A Wedding Wager

by Jane Feather

“Until tomorrow.” She blew him a kiss and stood watching as he almost ran down the street. Even after he’d rounded the corner, she stayed on the step, her fingers touching her lips, where the warmth of his mouth still seemed to linger. At last, she turned slowly back to the door.

  As she did so, a small voice spoke in a whisper behind her. “Miss Sutton? You Miss Sutton, miss?”

  She turned and saw a small urchin on the bottom step holding out a slim package. “Gen’leman gi’ me twopence to deliver this, miss. But only to Miss Sutton … you Miss Sutton, miss?”

  Bewildered, Abigail nodded. “Yes … yes, I’m Miss Sutton, but I’m not expecting anything.”

  “This ’ere’s fer you, miss.” The lad thrust the package at her, and she took it automatically. She looked down at it. Her name was certainly there, written in a bold, decisive script. Above it, in much larger letters, was written: “TO BE READ ONLY IN PRIVATE.”

  Abigail was bewildered but also intrigued. There was something exciting about such a communication, about its method of delivery, the urgency that seemed to radiate from the sealed parchment. It had to be something from Jonas, some wicked love letter that he needed her to read in private. It was just like him to come up with such a romantic idea. He would know that her mother wouldn’t allow her to receive a private correspondence, even from her betrothed. He could have written it earlier, brought it with him, and given it to the street urchin on the corner. These youngsters hung around on every corner and in every mews, looking for a way to earn a penny. But why hadn’t he just given it to her as he left?

  Perhaps in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten he had it and only remembered as he’d got to the corner.

  Abigail smiled and tucked the document into her bosom. She would bid her parents good night and seek the privacy of her bedchamber to read her love letter.

  Serena was barely aware of the passing of time throughout the evening. She was lively and entertaining, as always, moving gracefully through the salons, playing her part at the tables, supervising the staff, keeping a watchful eye on the supper tables, but she was not really there, not in essence. Her body went through the motions, but her spirit, her self, was on some other plane altogether.

  Her mind sang with thoughts of Sebastian, with the knowledge of their future, waiting to begin. Nothing here could touch her anymore, not even the malevolent eye of her stepfather, who seemed to be watching her every move. Vaguely, she wondered if he could tell that something definitive had happened to her, but then she dismissed the fancy. How could he? And even if he did, so what? He could do nothing to alter the fact. As soon as Jonas and Abigail were united, her part would be played, and she would be free.

  She floated through the evening until the last player had gone, the doors bolted, the lamps sconced, and the night’s takings locked away in the safe. Her stepfather bade her a curt good night as she passed him on her way to the stairs. He seemed restless, pent up in a way that she knew of old boded ill. He was planning something … usually that mood presaged a midnight flit. Had Burford finally pushed him to the limit?

  A prickle of anxiety disturbed her tranquility. Sir George Heyward in extremis would be like a cornered bear. But until he revealed his hand, nothing could be done beyond what she was doing. She made her way to her own chamber. She had sent her maid to bed much earlier and now undressed, tossing her gown carelessly over the daybed, and climbed into bed, sinking deep into the feather mattress, hugging her thoughts and memories tightly as she slid into sleep.

  She awoke early the next morning, filled with a wonderful sense of well-being, and lay savoring the moment of warm relaxation as her body gradually surfaced and her mind dwelled pleasantly on thoughts of the coming day. She had arranged to meet Sebastian in Bruton Street at eleven o’clock. It was a perfectly reasonable coincidence that they should both decide to visit the Suttons at the same time. Sebastian was going to call upon Jonas on his way and try to persuade him to go with him. Nature and circumstance would do the rest.

  Serena reached for the bell beside the bed and rang for Bridget, who hurried in with a tray of hot chocolate and bread and butter. “Good morning, Lady Serena. And ’tis a frosty one. Winter’s comin’ on apace.” She set down the tray and drew back the curtains. Pale wintry sunshine filtered through a sparkling, frost-sprinkled window pane.

  Serena sat up and drew the thick quilt up to her chin, sipping her hot chocolate while Bridget raked the embers and relit the fire in the hearth. Soon the comforting crackle of the logs made the room feel warmer, even though the tip of Serena’s nose still felt chill.

  “I’ll wear the tawny velvet gown this morning, Bridget, with the heavy woolen petticoat and the brown damask underskirt. And I’ll need the dark cloak with the silver fox lining and woolen stockings.”

  “You’ll be goin’ out, then, m’lady?”

  “Yes, just a visit to friends. I won’t need you to accompany me, but before I go, I’ll talk with Cook about tonight’s supper.” She set down her cup and steeled herself before throwing the quilt aside. Bridget made haste to bring her a heavy wool dressing gown with a fur lining, and she huddled gratefully into its warmth. “I do not like winter,” she declared. “The cold gets into your bones.”

  She and Sebastian had talked of traveling to Italy or the south of France for a while. It was cheaper to live there than in London, and it was warmer, even in midwinter. She let her mind dwell on the buttery sunshine of the Mediterranean, the rich colors of the bougainvillea on whitewashed walls, the warm red-tiled roofs, the heady scents of thyme and marjoram crushed underfoot in the silvery olive groves. For a moment, it was so real she could almost imagine she was there now, arm-in-arm with her husband.

  Soon, she told herself. Soon it would be reality. And until then, she needed to keep her wits about her.

  She was glad the general didn’t make an appearance when she went downstairs. The library door was closed as she crossed the hall to the door leading to the kitchen regions, and she could hear the rise and fall of voices within. Vaguely, she wondered who might be calling upon her stepfather this early in the morning. She pushed through the green baize door and hurried down the passage to the kitchen at the rear.

  The room was full of contained activity, as always, steam from bubbling cauldrons on the range, a cloud of flour as one of the cook’s assistants threw it liberally onto the marble slab she was using for rolling pastry. Serena blinked to clear her vision. A scullery maid dodged past her with an armful of pots and pans. The cook was standing, arms akimbo, in the open kitchen door, loudly berating the butcher, who had arrived with the day’s order of meat.

  “I told you I wanted four calves’ feet. How am I supposed to make calf’s-foot jelly with only two?”

  “All I got, missus.” The butcher shrugged. “You want ’em or no?”

  The cook sighed. “I’ll manage. What else ’ave you got?”

  “’Alf a dozen rabbits … beautiful they are. Shot last night up on the ’Eath.” He held up a limp gray form by its ears. “Plump as can be.”

  The cook prodded the offering, peered into its glazed eyes, then nodded. “They’ll do for a fricassee.”

  Serena stepped into the negotiations. “How about your splendid rabbit pies? We haven’t had those in a while.” Her tone was conciliatory, concealing her inner haste.

  The cook nodded. “If you’d prefer, Lady Serena. ’Tis all one to me.” She turned back to the butcher. “I’ll take the six, and half a dozen capons if you have ’em.”

  “Could we just go over the supper menu, Cook?” Serena asked, still hiding her impatience to be gone from the steamy kitchen.

  The woman stepped away from the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Fishmonger hasn’t been yet, m’lady, but if he’s got oysters, I’ve a mind to make an oyster stew.”

  “Excellent.” Serena stayed for a few more minutes and was turning to leave as Flanagan came into the kitchen.

  “Ale and meat wanted in the library,” he ann
ounced. “You there …” He clicked his fingers at a footman. “Take it through, and don’t use the best tankard.”

  Serena raised her eyebrows. “Does General Heyward have a visitor, Flanagan?”

  “Aye, Lady Serena, if you could call him such,” Flanagan replied with a curl of his lip that spoke volumes.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I doubt you’d want to know him, my lady. Nasty-looking specimen, if I may be so bold,” the butler declared. “But he’s been around once or twice, and he’s up to no good, you mark my words.”

  Serena’s eyebrows climbed higher. Flanagan never stood on ceremony with her—he’d known her since she was born and had served her father’s family since he was a small boy in a page’s knee breeches—but usually, he refrained from overt criticism of her stepfather and the doings in the house. She was fairly certain he stayed with the general to keep a watchful eye on her, and more than once, she’d found the knowledge of his presence enormously comforting. It seemed logical that if in Flanagan’s opinion the general’s visitor was up to no good, then so, too, in that same opinion was the general.

  She touched his arm, drawing him slightly to one side of the kitchen. “Is it the man in the moleskin waistcoat?”

  “Aye, Lady Serena.”

  She nodded, frowning in thought. “Would you take the tray in yourself, Flanagan? Find out whatever you can … see if you can pick anything up … hear anything. I know I shouldn’t ask you to do this, but I just have a feeling …” She gave him a slightly guilty smile.

  “That’s all right, Lady Serena. Just leave it with me.” He waved at the footman with his tray. “Give that to me, lad. I’ll take it.”

  The footman looked surprised but relinquished his tray, and Flanagan followed Serena out of the kitchen, back to the hall. She hung back as he knocked once and entered the library, leaving the door slightly ajar. She couldn’t see into the room properly, but she caught a glimpse of the moleskin waistcoat as he took the tankard of ale.

  “That’ll do, man. No need to hang around,” the general snapped, and Flanagan with a bow, backed out into the hall. Again, he left the door slightly ajar, glancing over his shoulder at Serena.

  She nodded and glided softly past him towards the front door. It was safer for Flanagan to listen than for her to risk being caught by her stepfather lurking in the shadows with her ear to the door. Flanagan would have a ready excuse; she would have none.

  Chapter Twenty

  Abigail lay awake through the night, tossing from one side of the bed to the other. The dreadful communication was thrust beneath her pillow—she could think of no other safe hiding place for it—but it seemed to her as the hours wore on that it had become as hard as a boulder, pressing through her usually soft feather pillows. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t possibly be true. And yet if it were untrue, how had the general found the incriminating document? It wasn’t possible for her father, so upright, so well respected in his civic circles, to be involved in something so despicable. But the document had her father’s seal. She knew it so well. It sat on his desk beside the jar of quills and the little knife he used to sharpen them. She had seen it adorn so many letters and receipts, seen it pressed into the wax that sealed the papers William sent out of the house to the various men of business with whom he dealt.

  Perhaps she had misunderstood the letter. Perhaps her father was not saying what he seemed to be saying. But if that were the case, why would the general use it for such evil? He must be sure it was true. It had to be true. Even the writing was her father’s.

  She sat up, finally giving up all idea of sleep, and lit the candle beside her bed. She drew the document out from its hiding place and unfolded it. It filled her with such horror she felt as if the very paper itself was poisoned. She stared at the words. The document was addressed to one of her father’s business partners, a man she knew well. He’d held her on his knee as a small child and always brought a big box of sugary fruit jellies when he came to dinner. He and William Sutton were the senior members of the Board of Guardians of the parish’s Poor House and responsible for administering the funds allocated for Poor Relief in the parish.

  Abigail had always been proud of the way her father worked so hard for the poor and sick of their community, a task for which he received no payment himself. He always stressed to her that people in their position had a moral and social obligation to assist those less fortunate. He would take her with him on his supervisory visits and always had a kind word for the inhabitants of the Poor House and a purse of coins which he dispensed liberally.

  But if this document were true, then that had all been a façade. Her father and Howard Barrett had been misusing the Poor Relief, diverting it into their own pockets, cutting the food rations, supplying green wood and slag from the coal heaps for the fires, neither of which would burn adequately but cost almost nothing, skimping on the already sparse clothing allowance for the poor.

  When they presented their accounts to the Board of Guardians, the paper expenditures in no way matched the reality. The letter Abigail held, from her father to Mr. Barrett, laid out a clear, step-by-step scheme to siphon off money from that allocated to food, coal, and clothing for those on Poor Relief.

  It was impossible to believe, and yet the evidence was in front of her, incontrovertible. And if she didn’t agree to elope with General Heyward, he would send the evidence to the Board of Guardians in Stoke-on-Trent, and her father would be ruined. His name would be anathema; no one would do business with him again. If she told her father, confronted him with the letter, then General Heyward would make public other evidence of William Sutton’s corruption.

  Believe me, Miss Sutton, what I still possess is much more damning than the letter you hold. If you fail to make the rendezvous, everything I have will be made public immediately.

  Abigail shuddered as she reread the final sentence of General Heyward’s accompanying letter. Even if she didn’t believe his accusations, and she couldn’t begin to believe such things of her father, other people would. So many people would recognize the handwriting and the seal, and without Abigail’s absolute faith in her father’s goodness, they would believe the evidence of their eyes.

  What would happen if she took the letter to her father? He wouldn’t be able to stop the general, not unless he killed him. And that didn’t bear thinking of, quite apart from the fact that Abigail knew her father would be no match for General Sir George Heyward in a physical battle on or off a dueling field.

  She thrust the papers under her pillow and lay back, closing her eyes against a dull throb behind her temples. She had no choice but to make the rendezvous. That would at least stop the general from making good on his threat. But she would not elope with him. Surely she would be able to escape during the journey? Even if she had to kill him herself, she’d find a way. Was he intending to go to Gretna Green? His letter didn’t say, just told her that a closed carriage would await her on the corner of Berkeley Square at four o’clock that afternoon. She need not bring anything, as all her personal needs would be supplied.

  She fell into a fitful doze just as the sky began to lighten but was wide awake when Matty brought in her hot chocolate several hours later.

  Serena left Flanagan hovering in the hall around the open library door and stepped out into the cold morning. It was a little before eleven o’clock. She hurried to the corner and hailed a passing hackney. Ten minutes later, she stepped from the hackney outside the house on Bruton Street and waited, glancing along the street to the corner where Sebastian would appear, unless he was already in the house. After a few minutes, he came around the corner, raised his hand when he saw her, and came at a half-run towards her.

  “There you are … good morning, my love.” He caught her around the waist, swinging her off her feet.

  “Sebastian,” she protested, laughing but serious as well. “’Tis the middle of the road. We can’t afford to be indiscreet … not here, not yet, at least.”

  He sober
ed, letting her find her feet again. “No, you’re right, of course. But I’ve missed you so much, and I’ve thought of you every minute. Your face has been all I’ve seen since we parted. Such a lovely face …” He stroked her cheek with his finger, and she stepped back.

  “Not here, love.”

  He sighed. “Why must you be right?”

  She smiled. “I’m not always. Where’s Jonas? I thought you were going to bring him.”

  “He wasn’t there. His man said he had left the house early this morning. Whistling to himself, I gather.”

  Serena looked up at the house. “Perhaps he’s here already. Who knows, maybe matters have moved on apace since the dinner party.”

  “Why don’t we go and find out?” Sebastian lifted the knocker.

  Morrison greeted them and escorted them upstairs to the parlor, where Marianne was sitting with Abigail. A pale and wan Abigail, Serena thought the minute she stepped into the room. Had something gone wrong? Jonas was not in the parlor, where she’d hoped he’d be.

  “Lady Serena … Mr. Sullivan, how delightful of you to call,” Marianne said. She cast Sebastian a rather wistful look before telling Morrison to bring refreshment and bidding her visitors take a seat.

  “We come with belated thanks for your delightful dinner party the other night, ma’am,” Sebastian said with his most charming smile. He, too, had noticed Abigail’s unusually wan appearance and set himself to distract Mrs. Sutton while Serena probed the daughter.

  Marianne confided, “Well, I do think our guests enjoyed it, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Serena sat beside Abigail on the sofa. “You look a little tired. Too much excitement?” she teased.

  “No … not at all,” Abigail denied. “That is, well, something has happened.” A slight blush chased the pallor from her cheeks.

  “Oh?” Serena leaned forward. “I’m all ears, my dear.”

  “Well, ’tis Mr. Wedgwood … he asked my father for my hand.”