His Lordship's Last Wager

by Miranda Davis

  She looked non-plussed, and he wondered dimly if she was gathering her wits to give him a wigging.

  Instead, she said, “Thank you,” and looked at him in a way that made him feel invincible.

  Bibendum lowered his head and eased onto his side. Soon, his ribs rose and fell like a great bellows.

  “Is he asleep?” Seelye asked, more alert from the stress of waiting and the exhilaration of her approval.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Your bear, isn’t he?”

  “Fine,” she said, “blow up his nose, he hates that.”

  “If he hates it, you do it,” he said and touched the slumbering bear tentatively with the toe of his boot.

  No reaction.

  They waited a few minutes more in silence.

  “Right,” he said, heart drumming. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Jane uncovered the oil lamp and turned up its wick for more light. He knelt to pry the bear’s slack jaws apart and propped them open with the rubber ball. The bear’s tongue lolled out. Humid, ursine breath, redolent of slugs, ale, and French-distilled liquor made Seelye’s gorge rise. His head was much too clear when he bent close to peer into the bear’s mouth.

  “Bring the lamp closer so I can see. That’s it, hold it,” he said. “There’s a blackened molar that looks cracked.”

  “Do any others look rotten?”

  “Define rotten,” he said. “There are yellowed and brownish teeth but none as ugly as the cracked one.”

  Jane gave him the farrier’s pliers she’d borrowed from the stable.

  “Leave the crate,” he told her, “just in case.”

  She put the lamp down by the bear’s head and did as he ordered.

  Seelye positioned the pliers carefully to grip the tooth. That didn’t rouse the bear. He stood up, put a boot on the bear’s cheek and pulled hard as he could. When the tooth let go, he stumbled backward and scrambled up against the crate wall, breathing hard. The bear slept peacefully, ball in mouth.

  Jane peeked around the corner. “Seelye, where’s the tooth?”

  He fumbled for the pliers. She came in and held out her hand. He let the bloody, blackened tooth fall into her pale glove.

  “Prudence told me to check the roots.” She handed him a small compress of clean muslin doused with brandy. “Hold this where the tooth was, please.”

  He busied himself wedging the wet cotton wad into the gap in Bibendum’s jaw, while Jane knelt by the lamp to poke at the bloody molar.

  “Only two roots. She thought there’d be four,” she said. “Does this look whole to you, Seelye? We must not leave a broken root in his jaw. It will putrefy.”

  He peered down at the bloody tooth and its two perfect roots. To be doubly sure, he wiped away the blood carefully with his thumb and held it closer to the lantern.

  “It’s all there, Jane.”

  Bibendum stirred slightly and lapped slowly at the wad. His tongue turned blood red.

  “There’s another poultice in this.” Jane soaked a second thimble-sized cotton muslin herb sachet with George’s brandy and handed it to him. “Use this to stop the bleeding. Prudence said it works quickly.”

  “Remind me to ask you to help if I ever need a tooth drawn.”

  Jane blushed rosy and busied herself gathering up the bloody rags. She handed the lamp to him. He stumbled from the crate weak with relief. Inside, Jane muzzled Bibendum and came out to latch the crate closed. He propped himself up against its side wall, his knees feeling as firm as aspic.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” she said and blew out the lantern.

  “That is an understatement.”

  Jane bustled about. She took the rags and the extinguished oil lamp to the potting shed on her way to return the decanter inside. In the meantime, Seelye steadied his breathing and emptied his mind to listen for the welcome rumble of a heavy wagon’s approach. When she rejoined him, they hadn’t long to wait.

  Seelye led Percy’s phalanx of stevedores into the garden. They hefted the heavy box, carried it through the gateway and onto a de-commissioned munitions wagon.

  In their last consultation, the two Horsemen agreed Percy would travel with the crate on the barge. Seelye would take the morning mail coach down the Bath Road to Reading. They would rendezvous at High Bridge Wharf to transfer Bibendum to the narrow boat Percy arranged.

  Exuberance made their plans rather more audible than Seelye thought prudent, given their audience.

  “Pas devant les enfants,” he said quietly with a nod toward Jane a few paces away. He saw her posture go rigid.

  “Right. See you later. Somewhere,” Percy said and hopped onto the back of the wagon with the other men. He waved as the loaded vehicle ground slowly down the cobblestone alley and turned out of sight.

  “I’ll send word as soon as I can,” Seelye told her.

  “No need,” she said, but added hastily, “You’ll have your hands full with Bibendum, I should think.”

  Chapter 24

  In which our heroine is in hot water with Bath.

  5 April 1817

  Evening

  “Know where my sister is?” the Duke of Bath said and strode into the drawing room to join his duchess after a lovely dinner en famille et sans Jane. “She’s run off with your blasted brother.”

  Her grace sat on a sofa plying her needle.

  “What makes you say such a thing?”

  “This.” George flicked a piece of unfolded foolscap back and forth. “John Coachman the younger just brought it in to me.”

  “Calm down, you’ve gone quite puce, George. What did she write?”

  “‘I have run off with Lord Seelye,’ he declaimed without looking at it. “Demme if I don’t dismember your brother and flog my sister when I lay hands on ‘em.”

  “Let me see,” Gert said and put aside her tambour.

  Her husband passed the letter to her, flipped apart his coat tails, and plopped down beside her while she looked it over.

  “It says, ‘Lord Seelye has agreed to transport the bear…mustn’t worry.’” She mastered the rest of its contents and said, “Frankly, George, I haven’t the energy to fly into the boughs over Jane. She says she has it sorted and I choose to believe her.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “She wants to see it off in Bristol. And plans to stay over in Athlingcourt which, while precipitous, is perfectly acceptable. It’s no catastrophe.”

  “She’s ditched her maid. She’s up to something, Gert, I know it,” George said. “Sutter’s having fits upstairs or so I’m told. And now I have to hunt down and haul my hoyden sister back before her dwindling marriage prospects are completely extinguished. After which, I’m going to beat your brother. For that I apologize—unless you don’t mind under the circumstances.”

  “I do mind, George. He’s a better pugilist. Oh,” the duchess interrupted herself to put a hand on her belly, “Feel that?”

  “Don’t distract me. I cannot be put off with your bump’s bumptiousness.”

  “Our bump.”

  “Oh, fine.” The duke slid his hand under the duchess’ and waited. He smiled despite himself. “Hello, little bump.” He leaned down to address her distention. “Your papa is being distracted by your managing mama, so he must beg leave to postpone our coze till he’s locked your lunatic aunt up in a tower and reduced your uncle to a squishy pulp.”

  “George, I don’t think that talk is good for our baby.”

  “If he weren’t your brother and my friend, I’d follow through. As it is, I’ll harden my heart and make him marry her. He’ll put up a fight, Lord knows, but he cannot let her go runnin’ off with him to who-knows-where doing who-knows-what and come out of it unpunished.”

  “He’s always been like a brother to her.”

  “Be that as it may, Gert, our families, my title, nothin’ can protect that minx from this mess. It’s the outside of enough, I tell you. This time, Jane’s made her bed. With Seelye, poor devil,” his grace sa
id. “Whatever possessed him to help her anyway?”

  “He has a protective, gentlemanly nature.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. He’ll marry her or there’ll be dire consequences.”

  “Such as?” her grace asked.

  “Can’t think of anything more dire than Jane off the top of my head,” he replied. “But if I must, I will in the fullness of time.”

  “Perhaps we should find them before we make any rash decisions.”

  “Too late, done and have.” George absent-mindedly stroked his wife’s abdomen and crooned, “Poor Seelye, much as I like your uncle, little Bump, I won’t hesitate to saddle him with your Bedlamite aunt.” He leaned close to say, “You’ve only to be born to see what I mean.”

  “If we find them discreetly, there’ll be no need for that,” the duchess said.

  “Should’ve bundled her off to a nunnery after that Earl Whatshisname offered for her and she browbeat him about his horse.”

  “Rostand. And Jane’s Anglican, dear.”

  “Large enough donation, the Carmelite’s might have her anyway. Aren’t they the ones with a vow of silence? One can only hope, eh, Bump?”

  “You may rely on Seelye to protect Jane not ravish her,” her grace told him.

  “Not Jane I’m worried about. She’s always been a menace, but he never took my warnings seriously. I should have Exmoor sort him out.”

  “That will cause more stir. We must find them before there’s any hint of irregularity. I shall think of something to keep tongues from wagging. For now, she’s quite safe with Seelye, as you well know.”

  “I know that, you know that, but the ton will feast on this example of Jane’s shocking independence if it’s discovered.”

  “No one would dare question her virtue, George. She’s headstrong but highly principled.”

  “Is that what you call refusing to acknowledge anyone else’s principles while running amok according to her own? She’ll ruin herself, I say, and get Seelye killed.”

  “At least the bear’s out of the potting shed,” Gert said. “You’ve wanted her to do that for more than a week.”

  The duke looked up at his duchess aghast.

  “Gadzooks! Next thing you know, she’ll be eaten by her bear,” he said. “How will we live that down? They’ll say insanity runs in the family and assume Caro’s going to be a Bedlamite like her aunt, mark my words.”

  “Jane said it was a tamed bear.”

  “Tame till it’s peckish.”

  “We must make discreet inquiries, George. Please do not go abroad until you are calm,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “For now, I’ll say that I sent her to Athlingcourt in my stead because an emergency came up and refurbishments are needed, that sort of thing.”

  “Fine. I shall be the soul of discretion,” his grace said, “And so shall the army of Bow Street runners I put on her trail.”

  “I imagine one runner would cause less commotion, love.”

  “A tenacious one.” He addressed his wife’s belly, “What say you, Bump, draw and quarter your poor uncle for a quick death? Or torture him for years with your exasperating aunt?” He waited, head cocked to listen. “Ah, you’re a cruel little creature.” To his wife, he relayed, “Bump agrees Seelye must take her off my hands. Even in utero, our Bump has pity for his long-suffering Papa.” His muttering gave way suddenly to happier thoughts. “I think I’ll call him Bump till his majority by way of a nickname.”

  “What will you nickname our next? Convexity? Or Lump?”

  “Lord, no, Gert, Lump would be cruel. Whereas Bump has such a nice, sturdy ring to it.”

  “No, George, your pet names end at birth, I must insist.”

  “Didn’t bother Bulge as an infant. Happiest little mite,” he said.

  Her grace gave his grace The Look and said, “Caro took exception to ‘Bulge’ as soon as she could talk.”

  “Oh, very well. I shall bid adieu to Bump once he’s born and saddled with some God-awful family name, like George. Everyone’s George these days. I’d prefer to say, ‘Bump, my boy, fetch your Papa a cup of tea from your lovely Mama.’”

  “No, George.”

  “Hmph. You liked ‘Bulge’ well enough.”

  “I tolerated it because it amused you so.”

  “Fine. Seems you females have no sense of humor.”

  * * *

  Earlier that day

  Upon reaching Reading’s wharves, Jane laughed out loud. She cast about her, eyes skipping over the panorama, and really laughed. No one gave her a second look. Here, she was not Lady Jane Babcock of the haut ton, but a neatly-dressed woman in the crowd. Her liberation as much as the surrounding commotion made her giddy.

  Overlooking the bustle of High Bridge Wharf, she felt exhilarated by all that she beheld. Barges lined up to docks like cigars in a box. Teams of men swarmed decks around yawning holds from which were disgorged barrels and crates borne aloft in spiderwebs of rope and tackle. Into the air they rose and swung to the shore. Women flitted in and out. Children, too.

  Her heart soared.

  She’d left the duke’s un-crested travel coach on the high street and bade John Coachman the younger go to an inn they’d passed to hire a private parlor for her to refresh herself after running ‘an essential errand for the duchess.’ It was a fiction, but plausible enough to justify the package she took from the coach.

  The absence of her maid was harder to explain. So she didn’t.

  John was reluctant to let her go unescorted, but she mentioned her need to conduct ‘lady’s business without a mortifying male presence,’ and he backed down. Any hint of lady’s complaints always sent men scurrying. She often used the tactic on her brother when she wished to speak to Gert alone.

  The coachman drove in one direction, she walked off in the other, clutching the awkward, paper-wrapped parcel. She’d tucked a sealed letter for George between the coach’s squabs, knowing that when John found it and could not find her, he would return hot foot to London to deliver it. (Poor fellow, she was a trial and must remember that on Boxing Day.)

  From her vantage point at the top of broad stone steps to the wharves, Jane searched for Bibendum’s crate in the surging tide of dock workers, goods and raw materials below. She had to find the boat quickly to stow away.

  She wore her simplest straw poke bonnet, York tan gloves, a light wool challis pelisse, comfortable half boots, and her plainest muslin gown, which was not particularly sturdy compared to the cambric shirtwaists and canvas skirts worn by bare-headed local women.

  Their clothes were oft-washed and sun-faded but perfectly respectable. The un-tailored style allowed enviable ease of movement.

  And move those women did. Some walked deftly along narrow boat decks, directing children and crew for their husbands. Others wove through teeming crowds on the docks to sell fresh meat pasties, roasted potatoes, sweet buns, and even ale to the men.

  Jane unwrapped her package. The small portmanteau held an extra petticoat, two chemises, another simple muslin gown, toothpowder, hairbrush and pins, a few pairs of silk stockings, and Lady Abingdon’s ivory-handled pistol. She carried more than enough money in her plainest reticule to buy whatever she found wanting in her preparations.

  For one thing, she’d do well with the sort of canvas skirt the dock women wore. The style was loose fitting and gathered into a waistband with voluminous pockets sewn right to the skirt’s fabric—charmingly rustic yet so practical.

  When one woman about her size brushed by, Jane stopped her to bargain for a skirt and blouse like those she wore. The pasty seller was happy to oblige, once she confirmed the lady wasn’t ‘dicked in the nob’ and offered a silver coin. The good woman left her tray of pasties at Jane’s feet and hurried away only to return minutes later with a bundle in hand.

  After inspecting the clothes, Jane paid the woman, packed them into her portmanteau, and resumed her search.

  At the farthest dock upriver, a large box caught her
eye. Bibendum’s crate rocked midair above a river barge’s deck. Among the men poised to guide it onto a narrow boat she picked out two she recognized. The sight of them made her laugh harder.

  One former Horseman of the Apocalypse looked like a peacock amongst chickens. Seelye was bareheaded but dressed in a fine wool coat, waistcoat and pantaloons of buff stockinette tucked in good top boots. Mr. Percy wore a greatcoat. Their height and broad shoulders distinguished them from the stockier dock men.

  Jane laughed at the fish-out-of-water warrior aristocrats, and at her own daring, and to imagine her brother’s reaction to her letter, and for the sheer pleasure of laughing where no one would look askance at her unladylike display.

  At last, she was free from frustrating limitations. It was a feeling foreign to her and perhaps its strangeness added to her exhilaration.

  Her success so far gave her much-needed courage, for all was not triumph. It dawned on her that being free was not her natural state. The strangeness of it also frightened her.

  Till now, every scene in her life played out within the narrow, parallel boundaries of convention and propriety. She complained of these limits, but there was comfort and safety in that confinement, too. With the exception of refusing all marriage proposals, which she felt free to do, she always did what ladies ought, like it or not. She observed the proprieties, perhaps in bad temper, but she never stepped out of line, much less galloped off beyond the pale.

  She chewed the seam of a gloved finger where her thumbnail used to be. She wanted to do, not talk, she reminded herself. But did she dare do this?

  Uncertainty kept her rooted on the first stone step down to the docks. With a glance over her shoulder up the high street, she calculated that John Coachman the younger would have missed her by now. It wasn’t too late to change her mind, to return to the carriage and the familiar world of Mayfair.

  Or would she choose the great unknown?

  Before her, like the chaotic dock scene, lay the adventure of a lifetime, one complicated by untold difficulties, risks, and social consequences. But if she dared do this, she told herself, nothing could ever daunt her again. She would have the courage to make her future whatever she wished.