The Double Wager

by Mary Balogh

  A footman found him there eventually and handed him a note. Eversleigh recognized both the handwriting and the perfume clinging to it, and almost threw it from him in disgust. But, in his present mood, almost any activity seemed better than none. He opened Suzanne's letter. She asked him to visit her that afternoon. Again he almost threw the note down, but then his attention was caught by the last sentence: "I wish to talk to you-about your wife, Marius, Do, please, come!"

  Mrs. Broughton had no way of knowing the true state of affairs in Eversleigh's home. She hoped that Marius would come later in the afternoon. She had not expected to have him announced and ushered into her drawing room a mere half-hour after she had sent the note (and at the exact moment that James Ridley was dispatching his own messenger to White's). She rose to her feet, smiled warmly, and extended- a hand to her visitor.

  "Marius," she began, "it has been a long time."

  "What do you wish to tell me, Suzanne?" he asked, standing just inside the closed door and looking at her from beneath dropped lids.

  "Gracious, Marius, let us not be in such a hurry," she purred. "Come and sit down. I shall ring for some refreshment.''

  "What do you know of my wife, Suzanne?"

  "About your wife?" she repeated, a puzzled frown on her face. "Oh, a mere trifle, Marius. Gossip, no doubt."

  "Tell me, Suzanne," he urged softly. He had not moved from his position before the door.

  "Sometimes you can be most uncivilized, Marius," she said. Then she gave a low laugh. "But, then, I think that is what I always liked most about you."

  Eversleigh's eyes were glinting as be grasped the handle of his quizzing glass. "Your information, Suzanne, please," he said. "We will dispense with the games."

  She looked at him coolly and lifted her chin. "You really have lost your head over her, have you not, Marius?" she said coldly. "I suppose I should be glad that she has proved to be such a slut. But I feel only sorry for you. It seems she prefers a younger man, my dear."

  "I am sure you will explain yourself," he said, his hand still clasped on the quizzing glass.

  "Oh, I hear that Oliver Cranshawe is currently enjoying her favors," she said, sauntering over to a love seat and seating herself gracefully. Her back had scarcely settled against the cushions before two hands closed like steel bands around her upper arms and she was jerked to her feet again.

  "Where is she?" Eversleigh asked softly.

  "Marius, let me go immediately!" Suzanne ordered, fear flashing in her eyes for one moment.

  "Where is she?"

  "How would I know that, Marius?" she replied. "Is she not at home?"

  "You seem to know that she is not," he said. "You can have got your information only from Cranshawe himself. You will tell me, Suzanne."

  "Marius, really," she said, attempting a light laugh. "You are letting yourself become foolish over the little girl. Oliver did not tell me where they were going."

  Eversleigh finally released her shoulders. He lifted his hands and encircled her neck with them.

  "Suzanne," he said very softly, "you were always a vixen. I am ashamed that-I ever responded to your animal appeal. But it would not hurt me in the least to squeeze the breath from your body right now. I shall do so if you will not tell me where I may find my wife." His thumbs increased their pressure ever so slightly on her throat.

  Her eyes bulged with terror and she grasped his wrists and dug in her fingernails. "They are in Sussex, on her brother's estate," she gasped.

  Eversleigh's hands immediately left her throat. He turned without a word and strode from the room.

  "I hate you, Marius!" she shrieked after him. I hope you are too late!" She picked up a porcelain figurine from the table beside her and hurled it at his retreating back. It smashed into a thousand pieces against the inside of the closing door.

  Eversleigh did not waste time returning home. He already wore riding clothes and had his fastest horse with him. He turned its head immediately for the outskirts of London and the road to Sussex, cursing himself for a fool in not having gone there himself the day before. He, too, made only one stop on the road, but it was a lengthy one. His horse lost a shoe on an open country road and he had to lead it slowly for two miles before he found a forge and a smith, who worked with painstaking care despite the barely leashed energy of the human animal who paced up and down before his smithy in silence.

  Chapter 14

  Henry had found it impossible to settle to any activity all day. She found herself constantly wandering to her room, from the window of which she could see a long distance I down the driveway. She hoped he would come today. She dreaded the thought of having to go through all this again tomorrow.

  It was late afternoon when she finally spotted a curricle appearing from among the trees far down the driveway. Her heart beating faster, Henry hurried down to the drawing room and sank into a chair facing the door, a book in hand. Several minutes later, Trevors arrived with the announcement that Mr. Oliver Cranshawe wished to wait on her.

  "Show him up, Trevors," she said; then, seeing that Cranshawe bad followed the butler, she leapt to her feet and smiled a shy welcome.

  "Oliver," she said, extending a hand to him, "you came quickly."

  "Did you expect differently, my dear?" he replied, smiling dazzlingly into her eyes and taking her hand in both of his. He turned it up as he lowered his head, and kissed the palm.

  "Trevors," Henry said to the butler, who was hovering disapprovingly in the background, "I should like a light meal served immediately, please."

  "Immediately, Miss Henry?" he asked. "It is not dinnertime yet."

  "Nevertheless, I wish it," she replied. "I wish to take my husband's cousin riding while it is still daylight."

  The butler bowed stiffly and withdrew.

  "Riding, Henry?" Cranshawe queried. "I had other plans in mind, my dear."

  Henry glanced at him coyly from beneath her eyelashes. "What, Oliver," she said, "in the house here where I am surrounded by faithful retainers? I know of a very pleasant and very private meadow from which we can count the stars.

  He laughed and pulled her roughly into his arms. "To hell with the retainers," he said, "but I do like the idea of finally possessing you under the moon and stars. Where may I go, my dear, to change my clothes and freshen up for you?"

  Henry leaned back and looked up into his face. "I have had Giles' room prepared for you," she said. "Come, I shall take you there. I must change, too, into a riding habit." To her immense relief, he released her and stood back to allow her to lead the way.

  Less than an hour later, Henry and Cranshawe were on horseback, trotting toward the lower meadow. Henry had selected a russet-colored riding skirt because it had large pockets that hid the bulge of the loaded dueling pistol. But she could feel it bumping against her leg as she rode.

  "Is it not as lovely and as secluded as I promised?" she asked gaily as they rode the horses single-file through the gap in the hedge into the daisy-strewn grass of the meadow.

  Cranshawe smiled appreciatively at her and followed her lead as she dismounted from her horse and tethered it. "Indeed it is, Henry," he said. "I could hardly have discovered a more charming love nest. Come here."

  She laughed. "The other side will be better," she said, away from the horses and with a more open view of the sky." She picked up her skirts above her ankles and began to run lightly across the grass. Cranshawe followed.

  "Oh, what is that?" Henry asked, suddenly stopping in her tracks. She pointed to – a piece of paper fluttering against a stone in the middle of the field. "Do go see, Oliver.''

  . "For you, tonight, anything, my dear," he replied, and changed direction to rescue the sheet of paper. He picked

  it up and read it, his back to Henry as she continued on her way across the field until she came to the fence.

  "What is this?" he asked incredulously, turning with the paper in his hand. He found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol held by a very determined-looki
ng Henry.

  "Read it more carefully, Oliver," she said coolly. "Perhaps it will make more sense a second time."

  "What is going on here, Henry?" he asked, eyeing the gun. "You are not intending to fire that thing, are you?"

  "Indeed I am," she replied, "and I would advise you to stay very still if you value your life."

  "Little fool!" he exclaimed. "You would not dare. Murder is a hanging offense, you know."

  "Oh, but I do not intend to murder you," she said, "as you would know if you had read more carefully the note that you hold. I am going to shoot you in the arm, Oliver. I am a good shot, I assure you. I shall hit the mark if you do not move. If you do move, of course, I might kill you by accident. That would be a pity, would it not?"

  "This is madness, Henry," he said impatiently. "You know that sooner or later I shall have my way with you. Why make it harder for yourself? Now give me the gun." He took one purposeful step in her direction.

  "Take one more step, Oliver, and I shall shoot you in the leg," Henry said calmly. He noticed that the barrel of the pistol angled downward very slightly. "I do not want to shoot your arm, you see, until you have signed that note."

  "You will give me that pistol, Henry, right now," Cranshawe ordered, red with fury, "and be thankful if I end up making love to you tonight instead of thrashing you within an inch of your life, as you deserve." But he did not move.

  "Be careful, Oliver," Henry replied, "your charm is slipping. Now, if you look at that note in your hand, you will be able to confirm that it says you were shot in the arm by Henrietta Devron, Duchess of Eversleigh, while you were trespassing on her brother's estate and attempting to seduce her. You will note also that there is a space at the bottom for your signature. If you look on the ground, you will find a container of ink and a pen beside the stone that was holding down the paper. You see, I think of everything. Now, will you please sign it so that we can get the shooting over with?"

  "You are mad," he said. "What is the purpose of this, pray?"

  Henry smiled grimly. "You see, Oliver," she said, "you will be returning to London with your arm in a sling. You would be the laughingstock for a long time if it became known how you received your injury. I shall have it in my power to prevent or to provoke that ridicule."

  "Very neat," he declared, a ghost of his old smile playing about his lips. "Your silence in return for mine, is that it?"

  "There is a brain behind the charm, I see," was the answer he received.

  "I shall not sign, of course, he said, the smile becoming firmer.

  "Then I shall have to put a bullet in your leg," Henry announced coolly. "The left one, I believe, just below the knee." She raised her left hand to steady the wrist of her right.

  "All right, you minx, you win this round," Cranshawe said hastily, "but it will go all the worse for you, Henry, when I finally get you within my grasp."

  "Perhaps, but you will need two sound arms for that, Oliver," she replied, lowering her left hand again.

  Cranshawe searched around on the ground until he found the items she had described. He dipped the quill pen in the container and hastily scratched his name on the paper, using his knee as a desktop.

  "Here is your paper," he said, holding it out in her direction. I am going to turn and leave, Henry. I trust that you have enough gallantry not to shoot a man in the back.''

  "I shall still be aiming for your right arm between shoulder and elbow, Oliver," she said, quite unperturbed. "Of course, it is always harder to hit a moving target with accuracy. I advise you to stand absolutely still."

  Again her left hand rose to steady her wrist. Cranshawe did as she bade him. A cold sweat broke out on his face.

  "Don't shoot, your Grace!" a voice yelled frantically from the gap in the hedge. The gun dropped a few inches as Henry, unnerved, glanced across the meadow to see James Ridley rushing in her direction, having dismounted while his horse was still in motion. Oliver Cranshawe moved at the same moment but stopped abruptly again when she brought the gun jerking back into line with his body.

  "Don't move!" she directed him coldly. "Mr. Ridley, you are far from home. May I ask what brings you here?"

  "We heard this morning that you were here, your Grace," he replied, hurrying closer. "Then we found out that Mr. Cranshawe was on his way here too."

  "We?" asked Henry.

  Her answer came in the form of a loud bark from the other side of the hedge, followed by voices.

  "Where did he disappear?" called a high, piping voice that was unmistakably Penelope's.

  "Into the meadow, silly. I hope Trevors was right. He said they came this way. Let's go, Pen." The voice was Philip's.

  "Wait for Manny. She's all tired out from running," yelled Penelope.

  A few moments later, there was a new invasion of the field. Brutus was in the lead. He rushed first to Henry in an ecstasy of recognition, and then to Cranshawe, who was still stranded, motionless, in the middle of the meadow, his attention fixed on the pistol. Brutus seemed unable to make up his mind if this person was friend or foe. He settled the problem for the time being by flopping to the ground and fixing Cranshawe with an unwavering stare. He panted heavily and occasionally growled.

  Philip, Penelope, and an exhausted-looking Miss Manf6rd came next.

  "Henry!" Penelope yelled.

  "Oh, I say," said Philip, "a gun. Are you going to shoot him, Henry?"

  "Oh, bless my soul," Miss Manford gasped, "are you safe, dear girl? Please put down the gun. There is no need to kill Mr. Cranshawe, indeed there is not. Mr. Ridley is here to protect you."

  "Come, Henry," Cranshawe coaxed, his voice not quite under control, "you really must do as you are told. There are witnesses now, you know."

  "Yes, but friendly witnesses," she replied, and I have not changed my mind. I want you to sweat and squirm for a while, Oliver. Maybe you will have an inkling of what I have been through in the last weeks. Don't come any closer, please, Mr. Ridley. You will be close to my line of fire if you do."

  "Really, your Grace, I sympathize with your feelings," Ridley said calmly. "I know much of what he has made you suffer. But nothing can be gained from bloodshed and violence. Give me the gun." He held out his hand slowly, but he did not move from where he stood, about twenty-five feet from Henry.

  "Oh, James, do be careful," Miss Manford wailed.

  "She is quite mad, as you see, Ridley," Cranshavve said. He was recovering his poise somewhat. The lengthy delay seemed to be to his advantage. Henry's arm would tire soon.

  "Read them that paper," Henry ordered coldly.

  "What?"

  "The paper that you still hold in your hand-read it!" she repeated.

  "Don't be ridiculous, Henry."

  "Read it!"

  There was a pause of some seconds. Finally Cranshawe lowered his head and began to read.

  "Louder!" she directed.

  He read what was written on the paper in a loud, clear voice.

  "Now, Mr. Ridley, would you take it from Mr. Cranshawel please? I do not really want to have it spattered with his blood."

  Ridley did as he was bid, pleading with Henry all the while. Finally he moved to one side and Cranshawe was again isolated in the middle of the meadow. Philip and Penelope stood at the other side of the field, one of Miss Manford's hands on a shoulder of each. Henry adjusted the pistol so that it was again in line with Cranshaw's right arm. Again she raised her left arm to steady her wrist.

  "Drop the gun, Henry!" said a cool, authoritative voice from the gap in the hedge. The words were not shouted, but they accomplished what all the commotion of the previous few minutes had failed to do. The pistol immediately dropped to the ground from nerveless fingers as

  Henry turned her head toward her husband. Cranshawe visibly sagged with relief.

  "You!" Henry said. "What are you doing here?"

  "The same as everyone else, I presume," Eversleigh said, strolling unhurriedly forward, viewing the beauties of nature." He lifted his quiz
zing glass to his eye as he gradually approached Cranshawe.

  "Oliver!" he said, affecting surprise. I did mot know you were one of nature's devotees."

  "I never thought I should be glad to see you, Marius," Cranshawe said, his self-assurance visibly restored. "Your wife was just about to kill me. She should be locked up in a madhouse."

  Three voices chorused from the sidelines.

  "Don't talk about my sister like that!"

  "Don't listen to him, your Grace. He's a black-hearted villain.'' -

  "Oh, bless my soul, what an evil man."

  Brutus growled threateningly.

  "There is a letter here that you should read, your Grace," Ridley said calmly from his place to one side of Henry.

  "I heard it, thank you, James," Eversleigh replied. I think it would be rash of you to thank me for saving your arm, dear boy," he continued, turning his attention and his quizzing glass back to his heir. "I stopped Henry only because I could not possibly deny myself the pleasure of dealing with you myself."

  "Oh, no, you don't!" Henry exclaimed, fury animating her again. "Why should men get all the satisfaction of working out their anger? This one is mine!" She strode determinedly toward Cranshawe, and before he could see what was coming and react, she had raised her fist and driven it with all her strength into his face. Her target had been his nose. She missed and connected with one eye instead. Her sapphire ring gashed him just below the eye.

  "Little vixen!" Cranshawe gasped, clamping one hand over the wounded side of his face.

  There was a chorus of cheers from the background, including some from Miss Manford. Brutus leapt to his feet, barking with excitement,

  "Bravo, Henry!" Eversleigh said quietly. "Now stand aside, my love." He beckoned Ridley to his side, carefully removed his coat, and handed it to his secretary.