A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  The ladies made the considerable journey across London from Albemarle Street to Lincoln’s Inn Fields in near silence. Aurelia did not hesitate to peer out the window, fascinated by the sights, sounds, and smells of a town she had seen only on rare occasions before her mother’s illness. She looked on it as a spectacle—something to be viwed, even savored for a few moments of time—then left behind. With relief. For everything was so squeezed together—how could people live this way? Miss Trevor welcomed the park-like green of Lincoln’s Inn Fields with pleasure. London’s solicitors and barristers had displayed surprisingly good taste in choosing this spot as their own.

  For a man who had been described to her as “distinguished,” Sir Gilbert Bromley was, on first glance, a disappointment. A man of perhaps fifty, his body was as rotund as Squire Stanton’s, his face as round as a cartwheel, as was the shining bald spot on top of his head. But his eyes, Relia saw, were a clear blue, the kind that could see to far horizons or penetrate the depths of a murky pond. Thank you, Mr. Eastbridge.

  After the ladies were seated, Sir Gilbert smiled benignly and said, “And now, ladies, what may I do for you?”

  As Miss Trevor spoke, the solicitor’s smile faded. A wealthy, landless husband, strong enough to deal with a greedy uncle, an importunate suitor, and a cowardly steward, yet disinterested enough in country affairs to let the reins of Pevensey Park remain in his wife’s hands? “Good Gad, woman!” Sir Gilbert burst out, “have your wits gone begging? I’m no matchmaker. And even if I were, your demands are outrageous.”

  But Relia had fluttered her long lashes and looked so woebegone, the brilliant London solicitor never stood a chance. Such a beauty . . . granddaughter of a marquess. Such a fine property . . . and magnificent income. And then Miss Trevor named a fee that might have tempted the Prince Regent himself. Sir Gilbert shook Miss Trevor’s hand, bid Miss Aldershot good-day, and promised to give the matter his most serious consideration.

  When the ladies were gone, Sir Gilbert narrowed his eyes, gazing into space. He drummed his fingers on his desk until, finally, a slow smile played across his face.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Three

  “You’re mad!”

  Since Thomas Lanning’s least whisper could be more intimidating than a bull’s roar, his solicitor and long-time friend, Charles Saunders, retreated into the depths of the burgundy leather wingchair that faced the broad expanse of his employer’s desk and contemplated another approach. Truthfully, Thomas, who was once again bent over the paperwork on his desk, looked as immovable and as impervious to change as the Rock of Gibraltar. A handsome man, was Thomas Lanning, Mr. Saunders had to concede—until you looked into the depths of those piercing gray eyes and began to wonder if he had any of the weaknesses of mortal men. Yet in the matrimonial market he was considered a fine catch. If his bride did not mind a man with the resilient strength of a Toledo blade . . . and the sharp cut as well. Not that Thomas Lanning was arrogant or aloof—he was much too clever to offend his colleagues in the City or his high-flying acquaintances in the ton. But for all the bonhomie he could display on occasion, no one ever quite knew what Thomas was thinking. But this time . . . this time Charles had to make him listen.

  But, first . . . a diversion.

  Mr. Saunders sat forward in his chair and made an elaborate inspection of the walls of Thomas’s spacious office, a well-appointed suite of rooms in a building close by the Royal Exchange. “You’ve acquired another Turner, I see.”

  “A good investment,” Mr. Lanning returned shortly, as he swirled his signature with a bold hand at the bottom of a long piece of parchment.

  “Can’t say as I understand what you see in his work. It’s like someone draped a houri’s veil over a perfectly good landscape. Or like a mist came down, obscuring all the good parts.” Charles shook his head. “Take my word for it, Thomas, in twenty years’ time they won’t be worth ha’penny on the pound.”

  “If you have nothing more to say, Charles, you may leave.”

  “Don’t be a nodcock, Thomas. This is important!”

  Slowly, Thomas Lanning rose to his full six feet, one inch. He placed his large hands flat on top of his desk and leaned down to glare at his friend. “I am a man of the City,” he declared, biting out each word as if they were bullets. “I do not want a country house. I do not need a country house. And, most particularly, I do not need an heiress who is such an antidote she cannot find a husband.”

  “Sir Gilbert swears to me she is not an antidote,” Charles protested. “Her mother was ill for some time before she passed on, and then her father, so she was unable to make her come-out—”

  “No! Stop nattering, Charles. I won’t have her.”

  “Her grandfather was a marquess. Old Huntsham. Fine family.” Mr. Saunders was growing desperate.

  “If I wanted a wife, there is no lack of candidates. I scarcely need you to play whoremonger.”

  Charles Saunders shot up out of his chair. Though not as tall as his friend and employer, he still managed to direct a lightning bolt of anger straight into Thomas’s stormy gray eyes. “Miss Trevor is a lady of spotless character, with some of the finest bloodlines in England. Her estate is considered a gem—well-cared for, productive. You have no call to insult her . . . or my judgment.”

  Thomas subsided into his chair, waving Charles back into his as well. Idly, he tapped a finger on the papers he had just signed, while he reined in his temper. “I have heard all your arguments, Charles, but—for the last time—I have no interest in marriage.”

  “You didn’t let me get as far as why Miss Trevor is in immediate need of a husband.” Mr. Lanning drew a harsh breath, which subsided into a resigned wave of his hand. “She had two guardians, you see,” Mr. Saunders began, “but one—Marcus Yelverton—passed on quite unexpectedly. Dropped dead at an Assembly, straight in the middle of a country dance. So now Miss Trevor and all that goes with her are under the control of her uncle, Lord Hubert Trevor, who is not about to let such a treasure slip through his fingers. He’s pressing her to marry his son Twyford—”

  But Thomas wasn’t listening. “Yelverton? Marcus Yelverton, the MP? Lives somewhere between Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Thomas steepled his hands, his lips twitched into a faint smile. “Your genius is usually infallible, Charles, but in this instance I had begun to think you fit for Bedlam.” Mr. Lanning’s smile broadened into a feral grin. “But you have redeemed yourself. You may tell Miss Trevor’s solicitor that I will be delighted to meet with her at her convenience.”

  Of course. Silently, Charles swore at himself. What an idiot he had been to think that a wealthy heiress with excellent bloodlines and a fine estate would be of interest to Thomas Lanning. His friend’s ambitions ran much higher than those of ordinary men. Thomas already had wealth. It was power he craved.

  The Pevensey Park ladies waited. They shopped, waited, strolled through Hyde Park, and waited. Miss Trevor’s digestion reached the point of revolt. She could hear generations of noble ancestors hissing furiously in her ears.

  Late on their third day in London, the summons came.

  And now the fateful moment was at hand. Miss Trevor was armored in the best half-mourning gown a London modiste had hastily remodeled to fit her petite client, whose golden guineas took precedence over the reluctant payments offered by the countess for whom the dress had been intended. Of lavender lustring, with hem and matching spencer piped in black, it was far more flattering than Miss Trevor’s previous mourning gowns. Her lustrous dark hair was piled high on her head. Pearl drops with a lavender cast depended from her ears. Leather slippers, dyed to match her gown, adorned her small feet. She was, in short, as ready as a young woman could be to interview a possible candidate for the position of husband.

  Sir Gilbert, wishing to give Miss Trevor the advantage, requested that she arrive at his office early, so she might be on hand to greet the proposed suitor for her hand. Much
as if she were interviewing a prospective butler, sniffed Miss Aldershot. But both ladies were forced to conclude that Sir Gilbert’s suggestion had merit. Now, however, Relia was sorry. For she had been twenty minutes early, and the miserable Cit was late. Late to a meeting so vital to his future! Miss Aurelia Trevor could not, in fact, imagine what had made her accept Sir Gilbert’s suggestion. Marry a Cit? A man her friends and neighbors would scorn. A vulgarian who actually had to earn his keep. A man of no land, no family, a mediocre education . . .

  Good Lord, what if he truly smelled of the shop? For how Lord Hanley could say the country smelled when London was positively rank with odors, Aurelia completely failed to understand. What if Thomas Lanning were one of those self-made men who had pulled himself up out of the coal mines, the textile factories, the merchant fleet, or a butcher shop? What if he wore a moleskin waistcoat or—horrors!—what if his accent was simply impossible?

  The office door opened. One of Sir Gilbert’s clerks announced, “Mr. Thomas Lanning.”

  What had she done? Relia had to call on every ounce of family fortitude before she could force her eyes to look.

  Dear God, here was a man. A man who made Viscount Hanley look like the shallow boy he was. A man who caused her toes to curl, her stomach to feel as if she had swallowed a swarm of butterflies. A man who awakened parts of her she had not known existed.

  Thomas Lanning stood, slightly slouched, as if refusing to display himself to full advantage for the ladies’ delectation. Yet it was clear he was tall, impeccably dressed, without any of the excesses found in young men of the ton. His warm brown hair was uncompromisingly short, allowing only a slight wave to dangle toward his ears. Gray eyes, veiled at the moment, looked indifferently down from a face so much stronger than Lord Hanley’s that it nearly took Relia’s breath away. Handsome, yes, but only if one cared for a man of granite.

  Yet Thomas Lanning was the stuff of dreams. Everything a girl might desire.

  Or nothing. Relia could not imagine this man giving up control of anything.

  Somehow the introductions were over, Mr. Lanning seated in a chair across the table from Miss Trevor. Sir Gilbert, looking vastly pleased, and perhaps a trifle sly, bowed himself out. Miss Aldershot promptly effaced herself to a chair in the farthest corner of the imposing conference room, leaving Miss Trevor and Mr. Lanning to gaze at each other in open, and slightly hostile, assessment.

  Young, so young, Thomas thought. Too young to be entering into a hard-headed marriage of convenience. And lovely. Surprisingly so. Petite. She would scarcely reach his shoulder. And arrogant as a duchess, by God. The chit was examining him with narrowed eyes and considerable skepticism, as if she had fully expected someone who had just crawled up out of the gutter. Did she think he had made his fortune selling pasties from a barrow?

  Thomas, nobody’s fool, had made a condition for his attendance at this most unusual confrontation. Miss Trevor would be told only what she needed to know. Mr. Lanning was a Cit of acceptable fortune with no country estate. His business interests were in London, where he could be expected to spend a goodly portion of his time. At this preliminary, and highly shaky, stage of their negotiations, this was quite enough information for Miss Aurelia Trevor.

  The silence was becoming oppressive. Mr. Lanning leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs beneath the conference table and drawled, “I understand you are in need of a dragonslayer, Miss Trevor.”

  Drat the man! She should have spoken first, of course. It was she, Aurelia Trevor, who had a position, however unorthodox, to offer. She was the employer; he, the supplicant.

  “If I had control of my finances,” Aurelia informed Mr. Lanning in glacial tones, “I would not need a dragonslayer.” Mr. Lanning examined her with such leisurely impertinence, Aurelia felt her skin begin to heat. Desperately, she hoped she was not blushing.

  “You are what—seventeen?” he inquired.

  “Twenty!”

  “Ah!”

  To Aurelia, Thomas Lanning’s raised eyebrow was as good as a red flag to a bull. “I reach my majority in a week’s time,” she declared from between clenched teeth, “but little good it will do me without the funds to run the estate. “If I were a boy—”

  “If you were a boy, you would still have a guardian, and marriage would not be the least bit of help.”

  True. But she would never acknowledge it.

  Aurelia forced herself to examine Mr. Lanning with the same leisurely intensity he had turned on her. But she was a newcomer to the game. Her fingers and toes seemed to freeze into ice, while her insides swirled into scorching flames. Her mind threatened to panic. She had trusted Sir Gilbert to find a man who met all her qualifications. (Well . . . possibly she had had a few qualms.) But this . . . this confident Cit with his almost insolent manner . . . this too-perfect imitation of a London gentleman, with an accent as pure, if perhaps more precise, than Aurelia’s own . . . No, no, no! This was not at all what she had imagined.

  He was the epitome of every woman’s dreams.

  He was terrifying.

  And he was laughing at her. From the lofty height of male superiority and what must be close to ten more years on earth, this Cit—beneath his bland, maddeningly quizzical façade—was amused. Relia’s temper and the Trevor family pride surged through her, sweeping away both maidenly fears and female flutterings. She was Miss Aurelia Trevor of Pevensey Park, Kent, and she had a task to complete. A husband to find. Who was Mr. Thomas Lanning to find her amusing? His only advantage was that while she might find this experience unique, Mr. Lanning must be quite accustomed to offering his services for hire!

  Miss Trevor squared her shoulders, folded her hands on the shining surface of the conference table. “Pevensey Park comprises some five thousand acres,” she informed him. “In addition to a fine park, we grow wheat and hops. Our sheep are the finest merinos. Our dairy farm, in addition to fulfilling our own needs, supplies milk to much of Tunbridge Wells. Most of the produce from our market gardens—vegetables, fruit, and flowers—goes all the way to London.” Miss Trevor looked Mr. Lanning straight in the eye. “Since Pevensey Park is a business—though most landowners eschew such a title—I am willing to consider a man of business as my—ah—dragonslayer.”

  With satisfaction, Aurelia noted that, as she talked, a quiver of emotion had shaken Mr. Lanning’s bland expression. He had not known Pevensey Park was one of the most profitable estates in England, she was sure of it. And no man was so wealthy, he was not attracted by the thought of augmenting his assets.

  Dear God in heaven! With something akin to horror, Aurelia recognized what she had done. In her mind, she had already chosen him. This one would do.

  Thomas Lanning. When just looking at him caused her heart to pound, her stomach to churn—

  The women of Pevensey Park were made of sterner stuff!

  “You will, of course, wish to visit the Park,” Aurelia announced, “to make certain I have not painted too rosy a portrait. That is”—she broke off, mortified by her possible misinterpretation of his silence—“that is, if you have any interest in proceeding with a possible—ah—contract.”

  Brave girl! Almost, Thomas applauded. There were men of forty and fifty who quaked in their boots at thought of negotiations with Thomas Lanning. But did she truly have any idea what she was doing? Any thoughts beyond her precious Pevensey Park? Had she considered what marriage would mean? Did she think him a tame tabby to lie down and purr for the sake of an occasional pet?

  Had she thought as far as children? And how they were made?

  He doubted it.

  From the corner of the room Thomas heard a slight sound. The companion—he’d forgotten all about her. Had that been a sob or a prayer? For surely she, too, recognized this was the crucial moment. Would he go to Pevensey Park, or would he get up, say, “Thank you for considering me, Miss Trevor,” and walk out of her life forever?

  Hell and damnation but she was an attractive female! So much more
than he had expected. Courageous. Intelligent.

  Vulnerable. So very much in need of a knight errant.

  And Pevensey Park was in the same part of Kent as the home of Mr. Marcus Yelverton, deceased.

  “I have a number of commitments here in town which I must meet,” Thomas said carefully, “but I will rearrange my schedule for the following week. You may expect me the day after Guy Fawkes . . . if that is convenient?”

  For a moment a mist passed before Miss Trevor’s eyes. What had she done? She heard a choking sound from Gussie. Mr. Lanning was still sitting there, looking politely indifferent, as if they had not just taken a giant step toward the most momentous decision of their lives.

  “It is quite convenient,” Aurelia told him over the near-strangling lump in her throat. “We look forward to your visit.”

  Mr. Thomas Lanning unfolded himself from his chair, stood up, bowed—most precisely—to both ladies, and strode out of the room.

  Miss Aurelia Trevor dropped her head onto the conference table and shook.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Four

  Miss Trevor gave London not so much as a glance as their coach made its way out of town, the four horses gradually picking up speed until they were bowling along the road toward Kent at a pace that brought a gleam to the coachman’s eye and a whistle to his lips.

  Aurelia knew what her father would have said. That she’d made a rare mull of it. Blackened the family name. No—far worse—she was obliterating the family name. Exchanging it for that of a Cit. A Cit who acted as if he were doing her a favor even to consider her offer!

  And Squire Stanton would go purple with rage. Harry, as well. That she should stoop so low—choosing a Cit—when she could have had a fine country gentleman, known to her since the cradle.

  Cit. She’d heard the term all her life, and always spoken in a derogatory manner. Some said Cit indicated a man of the City, the business heart of London. Others insisted it was a short form of “Citoyen,” a word used by French revolutionaries for “man of the people.” Whatever the word’s origin, the gulf between gentlemen who lived on inherited wealth and those who actually earned their daily bread was vast. The Lady Aurelias of this world did not mingle with Cits.