Foretold Heart

by Camille Oster

  Walking into the space, he took a seat at one of the tables and ordered a drink, tapping the table to be included in the next game. There was enjoyment in gambling, a game of strategy and skill at times, but he didn't crave the heart-thumping risk that some men came here for. He liked to win, but didn't feel the need to have a great deal at stake. This was not how he sought meaning in life.

  Which begged the question of how he did, because there was a certain lack of it. It was what drove him here. His life as a soldier had given meaning, and now he wasn't one anymore, and a new form of meaning hadn't been found. There wasn't exactly much to strive for—no campaigns to plan, execute and win. He understood why some never left the military, but family duty required it of him, and he was trying with some difficulty not to hate everything.

  His drink arrived and he played. Sizing his opponents, seeking their level of risk and daring, as well as intelligence in playing. It was exciting playing against a competent opponent.

  Before long, he had to relieve himself and left the table. When he returned a young man was sitting in the seat next to him. Felix returned to his seat. A new game had started and he had to wait.

  "I'll be damned. You have a limp," the young man said.

  "How very observant of you," Felix said wryly.

  "My sister will be interested in meeting you. A fortune teller recently told her she would marry a dark-haired man with a limp." He took a deep sip of his drink, quite heavily in his cups already. "All quackery, of course, but she believes it. You're not looking for a wife, are you?"

  Felix frowned for a moment. "No," he replied, having no interest in where this young man wished to take this ridiculous assertion.

  "Ah, well, that's a shame. I will have to tell her that I found her man with a limp and he wasn't interested. Cheroot?" he said, offering his box. "Andrew Bellworth."

  "Bellworth," Felix said as he accepted a cheroot and lit it with a candle that stood on the table for that express purpose. "Harold Bellworth's son?"

  "Yes," he said with an easy smile.

  So this sister was the dismissive young lady he had met at Lord Wallings ball, and briefly again the day after. She had certainly done nothing to ingratiate herself. Hadn't even performed with the expected degree of etiquette. He'd thought she was particularly rude at the time, if he remembered correctly.

  And now it turned out that this girl believed a fortune teller had predicted that he'd offer for her. How extraordinary. And seeing him, it seemed the prediction wasn't appealing to her. In fact, she'd looked entirely dismayed. What was it she'd hoped for, he wondered.

  "Silly creature, is she?" he said to the brother who was losing badly at his game.

  "Aren't they all? If you go with the premise that some charlatan at Vauxhall Gardens will tell you the future, I would say that qualifies as silly. Normally she's quite sensible. Alright, at times she is sensible. At points she veritably tortured me growing up."

  "Did she?"

  "But I suppose she will marry soon. They all do in the end. All our families rejig and everything changes. It has taken a lot of effort to discourage the malfeasants, idiots and cads. See that is the problem with having a charming sister: you need to chase away all the inappropriate bucks sniffing around her. Do you have a sister?"

  "No," Felix replied.

  "Lucky you. It's a curious relationship. They are such an absolute fixture in your life and then they just get married off. Ester too."

  "Ester?"

  "Sylvia's best friend. They are inseparable. Always have been. Just about a second sister, I suppose."

  "Then what did the fortune teller say about her?"

  "That she will not marry the one she wants." Cheroot in hand, he pointed at a man across the room, who was laughing with the attention on the wandering beauties. "Although what she sees in him, I'll never understand."

  The object of this girl's hope was handsome, which was perhaps the sum of it. There was no virtue in beauty. Young people didn't always understand that. When it came down to it, when the pressure was on, beauty was as irrelevant as eye color. It meant nothing. It didn't signify character, bravery or intelligence. In fact, some of the handsome men were the most coddled and had a disproportionate belief in their skills and capabilities. Things perhaps came too easily to them.

  That had been true of himself as well at one point. Wealth, station and handsomeness had opened every door possible for him as a young man, but there was no bargaining with battle. Only inner strength counted. It stole your youth and arrogance, and left a changed man in its wake.

  "And your sister doesn't wish to marry the one foretold?"

  The young man turned back to him with surprise. "I don't think she has yet met a dark-haired man with a limp."

  Oh yes, she had.

  "Argh," Andrew Bellworth uttered as he lost the game and his money was drawn away. "Lady Luck, you are a fickle mistress."

  Chapter 9

  RATHER UNGRACEFULLY, Sylvia sat down on the sofa in Alexander Raighley's parlor, like they had done so many times before. Technically, Alexander was Andrew's friend, but they tended to congregate there if it was a particularly dull day. It was where Andrew was typically found if he didn't come home the previous night.

  Mother was, after all, a light sleeper, and didn't appreciate Andrew stumbling up the stairs in the wee hours of the morning, trying to be quiet. But Alexander always had a bed available and was usually stumbling in himself.

  In fact, they both looked a little green that morning.

  "Interesting night, was it?" It would be a lie to say she wasn't curious about the things they did. About the Black Swan. Even she couldn't bully Andrew enough to get him to take her there. Besides, it was too risky, even if she was curious.

  "Wouldn't you know it, I met a man with a limp," Andrew said, nursing a small cup of thick coffee.

  At the Black Swan, apparently. How surprising, Sylvia thought sarcastically.

  Alexander was walking around in his morning coat, searching for something he'd lost.

  "A Lord Britheney. Very handsome, but unfortunately, he is not searching for a wife."

  "What? You asked him?"

  "I explained the whole situation."

  Heat flared up Sylvia's cheeks, but she tried hard not to let it show, so she rose from her seat and walked to the window. "Well, thank you for informing a random stranger of something like that. If he was likely to marry me, he certainly won't now. My fortune derailed. I will simply have to live with you forever."

  "Who won't marry you?" Edgar said, walking in the door. He looked much healthier than either her brother or Alexander, his cheeks rosy from the cold outside.

  "Lord Britheney," Andrew said.

  "Oh, very ambitious. A title. Just as well. I have heard bad things said about him."

  "See," Sylvia said. "I told you." Had she told him? She couldn't recall, but it had certainly been the one thing occupying her mind for a few days.

  Edgar sat down and put his boots up. Alexander insisted on informality and these young men treated his house like it was their own home. Although technically Alexander was too old to be an orphan, he was alone and without the guiding influence of a female, and his house represented that in just about every way. There were never any fresh flowers. No mat on the floor to stop people traipsing dirty feet across the house, and he never had anything to serve. But what else could one expect from a young bachelor?

  "I don't know him, of course," Edgar continued. "But my mother puts no stock in the family. His father was quite the scoundrel. Deflowered a few society girls in his time, if she can be believed. Quite ruined them."

  Sylvia frowned as she heard this. That was awful, to completely destroy a girl's entire future, and their families for the sake of… deflowering. Alright, she didn't fully understand what was so compelling that it would drive someone to be so malicious, that deflowering would make it worth destroying a girl and her entire future. Perhaps that was the point, to destroy. And these silly
girls let men do it. Why?

  Maybe she could understand stealing a kiss here and there from someone you had tenderness for. She could certainly imagine Ester letting Marcus steal a kiss, but deflowering, that simply didn't sound all that appealing—at least not with some old lecher.

  Maybe it was the title. Perhaps these girls gambled with their virtue in hopes of snagging a title. There were some who were intent on acquiring themselves a title, and then cried foul when said title wasn't handed to them.

  With a groan, she stroked her hand over her brow. At times, she couldn't understand people.

  "Well that sounds just wonderful," Andrew said tartly. "He seemed like an alright chap."

  "Well mama didn't say he had the same hobbies, but who knows what he's been doing over in foreign lands."

  "Let's not gossip, ladies," Sylvia said. "It's unkind." They hated being referred to as ladies. While the truth was that she didn't want to speak about him anymore. Even less so now that Andrew had so kindly informed him of this prophesy. Well, as if this all wasn't awkward enough.

  Andrew threw a pillow at her and for a moment she wished to pick it up and whack him with it, but she really did need to move past such childish impulses. It was only really Andrew that inspired such behavior in her. Old habits and sibling rivalry that were hard for them to break.

  "Where is Ester?" he asked.

  "Oh, she had to go with her mother. I think her mother has hopes in a certain direction."

  "What direction?"

  "I don't know. Ester doesn't always tell me everything, you know."

  "Yes, she does."

  "Alright fine, there is a certain young man that her mother wants to introduce her to."

  "Oh," Andrew said. Why did he care where Ester was all of a sudden?

  Alexander returned to the parlor and sat down, looking slightly disheveled. He was smoking a cheroot and still wearing his morning coat while he was flicking through some pamphlet.

  "What are you doing?" Andrew asked.

  "De Valle approached me about some horse he wants to go in on," Alexander said.

  "A horse," Andrew said and flopped back on the sofa.

  "Thought I might go have a look at it. It's out in Sandringham. Would you like to come?"

  "Go all the way to Sandringham to look at a horse. No, thank you."

  Alexander shrugged and continued to study the pamphlet. "You'll miss Mrs. Brigham's soirée if you go."

  "As much as I dread to miss a soirée," Alexander said sarcastically, "I think I will go for a little jaunt into the countryside."

  Why Ester had developed a crush on Marcus and not Alexander, Sylvia would never understand. Alright, he was a bit unkempt, but he was charming. While Marcus kept himself perfectly groomed and always in the latest fashion, Alexander was entirely unobservant. Still, she made a good match for him, and vice versa.

  Having left the boys to their continued recuperation, Sylvia walked over to Ester's house. Mary walked vigilantly beside her.

  "What do you think, Mary? Will she be home?" Sylvia asked as they walked up to the door and knocked.

  "I think they're still out calling," Mary said. Mary only spoke when asked a question. Elise, her previous maid, had been much more forthcoming with her thoughts, which in many households made her a wearisome servant, but Sylvia missed her. And it was a young man here in this house that had run off with her.

  "Miss Sylvia," Mr. Monish said as he opened the door.

  "Is she here?"

  "Has just returned."

  "Excellent," Sylvia said and walked inside and up the stairs to Ester's room, where she found Ester still wearing her jacket and standing by the fire. "How was it?"

  "He was awful," she said. "The most horrific laugh and he laughed at everything. I had to wonder if he was in some way disturbed."

  Sylvia grimaced.

  "Mother thinks he's utterly charming. I think she's lost her mind."

  "What about Alexander?"

  "Alexander? Now you've lost your mind."

  "It's not a bad match. He has a house, has comfortable prospects, and he's not a complete ogre."

  "Is that what our standards have sunk to now? He's not an ogre?"

  "He's a sight better than some man you think might be mentally deficient."

  Ester frowned and then sighed. "He's like my brother. I just can't see him that way."

  "So? He'd make a good husband. Might even make you blissfully happy if the prophecy is true."

  "The prophecy," Ester said dismissively. "Poppycock. Why don't you marry him then? He's just as much a brother to you as he is to me. When I look at him, really look at him, all I remember is how much he used to like to fart as loudly as possible."

  Sylvia couldn't help chuckle. There was something to be said for a little mystery in a man. Not too much mystery. "Apparently, Mrs Fulthorpe said the former Lord Britheney was a complete lecher who liked to ruin girls."

  "Oh, he just gets better and better this intended of yours."

  "He's not my intended."

  "According to the prophecy that everyone says is uncannily accurate, he is."

  "What has gotten into you today?"

  "I'm sorry. Perhaps I am feeling a little despondent. My nerves are on edge."

  "Well, you will enjoy when I tell you that Andrew so kindly informed Lord Britheney of the prophecy."

  "What?" Ester said, a stunned look on her face. "Why would he do that?"

  "Have you not noticed how my brother hates me? He obviously did it to embarrass me."

  "Oh heavens. This is awkward, isn't it? Do you think he'll be at the Bingham party?

  "I hope not. He doesn't seem to enjoy parties."

  "Which begs the question of why Lady Wenstropp is introducing him to every marriageable girl in town. Clearly he is looking for a wife."

  "According to my brother, he says he isn't."

  "Maybe if we don't see him at the Bingham event, that is true."

  Biting her nail, Sylvia thought it over. Why was all this making her feel so nervous? It wasn't as if she could be compelled to marry this man.

  Chapter 10

  THE REASON FELIX WAS at this awful party was to tackle Lady Wenstropp about the piece of land. Ideally, if he could make it a public discussion that would make her look heartless if she didn't help these poor injured men by selling that inconsequential parcel of land. That business could be tied up quite nicely by the end of the night if he managed to play things right. It needed finesse. If he did this ham-fisted, then Lady Wenstropp would simply refuse to entertain the thought further.

  It wasn't as if the lady refused. She simply didn't want to discuss such things. What she wanted to do was show him every young lady in the country, it seemed. Hopefully she had given up any hopes with regards to that niece, cousin, whatever it was. The girl's movements had been too slow, suggesting every single thing she did was artifice, and would probably continue to be so. Who knew what kind of person was inside? No, he did not want to marry a mystery, particularly someone who hid themselves. Whatever would come out was unlikely to be good, was it?

  Miss Bellworth, however, had every emotion she had written on her face. When they'd first met, he'd thought her rude, but now he knew that she was being presented with her evident future husband. The silly notion made him chuckle.

  Without meaning to, he searched the room for her. There was a warehouse load full of silk in just this room. Enough candle wax to melt into a pond. A handsome room with paintings along the wall and across the ceiling, a cornucopia of abundant fruit. The people who had built this wished for wealth and had received it.

  Was that what he would wish for if he didn't have it? No, probably not, but how would he know? The happiest man he knew was his former sergeant, who lived in a cottage in Scarborough with his 'technically not married to' wife and their two children. He never went anywhere and never wished to. After a life of war, that little cottage was paradise, it seemed.

  It wasn't an option for Felix.
He had his duty to the family, which meant marrying one of these cossetted and insipid girls. First, though, he would complete his duty to the injured soldiers by wresting this piece of land out of Lady Wenstropp's hands.

  So, he went in search of the lady through the crowded room. It seemed most people knew who he was, which meant they talked about him in the salons of London. Not that he completely cared what they said. No doubt they found him uncouth, his manners rough, maybe even surly. Speaking of the weather, or horses, or fashion, or whatever else it was that occupied the idle mind, simply wasn't of interest to him. Which was why he normally sought out the military men when possible. At least they spoke the same language.

  Instead of finding Lady Wenstropp, he saw Sylvia Bellworth, standing with the same girl he'd seen her with the first time. That had to be Ester, the one who wasn't to marry the man she wanted. They were both finely dressed with their hair intricately curled, twisted and pinned to reveal their long, slender necks. He didn't normally think of necks as a focal point for a woman's attractiveness, but he had to concede it had a certain appeal. So did tussled wild hair and sheer nakedness.

  Miss Bellworth's eyes found him and her mouth grew tight. She didn't approve, but he didn't know if that was of him personally, or as an intended husband. It certainly wasn't his estate or his prospects. No, her objection was more personal.

  Her eyes followed him as he walked around the edge of the room, past groups of people chatting and drinking, talking about the weather and the price of wheat, Parisian fashion and political maneuvering. He absorbed the snippets of conversation, but his objective didn't change.

  She refused to turn toward him as he approached her from the side, but she knew he was there. There was a tension in her stance. Did she feel like prey, because he felt a little like a hunter, but he dismissed the notion.