The Double Wager (14 page)

“Don’t say anything to Eversleigh or to Peter,” Giles said. “I shall work this out somehow, Henry.”

“Yes, in debtors’ prison!” she replied sharply. “Giles, I shall get the money. And do not worry, I shall not beg it from Marius. He has been extremely generous. I have almost enough. The rest I shall get easily. But you must promise me not to go to a moneylender. Will you, Giles? Please?”

Giles was very doubtful and reluctant. At first he refused to accept help in any form from his sister. But gradually he salvaged his pride by declaring that he would accept the money from her as a loan, to be paid back as quickly as he possibly could. He promised neither to visit a moneylender nor to blow his brains out. He was to return in three days’ time to collect the money from his sister.

As soon as he had left, Henry ran up to her room and threw herself onto the bed. She lay staring hopelessly up at the canopy over her head. She had no idea how she was to raise the money to help Giles. She had not lied to him when she had said that Marius was generous. He showered gifts on her and made her a very generous money allowance. But Henry was a spendthrift. She could not have money without spending it. And her main clothing bills went directly to her husband, without touching her purse. She knew without troubling to look that her purse held only a small cluster of loose change, a few guineas at the most. It would not go a long way to paying Giles’ debt.

She considered breaking her promise and confiding the problem to Marius. She had no doubt at all that he would immediately, and almost without question, write out a bank draft for the full amount and would not even demand that Giles repay it. But she could not bring herself to do so, for two reasons. She had made a promise to Giles, and according to her code of honor, a promise was totally binding, especially when it had been made to her brother, with whom she had always been very close. Second, she could not bring herself to admit to Marius that yet another member of her family was in a scrape. She craved his good opinion, though why this was so she had not stopped to consider. She could not tell him.

She did think of asking him for the money under some other pretext. But how could she justify asking for three thousand pounds? A new bonnet? New kid gloves? There was no possible way she could do it.

Henry was still searching her mind for a solution an hour later when she heard the voices of the twins in the distance and the barking of Brutus. She sighed and rose to ring for Betty. It was time to dress for dinner. She did not want to be caught lying on her bed in the daytime, something she almost never did. Sometimes Marius wandered into her room from the adjoining dressing room to talk with her for a few minutes.

Henry was still wrestling with her problem the following afternoon when she took her phaeton for a drive in the park. She had stayed at home all morning and had instructed the butler to tell any visitors that she was away from home. But all she had to show for her concentrated thinking was a headache and a cross mood. She decided that she needed some fresh air and light conversation with some of her acquaintances. She felt slightly cheered by the court of young men who were soon riding alongside her, lavishly complimenting her on her new blue bonnet and soliciting her hand for dances at Lady Sefton’s ball the following evening. She gave a special smile to Oliver Cranshawe, who was on foot and just bidding farewell to a trio of ladies, who were also out strolling in the park.

“Good afternoon, your Grace,” he called, flashing his white smile and bowing gracefully as he swept off his hat. “Your beauty rivals the day, as usual.”

“And you speak with a flattering tongue, as usual, sir,” she replied. “Come, take a turn in the phaeton with me and cheer me up.”

He readily availed himself of the invitation. “And do you need cheering, Henry?” he asked, looking at her closely.

“I have the headache and am feeling blue-deviled,” she replied airily.

“I have never known you downhearted,” he said quietly, serious suddenly and giving her all his attention.

She smiled. “It is merely a passing mood, sir. Tell me how you enjoyed the opera last evening. I saw you in Lord Cadogan’s box.”

“Yes, I saw you too, Henry,” he replied, “and would have waited on you during one of the intermissions if Marius had left the box. But I know he don’t like me. However, I believe you are trying to turn the subject. Will you tell me what has happened to trouble you, my dear? You know me to be your friend, do you not?”

“You are very kind, Oliver, but it is a private matter. And not serious, I assure you.”

“Is it Marius?” he asked. “I do not wish to pry, heaven knows, but I cannot believe him to be a suitable husband for one as young and full of life as you, Henry.”

“You are being ridiculous,” she said. “Of course it is not Marius. He is the best of husbands. But it is something I cannot tell him. Oh, may I tell you about it, Oliver? I think it will help me just to talk it over with someone else. And perhaps you may be able to advise me.”

“Be assured that I shall do all in my power,” he said, all solicitous concern, and he leaned over and eased the ribbons from her hands so that he was now driving the phaeton. Henry sat back and rested her hands in her lap.

“It is Giles again,” she began, and she told him the whole story, as it had happened the previous day. When she had finished, there was silence for a while. She realized that Cranshawe had guided the horses into a path that was not as heavily used as the main one, which was always crowded with horses and vehicles at this hour of the day. She smiled at him in gratitude.

“Is that all?” he asked. “That is the whole matter?” She nodded. “But, my dear Henry, there is no problem at all. I shall give you the money. It is the merest trifle, I assure you.”

“Oh, I could not possibly!” she cried. “No, Oliver, I could not be so beholden to you or to any man.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” he assured her. “We shall call it a loan, though I shall have no real desire to recover the money. You may repay it when and as you wish. It need not weigh upon your mind at all.”

Henry hesitated. “It is uncommon generous of you,” she said doubtfully, “but it does not seem right, Oliver.”

“Henry,” he said, drawing the horses to a halt and taking one of her hands in his free one, “I am your husband’s cousin and his heir. I am family. And I have a personal devotion to you that I shall not embarrass you by relating now. Please, allow me to help you and your brother. I should consider it a signal honor.”

Henry looked steadily into his eyes. “I will accept, Oliver,” she said, “but only on condition that the money be considered a loan. I will not accept a gift from you.”

“I accept a gift from you in being the recipient of your trust,” he said softly, raising the hand he still held to his lips. He lifted the reins and started the horses forward again as they both became aware of a lone rider cantering toward them.

Eversleigh!

“Damn!” Cranshawe swore under his breath. “I shall wait on you tomorrow morning at eleven with the money,” he said hurriedly to Henry.

“Ah, my love, I was fearful that you might have had some mishap when you did not return to the main path immediately,” Eversleigh said amiably as his horse drew abreast of the phaeton. “Good day, Oliver,” he added, nodding briefly in the direction of his heir. “Horses all lame today?”

“Not at all, Marius,” Oliver replied hastily. “I considered the day particularly suited to exercise on foot.”

“Ah, then it is uncommon civil of you, dear boy, to abandon your exercise in order to keep her Grace company,” Eversleigh said, viewing his cousin through his quizzing glass.

“It is always a pleasure to converse with Henry,” Cranshawe replied irritably. When the duke made no move either to lower his quizzing glass or to resume his own ride, his heir was forced to turn to Henry. “Thank you for taking me up, cousin,” he said. “I must leave you now. I am meeting some friends in under an hour.”

“Good day, Oliver,” she replied gravely, and watched him jump down and walk away in the direction of the northern gate of the park. She returned her gaze to her husband, who had lowered his quizzing glass.

“Indeed, my love, I feel most vexed that I am not on foot today. I should enjoy riding up beside you,” Eversleigh said languidly. “That is a most fetching bonnet. Is it new?”

“Yes, it is,” she replied airily, “and since I
must
wear a bonnet, I determine to buy any that take my fancy.”

“Quite so,” he agreed. “I believe it was a milliner’s bill that almost gave James an apoplexy this morning.” Henry dimpled. “But I must say, my love, that this one was worth every penny. There was hardly a male head in the main avenue that did not turn in admiration, or a female one that did not turn in envy.”

“You are funning me, Marius,” she said, giggling. “But I did not see you.”

“No,” he agreed dryly, “a mere husband has small chance of making his presence felt in such a crush of admirers.”

“Absurd!” she said, laughing, the embarrassment of a few minutes before forgotten. “Are you riding my way, your Grace?”

“No, I am not,” he replied. “I have a call that must be made before I return home. I shall see you later, my love.”

“Good-bye, Marius,” she said, and gave her grays the signal to start.

Eversleigh, watching her go before turning his horse in the opposite direction, had a still, brooding look on his face.

* * *

Henry contrived to be alone in the downstairs salon by eleven o’clock the next morning. It had not been easy. Marius had lingered in the office of his secretary until just half an hour before. Henry had considered all manner of ideas for persuading him to leave the house. Fortunately, none was necessary, though she was all but hopping up and down with vexation when he took what seemed a lingering farewell of her in her room.

“You did not ride this morning, my love? Or yesterday morning either?”

“No, I did not feel like the exercise,” she replied.

“What, Henry, are you becoming too ladylike for such pursuits?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Pooh!” she replied scornfully. “What could be more ladylike than mincing along at a sober trot in a sidesaddle?”

“Ah, I forget,” he said gently, “it is neck or nothing for you, is it not, my love?”

She smiled. “I must not keep you, Marius,” she said, rising purposefully from the stool before her dressing-table mirror. “You must be anxious to be on your way.”

“Must I?” he answered meekly. “I did wish to speak with you, Henry, but it can wait until later if you are in such a dreadful hurry.”

“I must check the schoolroom,” she declared firmly, “and make sure that Oscar is securely in his cage again. I would not want him escaping anymore.”

“No, indeed,” he agreed. “I might have trouble finding a chef in England willing to work here if that worthy bird finds his way to the kitchen and asks them all what the stink is.”

She giggled. “The poor man was furious, was he not? I must go up, Marius.”

“Yes, I see you must,” he replied. “And I see that I must be going. I shall talk with you later, my love.”

Henry really did go up to the schoolroom, mainly to ensure that Miss Manford and the twins were safely occupied. They were, and Oscar, in disgrace, was reposing fairly quietly beneath his pink blanket.

Cranshawe arrived promptly. Henry was standing tensely, her back to the fireplace, when the butler announced him. He strode across the room to her, looking handsome and purposeful, she noted. He took her cold hand in his and raised it to his lips.

“Good morning, Henry,” he greeted her, his charming smile muted by a warm sympathy. “I came as soon as I could, for I knew you would be anxious to be done with this business and to set your brother’s mind at ease.”

“You are very good, Oliver,” she said, turning quite pale. “I shall repay the money as soon as I may. But I do not know how I shall ever repay your kindness.”

“Do not give it a moment’s thought, my dear,” he said with tender solicitation. “Here, take this packet and let us not mention the matter again.” He removed a long package from inside his coat and handed it to her.

Henry took it with obvious embarrassment and reluctance.

“Now,” he said, clasping his hands behind him and smiling much more dazzlingly at her, “may I beg the honor of a waltz with you at the Sefton ball tonight, Henry? It will be a feather in my cap to be seen with the loveliest lady there.”

“I do not like it when you say silly things like that,” she said roundly. “But of course I shall dance with you. The second waltz? Felix Hendricks has already asked me for the first.”

“Then I must be contented with the second,” he decided, bowing gracefully.

They talked on general matters for several more minutes, but Cranshawe, always sensitive to her feelings, realized that she was uneasy with the package of money still clasped in her hand, and soon took his leave.

“Until this evening,” he said, smiling warmly into her eyes and raising her hand to his lips again.

While Henry hastened upstairs to the drawing room to write a brief note to Giles, asking him to call on her during the afternoon, Oliver Cranshawe was on his way to Suzanne Broughton's house. She received him in her dressing room, where her maid was still coaxing her piled-up hair into numerous curls and ringlets.

“You choose strange hours in which to call, Oliver,” she remonstrated as he was shown into the room. “Can't you wait until a more civilized time in the afternoon?”

“I thought you would wish to hear this news immediately, Suzanne,” he replied, flashing her a wide smile in the mirror. “The butterfly has been netted, I believe.”

Her eyes stilled on his reflected image. “Is that so?” she said. “Miriam, you may leave. That will be all for now.” She waited until her maid had left the room and closed the door behind her before swiveling on the stool and facing her visitor. “Well, Oliver?”

He smiled and sank gracefully into a chair. “The little duchess is fortunate enough to have a brother who likes to gamble and who does not have the means with which to do it,” he began.

She smiled slowly. “Fortunate for whom, Oliver? And you, out of the goodness of your heart, have prevented his ruin, I suppose?”