She poured her father a cup of tea when he suddenly joined them.
Father took a sip with a sigh and sat back. “Well, that settles it.”
“Settles what?”
Father nodded. “He doesn’t want Oliver’s home after all, so I’m going to go ahead and lease it.”
“What!’ Mother and Portia cried at once.
Father cringed. “He’d rather I sell it, but it is part of her dowry and willed to her unborn son. However, Montrose agrees that we can turn a profit from the lease for a few weeks, and then his man of business will take over the income and the managing of the place.”
Portia took in her father’s smug expression and fumed silently. Uncle’s home and estate income was a gift, the reason the family had money to spare for an extended stay in London. “You cannot lease my home.”
“It will be your son’s home, not yours,” he reminded her quickly. “Lord Montrose has been made aware of the unbreakable nature of your uncle’s will. It was foolish of Oliver to be so exacting. Nobody has ever wanted to live in his house but him.”
“I have always wanted to live there!” Portia cried. “It was meant to be mine. I should have a say what’s to be done with it.”
Father winced, and then looked at Portia’s mother. “About the wedding. He is very keen to bring the wedding date forward. Is there any way it can be done without difficulty?”
“We cannot be married before the reading of the banns are complete,” Portia argued.
“Oh no,” Mother cried.
“He hinted he might be able to secure a special license.”
“What about my plans for Lavinia? There’s no time to do all that I want if the wedding happens too soon.”
Portia sat back. A sudden proposal, and now a rushed wedding date? Did Montrose want society to think there was a nasty reason he was marrying her? “Why would he suggest such a thing now?”
Father looked away. “He’s a busy man and insists he must return to his estate soon.”
Portia and mother exchanged a glance, and it was mother who looked away first. By that look of guilt forming on Mother’s face, Portia realized she had known Lord Montrose’s wishes opposed Portia’s for a proper wedding celebration. “Is anyone in this house willing to celebrate my marriage, or do you just wish to be rid of me as soon as possible so that Lavinia can be the center of attention?”
“Daughter, calm yourself,” Mother snapped. “Let me think.”
“You’ve always been special to us,” Father promised, looking to his wife for answers.
“Is that so? First you try to keep me at home, away from friends, and now you want to rush me to the alter.”
“He is most insistent, too.” Father shrugged. “You have been out for two seasons.”
“That is not at all long!” she cried as she burst to her feet. “Rushing to the alter now after telling everyone we will wait for the banns to be read will look suspicious. After all that mother has said about arrangements for the wedding breakfast, people will wonder if there is a reason I must be married in such a hurry. There certainly is not.”
“Your best friend married in a hurry. Everyone accepted that, and he was only an earl.”
“Anna married because she feared her life might have been in danger. Surely you both realize now how close to danger Anna was? Lady Scott was her mentor, her confidant, and utterly unhinged. I was in danger, too, don’t you know?”
Father rose now, his hands beseeching her to calm down. “He just doesn’t want a fuss made,” Father began. “That does not mean we agree with him. The wedding will occur as planned and promised. Just as you want.”
“It had better,” she warned. “I will not have either of you making any more decisions about my future without at least warning me. I’m not a child, and this is my life you’re deciding.”
Father held out a hand to her. “Now don’t fly into the high bows over this little incident and become difficult. We will hold firm. Your mother has already begun making arrangements for your sister, too, that cannot be changed without affecting her chances of making a good match.”
Portia stared at her father with suspicion. “Tell me you haven’t already begun negotiations with a gentleman interested in Lavinia.”
“No. No,” Father assured her. “But there is considerable interest already, I think.”
“From whom?”
“I will not embarrass anyone by mentioning names here today, but I will say they have called upon us on several occasions. I think it a splendid match if it can be done.”
Portia considered the gentlemen who had called on them this season. None would suit for her sister, certainly none who had pursued Portia for her dowry. She would be vigilant and make sure Lavinia was not forced into a marriage she did not want.
Chapter 7
Julian took breakfast at White’s Club in the morning room once a week as usual. He’d been a member all his life, but he could not afford the indulgence more often, unfortunately, given the shortfall of his income. He sipped his coffee, ate ham and eggs, and studied the news in the morning paper alone in his favorite corner of the room, content that the bill would come later.
He’d had a quiet few days by himself, avoiding society—Sullivan and Portia, particularly. He had declined two events at the last minute that he’d already promised to attend, simply because he couldn’t bear to face them again. He’d kept to his house, to his Spartan new study, and compiled a list of the unmarried women he knew who possessed a sufficient dowry for his modest needs. It had turned out to be quite a long list, actually, but almost all the women he’d found fault with for one reason or another.
A fortune hunter couldn’t be particular, but he found that he had a conscience. He knew of men who’d seduced heiresses, and then hardly ever spoke to them again. He could do that, too, he supposed, but he might not like himself very much if he did. So he’d removed the names of the women who looked down their noses at the less fortunate, the one who already made his teeth ache, and the ladies he suspected were already being courted by other men—even if they were not aware.
The list had whittled down to two names. After supper the previous evening—a brief affair of watery soup, and bread and cheese—his aunt had mentioned in passing scandals he’d not heard about. One of his choices had run off suddenly to Gretna Green with a footman in her father’s employ, and the other had been found in a compromising position in an older lady’s bed.
Julian had returned to his chambers and, before bed, had scraped the page clean of all markings and returned it to his writing desk drawer. He obviously needed to meet someone new to have any hope of getting married.
After an hour of sitting in his corner alone, the members began to file in, ready to discuss the events of the past evening’s amusements and to plan for the next. A pair of good friends came in, arguing heatedly.
“There, satisfied,” Lord Stephens said as he dropped a handful of coins into another member’s outstretched hand with an audible clink. “You win this round.”
“Indeed,” Lord James crowed as he put a line through something in the club’s betting book. “When will you learn I’ve more sense than you?”
Lord Stephens grumbled and asked for ale.
“Ah, there you are at last, Wade. And I see another wager in the betting book has been completed,” Sullivan murmured as he dropped into the chair beside Julian. “What was that one about?”
“I’ve no idea,” Julian told him, not the least bit interested. Without money to spare, gambling had lost its appeal.
“I didn’t know you would be here at this hour. I’ve been trying to meet with you for days. I called at your home first, but your aunt said you were already long gone. Thank heavens you always come here for breakfast on Tuesdays.”
Julian hid a grimace. He’d been hoping Sullivan would have no reason to call at his home. Breakfast was only served to his aunt at home, and most days Julian did without. “I’m just catching a bite to eat before doing the rounds of soci
al obligation.”
Sullivan’s eyes roved over him from head to toe, a frown appearing slowly. “I noticed you made some changes at home.”
He nodded carefully, wondering what Sullivan would say or have concluded about the changes he’d made, but otherwise made no response.
“I think I will do that, too—move my study to the front of the house. I can see the benefits of viewing the passing parade from my favorite armchair.” Sullivan squinted across the room. “So, is it still there?”
“Is what where?”
He jerked his head across the room. “That old wager in the betting book?”
Julian let out a soft sigh, thankful the topic of his reorganization had been mistaken for something else. He glanced over his shoulder to the betting book Sullivan was staring at now.
The first occasion Sullivan had come to the club, he’d read every wager in the betting book. One in particular had been of interest to him. “Oh, I’ve no idea about it. I stopped paying attention when you left London.”
He’d stopped doing a lot of things when Sullivan married Clare. Most of them cost money.
“But you loved reading the wagers with me! Let’s look today,” Sullivan decided. Sullivan bounded to his feet and hurried to the betting book before Julian could talk him out of wasting his time. Wagers were frequent in the club, and it had been quite a while. It might be impossible to find the wager he was talking about now.
Julian lingered over his second plate of food another few moments, gobbling up the last of the ham and downing the shockingly bitter coffee quickly before he grudgingly followed.
Sullivan grinned. “I found Lord Stephens’ latest wager. Lord J bet Lord S that Lord M would warn Lord S away from Miss H.”
He stared at the inscription and sighed deeply as he understood it. It had begun. “Lord James must have bet Lord Stephens that Lord Montrose would warn him away from,” Julian he swallowed the lump in his throat, “from Portia Hayes. He is nothing if not predictable.”
“He was always a selfish, jealous bastard.”
“True.” Portia usually enjoyed dancing with Lord Stephens, too. He wondered briefly if Portia knew what Montrose had done yet.
“I’ve never met a more unhappy bastard in all my years. He could always drain the joy out of any day.” Sullivan began flicking pages of the current betting book to get to the beginning.
“You’ll probably want an older book,” Julian warned as he pulled older editions down from the shelf until he found the right one. “There. It is still outstanding.”
“Lord W wagers Mr. Q fifty pounds that Lord M’s prized possession will reappear during supper. I cannot believe it is still outstanding after all this time.”
Julian chuckled. “That supper is definitely over, so I’m sure that wager should be crossed off by now.”
“Wagers never expire. And I still want to know what the bet was about, and by whom,” Sullivan declared, turning to scan the room, his expression hopeful.
“We may never know.” Without thinking too much about it, Julian lifted up the newer book so they could look through the most recent wagers placed in the club together. Julian let his gaze drift over the most recent pair of entries, noticing the reckless betting habits of his peers had not changed one bit. Large sums of money betting on how often another gentleman might sneeze during dinner was insane.
His attention snagged on one recent wager, a month old, and then he glanced at the older book. He’d left it still open to the page they’d been looking at before. His heartbeat quickened as he studied both. “Does this handwriting seem similar to you?”
Julian laid the pair of ledgers side by side as he and Sullivan compared them. “By Jove, I think it may be the same penmanship! Who wrote this newer one?”
“Lord W bet Lord B ten pounds that Lady W will sneak away with a younger man.
Julian’s grin slowly grew wider the longer he considered the wager. A month ago, he might have appeared to sneak away with a married woman, not to seduce her, but to stop a seduction in progress. How fortunate the wager had been focused on the wrong party that night. It was crossed out, and further on, another wager in the same handwriting had been made just yesterday involving Lady W again.
Most of the ton remained abed at this hour, recovering from the previous night’s amusements. He laughed at the realization he could play a part in the bet. “I really should read these wagers more often before I go out.”
“Who is Lady W?”
“Lady Windermere,” Julian explained. “Esme.”
“Oh, right. Of course. So much for her fidelity.” Sullivan shook his head in obvious disapproval. “So Windermere might have been the one who had a wager with Mr. Q years ago. I wonder why they never finished it.”
Julian scratched his head. “I don’t recall any mutual acquaintances starting with Q.”
“Well, we have to find out what the item was. Let’s ask,” Sullivan declared, tugging on Julian’s arm.
Intrigued, Julian allowed himself to be shoved into Sullivan’s carriage. He experienced a pang of envy at the comfortable surroundings he found himself in. Hacks were convenient and cheap but the ride was damned uncomfortable at times. Sullivan’s carriage smelled fresh and clean, and the cushions were deeply comfortable.
“Where does Lord Windermere live?” he asked.
“Portman Square,” Julian called to the driver. “You do realize Windermere may not remember so old a wager?”
“He has to remember. We’ll remind him. I have an excellent memory.”
Sullivan’s enthusiasm could be infectious, and it was not long before they were standing in Lord Windermere’s front hall, waiting to be seen.
“Lord Windermere will see you now.”
They entered a large room that reeked of money and bookish tendencies. Julian was impressed. He rarely envied his acquaintances, but he did today. Windermere set his book aside and gestured them to take a chair. “What an unexpected surprise?”
“We were just at the club, looking through the betting books, and then saw one of yours,” Julian told him.
Windermere winced when their eyes met. “You’re angry about last month, aren’t you? Essie assured me you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course I’m not upset. Your wife is very lovely.”
“Do not get any ideas,” Windermere warned, switching suddenly to a possessive husband in the blink of an eye.
Julian laughed outright at Windermere’s hostile expression. “She wouldn’t have me, and I wouldn’t dream of asking.”
“Good.” Windermere’s feathers settled and he gestured to the chairs. “What can I do for you gentlemen this morning?”
“We were hoping you could help us solve a mystery. For years, we noticed a wager in the betting book at White’s remains incomplete. One we think you started.”
Sullivan rattled off the entry accurately until Windermere began to grin.
Julian sat forward. “You do remember it?”
“Indeed I do. I wrote it with great pleasure.”
Sullivan rubbed his hands together, sitting forward eagerly. “The wager remains incomplete. Can you tell us why?”
Windermere sighed. “The item in question was lost.”
“Lost! No!”
Julian sat forward, too. “What was the item, if you don’t mind telling us? Sullivan here never quits talking about it, and I desperately need some peace.”
An expression of amusement crossed Windermere’s face. “A phallus.”
“A what?”
“A young acquaintance of mine posed to have his erect member immortalized in carved wood. Boasted about it one night when we were all drinking together. He claimed that he used it on his lovers, and they were vastly satisfied to have him in two places at once. Or two in one. None of us believed any of his wild claims. Young men often exaggerate about their lovers and prowess in bed. So it was acquired in the interest of shutting him up. He was a boastful, vain young man and quite full of himself. The plan w
as to have it served up to his esteemed dinner guests the very next night. We never got to savor his reaction.”
“How was it lost?”
“My co-conspirator passed away suddenly in his sleep. I never discovered what happened to the item, so I could not win or complete the wager. I could hardly explain to my late friend’s family what I was searching for, given what it was, could I?”
“That would have been awkward indeed. Who was Q?” Sullivan asked, completely wrapped up in the tale.
“Oliver Quigley.”
The hair on the back of Julian’s neck rose. Portia’s uncle, Mr. Oliver Quigley, had died suddenly in his sleep, and he might have been a chum of Lord Windermere’s at one time, too, now he considered the matter. “Oh my.”
“Do you remember him, Wade? He was quite keen on your aunt for a time, I think.”
Oliver Quigley had been an enthusiast of women and scandals, according to his correspondence. Auntie had said much the same. Julian had read more about the fellow’s antics than he should ever repeat to anyone. “Describe the phallus?”
Windermere blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“What was it made from?”
“Walnut. I’ve always found my lovers prefer the touch of marble, personally.”
“Walnut…”
A month ago, Julian had been in Oliver Quigley’s house. During the period that a murderess had been prowling London’s ballrooms, Portia had run away from the protection of her parents. A ridiculous decision given they’d no idea who the murderer had been. He’d followed her there early one morning and stayed with her there a few days, even though she had protested his protection was unnecessary. Aunt Lenthall, and his brother, had been there too and had acted as chaperone so there had been no impropriety at all.
It had almost seemed like a holiday to him.
Julian had had ample time to explore the property from top to bottom, and poke about a bit too in some of the rooms. Especially the one he’d slept in. There had been a walnut phallus in Portia’s uncle’s bedchamber, if he remembered correctly. He’d had to quickly hide it from Portia when she’d suddenly come into the room to make certain he would be comfortable for the nights sleep. He’d meant to dispose of it later, when he was unobserved, and save her or her mother the embarrassment of viewing it. He’d forgotten about it until now, though. It could still be there, too, stashed under a pile of old love letters in a box. Ready to be burned…unless the house had been cleared.
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