Wicked Wager (23 page)

‘Imagine the irony!' he'd marvelled in that measured, pleasant, condescending tone he liked to used when talking to her. ‘You've been ill used, I grant you, Celeste, and I will concede that you deserve sympathy when all is said and done. But you would have humiliated me, had you been given the chance. Still, as you shall enjoy all the riches and comfort you could ever want in Jamaica, I don't think you can complain.'

And while there was a painful truth in his words, Celeste still could not erase the last trace of feeling she felt for Lord Peregrine.

Her mind constantly replayed their stolen moments, while she was filled with an overwhelming confusion. There was no doubt his motives were evil from the start. He'd set out to ruin her to avenge his sister, but surely it was not possible to manufacture such intensity of affection? She had to believe he'd once loved her, otherwise she could never trust her perceptions again.

Not only that, she'd have nothing with which to sustain her during the long empty years ahead.

Stepping out of her gown and adjusting her panniers, she said, ‘It will be the strangest wedding anyone has been to for a long time. There! That's made me smile. I'll be surprised if we have any guests at all.'

‘Prurient curiosity is a great motivator for overcoming one's moral scruples,' Aunt Branwell observed. ‘You know, of course, that I, for one, do not believe in this nonsense that connects you with Harry Carstairs.'

Celeste smiled gratefully as she ran her hands down her stays, half boned and rigid enough to give her the inverted V shape required to achieve the fashion of the day. Mary was holding out her petticoat, a pale cream silk box-pleated confection, before the polonaise went over her head, transforming her into exactly what Raphael required: a well-packaged lady of fashion, constricted and restricted in every way, constrained by clothes, duty, upbringing, expectations and the ever-present threat of losing everything were she to abrogate any of the heavy expectations that weighed upon her shoulders.

‘I shall need new clothes in Jamaica,' she whispered. She could not inject any more strength into her voice. ‘Raphael told me this some time ago but …' She swallowed painfully and closed her eyes before finishing the sentence. ‘I couldn't believe I would really go.'

Aunt Branwell darted her a sharp look. ‘I pity you, Celeste, but you were naïve to allow sway to improbable daydreams. Women like you—like us—only make life harder for ourselves if we indulge in foolish fancies.'

‘Then I was more than the common fool; for not only did I indulge in foolish daydreams, but I was duped by the very man I thought would transport me to my fantasy land.' She sucked in a quavering breath. ‘I loved Lord Peregrine, but he betrayed me most cruelly.' Celeste was reasonably certain Aunt Branwell suspected the truth, and what did it matter if she did? There was no one else to whom she could unburden herself, and that's what she needed right now. In just a few days she'd be wrenched from her homeland and everything that was familiar.

‘You believe Lord Peregrine wrote the note that sent you to the location where you were compromised by Harry Carstairs?' Aunt Branwell spoke plainly as she moved her brown-silk brocaded and upholstered body forward in her seat, her eyes full of sympathy in her wrinkled face. ‘Mary told me everything, but I don't believe Lord Peregrine is guilty of more than agreeing to a wicked wager proposed weeks ago by Lady Busselton.' She put up her hand to stay Celeste's protest. ‘Bad enough though that is, I think it's possible he changed his mind and had no intention of following through with the plan to see you ruined.'

Celeste shook her head. ‘He admitted it, Aunt Branwell.'

‘He admitted accepting a wager that would see your reputation besmirched, granted.' She looked pointedly at Celeste. ‘You are a beautiful young woman and he was clearly taken, therefore it makes no sense he'd pass the “spoils”—to speak bluntly—to the very man he despises, when he could both enjoy you and ruin you himself.'

Aunt Branwell did not exhibit the distaste and horror Celeste felt was justified by such talk.

‘Such cruelty is bred of the boredom that comes from having nothing meaningful to do with one's life,' her aunt went on. ‘Lord Peregrine has had his every whim granted since the cradle. Both his parents were dead by the time he was nine. He was made the ward of a wastrel of an uncle who managed the estate and who creamed off a considerable proportion, I might add, before he died of his excesses. Meanwhile, Lord Peregrine was brought up by nurses and nannies and encouraged to indulge his appetite for whatever he chose as soon as he was old enough.' She seemed to be gaining animation from her talk. ‘He's known no civilising influences since his father—a reformed reprobate himself —drowned in the river accident that took Lord Peregrine's mother. Nevertheless, I do not believe Lord Peregrine is a bad man. And certainly not the kind who would set out to ruin an
innocent
young woman for a wager. Or at least, to follow through on such a wicked wager, and
that
, I would argue, is an important distinction.'

‘I believed he loved me.' Celeste fingered one of the cream rosettes that adorned her gown. She didn't care that Mary, who was fastening her into her wedding finery could hear. In the eyes of the world Celeste was more than damned and now she was being banished. She could sink no lower.

‘And he may well have.' Aunt Branwell twisted her hands in her lap, her look thoughtful. Briskly she added, ‘But sometimes that's not enough, my dear. Now, Mary, more rouge for my niece. Let no one tonight assume she's the dispirited creature she has every right to be.' She chuckled. ‘My goodness, Celeste, suddenly I'm starting to look forward to this ball assembly. At least, I'm looking forward to testing whether my theory is true.'

‘But I'm not going to the ball assembly, Aunt Branwell.' Celeste threw her a stricken look. ‘I'm to be married in the morning.'

Aunt Branwell seemed to come to a sudden decision. Clasping Celeste's wrist as she rose, she asked with quirked lips, ‘Are you afraid that people will talk?' She stared at their twin reflections in the looking glass. ‘Of course they will, but they're talking already. Celeste, you have one final chance to speak to Lord Peregrine before you are forever condemned to a life that you know offers you nothing but the greatest unhappiness.' She sobered as she turned to look at her niece. ‘Tonight you're still under my care: I would desire that you accompany me to Lady Belcher's ball.'

‘I don't think I have the fortitude to go out tonight, Aunt,' Celeste whispered as she moved away from Mary, who was holding the rabbit's foot loaded with rouge.

Her aunt seemed not to hear her. ‘You'll have to change your dress, too, of course. I think the cloth of embroidered gold would be just the thing.'

‘No, Aunt. I can't! I had that made especially for my first public engagement with Raphael.'

‘Humour an old woman. I would like to see you wear it tonight.' Her smile was grim and determined. ‘Unless, of course, you really do want to spend the rest of your life as Raphael's slave.'

While Celeste was quaking with terror at the mere idea of going out in public, her aunt looked as excited as if she were contemplating her first ball. Once a highly reluctant Celeste was dressed, she raked her niece's finery with a frown.

‘Celeste, you are a far more enticing prospect than Lady Busselton. Tonight I grant you licence to try one last gambit to make him see the truth. Charge his lordship with the fact he was a calculated cad in setting out to ruin you and hear him out when he denies it, or at least tries to excuse himself. My belief is that he truly accepts that what he saw with his own eyes was simple evidence you and Harry Carstairs have been enjoying a dangerous liaison behind everyone's backs.' She clicked her tongue. ‘Except that everything we both know about Harry Carstairs refutes the possibility of such a thing. Somebody had a very different motive for engineering your ruin, Celeste, and I don't believe it was Lord Peregrine. Tonight is your last chance to discover who wanted to discredit you, and why.'

Chapter Sixteen

Was her heart black with sin or was she a blameless angel?

Lord Peregrine had never felt so conflicted in his life as he sat opposite Xenia on their short ride to their evening's entertainment. No, he was not thinking about Xenia. As ever, his thoughts centred upon Miss Rosington.

He glanced at his well-turned calves in his white silk stockings, above silver buckled shoes and below his black pantaloons. Carstairs used false padding to create what Perry had been granted in a generous allocation of physical attributes at birth. What would prompt Miss Rosington to choose that puny physical specimen Carstairs over himself?

Then there was the opposite conundrum. If she spoke the truth when she declared she'd been the one deceived, could she
truly
believe Perry was behind her fall from grace? And if Miss Rosington had indeed been set up to appear a jezebel with Carstairs, then who stood to profit by her ruin?

He directed a suspicious look at Xenia. She wanted Perry, there was no doubt about that.

And yet …? Xenia was devious. Could she have had a hand in orchestrating something that appeared quite unrelated to her real motivations?

With a sigh, he returned to the night at hand. The ball was being held at a beautiful estate by the river. It would provide many an opportunity for secret trysts behind spreading elms along meandering walks. Perry knew Xenia well enough to know it was what she planned.

Dalliance, however, was the last thing on his mind. No, he needed answers. Answers as to why Miss Rosington was in that bed, naked, with Harry Carstairs. It could
not
be because she preferred him to Perry.

He glanced down and noticed his foot beat an agitated tattoo. Xenia's secretive smile and raised eyebrow suggested she'd made her own interpretations about Perry's impatience. Fanning herself, she reached across and ran her fingers gently down his cheek.

‘How much greater the reward when patience has been exercised,' she purred. ‘You shall get all that you deserve—and more—my darling Perry, when we have performed this evening.

‘You make it sounds as if we'd been engaged to do tricks for the crowd.' He didn't mean to sound so terse but he couldn't help himself. All pleasure had been sucked out of his existence since Miss Rosington was no longer part of it.

Tomorrow she'd be married. But God,
he
wanted her.

He'd grown up indulged, moulded into believing that whatever he wished could be bought. He'd never done anything remotely noble or courageous in his life.

Perhaps if Miss Rosington were not due to set sail for Jamaica, putting her forever out of his reach, he'd feel differently.

No. He rejected this. He had loved her.

He still did.

‘My dear, the crowd will be vastly interested in us, I assure you. We are London Town's greatest celebrities, surely you know that?' Xenia moved a little closer, releasing a waft of gardenia perfume mixed with desire as she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I am known to go to great lengths to get what I want—when the prize is worth it.' She touched her lips to his jawline, whispering, ‘And after ten years I've finally decided, my darling, you're worth it.'

‘Two husbands ago you were not of the same mind.'

‘Are you still smarting over that, Perry? Surely you understand the vulnerability of youth? Of an unmarried woman?' She straightened and looked him in the eye. ‘My wishes counted for nothing when my papa had secured a rich, older man, with far greater prospects for aiding a sea captain in his enterprises.'

‘So you loved me then?'

Xenia contemplated the ivory points of her fan. ‘I loved you, but I also knew it was more expedient to marry Sir Edward. And so it proved. My first husband paved the way for papa to become the biggest slaver now in this country.'

Perry was conscious of a churning in his stomach at the mention of slaves. ‘Nelson, my valet, came over in your father's first shipment ten years ago,' he said. ‘He was stolen from a coastal village when he was a young man, hunting to feed his family who are now, of course, all but dead to him.'

‘Perry darling, you speak as if your Nelson has feelings. Why, you have transformed him from a savage into a gentleman since you won him. He should be eternally grateful to you—and to papa, for that matter. Now, kiss me.'

He looked down at her with dispassion, glad she could not see his expression, for her eyes were closed in anticipation of the prelude to the lovemaking she had planned for later that evening.

His stomach churned even more at the prospect. No, not with desire. Xenia, like a beautiful effigy and his for the taking, was a poisoned chalice. He'd done her bidding as eagerly as the drooling puppy dog he'd been when he was barely in his majority, and now he was filled with self-loathing. And loathing for everything she represented.

‘Tell me, Xenia, did you know the reason your father was so desperate to find Harry Carstairs?'

She shrugged. ‘Papa said we'd be ruined if the man was
not
found. That was good enough for me.'

Yet she was evasive. He did not believe her.

‘If all eyes will be on us, Xenia, then for the sake of your dignity I am reluctant to make inroads into the vermillion which colours your lips. We are nearly there. A little more patience will sweeten our reward.'

He was relieved the carriage lurched to a halt at this point, even though it was to give way to a passing cooper's wagon, before it rumbled towards its destination.

With a grumble, Xenia straightened and Perry noticed by the light of the full moon, which drenched the interior of their carriage, the fine lines etched into her porcelain skin. He could see no evidence of smile lines. Not the tiny lines that were in evidence on Miss Rosington's face and which indicated a sunny temperament, but lines of dissatisfaction at the corner of Xenia's pouting mouth.