The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book)

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  Moira rose from her bed, walked to her desk, and picked up the list she had penned before falling asleep. There were only five names, and none of them sounded even remotely Scottish. If her mother was going to limit her time at balls to only an hour, Moira needed a new plan.

  “The light blue will look lovely on you.”

  Moira glanced at the walking dress Beatrice laid out on the bed. Walking dress. She was to meet Pippa at the entrance of Hyde Park today. Moira glanced at the clock again. She still had two hours until their appointment. At least Pippa would have stayed for the entire night and probably had a wonderful time. Moira couldn’t wait to hear the stories. Oh, why couldn’t she have an old, lax guardian instead of her mother?

  A scratch at the door drew Moira’s attention. “Come.”

  Mary, another maid, popped her head inside the chambers. “Lord and Lady Hearne to see you, Lady Moira.”

  “Tell them I will be right down.” Why were her brother and sister-in-law here? “And have tea and cakes delivered. Lots of cakes, please.” Her stomach grumbled. Normally, she would have had her morning meal before now.

  “Very good.” Mary bobbed a quick curtsey and closed the door.

  Moira rushed through her toilette, without allowing Beatrice to do much with her hair except brush and to pin it back before rushing to meet her brother and sister-in-law. Nyle and Alvina had been at the Heathfields’. Perhaps they would have stories to tell.

  “Moira Kirkwood, ladies do not run down stairs. They do not appear below stairs without their hair being arranged and their clothing properly attired.”

  She skidded to a halt, her slippers carrying her a few extra feet on the marble floor, the moment she heard her mother’s voice. Moira glanced down at her gown. It was precisely what she’d planned on wearing to meet Pippa later that day. Oh, she so hated changing clothing three, four, five times a day. It was a terrible waste of time when one could be reading, shopping or simply enjoying a glorious day.

  She turned to face the woman who was the bane of her existence. “Alvina and Nyle are here. I wished to see them and they don’t care how I’m dressed.”

  Her mother reached the foyer and raised an eyebrow. “What of other callers? They will care.”

  Moira suppressed a sigh. “There are no other callers, Mother, nor do I expect there to be any.”

  “Of course there will be callers,” her mother insisted. “You made quite an impression last evening. I expect they will be arriving within the hour.”

  How did one make an impression when barely a few words were spoken and her outing had only lasted all of sixty minutes in a room full of at least one hundred people? Her mother was daft.

  “Go upstairs and change into a morning gown, and have Beatrice do something with that hair of yours. Then you may visit with your brother and that wife of his.”

  Moira resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she turned to do as her mother bade. Thank goodness Beatrice had a talent for arranging hair, and in short order.

  “Explain to me why you would allow, encourage, or otherwise be compromised by Miss Moira Kirkwood?” Gideon Waite, Viscount Ainsely, asked his former school mate who he happened to run into when he entered White’s.

  “I haven’t the foggiest. I’ve never even met the chit.” Peter Radburn, Marquess Lydell leaned back in his chair. “And can a lady even compromise a gentleman? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

  “Of course they can,” Gideon chuckled. “It happens all the time. Except, we call it trapped. She encourages a stolen kiss in the moonlight, her father appears, and bachelorhood comes to an end.”

  “I suppose so.” Lydell shrugged.

  Mr. Jordan Trent pulled out a chair and joined the men at their table. He signaled for the footman and ordered a brandy before he focused on Lydell. “About this bet…”

  “I know nothing about it.” Lydell threw his hands up in defense.

  Gideon laughed. Lydell was rather private and the more he tried to go unnoticed, the more society gossiped about him. Of course, it didn’t help that less than a sennight ago all of London learned Lydell needed to find an heiress before the Season was done.

  Jordan grinned. “I do.”

  Both Gideon and Lydell leaned forward.

  “Fiske and Alston overheard Lady Moira speaking to Lady Hearne before the dowager Lady Hearne took her from Heathfields’ ball last night.”

  “Go on,” Lydell prompted when Jordan paused to take a drink from the glass just set before him.

  Jordan glanced at Gideon. “I should have known those two would make an issue of the young woman’s words.”

  “Jordan,” Lydell warned, running out of patience. Gideon had seen these two in similar conversations over the last ten years. The more Lydell wanted to know something, the longer Jordan took in the telling.

  “You were there too?” Gideon asked.

  Jordan turned to him. “I was right behind Lady Moira. Her mother had just glared at me. I don’t understand why mothers don’t like me. Have I ever ruined an innocent, spoke cruelly to a young lady? It is very disconcerting to be treated as a pariah when I have done nothing wrong.”

  Nothing wrong. The man was the very definition of rake, but what he said was true. Mothers hated him, and young debutants adored him.

  “What did she say?” Lydell ground out.

  Jordan returned his attention to the much frustrated Lydell. “Before this Season is out, I will find a gentleman to take me to Scotland, even if I have to compromise him to do so."

  “Good God,” Gideon stammered. “Why the devil would she make such a statement?”

  “I don’t know.” Jordan shrugged.

  “Is it her appearance? Does she think no gentleman will offer for her, so she’d best hie off to Gretna before he changes his mind?” Lydell prompted.

  “No, I don’t think so. In fact, she was rather pretty.”

  Lydell sighed with annoyance. “Why was my name put in the betting book then?”

  “Her dowry.” Jordan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Five thousand pounds.

  Gideon sat back and whistled. The amount of the chit’s dowry would have every destitute and non-destitute gentleman on her doorstep as soon as the news spread. “Where did you come by this information?”

  “Her brother, Hearne. And he was none too happy after reading the book a short time ago.”

  Moira paused at the bottom step to eavesdrop on her mother’s conversation. “I don’t know why Lady Heathfield allowed reprobates like Jordan Trent or that horrid St. Austell in her home. Perhaps having lived in the wilds of Yorkshire all of her life, she doesn’t know any better.”

  Both names were familiar. Her mother had pointed out the gentlemen with a strong warning to avoid them completely before Moira found her reputation in shreds. While her mother’s opinion did make the gentlemen all the more interesting, they would never do. Neither was Scottish.

  “I believe the fellows are friends of Lord Heathfield,” her brother offered.

  “Well, the man is married now and should cease associating with such persons.”

  “Trent also happens to be a good friend of mine,” her brother continued.

  “The same goes for you. You should have broken ties with that man long ago.”

  Moira rolled her eyes, took a deep breath, and calmly walked into the room. “Good afternoon, Alvina and Nyle.”

  Her sister-in-law wore a forced grin Moira recognized all too well. It was the same look all of her sisters-in-law adopted when spending above five minutes with her mother.

  “How was your evening, Moira?” Alvina asked. “Did you enjoy your first ball?”

  “The few moments I was allowed to remain were quite pleasant.”

  “You were there an hour,” her mother chastised. “It was long enough for a first appearance.”

  Moira poured herself a cup of tea, adding only one sugar since her mother was watching, before settling into a chair beside the one where her brother l
ounged. She preferred at least three sugars, but her mother scolded if she took more than one.

  “Enough about society,” her mother announced and turned to Nyle. “I don’t understand why you and Alvina do not live here with us. It is the family home. You are the earl. Why rent a small townhouse for the Season?”

  Moira could answer that question but bit her tongue.

  “We don’t wish to crowd,” Alvina answered.

  “Crowd? We have six empty bedchambers.”

  Windsor Castle wasn’t large enough, if mother was in residence.

  “Besides, I worry that Nyle isn’t taking proper care of you.”

  Her brother sat forward. “Mother!”

  She leveled her eyes on her son. “Well, she still isn’t increasing, is she?”

  Moira choked on her tea and glanced at Alvina, who turned a lovely shade of rose.

  “That is one area of my life I do not need your assistance.” Nyle sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Ellen is expecting her second child and Ruth her first.”

  Poor Alvina looked as if she wished the furniture would swallow her whole after the comparison to Moira’s other sisters-in-law. Their circumstances were what kept them from London this Season as well.

  “Enough, Mother,” Nyle ground out.

  Her mother turned to Alvina, and Moira held her cup aloft, too afraid to drink for fear of what her mother might say next. “That is a lovely shade of yellow, dear, but it doesn’t suit you at all. We shall go shopping this afternoon.”

  “I doubt that will assist in begetting an heir,” Moira mumbled into her teacup before taking a sip. Nyle narrowed his eyes in warning.

  “That is very kind of you, but I have already made plans for the day.”

  Wilton, their butler, stepped through the door carrying a silver tray stacked with envelopes.

  “Very well then, but we mustn’t put this off.” With that, Moira’s mother stood and accepted the tray from Wilton. “Look at all of these invitations. I knew you would be sought after, Moira.”

  Moira resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  “I’ll just take these into the morning room and review them to determine which functions we will attend.” She turned and breezed out of the room. A collective sigh from the remaining occupants followed her disappearance.

  “Your townhome isn’t so small that I couldn’t move in as well, is it?” Moira pitched her voice low on the off chance her mother might overhear her. “You are my guardian after all, Nyle.”

  Alvina genuinely smiled. “I would love to have you, you know that.”

  “But,” her brother interrupted, “Mother would visit even more often than she already does, and I don’t wish for my wife to run off to the country without me just to get away.”

  “Why should I suffer alone?” Moira thrust out her lower lip.

  “I’ve suffered more years than you. Simply marry some fellow, and then you can live under his roof.”

  Moira grinned. “That is exactly what I plan to do, as soon as I find the right gentleman.”

  “And compromise him, I hear.”

  Moira stiffened at the cold, hard tone of her brother’s voice. Rarely did she hear such from him, and it had never been directed toward her. “It was a jest.” Sort of. “And said only to Alvina. I don’t know why you should be concerned.” She should have known Alvina would have mentioned her plans to Nyle. Within the first year of their marriage, Moira quickly learned that if anything was said to Alvina, it was being said to Nyle as well.

  “Because my wife isn’t the only one who heard you.”

  Moira shrugged. “What does it matter?” She reached forward to pick a cake from the tray.

  Nyle leaned in as well. “It matters because your little comment prompted a notation in the betting book at White’s.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her fingers sank into the moist sponge and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  “You were overheard, and one wagered the other. Apparently, dear sister, there are two gentlemen who have nothing better to do than to listen to young ladies’ conversations.”

  “They wagered over me?”

  Nyle nodded solemnly. “And the penniless Lord Lydell. The wager involves you compromising the fellow before the Season is done.”

  Moria’s heart pounded. What an awful turn of events. “Who is Lord Lydell?” she asked, though she was afraid of the answer. She returned the cake to the plate, no longer hungry.

  “A marquess,” Nyle replied. “So you could do worse for a title, not that I want you compromising anyone.”

  A marquess. Honestly, the man’s title meant very little to Moira. “Does he have an estate in Scotland?”

  “Scotland? What does that have to do with anything?” her brother raged.

  Alvina reached over and gently touched Nyle’s arm. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Maybe Alvina didn’t tell Nyle everything.

  He met Alvina’s eyes and his shoulders relaxed before turning back to Moira. “Lord Lydell does not have an estate in Scotland.”

  “Then I shan’t compromise him,” Moira assured her brother, enjoying the various flushed tones to his skin, and picked up the cake once again.

  “You won’t compromise anyone.”

  “Hush, before Mother hears you.” The last thing Moira needed was her mother getting wind of her plans or the scandalous bet in the infamous book. She wouldn’t be allowed out of doors the rest of the Season. “I don’t know the marquess. Why should he be attached to my name?”

  “Lydell needs an heiress, as do a number of other gentlemen in society. Any one of them would be happy to be your willing victim, I’m sure.”

  “Heiress? I’m not an heiress.” That was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. Certainly she had a dowry, but it wasn’t outrageous, was it?

  “Yes, you are,” her brother answered grimly. “Father left five thousand pounds for your dowry.”

  “That is a bloody fortune.”

  “Moira Rose Kirkwood, take yourself upstairs right now. A lady does not use foul language, even in the privacy of her own home.”

  Mother was back.

  “I apologize,” Moira muttered. Blast, she really did need to learn to think before she spoke. A trait she apparently inherited from her mother and needed to curb before she turned into that woman. A shudder ran through Moira at the thought. The last person in the world she wanted to become was the Dowager Countess Hearne. Moira stood and swiped two cakes off the plate before going to her chambers.

  Gideon thumbed through the stack of invitations on his desk. Almost half of those he had already received were in the can beside his desk. Now he needed to determine which of the remaining were for meeting a future bride. Lydell wasn’t the only one who wished to find a wife this Season, but at least Gideon didn’t need an heiress. Not that Gideon had any intention of announcing his plan to wed. Such a statement would have women circling around him like vultures.

  Or perhaps not. Few wished to live on his estate, far removed from society and in the wilds. Perhaps, not so much the wilds, but between the steep hills and river that tended to flood on occasion, a person could be confined to the estate for an undetermined amount of time. The roads weren’t the best either. Carriages and wagons often got stuck in the ruts and mud as they climbed the road to his home, and more than a few turned back. It was a bloody shame, because the view was spectacular. The young women he met in Edinburgh were intrigued until they learned it wasn’t always a quick jaunt into town, and even worse, to Edinburgh. One would think, especially those young women from the Highlands, that a bit of mud and occasional flooding wasn’t much of an inconvenience.

  “You have got to help me.” Lydell burst into Gideon’s library. “My debts continue to pile up. Why didn’t my father say something?”

  “Pride, perhaps.” Gideon leaned back against his leather chair.

  “Well, his damn pride has me contemplating the Continent.” Lydell mar
ched across the room and poured himself a glass of scotch whiskey, Gideon’s choice of beverage.

  “I could loan you the funds…”

  “Gads, no, man. I would never presume upon our friendship.” He poured a second glass, carried both to where Gideon sat, and placed one of them before him. “I need an introduction to this Lady Moira.”

  Such a match would solve Lydell’s problems. “I don’t know her, so I don’t know how to go about gaining an introduction.”

  “Doors are open to you everywhere, and mothers like you.”

  “They like you as well,” Gideon insisted.

  Lydell snorted. “That was last year. Only the most desperate wallflowers or those who wish for a title pay me any mind now.”

  There was some truth in the statement. Gideon had witnessed it the previous evening. Before Lydell’s empty coffers became fodder for the gossips, he’d had his pick from the crop of debutants each year. But last night, young women had actually tried to avoid him.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  Lydell brightened. “Gain an introduction, learn what you can, then arrange for me to meet her somewhere private.”

  “Arrange in private?” There was an odd tightening in Gideon’s gut.

  “Yes. If she wishes to compromise a fellow, and you think we’ll suit, then I’ll see it done.”

  “I am not picking your bride for you.” Lydell had gone around the bend. “You expect me to simply deliver her into your hands at some unknown location to be whisked north and across the border?”

  Lydell shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “You are mad.”

  “Please, Ainsely. I need an immediate solution to my problem.”

  Gideon studied his old classmate, in a near state of panic. “I will obtain an introduction, meet the chit, and somehow achieve an introduction for you in a proper setting. That is all.”

  Lydell brightened. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

  Gideon sighed and picked up his glass. The smooth whiskey slid down his throat. “Where shall she be tonight? I will endeavor to bring this about.”

  “Davenport’s.”

  Bloody hell. The last place he wanted to be tonight was the Davenports’. The man had five daughters between the ages of ten-and-seven and two-and-twenty, and hadn’t managed to marry any of them off yet. In fact, that particular invitation was already in the trash. He’d met the Davenport daughters and, simply put, none of them would suit.