The Wager of a Wallflower, page 3
“The one with Cupid?” Christopher asked with a crooked grin. Another moment, and the grin had grown into a huge smile. He was enjoying himself far too much. “Through the rose arbor?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking at the...” She clamped her mouth shut and sighed again, wondering if her brother might have kissed his betrothed, Lady Maria, next to that very same fountain the year prior. “Well, all is not lost, I suppose,” she murmured.
Her brother sat up, his disheveled hair making him appear as if he’d had a rough night. “What have you done?” There was a glint in his eye suggesting he knew there was more to the story than what his mother had told him earlier.
“Nothing,” Lucy replied. Upon seeing his arched brow, she huffed. “I merely ensured there would be some recompense should we be discovered together before I allowed anything to happen.”
His eyes narrowing, her brother asked, “Recompense? How much?”
“He has to pay me ten thousand pounds.”
His bark of laughter could probably be heard all the way downstairs and into the front salon. “Marcus Higgins hasn’t got ten pounds,” he said. “His father was broke when he died, and everyone knows it.”
“We shook on it,” she countered, her mouth dropping open in dismay.
Seeing his sister’s expression, Christopher quickly sobered. “And if you weren’t discovered?” he prompted.
“If we weren’t discovered?” she repeated in confusion.
“What would he owe you?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh. Uh... well, nothing. Just the kiss, I suppose.”
Christopher sat back into the stack of pillows and stared at her with a most curious expression.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m still shocked you think he’s going to pay you ten thousand pounds.”
Tempted to punch him in the shoulder, Lucy huffed. Before she could say anything, her brother held up his hands as if to ward off a blow.
“Was this some sort of wager?” he asked.
She stiffened. “And if I say it was?”
He shrugged. “It’s rather clever. Either way, he’s the one who got stuck with paying the bill.”
Lucy’s hands went to her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What did you stand to lose either way?” he countered.
She considered the query. “My reputation, if you must know, which is about to be in tatters the very moment Lady Pettigrew begins paying her calls today.”
Christopher merely grinned in response.
“He’s the one who wanted to kiss me,” she argued.
He continued to grin. “Says the girl who willingly joined him in the gardens.”
Lucy huffed out a breath. “I admit I was... flattered,” she murmured.
“And?” he prompted.
Her eyes darted to the side before she whispered. “It was quite lovely.” Lucy had a thought she had never seen her brother’s eyebrows climb so high on his forehead before. “Well, it was,” she added lamely.
“So… you would do it again? With Marcus Higgins?”
She sighed contentedly and nodded. “Was it like that for you? Kissing Maria, I mean?”
Christopher inhaled, and his up-until-then paleness was quickly replaced with a good deal of color. “That’s none of your concern.”
Scoffing, she argued, “That’s not fair. You must have kissed your betrothed.”
For a moment, she wished she hadn’t mentioned the word “betrothed,” for whenever the topic of Christopher’s choice for a bride came up, his face shuttered and he refused to speak. If their mother had been in the room, she would have made sure to put voice to her distrust of the Spanish aristocrat’s daughter he had gifted with a ring the year before.
So Lucy was surprised when her brother responded.
“Of course I have kissed Maria,” he claimed. “However, I’m not about to kiss and tell. At least, not to anyone else. And neither should you. Not even Marianne,” he warned.
Lucy inhaled to respond but quickly realized he was right. Well, except for Marianne. Lucy had every intention of telling Marianne because, well, Lady Pettigrew had probably shared her news from last night with her lady’s maid and everyone else in her household and would continue doing so in every parlor she paid a call on that afternoon.
How many parlors could that be? Two? Three? Ten?
He reached out and chucked her chin. “I almost feel sorry for you.”
“Why?” she countered in surprise.
“Lucy,” he said in his most serious voice. “You’re about to experience the worst Season of your life. Once words gets out, you’ll be lucky to receive any invitations to parlors let alone offers to dance at balls,” he explained. “I never thought I’d say this about you, but you’re about to become a… a wallflower.”
Lucy swallowed. Hard. She blinked, not realizing she did so to stave off tears. “How can you say that? How can you be so cruel?”
He furrowed his brows and gave his head a shake. “I’m older than you. I’ve seen it happen to the very best of young ladies.” He sighed and suddenly lifted his head.
When he didn’t say anything else for a time, Lucy finally asked, “What is it?”
“My heartburn. It’s gone,” he claimed as a smile split his lips. “Thanks to you, I think,” he added with a grin.
Lucy pulled one of the pillows from behind him and hit him with it. She might have continued doing so, but she no longer had the energy to do so.
She took her leave of her brother’s bedchamber as the tears began to fall.
* * *
Christopher watched her go, his momentary humor replaced with the melancholy he had been experiencing ever since his return from the Continent the year before.
Why hadn’t he heard from Maria? He was sure they had parted on good terms. She wore his ring. She had a copy of their marriage certificate. Her father should have brought her back to England once the war with France was over.
Ten months have passed, he thought in dismay. The last time he had seen her was the day before he was dispatched to the Continent. A day that had him assuming his duties as a captain in the British Army. A week later, he and his troops were assigned to one of the coalition armies that would eventually end Napoleon’s reign as emperor of France.
He winced at the thought that the brandy he and his father had shared the night before his departure had been their last together. Only a few days later, Christopher Fitzsimmons, first Viscount Reardon, succumbed to a sudden fever, dying as his wife and daughter stood by his bedside.
Meanwhile, the final battle against Napoleon at Waterloo had nearly been the end of Christopher.
He absently rubbed the area where a bullet had penetrated his mid-section, the wound still giving him trouble on occasion. He couldn’t be too upset with his mother’s overreaction to his heartburn, although Fortnum’s insistence he swallow laudanum wasn’t welcome.
At least his heartburn was gone, though.
His thoughts once again went to Maria.
Lady Maria Paloma Silvestri y Arístegui de Benavides.
He chuckled softly at the memory of how long it had taken him to learn how to say her entire name. How when he had first made love to her, he had recited it twice before he took her virtue.
Where are you, Maria?
He was sure she was looking forward to a life with him when she and her father, the Conde of Albacete, said their farewells. He had married her, after all. She had even whispered a vow that she would love him forever, her gloved hand cupping his ear as her lips spoke the words that had sustained him for months while he recovered from his wound.
So why hadn’t she responded to any of his letters?
Knowing his mother had not been pleased at the prospect of him taking a Spanish nobleman’s daughter to wife, he had suspected she might be intercepting his correspondence. However, Peters had assured him nothing had come for him from Spain or anywhere else on the Continent.
One of his recent missives to her had been returned, a note in Spanish indicating no one lived at the address he had written on the envelope. If she and her father had taken up residence somewhere else besides in Madrid, he had no way of knowing where that might be.
He was fairly sure there was someone who might know of her whereabouts, but Christopher would have to pay a call at his uncle’s office to learn more.
“Peters!” he called out, rising from his bed.
The butler appeared at the bedchamber’s door a moment later. “My lord?”
“Have the town coach made ready,” he ordered. “I need to go to Whitehall.”
“Right away, my lord.”
Christopher watched him go and then hurried to dress. Surely Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain and the head of the Foreign Office, would know the whereabouts of a certain spy he employed.
Chapter 4
Dispatching a Letter
Meanwhile, on The Fairweather
Once their trunks and valises had been delivered to their cabin on The Fairweather, the two recent graduates of Cambridge University realized their quarters might be too cramped to live in during the voyage to Rome. Besides the two bunks, one mounted above the other on one wall, the cabin featured a square table, two wooden chairs, and a lantern. Their luggage took up nearly all the remaining floor space.
“I’m going to bed,” Frank announced, shedding his top coat before he deftly jumped up and onto the top bunk.
“Hey,” Marcus said in protest, expecting he would take the top bunk. A thought he might be tossed out of it in the event of bad weather had him reconsidering.
“Wake me when the food is served.”
The reminder they hadn’t eaten breakfast prior to their departure that morning had Marcus’ stomach growling in protest. He acknowledged Frank’s request as he hung his top hat on a peg. “Captain St. John said we could join him for meals,” he commented. “Sinclair and Hornsby as well,” he added, referring to two other classmates who had boarded The Fairweather for the trip to Rome and their Grand Tours.
He had been relieved upon meeting the older captain in the wheelhouse. Half expecting a piratical character sporting a peg leg, Marcus was pleased when John St. John proved nothing of the sort.
He had obviously been a sea captain for some time. For the past three years, he had sailed the London to Rome to London route as captain of The Fairweather, although he hinted he’d had other responsibilities on the side. His crew seemed loyal, especially his first mate, a man he called Rodney.
Although the ship had been beset by the same sorts of disasters any sailing ship did, The Fairweather seemed in good shape. Even though steam ships were taking over most of the work of moving goods across the water, the sailing vessels were still in demand for their speed in seas where winds could be relied upon to fill their sails.
Marcus opened his trunk and pulled out his stationery box. Moving to the table, he took a seat and considered how to compose a letter to the woman who would one day be his wife.
Dear Sweeting,
He scratched his chin. Perhaps it was too soon for endearments. Lucy was probably still suffering her mother’s scolds.
Dear Gorgeous,
Rolling his eyes, he could just imagine how Lucy would roll hers upon reading the salutation.
Dear Miss Fitzsimmons,
Yes, it was ordinary, but it showed he knew her name, and it showed a level of respect she deserved.
Dear Miss Fitzsimmons,
I owe you an apology for what happened last night, although...
He sat back. An apology implied he was sorry when he really wasn’t. How could he be when their kiss had been so earth-shattering?
Their intimate act had been somewhat of a surprise. One of those serendipitous events that could change the course of one’s life.
The kiss would certainly change theirs. Or rather, the discovery by Lady Pettigrew would. The hag had been lying in wait to follow an unsuspecting couple into the gardens for the sole purpose of creating a gossip-worthy event.
He had seen to it. But not in the manner it had actually occurred. How could Lady Pettigrew betray him with her cutting words?
Giving his head a shake, Marcus returned his attention to the letter.
Although I must admit, I am not sorry for having kissed you. I found the experience most illuminating, for it opened my eyes to the possibility of what is to come in my life. Of what I may look forward to for the rest of my life.
I do hope you are able to see it the same.
Here he paused and tried to imagine Lucy’s reaction. Either she would be of the same mind as him, or she wouldn’t. Perhaps she would require some prodding.
As per our agreement, I will of course marry you. I look forward to the day when we will say our vows and take up residence in Pendleton House in Mayfair.
It wasn’t as if anyone else lived in Pendleton House. The butler there claimed ignorance as to the whereabouts of his older sister, Barbara. His younger sister was living with an aunt in Staffordshire. If his older brother remained in Staffordshire at the Greenley country estate, Higgins House, then Lucy would be the lady of Pendleton House. Was that enough of an incentive in the event merely marrying him wasn’t?
He jerked himself out of his reverie and continued to write.
There is a slight matter of timing, however. I have only this morning boarded a sailing vessel bound for Rome as I have embarked on my Grand Tour. Frank Turnbridge and I made the arrangements well before our terms at Cambridge ended a fortnight ago. The itinerary will keep us away from British shores for two years.
Upon my return, I shall pay a call to renew our acquaintance so that a date can be set for our wedding. I do hope this will not inconvenience you. It will give you two years to attend the entertainments of the ton with the knowledge you no longer need to impress a young man into proposing marriage.
Let this letter be a formal acknowledgment of our betrothal. Upon my return to British shores, I will see to paying a call at Reardon Manor to seek your brother’s permission to marry you.
Please know that I shall think about you often as I visit Ancient Greek temples, for I know it was Cupid who was responsible for our meeting again.
Yours in service,
Marcus Higgins
Marcus set aside his pen and reread the letter, grunting softly as he imagined how she might react upon reading the news of his departure.
He briefly thought about adding “Heir to the Greenley earldom,” at the bottom, but thought better of it.
About to write a post scriptum to mention he would write again soon, he couldn’t when the ship suddenly jerked and the quick steps and shouts of sailors sounded from above.
“What’s going on?” he asked aloud.
From the upper bunk where he had a clear view through the room’s only porthole window, Frank said, “They’re undoing the ropes from the dock.”
“Already?” Marcus hurriedly folded the letter and addressed it. “Dammit. I thought I’d have more time,” he murmured, rushing from the room to climb the companionway.
When he landed on the deck, he had to quickly step aside or fall backward given the sailor who nearly collided with him. A sail unfurled on the fore-mast followed by another on the main-mast. The sense of sudden motion he felt was confirmed when he realized they were no longer tethered to the dock.
Once he was sure he wasn’t in anyone’s way, he rushed to the railing in search of anyone on the dock he might engage in the delivery of his letter.
Spotting a young man dressed in the uniform of a porter, he called out to him.
The porter looked up. “Aye?” He stutter-stepped into motion, matching the ship’s movement along the dock.
“Can you see to delivering this letter?” Marcus called out as he held up the envelope. He frowned when he realized the ship was moving faster than he thought.
The porter looked both ways and began jogging in the same direction as The Fairweather. “Toss it, sir,” he called out. “I’ll see what I can do!”
Marcus hoisted the envelope and gave it his best throw. Although the envelope landed well away from the porter, it did land on the dock. “For your trouble,” Marcus called out as he tossed a sovereign.
This time, the porter caught the silver coin and held it up. “Good travels, sir.”
Marcus watched as the porter picked up the envelope and seemed to study the address, but the foggy and crowded docks soon hid him from view as The Fairweather increased its easterly movement on the Thames. Within the hour, they would be in the Channel and headed for the Strait of Gibraltar.
He hoped his missive might end up in Lucy’s hands well before then.
Chapter 5
Young Ladies Commiserate
Later that day, Reardon Manor, Mayfair
“What do you mean, he wasn’t there?” Lucy asked when her maid relayed the message she had been waiting for most of the day.
Persimmon shrugged her shoulders. “Perkins spoke with the kitchen maid at Pendleton House,” she said, referring to one of the footmen who was frequently dispatched with messages. “She said the young man was there yesterday. He left last night for an entertainment and was not in the household this morning for breakfast. Mr. Higgins was not expected for dinner this evening, either.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “He was at the Weatherstone’s ball last evening,” she insisted, not adding that he had not only stolen a kiss but had accepted her wager. His quick departure after Lady Pettigrew—and her mother—had appeared at the fountain had been rather odd. Cowardly, even.
“Perhaps he had to return to university,” Persimmon suggested, moving to undo the pins in Lucy’s hair so she could do a different hairstyle for that night’s dinner.
