiance to the single state," Smythe said hesitantly, playing with the lace at his wrist. "It seemed a noble idea then to swear to uphold one another in our resolve never to marry. But, dash it all," he said, looking defiantly at several of his companions, "what's a fellow to do when his pockets are to let? The dice cannot always be relied upon to bring one around. I have to eye the market, I have to admit. Not a happy prospect, but there it is. Almack's! Ugh!" He shuddered delicately.
"Poor Hanley's problem is that his mama wants him connected to a title," Darnley said in a hushed voice, as if he were talking about someone already deceased. "An earl's daughter was too much for her to resist."
"Why do earls' daughters always have pimples or big noses or flat chests?" Denning wanted to know, testing his curls again with a light touch.
"You're very quiet, Eversleigh," Lord Horton commented, turning everyone's attention to the man who was lounging elegantly against the mantel. He was a tall man, dressed all in black, with the exception of his white shirt points, which were not as high as those of the dandified Darnley, and the white neckcloth, which was not as intricately tied as that of Rufus Smythe. Beneath dark hair, brushed forward in a fashionable Brutus style, his face was thin and sharply drawn. He had a strong jawline, lips that were habitually drawn into a thin line, a straight nose, and blue eyes that were usually partly hidden behind half-closed eyelids. His whole stance suggested a lazy boredom. Only a close observer would have noticed that the broad shoulders, slim waist, and muscled calves owed nothing to a tailor's tricks-corsets and padding and such. A close observer might also have noticed that the eyes behind the lazy lids were unusually keen.
"Well, what do you say, Eversleigh?" Horton prompted. "Are you in this to the bitter end? Are you prepared to die a bachelor in your eighty-fifth year or thereabouts?" He grinned.
Marius Devron, Duke of Eversleigh, lifted a quizzing glass, his only ornament, to his eye without hurry and surveyed his friend's grinning face.
"Well, it's like this, Horton," he said at last. "We were young puppies, were we not, and assumed that the realities of life need never catch up to us. A foolish notion, of course." He lowered the quizzing glass and glanced cynically at the almost-unconscious figure of Hanley.
"The realities of life?" Sir Wilfred prompted.
"The need for alliances and such." Eversleigh waved a languid hand in the air, his elbow still resting on the mantel.
"It's all very well for you to talk so scathingly," Smythe complained. "You have no need to marry money, Marius. You're as rich as Croesus. And you don't need to marry position. You can't get much higher than duke. You really do not need to marry at all. You can keep the club going single-handed when the rest of us have been forced to bowout. And you have the delectable Mrs. Broughton as, er, companion."
Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass again and surveyed an uncomfortable Rufus Smythe in silence for a long moment.
"Ah," he said with amiable languor, "but you forget the craving of every man to perpetuate his dynasty, my dear fellow. Even I, I find, shudder at the prospect of being the last of my line. Wives, alas, become necessary evils when one's thoughts turn in such a direction."
"Marius!" Lord Horton bounced across the room to clap his friend heartily on the shoulder. "You aren't actually contemplating matrimony, are you, old boy? You? You have so perfected the art of totally ignoring each year's crop of debutantes and freezing out their hopeful mamas, that you would not know how to start choosing, would you, old fellow?"
"Do you have someone in mind, Eversleigh?" Darnley asked gloomily.
"My betrothed has a sister," said the sepulchral voice of Hanley, who still had not moved a muscle as he sat on in his chair. "Not quite so spotty, either."
"Choosing is a simple task," Eversleigh said.
"Eh?" asked Sir Wilfred.
Eversleigh made the supreme effort of pushing himself away from the mantel and strolling over to the sideboard to pour himself more brandy.
"Choosing a carriage is a difficult task," he said as he returned to the group. "One has to consider style, height, springs, upholstery, color. Choosing a horse is even more ticklish. It should take days and much sober consideration. Choosing a wife is simple. If she is young and virgin, why look farther?"
"Spots," muttered Hanley.
"There are plenty without," Eversleigh replied, lowering himself languidly into the nearest chair. "And I have never observed that beauty ensures good performance in bed, anyway, my dear chap."
"It certainly helps outside bed, though," Horton said with a laugh.
"Perhaps." Eversleigh shrugged.
"I'll wager that you would not really choose so carelessly if it came to the point, though, Marius," Sir Wilfred Denning said.
Eversleigh considered the words at his leisure.
"Ah, but it has come to the point," he said.
Horton threw back his head and laughed. "You can't be serious, old boy," he said. "You really want us to believe that you would go out and grab the first female you see just because you have taken it into your head that you wish to be a papa?"
His laughter became less hearty when the quizzing glass was raised again and his friend's half-closed eye, magnified out of all proportion to the rest of his face, was fixed on him again. "Ah, but it is not so much my paternal instinct that motivates me," he said softly. "I really cannot imagine being fond of any person below the age of five and twenty. It is my dislike of my present heir that disconcerts me.'
"Can't say I blame you, Eversleigh," Darnley said sympathetically. "Oliver Cranshawe ain't everyone's cup of tea. The ladies love him, of course. Oozes charm."
"He's a smarmy devil, right enough," Denning agreed,
"Is he giving you a rough time, old boy?" Horton asked.
"Nothing I can't handle," the duke replied. "But I find it does not help one's digestion too much to have the fellow inviting himself to breakfast and making a mental count of every silver fork and spoon on the table and sideboard. Especially when one knows that one is being mentally consigned six feet under at the same time."
"I'll still wager that you are not serious about choosing a wife at random, though, Marius," Denning persisted. "Why, it was you, man, who suggested our forming this club eight years ago, and you have been its staunchest supporter."
Eversleigh drank slowly from his glass. For a while it seemed as if he would not answer. Eventually he looked up at Sir Wilfred, his eyes keen behind the heavy lids, a cynical smile playing about his lips.
"Now what would that wager be, Wilfred?" he asked.
Sir Wilfred leaned back in his chair and steepled his smooth fingers beneath his chin. The light of a new game shoe in his eyes. In fact, all the occupants of the room suddenly looked less melancholy and riveted their attention on the two cerebral players.
"If you are serious, Marius," Sir Wilfred said, "I wish to see your betrothal announcement in the Morning Post within the nonth and your marriage vows given within two."
Eversleigh's eyes were steady on his challenger. The smile that was not quite a smile curled one side of his mouth even further. "Ah, but you make things almost too simple, Wilfred," he said quietly.
Sir Wilfred smiled too. "Very well, Marius. If you insist on talking yourself into a quite impossible corner. Shall we say six weeks?"
Eversleigh's expression remained unchanged.
"I say, old boy," Horton said, interrupting the air of interested tension in the room, "aren't you acting rather hastily here? As Wilfred said a while ago, we are talking life sentences here, you know. It's no topic for a light bet, Marius. "
Eversleigh showed no sign of having heard him. "And if I win?" he asked Denning.
Sir Wilfred considered for a moment. "I have too much regard for your good sense to believe that you will carry this through, Marius," he said. Then he smiled. "If you win, Eversleigh, my matched grays."
Eversleigh's brows rose. "You must be confident, my dear chap," he said lazily. "I have been trying all winter to get you to sell me those horses. And now you are prepared to give them away?"
"I do not believe I am in any danger," Sir Wilfred replied.
Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the other steadily. "And if I lose, Wilfred?"
Denning did not twitch a facial muscle. He paused for effect, until all attention was focused on his answer. "Mrs. Suzanne Broughton," he said finally.
Eversleigh lowered the quizzing glass unhurriedly. He rose to his feet and sauntered to the sideboard again, where he took his time to refill his glass. He crossed the room again and took up his old position against the mantel.
"I have no intention of losing this wager, Denning," he said, "but even if I did, how can I give what is not mine to give? Mrs. Broughton is her own person, dear boy. She clearly has a mind of her own. I am not even her, er, protector, you know."
"We all know what you are to Suzanne," Sir Wilfred said. "But let us face facts, Marius. If you would take your title and your wealth and your damned good looks out of the way, I have reason to believe I would stand next in line to her good graces."
"Ha! The modesty of the man!" observed Horton.'
"All I ask, Marius," Sir Wilfred continued, directing a quelling look at Horton and patting his curls into place again, "is that you undertake to cut all ties with the lady if you lose this wager."
Eversleigh considered. "You would leave me very womanless, would you not, Wilfred?" he observed dryly.
"A true knight of freedom!" someone remarked.
Eversleigh pulled himself upright and extended his right hand to Sir Wilfred Denning. I accept the wager, he said.
"Splendid!" Rufus Smythe declared. "Bring us the betting book, Horton, and let us have the matter properly recorded.
It was duly entered into the book that by Friday, May 25, four weeks from the date of the entry, the Duke of Eversleigh's engagement to a lady as yet unknown must be publicly announced, and that his marriage must take place on or before Friday, June 8. If either event did not transpire, the duke was to break off all connections with the widow Mrs. Suzanne Broughton. If both events occurred on or before the dates specified, Sir Wilfred Denning was to relinquish to the duke his pair of matched gray horses. Both men signed their names to the bet. Sir Rowland Horton and another member of the club signed as witnesses.
Soon afterward, Rufus Smythe decided that it was time to see "poor" Hanley home to his bed. A hackney was summoned and the inert form of the unhappily betrothed man was carried out to it. His departure was a signal for the breakup of the whole party, it being little short of three o'clock in the morning.
Sir Rowland Horton walked home with the Duke of
Eversleigh, his own home being close to the duke's residence on Curzon Street.
"You're going to regret this wager in the cold light of day, dear boy," he said, shrugging deeper inside his greatcoat as the chill of the April night penetrated his consciousness.
"I think not, Rowland," the duke replied coolly. "A wife I must have. I cannot imagine ever finding a woman whose companionship I would enjoy for the rest of my life. Taking time to make a choice would be a pointless exercise. Anyone will do."
Horton laughed uneasily. "Why not Suzanne, Marius? She is beautiful, witty, experienced, and I am sure she would have you at the drop of a hat."
Eversleigh cocked one eyebrow and glanced sidelong at his friend. "Are you quite mad, Rowland?" he asked. "Marry my mistress? The situation would be quite intolerable."
"Why so?" Horton persisted. "It would not be like marrying a light-skirt. Suzanne is accepted by all the highest sticklers; she is independently wealthy."
"She also knows our world too well from the inside," Eversleigh reminded him cynically. "One would not be able to live one's own life and forget her existence during the day. She would demand too much. And frankly, Rowland, I would not bet on her fidelity. As things are now, it matters not to me if someone else occasionally occupies my place in her bed. But to be a cuckolded husband, 'Rowland? It is out of the question."
"Well, never say I did not warn you," his friend concluded sagely.
"You may depend upon it," Eversleigh assured him, slowing his steps as they approached the gate of Horton's house. "Will you be at Jackson's in the morning?"
"Yes, I think I shall need a good workout at the punching balls," Horton said, patting ruefully his liquor-filled stomach.
"I shall see you there, then," Eversleigh said. "Good night. "
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Later the same day, in a remote corner of the estate belonging to Sir Peter Tallant in Sussex, four youths could be seen walking their horses on one side of a hedge, keeping to the shade. They were avoiding the unexpected heat of the April afternoon sun, having galloped and dared
one another over fences for the past hour or more.
George Hyde and Douglas Raeburn were spending the day with their longtime neighbor and friend Giles Tallant. Henry Tallant had tagged along with them, as so often happened. The three friends were reminiscing about their days together at Oxford University, now still in recess for Easter. Henry listened with avid interest.
"Do you remember old Boner's face when Freddie Cox smuggled Bessie Lane into the dorm one night and then took her out the front door the next morning as bold as you please?" Douglas said.
There were three hearty guffaws.
"What happened?" asked Henry.
"They met old Boner, our warden, at the bottom of the stairs," Giles explained. "He turned six shades of purple."
"Old Cox didn't turn a hair," George continued. "He introduced Bessie to old Boner with as much civility as if she had been a lady being presented at court. And old Boner was so taken aback, he bowed as formal as you please, and said, 'How d'ye do, ma'am?' After that, he could not very well do anything to Cox. He just pretended to forget the whole incident."
This time there were four guffaws.
"The funniest part was that, as he bowed, old Bessie curtsied," Douglas chortled. "He got more of an eyeful than he had ever had in his life, I'm willing to bet."
Giles cleared his throat and the three friends suddenly showed signs of discomfort. Douglas glanced furtively at Henry.
Henry stared candidly back. "You mean she had a large bosom?"
Douglas suddenly found it imperative to check his horse's shoes. He muttered something about suspecting that the horse was limping.
Giles and Henry strolled ahead. They were remarkably alike in appearance, both slim and lithe and youthful. Both had short, tumbled auburn curls, healthy suntanned faces, and sparkling eyes. Both were dressed informally in breeches and loose-fitting shirts, open at the neck. The only noticeable difference was that Henry was a head shorter than Giles.
"Well, this is it, then," Giles said, smiling ruefully down at his companion, "our farewell to Roedean Manor. Tomorrow we will be on our way to London. And I suppose life will never be quite the same again."
