A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  “Under my command!”

  Mr. Lanning bowed. “Of course, my lord.” Not in the least discomposed, he turned to Aurelia. “I have come a long way, Miss Trevor. I would be delighted if you would be kind enough to drive out with me, so that I may see the estate your uncle is so conscientiously guarding for your benefit.”

  “You heard my father. You may leave!” Twyford declared, rising to his full height, which was still an inch short of Mr. Lanning’s own.

  Thomas looked at Miss Trevor, and most sincerely hoped he was correctly interpreting what he saw there. They were supposed to have had time . . .

  Time to think . . . adjust . . . Time to consider all the ramifications . . . the good that could come of this union. If it did not destroy him.

  But there was no time, no time at all. For if he left, these people would never let him near her again. And the fate of Aurelia Trevor at the hands of The Terrible Twyford was not to be contemplated.

  Thomas looked Miss Trevor straight in the eyes, shrugged, and smiled. “I fear we have no choice, my dear,” he said. “We must be truthful.” With a remarkably well-executed look of chagrin, he turned to the avid spectators of his little drama. “We had hoped to keep our secret a trifle longer, but I can see there’s no help for it, we must tell all. Aurelia—Miss Trevor—and I are betrothed. In fact, I have the special license in my pocket.” Mr. Lanning patted the left side of his fine corbeau-colored tailcoat. “We plan on being married immediately.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Six

  “Married, is it?” bellowed Lord Hubert. “And pray tell how you will do that without my consent?”

  “She’s to marry me!” Twyford blustered.

  Mr. Lanning seemed almost apologetic as he peered at the two men before turning remarkably limpid eyes on Miss Trevor. “You did say you would reach your majority in the next few days, did you not, my dear?”

  “Two days.” Aurelia and Gussie spoke in unison.

  “Well, there you have it,” said Mr. Lanning with every appearance of a man completely unaware of the sensation he was causing. “That gives us quite enough time to speak to the vicar, does it not, Aurelia, my love?”

  “Who is Thomas Lanning, pray tell?” Lady Hubert demanded, finally finding her voice after the intruder’s startling announcement. “What manner of man are you? Who are your parents . . . where is your home? How dare you aspire to the hand of heiress? Indeed, how could you have met her? Not a word have I ever heard about a family named Lanning. Except Twineham’s, of course, and if you had the slightest connection to the dear duke, I assure you I should have heard of you.”

  Mr. Lanning bowed. Politely. “My father would have been sorry to hear that, ma’am. He was, I believe, rather well known in the City before his unfortunate demise on a journey to Dublin.”

  “The City!” Lady Hubert clutched her heart. Her husband and son gave almost identical snorts of derision. Harry Stanton muttered something beneath his breath.

  “You’re a Cit!” Twyford exclaimed. “Good God, man, you could not come within a mile of wedding a lady.” He rounded on his cousin. “And, you, my girl, should be ashamed of yourself for contemplating such a match, even for a moment.”

  Miss Trevor, as demure as the most shy young maiden at her first ball, clasped her hands in front of her and declared, “But do you not recall that I accompanied mama to Tunbridge Wells for the waters in the early days of her illness? It was there I met Thomas, so, you see, we have been acquainted for some time now and are quite certain of our feelings in this matter. Naturally, papa had his doubts, but as my majority approached and I realized I would be free to marry where I would, I went to London to see . . .” Miss Trevor had the grace to blush before giving her alleged beloved a tremulous smile. “To see if he were still of the same mind. He was, and now he is here, and we are to be married.”

  Clever little minx. Thomas resisted the temptation to openly applaud Miss Trevor’s performance, while grimly enjoying how poorly the news of a long-standing attachment was sitting with Lord Hubert and his family. Father and son had, in fact, turned an unhealthy shade of purple, while Lady Hubert looked as if her face had been showered with rice powder. But the ability to tolerate one’s adversaries was part and parcel of being a successful man of business. Making mortal enemies of his betrothed’s closest relatives was not sensible. And, although a man of great energy and determination, Thomas Lanning always tried to be sensible.

  His marriage to Miss Aurelia Trevor was definitely sensible. Yet . . . with each new investment, contract, or acquisition, he faced the challenge with enthusiasm, certain of his ability to deal with any problems that might occur. But marriage to Pevensey Park . . . to farms and fields, cows and sheep; to a scornful family of arrogant aristocrats was, perhaps, not the wisest thing he had ever done.

  Thomas suddenly realized he was standing silent, letting epithets fly around him, unheard. Miss Trevor was beginning to look decidedly anxious.

  “So it is quite settled, you see,” Thomas declared with what a goodly portion of his audience considered obnoxious good cheer, “and I believe it is time to begin as we mean to go on. Aurelia, my dear, it is a fine day for a drive. You may show me Pevensey Park. while we put the finishing touches on the plans for our wedding.” With a glint of steel in his eye, Mr. Lanning held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  Miss Trevor, delighted to escape, slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow while Biddeford, who had had his ear to a crack in the door, called for Miss Aurelia’s shawl and bonnet before opening the door wide for the betrothed couple to exit the drawing room. Mr. Lanning, however, came to a halt just before passing under the lintel. Turning Miss Trevor and himself about with easy grace, he said to the dumbfounded occupants of the drawing room. “We shall, of course, wish you to attend our wedding. But, after that . . . naturally we would prefer privacy. I am sure you understand. I doubt we shall take a long wedding journey”—Mr. Lanning smiled down at his betrothed and patted her hand—“perhaps a few days at Tunbridge Wells. Lord Hubert, my lady, Mr. Trevor . . . I trust it will not inconvenience you to remove yourselves from Pevensey Park while we are gone. Lord Hubert, when we return from our drive, I will give you the name of my solicitor so we may begin the business of settling Miss Trevor’s trust.”

  After offering a regal nod to his noble, but gaping, audience, Mr. Lanning gently turned his betrothed back toward the door. They strolled leisurely across the tiled entry hall, pausing only long enough to accept Aurelia’s shawl and bonnet from Biddeford, who looked suspiciously moist about the eyes.

  Miss Trevor came to an abrupt halt on the landing, some twelve stairsteps above the gracefully curved drive where Mr. Lanning’s postchaise awaited him, the postilions snapping to attention as they caught sight of their employer. Thomas, ever polite, paused, raising one dark inquiring brow.

  “I cannot ride with you in that!” Miss Trevor proclaimed, eyeing the yellow postchaise and four lively horses with something akin to horror.

  Thomas Lanning, who had far more experience with the workings of the male mind than the female, could only stare in amazement.

  “It is a closed carriage,” Aurelia explained. “Ladies do not ride with gentlemen in closed carriages. Alone,” she added when he continued to stand there, looking, for all the world, as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head.

  “We are betrothed,” Thomas declared. Sweeping his arm around her waist, he started for the stairs.

  Miss Trevor dug in her heels. “Nonetheless—”

  Thomas halted, thrust her from him. “Shall I send you back then?” he demanded. “They’re in there, waiting, you know—your precious family connections. Squabbling among themselves, each blaming the other for whistling your fortune down the wind. They will, no doubt, welcome you back with open arms.”

  Aurelia, unaccustomed to being manhandled by anyone, most particularly a Cit who did not own his own carriage, drew herself up to her full five feet three inches, while searchi
ng frantically for a proper rebuttal. How dare he?

  “This was your idea, was it not?” Mr. Lanning persisted, his tone growing more aggrieved with each word. “You sought a dragonslayer, and now that you have him, you object because his charger is yellow instead of white?”

  Aurelia drew in a sharp breath. “I object because his charg—because that vehicle is not proper!”

  Thomas raised his hat. “Good day, Miss Trevor. Although I regret the waste of my valuable time, I find myself greatly relieved that my services are no longer needed.” Mr. Lanning clapped his tall beaver back onto his head, and loped down the stone steps of Pevensey Park with all the alacrity of a Frenchman escaping the guillotine.

  Aurelia stared after him. A postilion was opening the bright yellow door, the steps were lowered. Mr. Lanning was climbing in . . .

  Miss Trevor picked up her skirts and flew down the stairs. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—lower herself to calling after him, but . . .

  The door of the postchaise slammed shut. One postilion was already mounted, the other about to join him. The horses, sensing the imminent departure, snorted and stamped the ground.

  No-o-o! Aurelia reached the carriage, pounded on the door. Then, mortified, she jumped back, head hanging, tears of humiliation rushing to her eyes.

  The postchaise did not move. The door opened. A shining pair of boots appeared, biscuit pantaloons, a corbeau jacket . . . a hand reached out, tilting up her chin. “Was I harsh?” Thomas said. “I come from several generations of bankers, you know. Or perhaps you did not. We tend to be more at home with numbers, ledgers, and other males than with the gentler sex. Tears, Miss Trevor? I fear I am not at all what you had in mind.”

  Miss Trevor was forced to steady her lower lip before she could reply. “And ’tis plain you do not like me. We are a sad pair, are we not?”

  “Truthfully,” Thomas said, suddenly dropping his hand as he realized he was still cupping Miss Trevor’s chin and her spirited, yet vulnerable, countenance tended to unsettle his customarily steady nerves, “I believe we may be of use to each other. If I did not, I would not have come. Yet I fear accommodation between us is unlikely to be smooth. This is your home, your land. This fantastical husband-hunt was entirely your idea. Therefore, it is you who must choose, so let us be quite clear.”

  Thomas crossed his arms, turning as stern and serious as she had yet seen him. “If you marry me, I promise I will slay your dragons, then return to my own life, allowing you complete—within reason—” he qualified, “freedom to run Pevensey Park as you choose. But when we are together, you will give me the respect due a husband, including riding in any vehicle I should provide—”

  “But we are not yet married—”

  “Blast it, woman! Will you get into the chaise or not?”

  A closed carriage. A small closed carriage with only two seats. He actually expected her to show herself to her tenants in such an intimate posture? It was as good as a declaration . . .

  Fool! Was that not exactly what she wanted? A man of strength and intelligence was poised to enter the lives of everyone at Pevensey Park. His advent would affect most of those in the village of Lower Peven as well. There was no longer a need for secrecy. To escape the rule of her Trevor relatives, she would marry Thomas Lanning even if he were the devil himself.

  Head erect, her back ramrod straight, Miss Aurelia Trevor allowed Mr. Lanning to hand her into the postchaise. He climbed in after her, giving the postboys the office to start. As the chaise began to move, Aurelia sank bank into the far corner of the leather squabs, wondering, quite rightly, into what impossible imbroglio she had just thrown herself. In London, Mr. Thomas Lanning had been the man with whom she was negotiating a lifetime contract. Aloof, competent—but unable, or unwilling, to hide his condescending amusement. Yet he was a man who met all her requirements and was, astonishingly, pleasing to both eye and ear. When he visited Pevensey Park, she had thought to have a leisurely opportunity to advance their acquaintance, discuss the pros and cons of their proposed alliance.

  But now, with no further explorations of their respective characters, their family backgrounds, or current problems, they were well and truly betrothed. Miss Aurelia Trevor of Pevensey Park, bound to a chameleon who changed his coat to match his audience. A man who slipped from dragonslayer to conciliatory idiot to . . . obsequious Cit; then, from one step to the next, turned back to knight errant, cutting a broad swath through her open-mouthed relatives. Yet for herself, he had not a single gentle word that was not part and parcel of his theatrical performance. Not even the simple good manners of understanding that she, an unmarried female of good family could not ride alone with him in a closed carriage.

  Relia peeped at her betrothed, who was staring straight ahead, quite as if she were not there. Even his profile was distinguished—if, of course, such a word could be used to describe a Cit. Fortunately, he seemed to understand his place among the landed hierarchy of Kent—quite at the bottom of the barrel—even though he was, alas, all too stubbornly male regarding relations with his wife. This could be a problem, but, as Gussie kept reminding her, she had made her bed and must now lie in it.

  A most unfortunate thought! Relia felt a hot blush rushing straight up from her toes to her face. Indeed, her whole body was blushing. Hastily, she turned her head away, hoping to hide behind the all-too-small brim of her bonnet.

  “Which way?” Mr. Lanning inquired, seemingly indifferent to his betrothed’s disturbed emotions. “We are at the end of the drive. Which way do you wish to go?”

  Miss Trevor responded, soon finding herself caught up in extolling the virtues of the many enterprises at Pevensey Park, where, as she expected, necks craned, hands waved, and speculative looks were quickly followed by the light of recognition. Miss had done it, by God, and found herself a man. And a right fine one, if looks were not deceiving.

  As Miss Trevor and Mr. Lanning spoke with the wide-eyed milkmaids at the dairy farm, the workers manning the drying racks at the oast houses, or accepted a basket of ripe red apples from a farmer and his wife—all of whom beamed ear to ear upon being the recipients of Mr. Lanning’s sudden return to bonhomie—Relia wondered once again at her betrothed’s ability to put on different faces for different people. Outside the chaise, he was all that was affable. Her tenants seemed to take to him immediately. Inside, the chaise might as well have been suffused with the icy winds of January.

  Yet, was she not participating in the same game? Smiling and gracious when playing lady of the manor; sulking in a corner when she was not?

  They were on their way back now, and Relia knew she must assert herself. Mr. Lanning had made an almost too-fine impression on her people. Somehow they had looked . . . well, as relieved as she was. If not more so. Miss Trevor was not altogether pleased. Her tenants, after all, did not have to live with the man!

  Did they realize what a sacrifice she was making? Relia glared out the window, for once not appreciating either the beauty or the profitability of her acres. “Mr. Lanning,” she declared, “there is a matter we must discuss.”

  “Yes?” Though his facial features did not change, Relia was quite certain his tone turned instantly wary.

  “I had thought to bring this matter up during your visit, so it should not come as a surprise. But now . . .” Miss Trevor clasped her hands, transforming into a vulnerable, beseeching maiden. “My father quite doted on Pevensey Park, and I would like to keep his name alive. Therefore I wish you to assume his name. I believe you will find Trevor-Lanning has a fine ring to it.”

  As she caught the look on his face—now very far from blank—Relia slid back into her corner. She had been prepared for an initial objection, but it appeared Mr. Lanning was about to burst out in a roar that would blow her straight out of the chaise. Yet as she watched in horrified fascination, he leaned back, knuckled his forehead, and began to laugh. His shoulders shook. His other hand gripped his knee. Finally, he produced a handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes.


  “Miss Trevor,” he said at last, “before agreeing to our initial meeting, I had my solicitor look into the history of Pevensey Park. The name of the owner has changed with all but one generation for well over a hundred years. “Your request is outrageous, but all of piece for a young woman with enough pride and presumption to employ a solicitor to find her a husband. Oddly enough”—Mr. Lanning sat up and looked directly at her—“oddly enough, I admire your courage. Will I change my name? No. Will I allow my poor children to be saddled with such an awkward mouthful as Trevor-Lanning? No, I will not. As for our marriage . . . ?” Thomas Lanning shook his head. “If we do not kill each other in the first month or so, I believe we may deal well together. Certainly, you are no niminy-piminy creature without an ounce of backbone. You may annoy me at times, but you do not disgust me.” Unfortunately, Mr. Lanning chose that moment to end his monologue.

  Miss Trevor opened her mouth, closed it. She did not disgust him. How utterly delightful. The temperature in the chaise, warmed by Mr. Lanning’s laughter, plunged back to bleak winter. Relia eyed the basket of bright red apples on the floor at her feet and conjured dire thoughts of a Cit who could be so charming to the lower classes and treat his betrothed as if she were dirt beneath his feet.

  She needed him. Pevensey Park needed him. But as soon as Lord Hubert and his family were chased away and Squire Stanton realized her acres would never be added to his . . . and William Tubbs understood he was to follow her orders, then Mr. Lanning could go back to his precious City. She would be rid of him and mistress of the Park once again. For this—as she had concluded long since—marriage was a sacrifice she could make. After all, it was not as if Mr. Thomas Lanning were going to be under foot for more than a minimal amount of time.

  “Ah, yes, I nearly forgot,” said Mr. Lanning, as if just remembering a vail for the postboys, “I have something for you.” Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a small white plush box. “It seems Rundell & Bridges had your size in their records, so it should fit.” To Miss Trevor’s complete chagrin, he flipped open the box to reveal a brilliant sapphire surrounded by a ring of diamonds. “I believe a ring is the expected confirmation of a betrothal.” He removed the ring from the box, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, waiting . . .challenging . . .