Wicked Wager (16 page)

His patience and forethought were well rewarded, for with a cry of indignation the man who'd so cruelly abandoned Perry's sister at the altar leapt into a sitting position in the bed, his eyes wide in the glow.

Perry was surprised to see that Carstairs wore no nightshirt or nightcap, and for a moment he was transfixed by the man's pale torso, lightly dusted with reddish hair. He looked weak and insignificant, prompting the fleeting wonder as to whether Carstairs really had the capability to satisfy his sister over a lifetime of intimacy.

‘Lord Peregrine—!' began Carstairs in outraged tones, but Perry heard the puling fear behind them, and his lip curled as he advanced. By God but he was going to extract vengeance for dear Charlotte.

And then as he drew closer he saw that Carstairs was not alone.

Was this the reason for his defection? Another woman? Was Carstairs cuckolding his sister?

‘Get out, my lord!' Carstairs shouted as the woman, apparently hitherto sleeping, raised herself onto her elbows and blinked at Perry with fright and confusion.

Perry opened his mouth to assure her that his argument was with her paramour. Her tumbled dark hair was not confined by a nightcap while her nakedness suggested she was not Carstairs' legal wife. Well, if Carstairs had a mistress it did not preclude the man marrying Charlotte, if that's what his sister wanted, and now it was Perry's duty to salvage Charlotte's honour, regardless of how he achieved that.

This reflection took a mere second to assimilate, and it was just as he opened his mouth to speak that a piercing shard of cognisance shattered his preconceptions as to what was before him.

He stilled, a poisonous disbelief turned dread permeating his bones.

Good God, what indeed
was
the demonic scene before him? Suddenly the entire ghastly miscellany of the devil's lair appeared to have conspired to make a mockery of every hope and dream Perry had entertained.

‘Miss Rosington!' Her name was torn from his lips just as the kindness and the softness that had taken occupation of his heart—on account of
her
—was ripped out of his chest cavity; so that he stood, pulsing with pain and anger and no, not disbelief, for he could not disbelieve the enormity of what was so plainly before his eyes.

The woman he'd fully intended to make his wife the very next day was lying naked in bed with the man who'd abandoned his sister at the altar; the man Miss Rosington had persistently claimed she'd been merely ‘helping' the night they were apparently caught in a compromising situation.

By God, but Perry had been duped. Cursing himself for a credulous and lovesick fool, he advanced menacingly towards the bed and hauled back the bedcovers.

Violence had never been his immediate answer but he was ready to do violence to Harry Carstairs in this moment.

‘Don't hurt him!'

Perry halted at Miss Rosington's distress and turned his fulminating stare upon her. Her mouth was open and her eyes wide with horror.

‘I don't know what's happened. I don't know how I got here!' Her voice was faint and she looked terrified.

Well, Perry had no room for her play-acting now, though he did drop the covers with a contemptuous snort as he focused on Carstairs' far from impressive manhood and his own pride writhed in agony.

It was painful even to breathe.

‘Please my lord, I don't understand any of this.'

He cut her off with a snarl. ‘And you were going to entertain
me
later this week! You do have a busy schedule, Miss Rosington.' He turned on his heel and headed for the door. ‘Carstairs, you may run and hide but I will know where to find you and I will have my revenge,' he flung over his shoulder.

He turned the doorknob as a fresh wave of anger rose in his chest. Or was it devastation? Either way, it was so painful it nearly felled him on the spot and his words sounded rasping as he felt compelled to add with pointed irony, if only to anoint his own grievous wounds, ‘I hope you have great joy of her, Carstairs. A poisoned chalice is what she is.'

Chapter Twelve

The slamming door reverberated through Celeste's head like a death knell. Her shock was so great she could barely formulate anything that made sense. Not that, in fact, anything
did
make sense. For one thing, what was she doing in this strange bed? Her breathing ratcheted up with each fresh realisation of her increasingly perilous situation. For perilous it was, indeed.

Who, for a start, was this strange man? Then she remembered it was Harry Carstairs. He'd apologised before she passed into oblivion once again.

She'd woken to find Lord Peregrine standing at the foot of the bed, his face black with thunder, his scorn like a scalding lance.

What could she do except offer the truth?

‘Please my lord, I don't understand any of this,' she'd managed, after pleading for the safety of the man beside her, who looked set to be plunged through with a rapier if the fulminating look in Lord Peregrine's eye was anything to go by.

She couldn't abide the idea of violence but that's exactly where this was going, she feared.

Her head felt woolly and she couldn't call on those reserves of clarity that usually came to her aid, even when woken from the deepest sleep.

She'd reached out her hand to Lord Peregrine to help her; tried to say the words to explain, to elicit his aid, for she was a captive and he did not know it. He had the power to whisk her away from here before anything worse happened to her. She ran her hands over her naked body, experimentally, in case there were some evidence that she'd been violated. She didn't think she had, but what about now? What about the rest of the night? What would become of her?

‘Lord Peregrine!' Though she felt as weak as a kitten, she managed to shriek the words which came from the depths of her soul as, disgusted, he turned on his heel to quit the room, his parting words knifing her to the bone.

But he did not come back. Instead she heard the soft, running footsteps of what turned out to be the older woman who'd been so kind to her earlier this evening.

And when Celeste looked up, Harry Carstairs was standing by the bed wearing his banyan, a nightcap upon his head and a worried look upon his face as he turned to the older woman. ‘Aunt Clarice, I think she's taken another turn. I heard her shouting. Is there more of that calming elixir which so benefited her last night?'

Protesting, Celeste was spoonfed the strange tasting concoction by the woman while Harry Carstairs held her down. And soon her fear and horror melted away as the drowsiness that had earlier begun to recede resumed its insidious march upon her defences.

***

An evil gnome was wielding a pickaxe in the recesses of Celeste's brain. The consistency of each well-aimed stroke made her writhe in an impotent attempt to find peace and solace, and her body was slippery with sweat.

She awoke with a pounding headache and a sob escaped her before she even opened her eyes, for she knew she was a captive and that she'd probably been ruined forever. Without a reputation she was a condemned woman, unable to marry.

And Lord Peregrine? He'd seen her but he'd not rescued her? No, he'd formed his own opinion. Or had she been dreaming when she imagined him staring with disgust from the end of the bed?

Perhaps everything from the moment she'd last spoken to Raphael had all been a dream, for the scent of bluebells and the warmth on her face did not accord with the musty cold of the chamber into which she'd believed she'd been thrust last night.

‘Hush.' The voice that spoke was soothing, as was the gentle grip on her hand.

Tentatively Celeste opened her eyes, the sunlight that streamed through the window painful, though not as painful as her thoughts. What was truth and what was fiction?

What was Lord Peregrine thinking now?

What struck her most forcibly, however, glancing around the room, were the familiar comforting crimson curtains that surrounded her bed. She was in her own bedchamber and Raphael was sitting on a chair by her bedside, holding her hand.

She tried to speak but the words dissolved into sobs. It must have been a dream. Here she was in her own bed and, extraordinarily, Raphael was stroking her hair. Perhaps she'd been terribly ill.

‘Dearest Celeste, do not cry.' She was aware of his awkwardness but that was hardly surprising. Where had he found her? What had happened to her? Or had she been here and delirious the entire time?

He cleared his throat. ‘I blame myself but you're safe now. You're home and in your own bed and for the rest of our married life I'll make sure no one ever harms you again.'

No! She wanted to scream aloud. So it had
not
been a dream?

When she'd she mastered her emotions and kept at bay the sobs, she could only stare at him. Finally she forced out, ‘Do you
know
what happened to me, Raphael? If you did, you'd never speak to me so kindly.' This time the shuddering sob wracked her whole body as she choked on the inability to articulate her shame. ‘But how have I come to be here now? I remember so little, and yet I know I was a prisoner … And it was
not
a dream?'

Raphael tugged at his lace cuffs, clearly weighing up his words. He glanced at the door as footsteps passed, perhaps waiting to ensure they'd not be disturbed by servants or Aunt Branwell. ‘You've been here a couple of days now, Celeste. I've been so worried. I'm glad to see you rallying.' He smiled, and even in her dazed condition she realised he'd not looked at her with such kindness in many years. It was extraordinary. ‘My dearest Celeste, you have been badly used and I will forever blame myself. I just thank God we're leaving in three days for Jamaica, where you'll not have to encounter the cruel whispers and the blackballing that would be your lot were you to remain in England.'

So her reputation was in ruins, she realised dully. ‘I don't understand,' she croaked. Her earlier words had been more taxing than she'd realised. ‘I don't understand any of it. Have you seen Harry? Did you find me …' She shook her head, unable to complete the sentence:
in Harry's bed
?

Raphael averted his gaze. ‘My love, you have been used as a pawn in a cruel and terrible hoax. Perhaps to punish me, though I don't know.' He stroked her hand, his expression sorrowful. ‘I had no idea that when I requested that you get closer to Lord Peregrine he would use you so shamefully. That he would in every way live up to his reputation as a cruel and conscienceless philanderer.'

‘Lord Peregrine?' Celeste closed her eyes against her memories of his anger, his look of derision before he'd flung out of Harry Carstairs' bedchamber.

She shook her head. ‘This had nothing to do with Lord Peregrine,' she whispered. ‘He … found us. He was furious … on his sister's account, no doubt,' she added hastily, confused and embarrassed.

Raphael shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Yes, he witnessed your shame. Someone intended you indeed be painted as the woman with whom Carstairs was consorting when he jilted Miss Paige.'

Celeste sat bolt upright. ‘No!' she cried. ‘That can't be true. Who would do such a thing? Who would wish to ruin me?'
Certainly not Lord Peregrine
. He'd asked her to marry him. It made no sense. He loved her. She knew it in the marrow of her bones.

‘Hush,' Raphael said, rising. ‘There is still much mystery surrounding why you were found in Harry's bed. I've merely voiced my suspicions based on the whispers I've heard surrounding Lord Peregrine's wager.'

‘Wager?'

Raphael put up his hand to silence her. ‘I won't say more, Celeste, until I've spoken to Harry personally, for clearly he'd never have been complicit unless he were forced. And why would he have been forced? That's what I need to find out.' A deep frown creased his forehead before he managed a clearly forced smile. ‘Regardless, Celeste, you have saved Harry. Perhaps your ruin was required to secure Harry's release, but I do know Harry must have been as unwilling a participant as you. I have not seen him but I thank God to know he is safe and free and that as soon as you and I are married the three of us will set sail for Jamaica in three days. We can put this behind us. That is what sustains me.'

Confused and wracked with torment, Celeste pulled the covers to her chin. The tears began to flow but Raphael ignored them.

‘You need to regain your strength for tomorrow night.' He was brisk now. ‘I'll have Mary keep close watch on you so you're well enough to venture forth with your head held high tomorrow night. I shall get to the bottom of the terrible travesty of justice which has clearly imperilled Harry's life and tarnished your reputation.' He bent to stroke her face, ever so gently, his eyes pools of warmth and gratitude.

Tomorrow night
? She tried to speak but the words would not come as her mind began to drift. Absently she ran her hands over her body which felt so alien to her in this strange, disembodied state, and yet unviolated she was sure, while she tried to summon words to detain him.

He seemed to know so much more than she, but Celeste was unable to ask further questions, as she was soon reclaimed by the familiar, heavy drug-induced state from which she'd so briefly emerged.

***

The following afternoon Celeste felt better. Certainly well enough to rise from her bed, though she placed her feet tentatively on the floor to test her weight and her strength. She'd slept deeply, she'd been told: nearly twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours? The sleep had indeed refreshed her but the knowledge that she'd been confined to her bed for so long sent fear coursing through her. Where was Lord Peregrine? He was to have come for her.

Then she remembered her last sighting of him: his face dark with anger and disgust, and her stomach rose up in protest. She had to see him and explain.

Mary helped her onto the stool before her looking glass so she could attend to her hair. She'd not had it powdered this past week, and in her natural state she looked, to her own eyes, far younger than her years and far more vulnerable than a woman of her station ought to look. Raphael's ominous words regarding her duty to attend a society function tonight returned and she nearly sobbed aloud. She had no energy to go anywhere with Raphael and she'd certainly lost her confidence to return to society.