The Wager of a Wallflower, page 5
Wincing, Christopher nodded. “I knew he was in dire straights. I may have mentioned a dowry was not necessary as a means to gain his permission to marry Maria,” he admitted.
This bit of news had his uncle rolling his eyes. “You’re a better man than most, but I know you can afford to wed without a dowry. Did the conde witness the wedding?”
Christopher nodded. “He had to. Maria isn’t yet one-and-twenty.”
His uncle sighed. “The fact that you haven’t heard from her is worrisome, though.”
“Without a dowry, it’s doubtful the conde could have married her off to someone else,” Christopher remarked. “Not that she would have allowed it. She can be rather headstrong when the circumstances require it.”
“Possibly,” Matthew hedged, but it was apparent he didn’t necessarily agree.
“Might you be willing to share where I could find John St. John? I believe he works for you, does he not?”
Giving a start, his expression conveying a combination of dismay and resignation, Matthew finally shrugged and said, “He hasn’t carried documents for me since the Battle of Waterloo. Last I heard, he was back aboard his ship, so he’s probably somewhere between here and Rome.”
“What?”
The older viscount grinned. “Not that you should know this, but when he isn’t off gathering information or delivering documents for me, he’s the captain of a sailing vessel. The Fairweather,” he stated. “Been doing it for several years.”
“That’s his cover?” Christopher asked in surprise.
Matthew considered how to respond. “He makes an excellent operative because he is a ship’s captain,” he countered. “Why is it you think he can be of help?”
Inhaling, Christopher let the breath out on a long sigh. “I’m fairly sure he had contact with the conde after the Battle of Waterloo,” he finally said. “Someone at the hospital mentioned he had gone to Spain rather than returning to England after the war, and since his last orders involved me, I can only imagine he told the conde I’d been wounded.”
Settling back into his chair, Matthew seemed to think on his answer before he said, “It’s possible. If he did go to Spain, it wasn’t because he had orders to do so, though.” He paused as a wince crossed his face. “You do realize there were those who thought you had died that day?” he asked. “Early reports. Eye witnesses claimed you were dead before you hit the ground.”
Christopher’s eyes rounded as realization struck. “Do you suppose he told the conde I was dead?” He rolled his eyes. “St. John did know I was betrothed to Lady Maria, did he not?”
For a moment, it seemed as if Matthew wouldn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his comment was unexpected. “So, you’re sure you still wish to remain married to the Conde of Albacete’s daughter?”
Christopher scoffed in disbelief. “Well, of course. I love Maria. She loves me.” He stopped when Matthew held up a hand.
“All right, all right,” he said on a sigh.
“Why is it you... and my mother... were so dead set against my marrying the daughter of a Spanish aristocrat?”
“It’s not her,” Matthew started to say. “Trust me.”
“My mother’s comments on the matter would suggest it is her.”
“It’s the conde,” his uncle admitted. “As I said, he is broke. He never found a wife while he was in England. He needed money, so he’s no doubt spent his daughter’s dowry—”
“I don’t need one, Uncle.”
“—and yes, it is possible he’s gone off and married Lady Maria to someone else.”
“She left here with a copy of our marriage certificate,” Christopher argued before he inhaled sharply. “Damnation,” he muttered. “I hadn’t thought it possible—”
“Of course not. And if he has, at least you can take heart in knowing it wasn’t her idea.”
Wincing, Christopher dipped his head as if in defeat. “St. John. If he is acting as a captain—”
“He is a ship’s captain.”
“Which company employs him?”
Matthew seemed to think for a moment. “Nattersley, I believe is the name. Operates an office on the docks in Wapping.”
“I’ll go there now,” Christopher said, rising quickly from his chair.
“Now? It will be dark soon,” Matthew said. “You don’t want to be in Wapping at night,” he added by way of warning.
Christopher sighed. “I’ll go tomorrow morning then,” he replied. He paused before he added, “I appreciate your honesty, I thank you for your time. Please give my regards to Aunt Caroline and Cousin Samantha.”
Matthew nodded. “I will. Do take care of yourself. We have a ball to attend tonight, and you’re looking a bit peaked these days.”
About to tell his uncle he would appear far healthier if he knew what had happened to his wife, Christopher decided to simply take his leave.
At least he had a clue where he could find John St. John.
Chapter 7
Information is Revealed
Meanwhile, on The Fairweather
“You’re looking rather pleased with yourself,” Marcus remarked when he joined Frank on the deck of The Fairweather. Although he had invited Sinclair and Hornsby to join them, the two had elected to stay in their cabins until The Fairweather was past France. The two were obviously still recovering from hangovers.
From the moment of their departure from the Thames and their entry into the Channel, a stiff breeze had filled all the sails. After the clipper passed the limestone cliffs of Dover, it joined a line of ships recently departed from Southhampton, and was soon rounding the coast of France. At their current pace, they would pass through the Strait of Gibraltar in a day or so.
Frank rested his elbows on the railing as he aimed a grin in his friend’s direction. The wind ruffled his dark, sleep tousled hair, making it appear even more messy. For some reason, his dishabille didn’t detract from his handsomeness. Instead, it made him seem approachable. Amiable. Friendly, even. The second son was all that and more, which had Marcus experiencing a moment of envy.
He briefly wondered what Miss Fitzsimmons thought of him.
“I am contemplating my good fortune and hoping it will hold,” Frank said, loud enough to be heard over the sounds of water from beyond as the clipper sliced through the choppy waters of the Channel.
Marcus stepped back as a sudden splash of seawater threatened to drench his topcoat. “Good fortune?” he repeated. “To what do you refer?”
Frank turned and leaned against the railing so his back was to the water, his elbows bent and pressed on the wooden edge. “I took your advice and invested most of my inheritance with Mr. Grandby,” he announced. “In that canal project you told me about.”
Marcus’ eyes rounded. “Pray tell, when was this?”
“Two days ago. It’s why I was late for the Weatherstone ball,” Frank replied. “As a result, I decided to secure a promise of marriage—”
“What?”
“—from Miss Marianne Harkinson. Gave her my grandmother’s ring and told her we could marry after my return to England.”
Marcus boggled for a moment. Never in his wildest imaginings could he envision Frank Turnbridge proposing marriage. To anyone. He was the happy-go-lucky one at school. The one with the devil-may-care attitude about his studies. The one who epitomized laziness and a lackadaisical attitude toward just about anything.
Which was probably why he was so approachable, amiable, and friendly.
“She agreed? I wasn’t aware you two… have you been secretly courting her?” Marcus stammered. He had spent most of the day before contemplating how he was going to tell his best friend he was essentially betrothed, worried Frank would think him dicked in the knob.
“She agreed when I first asked her,” Frank replied. “No need for courtship.”
Marcus boggled. “I wasn’t aware you had asked anyone to wed you.”
Frank shrugged. “I was seven, I think. Decided then Marianne was the gel for me, so I haven’t considered anyone else.” He seemed quite pleased with himself until his eyes narrowed. “You weren’t contemplating courting her, were you?”
Marcus held up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “No. Never,” he said. “However…” He paused, deciding he had the perfect opening to tell his friend about what had happened in the gardens during the ball.
“However…?” Frank prompted.
Inhaling slowly, Marcus let out his breath in a huff and said, “I, too, have volunteered for the parson’s mousetrap.”
Frank stared at his friend, and continued to do so even as an arc of water splashed over the railing, dousing one of his top coat sleeves. He didn’t seem to notice. “When did this happen?”
Marcus winced. “Night before last. In the gardens—”
“You were the one by the fountain?” Frank interrupted, stepping away from the railing.
Nodding, Marcus immediately realized his friend must have been somewhere nearby. “Where were you?”
“Behind the hedgerow. I would have preferred to propose with Cupid as my witness, but I feared our presence would be discovered.” He moved his hands to his hips. “I wasn’t aware you were courting anyone.”
“I wasn’t,” Marcus huffed.
Frank’s brows shot up. “Caught doing the deed, were you?” he teased. He suddenly sobered. “Who is the unlucky lady?”
Directing a look of annoyance at his best friend, he said, “Lucy Fitzsimmons. Reardon’s sister.”
Frank would have stepped back except he was already pressed against the ship’s railing. “Lucy Fitzsimmons?” He let out a low whistle. “You asked her brother for his permission?”
Marcus once again winced. “In a manner of speaking.” At seeing Frank’s raised eyebrow as it collided with a stubborn forelock of hair, he added, “I may have asked if I might court her at one point. I meant to clarify my intentions, but I couldn’t find him again at the ball—”
“He left early. Ever since he was shot by a frog on the Continent, he’s been unwell. He was bedridden for months is what I hear,” Frank claimed. His brows furrowed. “Who caught you?”
Scoffing, Marcus scuffed his boot on the deck. “We were only standing together by the fountain—”
“That’s all it takes.”
“When Lady Reardon and Lady Pettigrew—”
“It’s a wonder you’re alive!” Frank exclaimed as he pounded a fist against his chest. “It appears we have departed England in the nick of time.” He huffed. “Too bad we won’t be able to procure a copy of this week’s The Tattler.”
Marcus blinked. “What, pray tell, is The Tattler?”
About to answer, Frank clamped his mouth shut and glanced at the distant shores of Spain. “Just a gossip rag is all,” he murmured.
A sense of panic settled over Marcus, and his heart raced at the thought of poor Miss Lucy Fitzsimmons suffering because of Lady Pettigrew.
All because he had arranged for the crone to discover them.
He hadn’t considered the possibility the news of their tête-à-tête in the gardens would go beyond a few Mayfair parlors.
Especially not to a gossip rag.
“What makes you think anything will be printed?” he asked, managing an air of nonchalance. “Surely more newsworthy activities occurred at the ball than a mere discovery of a young couple standing together by the fountain.”
Frank let out a guffaw. “The Tattler sells far more copies when there are such juicy scandals,” he remarked.
Marcus furrowed his brows. Poor Lucy. “How do you know?”
Glancing first to his left and then to his right, Frank leaned toward his friend and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I happen to know the owner and editor of the paper.”
Blinking, Marcus regarded Frank with a dubious expression. “How? And who?”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Frank whispered, leaning in before his attention drifted to the horizon and then to a bird circling overhead. “Not even Sinclair and Hornsby,” he added, glancing about for the other two young men on their way to Rome.
Marcus scoffed as he lifted his arms and waved them about. “Who am I going to tell?”
Frank rolled his eyes. “When we return, I mean. Part of the reason Felix is so good at editing that rag is because—”
“Felix?” Marcus interrupted. “Your brother edits The Tattler?” The very last person on earth he would think might be involved with any sort of newsheet was Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington.
Frank nodded. “Makes a good deal of blunt from it, too, which is why I was able to wrest my inheritance from him,” he explained.
“Damn,” Marcus murmured. “I don’t suppose I could arrange for a bribe to be paid for him to remove any mention of Lucy and me?”
Frank’s expression affirmed his suspicions. The next issue was probably already printed. Probably already off the press and in the hands of the young boys who sold papers on every corner of London.
Poor Lucy!
“Gossip grows old fast,” Frank said with a shrug. “After the next ball, there will no doubt be another hapless couple discovered in a state of dishabille—”
“We were not in a state of dishabille,” Marcus argued.
“—fornicating in a fountain—”
“We were not in the fountain.”
“—enjoying the scents of spring blossoms.”
Marcus stared at Frank for a few seconds before his eyes widened. “You were fornicating in the hedgerow—”
“We were not in the hedgerow—”
“—and you weren’t discovered.”
“—because we were behind it. No one saw us,” Frank proudly claimed.
Marcus had seen a couple hiding in the bushes, but in his haste to leave the gardens, he hadn’t paused to discover their identity. He had been more concerned they might discover his, for there had been that terrible moment when he regretted everything.
Well, not everything.
He would never regret his kisses with Lucy. They had been wonderful. Awe-inspiring. Reason-to-live sort of moments, experienced one after the other until he was sure Lucy would agree to his marriage proposal.
Given his late father’s reputation as a gambler and a debt-ridden earl, she wouldn’t agree, though.
Would she?
As to why Lady Pettigrew happened to mention his drawbacks so audibly that night, he wasn’t sure. That certainly hadn’t been part of their deal. She was only supposed to discover them and threaten to spread word of their kiss. Ensure Lucy would be tied to him and only him when it came to marriage.
How else was he to ensure she would remain unbetrothed whilst he was on his Grand Tour?
The terms of her wager had been perfection. As if she knew his plan. She couldn’t have known, of course. He had never professed his desire for her during their younger years playing in Hyde Park. Not like Frank had done with Marianne. He never had the courage. Once he left home for school and his father began his bouts of drinking and gambling, Marcus knew his chances of securing an agreement of marriage with any young woman would be nil.
“Not that it matters,” Frank stated, bringing him out of his reverie.
“What do you mean?”
“I met with her father. The bloke gave me permission to marry Marianne even before I explained myself,” he claimed. “He seemed… excited. Happy, even.”
“Well, of course he did,” Marcus argued. “One less thing he has to worry about when it comes to his daughter.”
“I don’t think that’s why,” Frank mused. “Said something about vexing his wife.” He lifted a brow. “Anyway, he’s going to give me ten thousand pounds for her dowry.”
Marcus gave a start. The amount was certainly familiar. “But not until you marry,” he guessed.
Frank shrugged. “True, but I’ll be putting the funds into an account for Marianne and our children, so it doesn’t matter.”
Not having thought about a dowry, Marcus wondered if the Viscount Reardon would be bestowing one on him once he wed Lucy. Maybe after two years, Christopher Fitzsimmons would forget about why it was Lucy would be marrying him.
“Do you regret being caught?” Frank asked.
“No. But I can’t help but think Lucy will hate me.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” Frank remarked.
Marcus gave him a quelling glance. “What would you have me do?”
“You could have talked with her. Explained your plan.”
“I didn’t have a plan.”
Frank displayed an expression of disbelief. “You knew you didn’t want anyone else to have her,” he accused.
Dipping his head, Marcus said, “True. But…” He allowed the sentence to trail off.
Turning to face the shores of Spain, Frank guffawed. “You, Marcus Higgins, are a coward,” he announced.
Marcus allowed a grimace, knowing his friend spoke the truth.
To a point.
Chapter 8
Timing is Everything
The following morning
Christopher Fitzsimmons, Viscount Reardon, regarded the offices of the Nattersley Shipping Company with an arched brow. Beneath the shingle and posted on the exterior of the wood building was a list of their vessels—all three of them—and the owner, William Nattersley.
The Fairweather, The Bellingham, and The Arthur.
A clerk welcomed him once he was inside, the shabby interior dark due to the dirty windows. “Are you in need of tickets, sir?”
“Information, actually. Might you know the whereabouts of John St. John? I believe he’s a captain of one of your vessels? It’s important I speak with him.”
Nodding, the clerk turned and studied a calendar for that year. All the months were displayed in large squares. “The Fairweather, sir,” he remarked, his quill tracing a line that ran through a series of squares representing the days of a month. “Departed yesterday morning with the tide,” the clerk announced proudly. “After two stops, it should be in Rome in about a fortnight and back here...” He traced the line into the next month. “May fourth.”
