The Stolen Bride

by Jo Beverley

  9

  FLEEING TOWARD her bedchamber Sophie heard the voices of Mrs. Hawley and Marius and turned down a narrow set of stairs to avoid a meeting. She came to the room of the mystery guest and ducked in there for sanctuary.

  The room was dark and she thought the woman would be asleep but the dry voice said, “Is that you, Lady Sophie?”

  “Yes,” said Sophie, coming close to the bed. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No. I have been lying here since someone brought me supper, trying to remember. I must be a great trouble to you all.”

  “No, of course not,” said Sophie. She surreptitiously rubbed away the few tears which had escaped, grateful for the obscuring gloom. “Do you want me to light some candles?”

  “No, no,” said the lady. “With the moonlight I have no need of them and it’s safer without. I hoped you would come again.”

  Sophie realized guiltily that she hadn’t given the invalid a thought and put her anguish about recent events behind her. She took a seat by the bed. “I hope you have everything you want, ma’am.”

  “Everyone is very kind,” the woman said. “But you, my dear. Have you everything you want?”

  “Who ever does?” asked Sophie softly. In this dim gray-ness there was no reality to this conversation. “I thought once I had the moon and stars in the palm of my hand ...”

  “And now?”

  “And now,” she said sadly, “I have bruised lips and disgust.”

  The woman sighed and reached out a hand. Sophie placed hers in it, though it was in fact unpleasantly dry and clawlike. She silently chided herself for her repugnance when the poor woman had been ill.

  “You came to me for refuge, my dear,” said the woman, with a squeeze. “Your instincts did not play you false. I will hold you safe.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Sophie said, hardly hearing the woman’s words as she thought of Randal and Verderan and the mess she seemed to be making of everything. She’d threatened to tell Randal about that assault. After all, Verderan ought to pay for what he had done. It had been vile, far worse than a beating. She still felt nauseated. But could she face the consequences? They were both crack shots. They’d kill each other.

  But what if Verderan told Randal himself? He was quite capable of it and might even make it all seem Sophie’s fault. She was honest enough to acknowledge that he wouldn’t have to distort the truth very much to do that.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she repeated.

  “It would be better to tell them all,” said the woman as if she knew all about it. “They would not be so very harsh with you, surely, and everyone would know where the real blame should lie. A man like that—a libertine, a debaucher. He’s doubtless diseased.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Sophie, shocked. It was difficult to imagine a disease bold enough to attack Verderan—which is what she’d just done, she thought with a touch of hysteria. “How on earth do you know what happened?” she asked.

  “My dear, I haven’t been spying on you,” said the woman gently. “I can hardly leave this bed as yet. I just know who is involved and can guess the rest.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’m up to telling anyone the truth of the affair,” Sophie said, rising to her feet. “It would upset too many people and serve no purpose.”

  The lady sighed softly, like rustling leaves. “Never mind, my dear. It will soon be irrelevant, you will see.”

  Irrelevant? thought Sophie blankly. And then had a revelation. Yes, Verderan was irrelevant. She paced the bedchamber a few times, oblivious of the invalid. He’d called her a spoiled bitch and he’d been right. How terrible to try and involve him in matters between her and Randal. She shuddered as she imagined what would have happened if Randal had walked in during that awful kiss.

  She remembered the lady in the bed. “I must leave now,” she said abruptly, adding more gently, “Good night. You have been a great help to me.”

  Sophie hurried off to try to mend the damage she had caused.

  The invalid lay back thoughtfully. Things were come to a pretty pass indeed, thought Edith Hever, when her dear daughter in God’s eyes was at the mercy of a debauched libertine such as Lord Randal Ashby. Matters should have been taken care of long before this.

  When she’d first regained her wits and found herself in Stenby Castle with no one aware of her identity it had seemed the work of the Lord. Now she fretted at her continued weakness and wondered what her servant, Jago Haines, was about that he could not snuff out one life before now.

  The death by suicide of her darling son, Edwin, had left Edith ill for many months and the cruel way her nephew had thrown her out of her home had added to her burden. She had begun to give up on life until she had learned of the terrible plans in hand for Edwin’s dear Lady Sophie.

  During his stay in London, Edwin’s letters had been full of Lady Sophie Kyle and it had been clear she was his chosen bride. A sweet, well-born, sensitive creature. Why then had he shot himself? When the Gazette had conveyed the news that Lady Sophie was betrothed to another—and to one well-known for his libertine ways—she had understood at last. A broken heart and despair over his beloved Sophie’s fate had driven Edwin to take his life.

  That was beyond her correction, but Sophie was not beyond her aid. How desperate the poor girl must be, having lost Edwin and being forced into union with such a debaucher. In all ways that mattered the child was Edwin’s bride. Without a plan but trusting to Providence, Edith had set out for Stenby to protect her.

  On her way she had sent a letter to Sophie. In case the girl’s correspondence was monitored she had given her servant, Jago, another letter to pass to the young woman in some discreet way. Edwin’s bride must know she was not alone in her ordeal lest she be driven to the same dreadful act of despair.

  Edith had also sent a letter to the libertine, Lord Randal Ashby, with another for Jago to post at a later date. It was only fair that the villain receive notice of his fate; a condemned criminal was given the opportunity to make his preparations for the hereafter. She had made it clear that he was not to be killed without this warning but she had not intended Jago to be so laggardly. The wedding day was rapidly approaching and see how poorly Sophie was guarded that she be open to insult.

  It was not so hard a business, thought Edith angrily, to snuff out a life. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told Jago to make it look like an accident. Or perhaps he lacked the nerve.

  If Jago lacked the resolution, Edith did not. She would do the job herself now she had her weapon. She smiled as she thought of the removal of her powder flask. She had had the forethought to pour a portion of the gunpowder into another container. When opportunity presented, as it surely must, she would be ready.

  Dead, Lord Randal Ashby would no longer be able to force his loathsome attentions on sweet Sophie.

  Sophie went quickly to her bedchamber and checked her appearance. Though her jaw felt bruised and her lips stung, she could see no sign of it. She washed her face to get rid of any trace of tears and hurried down to find the rest of the party.

  Randal and Verderan had gone, however. Sophie swallowed. “Were ... were they all right?” she asked David.

  “Should they not have been?” he queried with a suspicious look.

  “Of course ...” said Sophie but she could not meet his eyes.

  “Sophie. We are all making allowances at this time but I’m not averse to keeping you in your room on bread and water for a week if it becomes necessary.”

  “If you hadn’t made us wait three months, none of this would have happened!” Sophie cried.

  “If you can’t behave moderately for three months there’s little hope for your future,” he riposted.

  Sophie stared at him. “Did you say something like that to Randal?” she asked.

  He looked away and then said, “Yes.”

  Sophie opened and shut her mouth a few times, simply unable to enunciate her fury at the mess that had been made of her dream
. Then she ran out of the room.

  Sir Marius and Beth discreetly resumed their conversation as the earl looked ruefully at his wife. “I didn’t put a vow of perpetual celibacy on them,” he said.

  She laughed and touched his hand reassuringly. “Of course not. It was just another challenge for Randal, like racing to Brighton and going out with the free traders. He’d never tried self-control and decided to. None of us realized what effect it would have on Sophie.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Nothing. There’s only eight days to go. I just wish Mr. Verderan wasn’t involved. That does make me nervous.”

  “He has more sense than anyone gives him credit for. He won’t let Sophie destroy his friendship with Randal.”

  “But what about Randal? Self-denial can be a fertile ground for jealousy, I would think.”

  His hand slipped around to rest on her hip. “Perhaps we should go and take a preventative against jealousy, Tiger Eyes.”

  Jane looked around. Frederick had gone early to bed for tomorrow he was off for a few days with an old friend. “Should we leave Beth here with Marius?”

  “Are you going to play chaperone for your chaperone?” he queried with a grin.

  “Well ...”

  “I applaud your sense of decorum,” he said, “but I have no patience with it at all. Come along.”

  Beth watched them slip out of the room with alarm and a tremor of excitement. “Do you think that means we won the treasure hunt?” she asked Sir Marius.

  “Or lost,” he said drily, causing her to color.

  “No,” she said softly. “I think Sophie lost.”

  “And there you may be very right,” he said. “However, I find the insane maneuverings of the younger set leave me cold. Would you be willing to indulge me in a game of chess, Mrs. Hawley?”

  “Of course,” she said, “though I am not a very deep strategist.”

  “Neither am I,” he said with a lazy smile that made her feel warm all over. “I’m more a man for cards, myself.”

  “Do you know,” said Beth, very daring, “I have never, ever gambled in my life.”

  “You, ma’am, are a barefaced liar.”

  Beth stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This very afternoon you risked a shilling on the chance of winning a fine jacket with pink ruffles.”

  Beth giggled. There was no other word for it. She heard herself and it was definitely a giggle. “That is not the same thing.”

  “You want me to lead you into a life of vice,” he declared in surprise.

  “Well ...” Beth hesitated. “I just thought it might be interesting ...”

  “Oh, it would,” he said softly and with meaning. Beth swallowed.

  “To play a gambling game,” she said hurriedly. “Bezique, or piquet, or something.”

  “Something,” he repeated gently. He took her hand and pulled her up and out of the room.

  “Where are we going?” she squeaked.

  He stopped suddenly and she collided with him. “To the library,” he said innocently. “Where did you want to go?”

  He was huge and warm and Beth felt dizzy. “The library will be fine but ...” She gave up and allowed herself to be swept along. She couldn’t believe it, but the thought actually flickered across her mind—if he offered to set her up as his mistress, should she accept?

  That sobered her. She was Elizabeth Hawley, widow and staid companion, too small and lacking the abundant curves so appealing to gentlemen. She had carroty hair, freckles, and a skin that showed every emotion and she was thirty-three years old. Sir Marius Fletcher was just amusing himself until a more likely lady turned up, which would doubtless happen next week when the wedding guests began to arrive.

  That wasn’t to say, though, that she couldn’t have the tiniest little adventure before then, was it?

  When they reached the large, book-lined room, he let go of her and lit a branch of candles. He flung open two windows and a faint breeze refreshed the hot, dusty air. “In the desk, I think,” he said as he went through drawers.

  “Sir Marius,” Beth objected. “Do you think you ought?”

  “There’s nothing personal in here,” he said offhandedly. “Ah, got ’em.”

  “What?” Beth asked, a hundred bizarre notions passing through her disordered head.

  “Dice,” he said. “If you want a dissolute life, there’s nothing like dice.”

  He shook the ivory cubes out of the dice box a few times. “Fall true. David had a crooked set once.”

  “Lord Wraybourne played with loaded dice?” Beth queried, aghast.

  “Lord no,” he said, looking at her as if she were mad. “Just a curiosity, though I’m not sure he didn’t take them off someone rather forcibly. You know,” he said, sitting at a games table, “one of the men Verderan killed was fleecing young Devizes with weighted ivories, and Devizes lacks a good share of his wits.”

  “Am I supposed to admire Mr. Verderan for it?”

  “The force was maybe a trifle excessive,” he admitted carelessly, “but there was doubtless more to it than that. I don’t see Verderan killing just to stop a half-wit losing his all.”

  “It’s a better reason for killing than most I’ve heard,” said Beth firmly.

  He looked at her and shook his head, smiling. “Try for a little consistency, my dear lady,” he said, “or we are going to have a tortuous affair.”

  “Affair?” Beth gasped and nerves all over her body started to quiver.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he said casually and rolled the dice again. “Look. You throw the dice so. They have to roll properly to show you’re not cheating.”

  Beth’s nerves settled. She must stop reading salacity into everything he said. He couldn’t possibly desire someone like herself. “Sir Marius, I would never consider cheating,” said Beth firmly. Curiosity about the game drew her closer to the table.

  “Admirable, dear lady. What are we going to play for?” Beth fixed him with what she hoped was a discouraging eye. “You have a very suspicious mind, Mrs. Hawley,” he said with a grin. “Would you play for kisses if I asked?”

  Beth gathered her wits and stepped back. “Sir Marius, I really think I ought to retire ...”

  “Or retreat,” he said, with an irresistible smile. “Come, Mrs. Hawley, I promise to behave. Don’t abandon me here at this early hour. We’ll play for paper points.” He took a sheet of paper and a pencil from the desk. He drew two columns and wrote their names at the top and underneath each, a thousand guineas.

  “A thousand guineas!” gasped Beth.

  “On paper only,” he said, looking up at her with those fine gray eyes. He gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Play with me, Elizabeth,” he said in a tone that loaded the question with a host of wicked meanings.

  Sensible Mrs. Hawley, widow and governess, fled screaming, but Beth sank slowly into the chair. “I am generally called Beth,” she said.

  “I will call you Elizabeth,” he said calmly.

  They looked at each other and smiled. A servant could come in and discover them. There might be talk. But Beth had no intention of seeking employment again, nor did she need to preserve her reputation for a fine marriage. She was a free woman.

  “So how do we play at dice?” she asked.

  “Hazard. We should put our stakes on the table but we’ll write them down. I stake fifty guineas. Are you going to match it?”

  “Should I?” asked Beth, thinking that her vast savings which guaranteed her freedom amounted to less than the thousand guineas written on the paper.

  “Don’t be a chicken heart. It’s all in fun. Match me.” Again his words seemed to have a double meaning.

  “Very well,” said Beth softly. “Who wins?”

  He smiled at her across the table. “Time will tell. We haven’t started playing yet, Elizabeth.” Then in a brisker tone he said, “I cast the dice to establish a ‘main.’” The dice both showed threes. “The
main is six.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll see. Now I have to establish a ‘chance.’”

  “Why do you get to do all the establishing?” asked Beth truculently.

  “Because I know what I’m doing, woman. Be quiet.”

  Beth subsided, retaining her wariness. It might only be pretend money but he wasn’t going to fleece her. He rolled again and it was a two and a one. “Damn,” he said. “I threw crabs. A two or a three on chance gives you the win,” he explained, making the changes on the score sheet. “Now, oh impatient one, you get your turn. What are you going to wager?”

  Beth took the dice box. “I won without doing anything? This is a strange kind of game. I wager a hundred,” she said, recklessly seeking to outdo him.

  “And I match,” he said. “Throw the dice.”

  Beth rolled two sixes. “There!” she said triumphantly.

  “No main,” he said laconically. “Has to be five to nine.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the rules. Are you usually this difficult?”

  Beth looked down her nose at him. “I am sure I would always be particular over one thousand guineas.”

  “You’re showing your bourgeoisie, my dear,” he drawled and Beth felt the color flood her cheeks. She leapt to her feet but he caught her. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. That was damnably rude.”

  “You’re always damnably rude!” she declared, perilously close to tears. “Let me go, you great ox!”

  “Talking of rude ...” he said, not relaxing his hold. In a deep warm voice that melted her will he said, “Come back and play with me, Elizabeth.”

  “We have nothing in common,” she protested faintly.

  “We have two thousand guineas on paper,” he replied whimsically, adding, “I’m only a lowly baronet with modest estates and friends in high places, Elizabeth. Play with me.”

  Beth found herself back across the table, looking at him. “This is not at all wise,” she said softly.

  He took her small hand and kissed it. “We’re not so old surely that we have to be wise all the time.” His lips were velvet against her skin, something she’d never experienced before. No one kisses a governess’s hand and she and Arthur had never courted in this way. If this was a courtship.