The Double Wager (21 page)

“Dear me,” replied his cousin mildly, “I understand from your choice of pronoun that you mean the dog, not the twins, Oliver?”

Cranshawe glared. “You might make yourself useful and grab my horse, Marius,” he said, “instead of sitting up there striking a pose.”

“Ah,” Eversleigh said, “I take it you did not dismount voluntarily, then, Oliver?” He obligingly moved off to where Cranshawe’s horse was now grazing quietly on the grass, and led him back to his heir, who was disgustedly slapping at his mud-caked breeches.

Eversleigh turned his attention to his wife, who was staring intently into the tree where Philip was now little more than an arm’s length from the shivering kitten.

“You are all right, my love?” he asked gently.

She turned a stony expression on him. “And why would I not be?” she asked.

“Ah, quite so,” he agreed. “You need not worry, you know. Boys are almost invariably a great deal safer than they appear to be to adult onlookers.”

“I know that!” she retorted scornfully, and dismounted suddenly after swinging her leg free of the sidesaddle. “Hang on, Phil!” she yelled. “You can’t hold on to the cat and get back from there. I’ll climb up and you can hand it to me.”

Before the onlookers had a chance to dissuade her, she had swung up to the lower branches, long skirt and all, though she did tug impatiently at the plumed hat and send it to the ground.

“Ere, ere lady, that’s man’s work,” the constable remarked ineffectually when she was already well clear of the ground, but everyone ignored him.

When Henry came down again, five minutes later, clutching a mewing kitten in one arm, face smudged with dirt, hemline of her habit hanging down, it was to find Marius directly beneath her, on foot.

“Hand down the kitten, Henry,” he ordered, and she obeyed before she had time to think of defiance. He took it and handed it immediately to an eager Penelope. Then he turned back, raised his arms, and grasped his wife by the waist. He swung her down to the ground, so that her body slid down the length of his. She felt physically ill as she glared indignantly up into his gleaming eyes.

“I could have jumped,” she said as Philip did just that right behind her.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment, my love,” Eversleigh agreed soothingly, the gleam in his eyes deepening.

“I must look a fright,” she said crossly.

“I think you look rather charming, my love, with a smudge on your nose and a twig in your hair,” he commented languidly.

“Oh!” she said. “Well, you should be thankful for the twig, your Grace. At least I am not committing that mortal sin of going hatless again.”

“Your Grace!” Penelope was plucking at Eversleigh’s sleeve, interrupting an interesting scene. “Please may we keep the kitten? I am sure the little thing is a stray, and Phil and I will look after it. Please!”

“Well,” he said, “it would seem hardly charitable to rescue the poor thing from one danger only to let it starve on firm ground. Very well, Penny.”'

“Oh, thank you, your Grace,” Penelope yelled. “I am going to call her Cleopatra.”

Eversleigh blinked. “As you will,” he said tolerantly, “but I fail to see the connection.” He surveyed the thin, ugly ginger kitten through his quizzing glass. “I believe we have provided the city of London with quite enough entertainment for one morning,” he continued quietly. “I see that Oliver agrees with me and has taken himself off already. Miss Manford, can you head this menagerie homeward? Phil, you take charge of Brutus, if you please. My love?” He stilled Henry’s horse, and when she would have placed her booted foot in his hand so that she might mount, he grasped her by the waist again and lifted her effortlessly to the saddle.

Henry could feel the imprint of his hands all the way home as they rode side by side, making small talk. He made no reference to the fact that she had obviously been with Oliver Cranshawe before the family farce had begun.

The morning’s activities were not forgotten by any of the actors in it. Henry spent most of the afternoon in her room, after canceling plans she had made to do a round of visiting. She had a very serious decision to make, and although she knew what that decision would have to be, there still seemed to be a great deal of thinking to do.

She had met Oliver in the park and had talked with him for five minutes before the arrival of the twins and Miss Manford on the scene. Oliver had taken on the tone of his letter, profoundly apologetic, disclaiming all responsibility for what he had said the night before on the grounds that he had drunk too much. But Henry had lost all faith in his words. He claimed to care for her deeply, to be worried about her marriage to “a man like Marius.” He wished to see her again, alone, so that he might redeem himself in her eyes. Henry could see only the truth. Here was a man who hated her husband and who hated her for being the chief threat to his position as Marius’ heir. He wished to ruin her so that Marius would divorce her or at the very least send her away. Either would suit Oliver's purposes. In either case, there would be no children to succeed the Duke of Eversleigh. And Henry, with childish naivete, had played right into his hands. Oh, why had she not seen through the hypocrisy of his charm? Why had she not gone straight to Marius with her worries over Giles?

Henry threw herself facedown across the bed. She racked her brain for some solution to the dilemma, apart from the one that she was trying not to face. She had managed to escape any commitment this morning, thanks to the strange appearance of the twins. And that
was
strange, now that she came to think of it. What were they all doing in the park at that time of the morning? Were they not usually at their classes? However it had happened, she had been very grateful for the distraction. But she did not have any hope that Cranshawe would be put off for long. It was only a matter of time before he again forced her into a clandestine meeting.

Henry considered talking to Giles, but she knew she would not be able to bring herself to destroy his peace of mind. She saw him frequently, and he seemed to be quite happy. He did the social rounds, but it seemed to her that he had learned his lesson. He no longer associated with the crowd of wild dandies that had led him into gambling and irresponsible spending. If he was in debt again, she would be surprised. At least there was no sign from him. He treated her with open affection. Henry had been close to her brother all her life. She would have known if something were troubling him. No, she could not go to him with her dilemma.

There was, in fact, only one way out, Henry admitted to herself with a sigh. She propped her chin on her hands and stared gloomily down at the brocade coverlet of her bed. Somehow, she had to get the money to repay the loan to Cranshawe. Only then would she be free of that horrid man. And there was, alas, only one way to get the money, unless she applied to Marius for it. Since she would rather die than go to him now, she would have to go to a moneylender.

The very thought filled her with terror. She had heard many stories of the fate of young men who were unwise enough to get into the clutches of moneylenders. (It seemed that ladies never went to them.) The story was that once a man borrowed money, he never repaid it. All the money he could scrape together went toward paying off the crippling interest on their loans.

But Henry had to put these stories behind her. She really had no choice, unless she sold or pawned some of her jewels. She had considered doing that, but knew that any valuable item that she possessed would soon be missed. Marius, unlike many husbands, accompanied her to most evening functions. And he always noticed what she wore. He would frequently suggest the jewelry that would best complement her choice of clothes. She knew she would not be able to deceive him. No, she must go to a moneylender. She remembered the name and direction of the one that Giles had been planning to visit. It was ironic that she, who had been so adamant that he not borrow money in this way, was now deciding to do the same thing herself!

Henry scrambled resolutely off the bed. Since there was no alternative and since she had made up her mind, there was nothing to be gained by delay. She would go at once. She assumed that Marius was away from home at this time of day. She was sure that the twins must be in the schoolroom, especially after their escapade of the morning. She could accomplish her errand without anyone knowing.

She searched her closet hastily for the dullest clothing she possessed. Pushed far to one side she found a drab, gray cloak that she had worn for years at Roedean. She could not imagine how it had escaped the purge that Betty had made on her old clothes. She pulled it from its place and chose the plainest bonnet she could find, a brown one that looked quite dreary enough once she had removed the green ribbons that adorned it.

Henry glanced at herself in the mirror before leaving the room. She wrinkled her nose in some disgust at the very unpretty picture that she made, draped entirely in the gray and brown. She pushed an auburn curl farther under the brim of the bonnet, took up her reticule, and resolutely left the room. She descended the back stairs and let herself out of the side door and through a back gate that led to a narrow lane used by tradesmen.

Head bent, Henry hurried along until she came to a roadway. She walked briskly for some distance, mingling with crowds of people who did not afford her hurrying figure a second glance. Only one urchin seemed in any way interested. He appeared to be following her, ducking into doorways and behind other pedestrians to avoid being seen, though she did not look back even once. When she finally hailed a hackney cab and climbed inside, the urchin ran up behind. He clung to a bar at the back when the vehicle moved away.

Henry was wrong. The Duke of Eversleigh was not away from home that afternoon. As she was making her escape from the house, he was closeted with James Ridley in his office. He had been there for some time, going over with his secretary a pile of business papers that had arrived from his estates by the morning mail. Finally he got to his feet, stretched, and walked over to the bookshelves, where he stood leaning his weight on one elbow.

“Ah, do you have my wife’s bills here, James?” he asked languidly.

“From this week, your Grace?” Ridley asked, looking up startled.

Eversleigh mused. “Are they all paid, James?”

“Yes, your Grace,” Ridley replied. “You have instructed me always to do so.”

“Quite so,” Eversleigh said, inspecting his fingernails through half-closed lids. “Have any of them been excessively large?”

Ridley thought. “There was a dressmaker’s bill for almost three hundred pounds last week,” he said uneasily.

The duke looked at him steadily. “Nothing larger?” he asked.

“No, your Grace.”

Eversleigh stood, examining his boots.

After a few respectful moments, Ridley returned his attention to the papers before him. He looked up again when his employer spoke.

“Have there been any gambling debts, James?”

“You mean by her Grace?” asked Ridley. “No.”

“Hmm.” The duke was again silent. Then he looked closely at his secretary. “You spend too much time in this office, James,” he said kindly. “It is not good for your health, dear boy. Take yourself out and do something for me.”

“Your Grace?”

“Find out if my wife owes or has owed a large sum of money to anyone in—ah, let me see—the last month or so.”

Ridley looked aghast. “How am I to do that?” he asked.

Eversleigh looked hard at him. “You are an enterprising young man who likes a challenge, James,” he said languidly. “I am sure you will find a way.”

James Ridley did not reply.

“And James,” the duke continued.

“Your Grace?”

“This is to be done discreetly and in the strictest confidence.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

Eversleigh picked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his coat and pushed himself upright. “I have seen quite enough of these four walls for one day,” he said. “I am going to go out in search of some amusement. I suggest you do the same, dear boy.”

James Ridley stared in dismay at his employers back, which retreated unhurriedly through the doorway.

* * *

Henry had been wrong about the twins, too. Although Miss Manford and Penelope were indeed in the schoolroom, Phil was not. The three of them had held a conference following their return from the park.

“Well, we certainly did not find out anything new,” Philip said. “If it had not been for that stupid cat getting stuck in that tree, we might have got close enough to have heard something useful.”

“It is hardly likely, dear,” Miss Manford said practically, “since Mr. Cranshawe and your sister were on horseback and moving. They would have seen us for sure if we had tried to get close.”

“We could have moved along behind the trees,” Philip said, sighing over the lost opportunity.

“Well, I think it all worked well,” Penelope said, stroking the back of the cat as it lapped up a saucer of milk. “We certainly saved Henry from whatever the teeth had planned for her. And besides,” she added, “if Cleopatra had not got stuck in the tree, we would never have found her.”

“Well, I think we had better keep an eye on Henry twenty-four hours a day,” said Philip melodramatically. “I don’t trust that man.”

“I am sure you exaggerate, dear boy,” Miss Manford said. “He is a gentleman, after all.”

“Manny, do gentlemen kiss ladies in public?” asked Philip scornfully.

Miss Manford declined to answer. She blushed instead.

“I think everything will be well for today,” Penelope said, gathering the cat into her lap and continuing to stroke its back. “His Grace is taking her to the opera tonight, is he not?”

“We must watch her until then,” Philip insisted. “She went to her room after luncheon.”

“We have not had our history lesson today,” Miss Manford protested.

“Oh, Manny, I can take the book with me and read while I watch,” said Philip. “Are you coming, Pen?”

“Who is to look after Cleopatra?” she asked. “The poor little thing is feeling so strange and Oscar has been so rude to her.”

“Well, she does stink a little bit, Pen,” her brother said. “I shall go alone, then.”