A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  “Thomas, welcome home!” And there was Charles beaming at him, shaking his hand, spouting nonsense, as if Pevensey were truly his home. “I must whisk you away, I fear,” his friend said. “You’ve only been gone a sennight, and already the walls of the Exchange are crumbling. Come now, into the library. Your bride will forgive us, I know. Undoubtedly, she wishes to change out of her travel clothes.”

  Charles, Thomas noted, was quite right, for his bride had already disappeared into the house, without so much as a backward glance at either her husband or her acting steward. So be it. He handed his gloves and hat to Biddeford and followed Charles Saunders to the bookroom. At least the demmed boxes of books, evidently safely restored to the bookroom, no longer cluttered the foyer

  “Relia. Relia!” Gussie huffed as she followed the new Mrs. Lanning’s rush up the grand staircase. “There’s something . . .my dear, you’re going the wrong direction!”

  But Relia paid her companion no heed, dragging off her bonnet, spencer, and shawl and throwing them carelessly onto the counterpane of her wonderfully familiar bed. “Oh, it is so good to be home, Gussie. I am always happiest when surrounded by my very own things.” Relia turned slowly around, arms outstretched, absorbing the comforting atmosphere of the bedchamber that had been hers since she was old enough to leave the nursery. She frowned. “Gussie . . . why are the dressers bare?” With purposeful step, she walked to the chest of drawers against the wall, pulled open the top drawer. It was empty. She dashed to the tall wardrobe filling one corner of the room, flung open the door. “Gussie,” Relia inquired on a more ominous note, “what have you done with my things?” For everything was gone—from gowns, bonnets and shoes to chemises, reticules, and handkerchiefs.

  “But, my dear,” Gussie protested, “surely you must realize you cannot stay in this room. We have all worked very hard while you were gone to move your things into the master suite. Relia,” Miss Aldershot added as the new Mrs. Lanning looked at her in horror, “you are married now. You and Mr. Lanning must share the suite that belongs to the owners of the house. Relia? Dear child, somehow I have failed you. I cannot believe you did not understand—”

  “You have moved my things into my mother’s room?” Relia whispered.

  “Oh, my dear,” Gussie breathed.

  “And—and my—and the Cit into my papa’s chamber?”

  “Relia,” Miss Aldershot said on a note close to the sternness of her days as a governess, “it is the way of the world. He is now owner of Pevensey Park. It would have been a dreadful insult to do anything else. And you are his wife. Therefore you must share the suite. Not to do so would cause a scandal and likely have your uncle and your cousin down about your ears quicker than cat can lick an ear.

  “Most young ladies,” Gussie continued more softly, “do not face this dilemma. They leave home when they marry, and only the husband must face sleeping in his father’s bed. Men do not, I believe,” she added judiciously, “suffer from an excess of sensibility.”

  “Excess?” Relia cried. “You call it ‘excess’ because I do not care to live in the room where I watched my mama slowly wither into a husk of her former self. Because I do not care to sleep in the bed in which she died?”

  “But it is such a grand bed,” Gussie wailed, with draperies that match the wallpaper.”

  “I will not sleep in it!”

  The two women, who had moved from a relationship of teacher and pupil to that of companion and friend, stared at each other, both betraying a mix of anger, frustration, and sorrow. They were at an impasse.

  Biddeford, fixed just inside the doorway to the library, cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Lanning, I fear there is a bit of a contretemps above stairs.”

  “Not now, Biddeford,” Thomas snapped. “Can you not see we are busy? I leave domestic matters entirely in your hands.”

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Lanning, but the matter concerns Miss Trev—Mrs. Lanning—and is of some urgency.”

  Thomas and Charles, frowning, raised their heads from the papers spread out before them. “Very well,” Mr. Lanning said, rising to his feet. “You may tell me about it as we go up.” He waved the butler toward the stairs, with Charles Saunders following close behind.

  Thomas found his bride sitting stiffly on the edge of a chaise longue near the window, while Miss Aldershot sat, even more upright, on a chair across the room. He wished he might have found their tale a web of nonsense, but he had to concede that his wife’s stubbornness was not totally misplaced. He could, unfortunately, see her point. “We will redecorate the entire suite,” he told her in a voice that left no room for argument. “Charles tells me I must go up to London immediately, so I will choose the colors for my bedchamber while I am there. Then I will send the upholsterer to you, Aurelia, so you may choose what you wish. You may, if you wish, order a new bed or have your old one moved to your new room. The choice is yours. During the renovation you will, of necessity, sleep in your old room. I shall tell Biddeford to have your things returned to this room immediately.” Thomas gave a regal nod, then stood quietly, watching his wife with some interest.

  Relia’s exultation was short-lived. She had won . . . so why did she feel so very peculiar about her victory? Possibly because, no matter the odd English legalities about males owning their wive’s property, Pevensey was hers, and she must never let him forget it.

  “You will choose the colors for your bedchamber?” Relia challenged.

  “Do gentlemen not choose the colors for their bedchambers?” Thomas responded, presenting the epitome of innocent ignorance.

  “Not in my house!”

  “Ah . . . but I thought it was mine. I wonder how it is I could have made such a mistake.” Suddenly, Thomas laughed, while, out in the hallway, Mr. Saunders and Biddeford heaved sighs of relief. “I beg pardon, Aurelia, but if you could but see the look on your face. No matter. From what Charles tells me, I must be off to London immediately. You will be untroubled with my presence for some time to come. Biddeford!”

  “My lord!—beg pardon . . . Mr. Lanning?”

  “See to the removal of Mrs. Lanning’s things back to this room. Miss Aldershot, Charles, a few moments alone with my wife, if you please. And close the door on your way out.”

  In a remarkably short time Mr. Thomas Lanning and his wife found themselves alone. He stood, with his hands behind his back, gazing down at her bent head. Her victory and his imminent departure had not produced the blazing triumph he had thought to see on her face. “Aurelia . . . I am sorry for this. I did not expect our marriage to be so full of . . . drama. It seemed a fortunate arrangement for both of us. I believe it may still be that, but . . . there have been a few more bumps along the way than I had anticipated. I will be returning to London within the hour, and with all that awaits me there, it may be some weeks before I can return.

  “Aurelia . . . look at me.” When she did, Thomas could not fathom what he saw in the depths of those blue-gray eyes. Not animosity, however. At least he dared believe she did not actively dislike him. “It is possible I may not return until the renovations are complete. When they are—as soon as they are—I shall expect you to move in. It is essential we keep up appearances. Do you understand me? There can be no control over Pevensey or any of its inhabitants if they think you and I are at odds. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes . . . Thomas.”

  “And, Aurelia, while I am gone, pray remember that you sought me out. You, in essence, offered for me. Now that you have me, do not turn missish and succumb to a fit of the vapors. I may be off to London, but I am here in Pevensey Park to stay. You will not be rid of me as easily as you are undoubtedly anticipating at the moment.” Thomas cocked his head to one side, studying his bride of three days, whose look was now easily identifiable as defiant. “Something to remember me by,” he declared with considerable cheek and dragged his wife up from the chaise, his grip as firm as the one he had
used to rescue her so handily in Tunbridge Wells.

  The embrace he offered her was even tighter, longer . . . and far more punishing. His lips met hers before she could even think to pull away. Shock and tumult struck them both. And then he was stepping back, charging for the door even faster than he had run from her on their wedding night. Relia’s knees gave way. She sat down hard upon the chaise longue.

  She had not married a Cit. She had married a barbarian!

  Dinner that night was a near-silent affair, with Miss Aldershot offering a series of conversational ventures, to which the new Mrs. Lanning replied in monosyllables. It was very quiet. Never before had Relia noticed how silent the vast expanse of the house was at night. Somehow, with Thomas Lanning’s departure, life seemed to have been drawn from the structure, a revelation she found most displeasing. In truth, her husband had run off with such haste that he would likely be forced to spend the night at an inn instead of in the warmth and comfort of Pevensey Park.

  It was, of course, quite possible he did not find warmth and comfort at Pevensey Park.

  Relia chewed a mouthful of apple tart that, to her disordered senses, might as well have been wrapped in bark instead of Cook’s flaky pastry. She had made such a desperate effort to find a husband, and now that she had him, what was she to do with him?

  Very little, whispered the insidious voice of truth inside her head. It was more a question of what he would do with her.

  “Relia, my dear,” said Gussie brightly, making yet another attempt to penetrate Mrs. Lanning’s inattention, “that nice Mr. Saunders is going to search out a new steward for us. Such a dear boy. He managed Mr. Tubbs so well I do believe the old humdudgeon is actually looking forward to doing nothing but living on his pension.”

  Miss Aldershot suddenly had Aurelia’s complete attention. “Mr. Saunders is going to do what?” she inquired.

  Slowly, Gussie put down her fork, staring at Relia in some consternation. “Find a new steward?” she offered.

  “Mr. Charles Saunders, a solicitor, is going to find an estate manager for Pevensey Park? In London?”

  “Relia,” Gussie sighed, “Mr. Saunders is Mr. Lanning’s personal friend as well as his solicitor. A young man of good family, I promise you, who is not at all ignorant about the requirements for a steward. Indeed, I found him most pleasant and competent.”

  “Pevensey Park is mine. I will find my own steward!”

  “No, Aurelia, it is not. And you will not,” declared Miss Aldershot in her governess voice. “Even though you do not seem to wish to lie in the bed which you have made, you have no choice. You threw out your net, and you caught a larger and more wilful fish than you intended. You must learn to live with it.”

  “I . . . I can’t,” Relia murmured, suddenly sounding more like the five-year-old Miss Aldershot had first known than a married lady of one and twenty.

  “You must. Recall, if you will, that your alternate choice was The Terrible Twyford—”

  “I was going to accept Harry!”

  “Piffle! You would have eaten the poor boy alive in a sennight. Or died of boredom. That,” Gussie added with certainty, “will never happen with Mr. Lanning.”

  “Et tu, Gussie?”

  “My dear, I have lived in this house for sixteen years. I have seen you grow from a child into a beautiful young lady. And now it is my dearest hope to see you grow into a wife and mother, with a new generation for me to mold into proper ladies and gentlemen.”

  Red stained Relia’s face; the stubborn set of her Trevor chin began to wobble. Snatching what dignity she could, she attacked her long-time friend and companion. “He has won you over by agreeing you should stay on here.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Miss Aldershot cried, “do you wish me to leave?”

  Relia shoved back her chair and raced to companion’s side, throwing her arms around her, chair and all. “No, no, no, Gussie. You are all I have left in the world!”

  Miss Aldershot squeezed her hand. “Thank you, my dear. But I believe you have acquired far more than you are willing to acknowledge. Only time will tell, of course, but you must try very hard to be fair. Your Cit is a good man, I think. And proud as Lucifer himself. He will not take what you do not offer.”

  Ah—if Gussie only knew.

  Relia pressed a kiss to Miss Aldershot’s cheek. Straightening, she clasped her hands in front of her and straightened her shoulders, as if preparing for a recitation in the schoolroom. “You are, as ever, wiser than I,” she stated with unaccustomed humility. “I promise I will make an effort to accommodate myself to this situation, which everyone quite rightly reminds me I have created for myself.” Just for an instant, Relia’s lips quivered, before she got them firmly under control. “But I must tell you it will not be easy.”

  “I believe marriage is never easy, my dear,” Gussie pronounced with all the wisdom of someone who has never known the felicity of that state.

  “If you will excuse me,” Relia said, “I will see if my things have been returned to my room.” For a moment her head hung low, as she trailed her fingers across the rich cherrywood of the dining table. “If my room is ready, I may stay upstairs. I—I have a good deal of thinking to do.”

  “Goodnight then, my dear,” said Miss Aldershot, looking grave. “I promise you all will look better in the morning.”

  Platitudes, Relia grumbled as she mounted the stairs. Platitudes would not be a speck of use against Thomas Lanning. What she desperately needed was a detailed understanding of the relationship between a husband and wife. In mind as well as body.

  She supposed Gussie would say that was as good as asking for the moon. Yet Thomas Lanning was ten years her senior, an experienced man of the world, while she was a country girl who had never even had a Season. In birth, she towered above her hired Cit husband. In experience, he was the mountain, she the molehill. A lowering thought. Sadly lowering.

  Her room was quiet, magically transformed back to the cozy refuge she had known all her life. A fire crackled in the white marble fireplace, the heavy turquoise brocade draperies were drawn across the windows. A wall sconce of three candles twinkled above her dainty dressing table. With purposeful steps Relia crossed to one of the rear windows of the corner room, pulled aside the draperies, and looked out. A harvest moon—still showing a pale orange—was rising, bathing the terraces and sloping lawn in ghostly light. In the distance—ah!—a red light flickered and grew, mounting swiftly into a beacon that could be seen for miles. She had completely forgotten it was Guy Fawke’s Day. Allowing the drapery to close behind her, Relia sat on the window seat and watched the flames soar into the night sky on the rocky hillside above her sleeping sheep. Surely, there had to be some enormous irony in her tenants celebrating while she—

  While she what? Felt sorry for herself? Felt her heart would break because her Cit husband did not want her. Because the Cit husband she had used to save herself and Pevensey Park did not bow down and kiss her feet?

  Suddenly, all Relia’s cares descended on her at once. Her carefully masked features dissolved into anguish. Fighting her way back through the draperies, she threw herself, face down, on her bed and wept. Great heart-rending sobs no one heard as Miss Aldershot knew when to leave her charge alone and Tilly, never suspecting her mistress might go to her room hours earlier than usual, was seated at the broad deal table in the kitchen, happily finishing her dinner and flirting with the second footman.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Ten

  Mr. Charles Saunders stepped into his employer’s office without knocking, folded his arms across his chest and leaned negligently against the jamb, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I’ve been sent to remind you that you are engaged for dinner this evening at the Gresham’s.”

  “I sent my regrets,” Thomas declared with no more than a fleeting glance at his long-time friend. “And pray tell me, Charles, at what historic moment did you exchange places with my secretary?”

  “Since you frightened young Ro
llins so badly he’s afraid to come near you. And,” Mr. Saunders added with all the insouciance at his command, “I cancelled your rejection. You are expected at the Gresham’s this evening.”

  Thomas’s head jerked up. “The devil you did!”

  “You need to get out and about, Thomas. You have the entire staff, not to mention some highly important colleagues, quaking in their boots. I swear you have not uttered a civil word to anyone since you came back. Including me,” Mr. Saunders added under his breath.

  “As you very well know, the Greshams are close to the Ebersleys—”

  “And you are hiding?” Charles chortled, straightening off the door jamb. “The great Thomas Lanning hiding? From a woman?”

  Thomas scowled. “A man does not willingly offer himself up for a scold. And, if you must have the wood with no bark on it, I have had enough female company to last me for some time to come.”

  Charles, suddenly sober, crossed the room and slumped into one of the chairs in front of his friend’s broad mahogany desk. “Have I done you a grave disservice, Thomas? Should I have told Sir Gilbert to peddle his wares elsewhere? God knows you’re just about the most dour new husband I have seen—and, believe me, I’ve known a good number of the newly shackled. Well? Do you wish me in Hades? And your bride along with me? Thomas?” Charles prodded when his friend remained silent, “are you so unhappy that your view of all women is soured? I had thought an evening with Eleanor Ebersley was certain to sweeten your temper.”

  “You are right about one thing,” Thomas said at last. “I am hiding. I had hoped to avoid Mrs. Ebersley. When vexed, she has a tongue that cuts sharper than the scorn in my dear bride’s eyes. Oh, I admit an occasional rendezvous with the delicious Eleanor can be . . . ah—gratifying, Charles, but, lately, she’s begun to look at old Ebersley as if she’s counting the days ’til he sticks his spoon in the wall.” To which comment Mr. Saunders had the good grace to keep his tongue between his teeth.