A Gentleman's Wager (28 page)

‘Vaughan, you know the law!’

‘And if he’s lucky,’ Vaughan continued, cutting off any further remarks, ‘I won’t blow off his balls afterward, for fun.’

Lucerne bit down on his retort. Vaughan was smiling, and Lucerne realised his friend was probably just pulling his leg. Yet he could see how things were likely to develop, and all he could do was hope that Charles would find the money in time, so that Vaughan wouldn’t feel obliged to keep his promise.

‘If you won’t dismiss the wager, do you think you could possibly apologise to Bella and Louisa?’

Vaughan’s smile faltered briefly then returned. ‘I’ve already tried, but I don’t think that Miss Rushdale knows how to forgive me, and besides, she’s too enamoured of having me as an enemy. As for Louisa, I’ll try to think of something to endear myself in your eyes, for I don’t believe she herself has a problem with me.’

Louisa peered through the denuded trees towards the river-bank. Eleven days had passed since the disastrous trip into Richmond, and she needed air and space to clear her head and sort out her thoughts. All her efforts to try to forget Frederick Wakefield and his infidelity had failed. She wondered what he was doing at that moment, whether he ever thought of her, and if she should write or try to see him. If she hadn’t tried to talk to him that night, then he would never have argued with Lucerne and left Lauwine, and none of what had followed would have happened either. She didn’t blame herself, but neither did she claim innocence.

On reaching the old moss-covered stone bench that had become her favourite retreat over the last few days, she was dismayed to find it already occupied. Vaughan sat with his legs drawn up and his head resting on his knees, staring out across the rushing water of the river. For the first time since she’d met him he looked vulnerable. As she stepped towards him, a twig snapped beneath her feet, and he turned his head. The moment he saw her his demeanour changed. He instantly became the epitome of the libertine. Louisa sat down beside him, not fooled.

‘What do you want?’ he said disagreeably.

‘Nothing. I came outside for some air.’ She raised a hand to stroke his shoulder, then thought better of it. ‘You look unhappy.’

‘I don’t require comfort from you.’

Louisa sat on her hands; the stone was cold beneath her bottom. ‘Who said I intended to give it?’ Unafraid, she met his eyes. The lick of lavender in his irises made her realise the depth of his emotions at that moment. That he could be so fragile gave her strength. ‘Have you fallen out with Lucerne?’ she asked.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Have you?’

Vaughan gave her an innocuous smile. ‘No, we just disagree on a few points. He thinks I’m a rogue and I think he lacks perspective.’

‘You’re probably both right,’ Louisa said diplomatically. ‘Perhaps you should make an effort to meet halfway.’

‘Who made you a makepeace?’

Louisa pulled her hands from under her bottom and smoothed her dress over her knees. ‘I didn’t expect you to listen, but, personally, I’m sick of arguments. Friends shouldn’t fight.’

Vaughan sat up a little straighter. He cocked his head towards her. ‘What about lovers?’

‘They shouldn’t fight either,’ she said, without comprehending his meaning. To her surprise, he began to laugh.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said as the smile slowly faded from his eyes. ‘Though an argument can be an aphrodisiac. Perhaps you should take your own advice. Where is the delightful Captain Wakefield these days?’

It was Louisa’s turn to glower. ‘I don’t require Frederick Wakefield for my happiness,’ she snapped.

His smile became condescending. ‘Drop the pretence, Louisa; I’m not a fool. You still love him; if you didn’t you’d never have taken me to your room. You forget, I know an awful lot about bitterness, resentment and revenge. What did he do to upset you that day you and Bella went to town? Did you surprise him while he was with a strumpet?’

‘Yes!’ she blurted, turning scarlet.

Vaughan looked neither shocked nor surprised by the revelation, though he pretended not to notice her blush.

‘I thought so. Wakefield is that sort of man. He just can’t help himself. Something to do with being a soldier,’ he mused.

Louisa’s embarrassment turned to horror. Her mouth
fell
open, but Vaughan pressed two fingers to his lips then transferred the kiss to her, thus stopping her making any remarks.

‘There are worse vices to have, Louisa, and I’m sure that if you married he’d be tediously faithful.’

‘Unlike you, when you marry.’

‘Something I never intend to do, so ’tis unlikely to be an issue.’

Louisa clenched her fists. For a moment she considered spitting in his face, but he turned his attention back to the choppy water. The recent stretches of rain had flooded the river to capacity, and any more heavy rainfall would cause it to burst its banks. Still maddened, Louisa rose to her feet. Vaughan caught her wrist in an iron grip.

‘You can be as angry as you like with me, but I’ve never deceived you, Louisa.’

He let go.

Louisa gazed blankly at the dappled leaves on the ground before her. Her anger twisted itself tighter then began to disperse. She knew it was pointless; the world would go on despite her feelings.

Vaughan idly brushed a faded leaf from his arm. ‘Who was he with?’ he asked.

‘Millicent Hayes. The witch from the party in the obscene dress.’

‘Ah, the aspiring courtesan. You’ve nothing to fear from her.’

Louisa sat back down. Her skin had returned to its typical pallid hue except for two bright spots on her cheeks, but her eyes were still hot and fierce. ‘It was awful,’ she confessed. ‘She was in his bed. They were doing it.’

A tear trickled down her cheek. Vaughan brushed it away. ‘You lay with me. Is that any different to what he did?’

‘You’re not a common whore.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you. Although I fear many would disagree, including your captain. Now listen to me. Unless I’m greatly mistaken he’s never made you any promises, but I’ll wager he would if given the opportunity. But first you have to forgive him.’

‘How can I?’ she snarled peevishly.

‘Don’t be such a prude. This is the Age of Enlightenment, Louisa; your morals are out of date.’

Sighing under her breath, she shook her head. ‘What’s the point? Even if I can forgive him, he’s miles away, and short of a miracle he’ll never forgive me.’

‘Yes he will.’ Vaughan’s sharp gaze seemed to blur a little, as if he were turning his thoughts inwards. ‘If he doesn’t, tell him I forced you. I’m sure that he’d be only too happy to champion your honour.’

‘What use is that? All that will happen is he’ll call you out again.’

‘And, as before, Lucerne will stop him. He lost both his brothers to duels. He’d have us both arrested before the pistols were even out of the case.’

Louisa sniffed and Vaughan handed her his handkerchief.

‘He still wouldn’t marry me,’ she said. ‘He’s convinced I’m too wealthy, and that everyone would think he was just doing it for my money.’

‘Then he’s an idiot and you’re better off without him.’

‘That’s not a helpful comment.’

‘No, nor was it intended to be.’ Vaughan got to his feet and brushed down his coat. ‘Keep praying, eh? Oh, and tell Lucerne I’ll be back in a day or two.’

‘Why, where are you going?’ She grabbed the edge of his coat.

Vaughan pulled the fabric out of her fingers. ‘To settle a few accounts.’

A LOUD RUMBLING
woke Christopher Denning from his repose. He carefully opened one bleary eye and then a second, and squinted at the canopy over his bed. He noted with some small concern that his left arm was dead, trapped beneath Francis Lambton’s accursed head. Looking down, he realised that his friend was naked apart from the sheet. He slumped back with a groan. He had no recollection of offering to share his bed with Lambton, who was infamous for his infernal snoring. More confusing yet was the fact that Denning was still fully clothed apart from his coat and shoes. He rescued his arm with some difficulty, drawing only a grunt from Lambton.

Somebody began to rattle the bedchamber door from the other side, and Denning looked towards it with interest. It was probably Joseph, his man, and damned if he was going to let a hangover put him off his breakfast. The door came unstuck and opened. Denning quickly shut both eyes and feigned sleep. The tyrant, as he was affectionately known, strode purposefully across the tiled floor to the window and threw back the long drapes; bright stinging light flooded the room and was greeted by anguished groans from the bed.

‘Damn it, Joe, have a little mercy in the morning.’

‘It’s two o’clock, and mercy is a quality we are both supposed to lack,’ said a voice not at all like Joseph’s.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Denning exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. ‘Pennerley, what the devil are you doing here?’

Lambton grumbled in response to the loud noise and pulled the sheet over his head. Vaughan perched on the end of the disarrayed bed and nonchalantly picked up a roll from the breakfast tray that he had just set down. Denning watched transfixed as he slit it in half, buttered it and then carefully replaced the knife.

‘I thought I might come and pay my respects,’ he said, as he tossed Denning the roll.

‘Did you send a card? I haven’t seen it; thought you were still abroad. Joe!’ he called. ‘Damned fiend, did you lose the marquis’ card?’

‘I never sent one.’

Denning settled his back against Lambton and chewed the buttered roll. ‘What do you want? Not a social call at this hour.’

‘Business,’ replied Vaughan. He glanced at the figure next to Denning with a mixture of appraisal and disdain. Lambton still bore the ravages of last night’s drinking, and appeared to be asleep. Denning well understood Vaughan’s circumspection.

‘Lambton’s safe to talk in front of.’

Denning smiled avariciously. Men only came to him for one sort of business, and Pennerley was the last man he’d ever expected to get a hold of. Denning was a moneylender. A clergyman’s son, he had started lending small sums to his friends, but those amounts had gradually grown and, by learning to apply pressure at critical moments in his debtors’ lives, he had made himself a very wealthy man. However, unlike most of his kind, Denning was still accepted in society. He was a regular dinner guest at the most exclusive houses and frequently gambled with the fashionable and the gentry. He always listened to polite gossip and paid strict attention to who was doing well and, more specifically, to who was not.

‘A small sum to tide you over,’ he said, looking Vaughan up and down. The marquis had always had expensive tastes; it would be a pleasure doing business with him.

‘Hardly. I do not require your services. I came to dispose of a debt, not obtain one.’

‘I don’t accept payments on behalf of another man unless he is present,’ Denning replied, vexed that he wouldn’t have a grip on Vaughan after all.

‘Of course not; why would you. However, I wish to buy this particular debt from you, not depreciate its value.’

‘Buy it! What for?’

Vaughan yawned theatrically as though bored, and offered no further explanation. Denning gave him a hard stare. Generally, he tried to stay out of personal quarrels. ‘Who are we talking about?’ he asked.

‘Captain Frederick Wakefield.’

‘A friend of yours?’

‘No.’

‘His debts amount to one thousand and seventy-four pounds and six shillings.’

Vaughan pursed his lips. ‘So little? I’m surprised. I wonder why his friends wouldn’t lend him the money.’ He looked at Denning. ‘Perhaps they tried and he refused to involve them … You’ll have it within the hour, in exchange for the bonds.’

‘I haven’t agreed to sell.’

‘Shall we make it a round eleven hundred pounds?’

Denning gulped; he couldn’t really refuse. The truth was he doubted he’d ever recover his money from Wakefield in the normal way, because the man didn’t have any money; he never had, and nobody got rich on a captain’s salary. This was ridiculous. He was briefly
tempted
to push for more money, but Pennerley didn’t appear to be in the mood for haggling. ‘I’ll fetch them for you now,’ he said.

Garret Pryce hunched over the single fat candle on his desk. It was well past supper but Pryce was lost in his books and unaware of the passage of time. Balancing columns of figures was an obsession to him, in a way that his late partner William Watson had approved, but never understood. His ageing tabby cat slunk around the bottom of the door and leaped on his desk.

‘What is it, Milo, puss?’ he asked as he brushed the cat away from his ledger. Milo mewed loudly and Pryce glanced up from the cramped figures. He took a moment to refocus over his spectacles on the tall masked stranger starting on the opposite side of the desk.

‘What do you want?’

The man arched an elegant eyebrow so that it appeared above the upper edge of his mask, and levelled an expensive pistol at him.

‘A small service.’

Pryce mastered himself; he wondered if he should run or shout for help. But this poised young man looked rather agile and unafraid of shooting, while he was pushing seventy and had a few too many creaky joints to be fleeing down the stairs two at a time. Pragmatism quickly overcame fear. Besides, he decided, this man was no ordinary thief; he wore a fine lawn shirt beneath a shabby coat, and his hands were clean and neat.

‘If you’d care to explain what you want, I’ll do my best to help,’ he said in his best attempt at a reasonably steady voice.

‘Pen and ink: a letter to Miss Louisa Stanley.’

Pryce squinted at the man. Miss Stanley was one of his most favoured clients. He handled all her accounts,
as
he had done for her brother before her and their parents and grandparents before that.

‘Tell her that she is ruined; that the investments you made for her have gone awry. Arson in one instance, a workers’ revolt, and the war with France – make it plausible.’

‘Why?’ he asked, bewildered by the request. ‘Miss Stanley’s finances have never been better.’