A Wedding Wager

by Jane Feather

“I doubt Mrs. Sutton would agree,” he commented. “She seems ill disposed to one of their own.”

  Serena shrugged. “We’ll see. Mr. Sutton is much more practical, and he adores Abigail; she’s the apple of his eye. I don’t think he would stop her marrying a man she loved, even if he didn’t come up to her mama’s standards.”

  Sebastian nodded. They stood a little apart, conscious of the public arena, but they were both acutely aware of the current of excitement, of anticipation, running between them. “When will I see you again?” he asked softly.

  Serena understood that he was not talking about a social call. “I wish we had somewhere of our own,” she murmured. “I don’t like the idea of dodging around your brother, and while I’m sure Margaret will let me borrow her house occasionally, it makes everything seem so hole-in-the-corner, sordid almost.”

  “There is nothing in the least sordid about what I feel for you,” Sebastian stated, his tone almost harsh. “The only sordid aspect of any of this is the loathsome influence of your stepfather. If you would agree to leave him, we would find a way out of this morass.”

  Serena sighed. “Don’t start that again, Sebastian. I’ve told you, ’tis impossible at the moment. I’m the only person who can protect Abigail from him, and until I know she’s safe, I’ll not leave her in the lurch.”

  “So, you’d martyr yourself for the sake of a chit whose mother is determined to use her to advance her social pretensions?” He sounded harsher than he had intended and saw too late the quick anger flash in her eyes, the sudden tautness of her mouth.

  “I’ve no interest in having this conversation.” Serena walked away from him, over to the herd of cows, where a milkmaid was dipping a cup into the pail of milk she had just drawn from the cow.

  “This is delicious, Lady Serena,” Abigail called. “You should have some.”

  “Yes, allow me, Lady Serena.” Jonas was in the act of paying the milkmaid for Abigail’s cup and opened his purse readily again as Serena approached.

  “No … no, thank you, Mr. Wedgwood. I’m not overly fond of milk.” Serena forced a smile. “I think we should be getting back, Abigail. I’ve just remembered a pressing engagement with my dressmaker.” She ignored Sebastian, who had come up behind her. “Perhaps Mr. Wedgwood would be good enough to escort us back to Bruton Street. Mr. Sullivan has also recollected a previous engagement.”

  Sebastian glared but restrained himself from the swift rejoinder that came so readily to his lips. He bowed to Abigail. “I will do myself the honor of calling upon you again, Miss Sutton, if you will receive me.”

  Abigail’s enormous eyes widened, and she fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Please, I do wish you would.”

  Sebastian nodded a farewell to Jonas. “Mr. Wedgwood … a pleasure. Lady Serena.” He bowed formally, then turned and strolled away across the park.

  Jonas, left in possession of the field, beamed delightedly. “Ladies, may I …” He offered his right arm to Serena and his left to Abigail, and the three of them returned to Bruton Street.

  “I believe that’s General Heyward’s horse,” Abigail observed as they turned onto Bruton Street. The general’s black gelding was tethered to the railings outside the house, and Serena swore to herself. She had intended to stay out for at least another half-hour, but Sebastian had put a stop to that.

  “Yes, I forgot … my stepfather said he had business with Mr. Sutton,” she said vaguely. “I believe we must leave you here, Mr. Wedgwood.” She offered her hand to their escort as they reached the front door.

  He kissed her hand, paid Abigail the same courtesy, and then waited until they were inside the house before going on his way with a jaunty step.

  “Ah, there you are, dearest.” Marianne came out of the library at the sound of the front door. “General Heyward is here, with your father in the library. He was asking after you. Go into the library and make your curtsy, child.” She glanced at Serena. “Won’t you come through, too, Lady Serena?”

  “No, I thank you. I have an engagement with my dressmaker,” Serena said. “If Morrison would be kind enough to fetch my maid.”

  The butler bowed and disappeared into the back regions to summon Bridget, who was enjoying a comfortable chat with the upstairs maid in the laundry room. Adjusting her bonnet, she hurried back to Serena and received the information that they were to walk back to Pickering Place with an inner grimace. But she was accustomed to Lady Serena’s passion for exercise and merely bobbed a curtsy in acknowledgment.

  Marianne waited until the front door had closed on her visitor before reentering the library. Abigail was standing beside her father’s desk. General Heyward, cradling a wine goblet, was standing in front of the fire, beaming at her. He held her hand in his, having just kissed her fingers. “You are to be congratulated, Mrs. Sutton. Your daughter is a vision of perfection. I was telling Mr. Sutton the same thing. What a joy it must be to have that lovely countenance and lively spirit around the house.”

  In Brussels, Abigail had found the general’s fulsome compliments quite pleasant. But now they struck her as rather tasteless. She couldn’t imagine the Honorable Sebastian making such a forward comment. Or even the less exalted Jonas Wedgwood. She extracted her hand from his grip and looked askance at her mother, who was smiling and nodding, accepting the compliments as her due.

  “So kind, General. So very kind,” Marianne murmured.

  “Oh, yes, we’re very proud of our pretty puss,” William declared with his hearty boom. He chucked his daughter under the chin. “You’ve been walking with Lady Serena, have you?”

  “Yes, Papa. We went to Green Park. Mr. Wedgwood bought me a cup of milk from the milkmaid … only fancy, sir, a herd of cows in a park in the middle of the city.” Abigail was more than happy to relate the events of her morning, and her father listened with a benign smile, while his wife, at the mention of Mr. Wedgwood, pursed her lips.

  “Well, now, Sutton, if you’ve a mind to visit Tattersalls, we’ll go this afternoon.” The general was not interested in Abigail’s adventures in Green Park. He presumed Mr. Wedgwood was a member of the Wedgwood family and thus a friend from their hometown and easily dismissed as a significant character.

  “Splendid … splendid. No time like the present. You’ll take a bite of nuncheon with us first, General. Just pot luck, you know, but Mrs. Sutton can set a more than decent table.”

  The general accepted the invitation and offered his arm to Abigail as they went into the dining room. He took a seat beside her and set out to be charming. “Have you been to any balls yet, Miss Sutton?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not really out yet, sir. I have to meet a wider circle of Society first, Mama says.” It was on the tip of her tongue to mention the upcoming dinner party, and she swallowed the words in the nick of time. Serena had discreetly implied that the general would not wish to be included in a party of young people, and Abigail could see the sense in this. He was a fine figure of a man, certainly, but he was definitely of her parents’ generation. She prayed that her mother would not mention it, either, but she needn’t have worried. Marianne was prepared to keep the general in reserve, but she had set her sights on a younger, more eligible candidate for her daughter.

  “Oh, we must arrange a visit to the theatre, then,” the general said. “Show you off in your finery there. Mark my words, the minute you appear in my box, the questions will be flying, and I’m sure we shall receive any number of visitors in the interval.”

  Abigail glanced at her mother. Marianne had finally persuaded her husband that a visit to the theatre as a guest of Mr. Wedgwood would do nothing to advance their daughter’s cause. William, good-natured as always, had demurred but finally yielded to his wife’s greater knowledge of such matters, and Mr. Wedgwood’s invitation had been declined in a stiff letter from Marianne.

  “Why, General, that would be delightful,” Marianne said. “But only a classical play would be suitable for a young debutante. Or perhaps a concert … somet
hing of the first style of elegance.”

  “Of course, dear lady. Of course. You mustn’t forget, I have a daughter of my own. I should certainly know what’s correct entertainment for young ladies.” He drank deep of the wine in his glass and took a hearty forkful of the splendid veal and ham pie on his plate.

  Mrs. Sutton seemed to find nothing strange in this comment. Lady Serena was a credit to her stepfather, she had often thought, although she seemed rather older than her years. But losing a mother would certainly force a child to grow up too fast.

  “I wonder that Lady Serena is still unwed,” William declared. “I’d have thought you’d have found her a husband by now, Heyward. If she were mine, I’d have had her wedded and bedded long since. As beautiful and accomplished as she is.”

  Abigail blushed furiously at her father’s lack of delicacy, but she could say nothing in front of their guest, who did indeed look rather put out.

  “Well, as to that,” the general said after a moment, “Serena knows her own mind. She’ll find her own husband when she’s ready, but for the moment, she has enough to do looking after me.” He laughed heartily and gestured to the footman to refill his glass.

  “Well, Abigail won’t be hanging out for a husband for long,” William said with a proud smile at his daughter. “Such a pretty puss. I’ve been turning lovesick swains from the door since her fifteenth birthday. And unless I’m much mistaken, there’s another one or two in the offing. Isn’t that so, puss?” He refilled his tankard from the ale jug at his elbow.

  Abigail’s blush deepened, and she murmured, “For shame, Papa. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “No, that’s no way to talk, Mr. Sutton.” Marianne came to her rescue. “You’re putting the poor child to the blush.”

  “Oh, she’s not embarrassed by her foolish old papa,” William declared with a dismissive gesture. “A proud father is allowed to be just that, don’t you agree, Heyward?”

  “Certainly.” The general’s smile was a mere flicker of his lips. “Might one ask, Miss Sutton, who has been lucky enough to find favor in your eye?”

  “My father is mistaken, sir.” Abigail found strength in indignation. “And even if he were not, I would not be so indelicate as to enter such a discussion.” She glanced at her mother, who nodded her approval.

  “Abigail is quite correct, Mr. Sutton. Such matters are hardly subjects for the table.”

  “Oh, we are among friends, Mrs. Sutton,” her husband remonstrated with a chuckle. “Isn’t that so, Heyward?” He waved at the butler. “Brandy, Morrison.”

  “I would certainly hope so,” the general concurred.

  Marianne pushed back her chair. “Come, Abigail, we will leave the gentlemen to their brandy.”

  Abigail, greatly relieved, followed her mother from the room and up to the drawing room, where Morrison was setting down a tray of coffee. “I can’t like it when Papa talks with the general like that, Mama.”

  “No, well, that’s just your papa’s way.” Marianne poured coffee. “He wants only the best for you, child.” Privately, she resolved to keep her husband as much away from Society as she could during Abigail’s debut. She was fond enough of William, but he lacked refinement, and while his generosity was wonderful where his daughter was concerned, his manners could be off-putting in the more genteel circles where she hoped to find Abigail’s husband.

  Abigail sipped coffee and quickly dismissed the general as she dreamily contemplated the prospect of two suitors, both handsome, charming gentlemen, one with whom she felt instantly familiar—she and Jonas Wedgwood shared too many experiences for them to be anything but instantly comfortable with each other—and the other an exotic aristocrat with the most beautiful manners and the entrée into the most rarefied circles of Society.

  She resolved to ask Serena about him the next time they were alone. He and Serena seemed like old friends, or at least acquaintances.

  “The Blackwater earldom is one of the oldest in the country,” her mother said suddenly, uncannily tuning in to her daughter’s thoughts. “If the present earl does not have an heir, his brother will inherit.” She sipped her coffee. “There are two younger brothers, as I understand it. Twins, but the Honorable Sebastian is the older of the two by some three minutes.”

  “How d’you know that?” Abigail was always amazed at her mother’s ability to glean trifles of information from thin air.

  “Oh, just something Morrison told me. Apparently, Lady Serena’s maid was very talkative in the kitchen and seemed to know a great deal about the family. It’s often the case that the servants know more than most about Society families.”

  “What’s his brother’s name?” Abigail was fascinated.

  “The earl is Jasper Sullivan; the youngest brother is the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan.”

  “Oh … I wonder if they’re identical twins.” Two blue-eyed, golden-haired Sebastians wandering the London streets struck Abigail as too much good fortune.

  “As to that, I cannot say,” her mother replied. “But I wonder that Lady Serena didn’t suggest we invite the Honorable Peregrine to join our dinner party with his brother.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t know him very well,” Abigail suggested.

  Marianne nodded and took a sweet biscuit from the tray, dipping it into her coffee. “Maybe so. It will be a great success, anyway. I do wonder, though, if we shouldn’t have invited the general. He could always decline.”

  “But why oblige him to go to the trouble, Mama?” Abigail asked, taking up the Lady’s Gazette. “’Tis a young people’s party. You said so yourself.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Marianne settled back in her chair and closed her eyes, preparing to take an afternoon nap.

  Chapter Ten

  Sebastian returned home, kicking himself for provoking that acid exchange and yet convinced that he could not hold his tongue about something as vital as Serena’s well-being, let alone her happiness. How could she possibly expect him to stand aside wringing his hands while she persisted in this grim and dangerous charade with her stepfather? If she had any true feelings for him, she would surely acknowledge his right to speak up. He may have spoken immoderately, but he had been provoked in his turn. Perhaps he needed to accept that Serena’s feelings for him did not run as deep as his for her. And if that was the case, then, based on past experience, he needed to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. It was a grim thought that he wanted to resist, but it sat like a persistent shadow over the sun-filled meadow of his earlier contentment.

  Peregrine was coming down the stairs as his twin let himself into the house. “You look as if you lost a guinea and found a farthing, Seb,” he observed, adjusting the set of his hat in the small mirror.

  “I wish it were that simple,” Sebastian responded with a twisted smile. “Where are you going?”

  “I thought it was time to pay a duty visit to the old man. I haven’t seen our esteemed Uncle Bradley since last month. D’you feel like keeping me company?”

  “Why not?” Sebastian sighed. “It couldn’t make this day any worse.”

  “Care to talk about it?” Perry turned his full attention on his brother. “I’m in no hurry.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Not at present, Perry, but thank you for the offer. I’m too confused to know where to start.”

  Peregrine had little difficulty guessing the source of his twin’s dour expression. He had seen it all too often three years earlier, and he wished Lady Serena Carmichael at the devil. She had never been anything but trouble for Sebastian. But there was a line even the closest brother couldn’t cross. So he said nothing further, following his brother out to the street.

  “Shall we walk?”

  “If you wish. ’Tis a nice enough day.” Perry acquiesced easily, and the two of them set off towards Piccadilly and the Strand. They walked in silence, dodging the foot traffic along Piccadilly. Conversation would have been difficult, anyway, with the strident yells of street vendors, carter
s and chairmen bellowing for custom, the clatter of iron wheels on the cobbles, the barking of mangy dogs, and the occasional high-pitched squeal of a horse, rearing to an abrupt halt at some obstacle in the stream of traffic.

  Sebastian seemed sunk in a morose reverie, failing to notice even the painted and powdered Cyprians in their dramatic décolletage, strolling with their maids through the crowd, their exposed bosoms an indication of the wares on offer. This seeming blindness was out of character, Peregrine reflected, and yet further evidence of his troubled mind. Sebastian would usually be ogling the passing ladies with his quizzing glass, offering a cheerfully obscene running commentary on their attributes. He wondered what the hell it was about the woman that enabled her to hold such sway over Sebastian.

  Outside Viscount Bradley’s stately mansion on the Strand, they both paused, automatically and without consultation preparing themselves for whatever might await them within. There was no knowing in what mood they’d find their uncle, although sharp-tongued was a certainty, whether he was in a good frame of mind or bad. It depended to a large extent these days on his physical well-being.

  Louis, their uncle’s general factotum, opened the door at their knock. He was resplendent in green livery and white wig. “Mr. Sebastian … Mr. Peregrine. I’ll see if his lordship will see you. Lord Blackwater is with him at the moment.”

  “Oh.” Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Well, shall we go up?” He moved to the staircase.

  “I suggest you wait in the antechamber, sirs, until Lord Blackwater leaves. I will then ascertain if his lordship is willing to entertain further visitors today.”

  It was couched as a suggestion but, coming from Louis, had the full force of a commandment. The brothers nodded their agreement and made their way up the ornately carved horseshoe staircase to a set of double doors to the right of the galleried landing. The doors opened onto a thickly carpeted antechamber. The brothers were so accustomed to the rich furnishings in Indian and Oriental style, the profusion of gold and silver ornaments, the delicate porcelain figures, and the heavy gilt-framed paintings, that they barely noticed them. Viscount Bradley had made his considerable fortune in India and the Orient, and his house and possessions reflected a life spent in the Far East.