Knave's Wager

He was vain, Lilith thought contemptuously. Aloud she said, “I am sorry if Harris was not gentle with you. He is more accustomed to grooming horses.”

“No wonder my hide is raw. It is a miracle he did not try to brush my—”

“There are but a few spoonfuls left,” Lilith hastily interjected. “You had best finish while it is still hot.”

Though he accepted the remaining broth meekly enough, there was no meekness in his steady scrutiny of her face, nor in the occasional glances he dropped elsewhere. He was sizing her up, Lilith knew. Well, if he had any intelligence at all, he must realise he wasted his time. All the same, she was edgy. When at last the bowl was empty, she rose.

“Now I hope you will get some rest,” she said as she took up the tray.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He slumped back among the pillows once more. “Your company has been far too exciting for a sick man. You should not have agitated me so. I shall not sleep a wink.”

“I fed you one small bowl of chicken broth,” Lilith said with a touch of impatience.

“It was not what you did but how you looked when you did it. Such resolution in the face of ingratitude. Such militant charity.” He smiled lazily. “And such eyes, Athena.”

“Indeed. One on either side of my nose. A matching set, quite common in the human countenance.”

“The Hellespont in a summer storm.”

“Blue. A common colour among the English.” She moved to the door.

“Really? They seem most uncommon to me. Perhaps you are right—but I cannot be certain unless you come closer.”

“You are short-sighted, Mr. Wyndhurst?” she asked as she opened the door. “Then it is no wonder you drove your curricle into a ditch. Perhaps in future you will remember to don your spectacles.”

She heard a low crack of laughter as the door closed behind her.

To Cecily’s eager enquiries during dinner, her aunt offered depressingly unsatisfactory answers. Yes, Mr. Wyndhurst was well-looking enough, she noted without enthusiasm. He was also shockingly ill-behaved.

“Oh, Aunt, did he try to flirt with you? I was sure he would. He had that look about him.”

“A look?” Emma asked with a smile. “You discerned a look under his impenetrable coating of mud?”

“He had the devil in his eyes,” Cecily said. “I saw him open them when he thought no one was looking. He reminded me of Papa’s prize stallion. The naughtiest, most deceitful, ill-mannered beast you ever saw. But when he moves, he is so graceful that one is persuaded he must have wings, like a bad, beautiful angel.”

Lilith put down her fork. “Whatever Mr. Wyndhurst may be, tending to him has been altogether wearing. I am not decided what to do tomorrow. We cannot leave him here, yet I cannot subject my servants to another night of sleeping in the tap room—or wherever it is the poor creatures will lay their heads. I should have asked his destination. If it were near enough, we might have sent word.”

“You’ve done all you can for one day,” said Emma. “The decision can wait until tomorrow, when you’re rested.” She smiled ruefully. “At least I hope you’ll be rested. I do think you should let me share a bed with Cecily. Having done by far the most work, you have earned the most comfort.” She turned to Cecily. “I promise not to snore.”

“Pray snore all you like, ma’am,” Cecily answered with a grin. “I am a prodigious sound sleeper.”

Though she was eventually persuaded—thanks to Cecily’s threats to sleep on the floor—to accept Mrs. Wellwicke’s offer, Lilith was wakeful long after her companions had fallen asleep.

She had no sooner thrust the obnoxious Mr. Wyndhurst from her mind than another gentleman pushed his way in: Sir Thomas Bexley, her erstwhile friend and, of late, patient suitor. His recent letters indicated he meant to repeat his offer of marriage in the very near future. Though her feelings had not changed since the last time, it seemed her answer must be yes.

Poverty did not frighten Mrs. Davenant. She was disciplined enough to live frugally. She need not and would not in any case accept the charily of Charles’s family. Unfortunately, poverty touched not only herself. Without funds, she could be of no help to her nieces.

She lay staring at the ceiling. The prospect of marriage was repugnant to her. There were reasons, but perhaps these were paltry. She would not be miserable with Thomas. He admired and respected her, and would exert himself to make her happy. Their tastes and personalities suited.

No, she could not be so self-centered as to reject marriage to a perfectly worthy gentleman—not when the consequence was a lifetime of wretchedness for those beautiful, fresh, innocent girls. Cecily, for instance, to be married to that repellent sot, Lord Evershot—or to that obese young lecher, Mr. Crawbred.

It was always the same: whatever wealthy and sufficiently well-born mate was handiest would do. Her in-laws took greater care in mating their precious horses. The children—whom they produced in such shocking abundance—they only wanted off their hands.

Well, it would not be, she told herself. Aunt Lilith would look after them: Cecily now, Diana next year... Emily next... and Barbara after... then it would not be long before Charlotte’s girls came of age... and the eldest nephew, Edward, could do with, some guidance – if he’d stand for it.

Thus, counting her beloved nieces and nephews instead of sheep, Mrs. Davenant finally fell asleep.

Chapter Two

Despite inadequate rest, Mis. Davenant was up and about early the following morning. She’d scarcely quit her room when Cecily’s groom, Harris, who’d dutifully looked in on Mr. Wyndhurst, informed her the man had vanished.

The innkeeper expanded upon the news. “They came for him early,” he told the widow. “Seems his lordship’s relations were expecting him and sent someone to look when he didn’t appear. Must have found the smashed rig and alerted the family because—”

“His lordship?” Lilith interrupted.

“His lordship the Marquess of Brandon, ma’am. On his way to his cousin’s. Lord Belbridge, that is.”

His patron’s countenance grew stony.

The innkeeper went on quickly, “They came for him—the Earl of Belbridge himself and a pack of servants. As I said, it was early—-maybe an hour or more before cock crow— and Lord Brandon was very particular that we wasn’t to disturb you about it. He said to thank you for your kindness and apologise for his hasty leave-taking. I think that was how he put it,” the landlord said with a frown. “Anyhow, he paid your shot, ma’am. Said it was the least he could do in return for all the—What was it he said? He laid such a stress on it, the word—ah, the inconvenience.”

After uttering a few cold words of acknowledgement, Mrs. Davenant turned away, her heart pounding with indignation. The Marquess of Brandon, of all people. Her servants had braved the cold, filthy storm and the muck of the ditch, risking pneumonia. They had spent the night on floors—when they might have slept comfortably, warm and dry in their proper beds in her London town house. All this they had endured for the most foul libertine who had ever trod his polluted step upon the earth.

With her own hands she’d fed the man who had half killed her husband—for was it not Brandon who had mercilessly led Charles on an insatiable pursuit of the lowest sort of pleasure? Finally, when her husband was too ill for pleasure any more, this so-called friend had released what was left of him. Then Charles was hers at last—hers to watch nearly two years, while he crept slowly and painfully to his grave. Not once in all that long, weary time had this friend deigned to visit him. A letter or two from abroad was all. Then, one curt, condescending note of condolence, two months after the funeral.

Now Brandon patronisingly threw a few pieces of gold her way—when she owed him thousands. She would pay him, Lilith vowed. She would sell the very clothes from her back if necessary. She would not be in his debt, not for so much as a farthing.

Mrs. Davenant stood staring at a small, poorly executed hunting print until she had collected

herself. Then she returned to her travelling companions to break the news regarding their patient and urge them to a speedy departure.

She fumed inwardly the entire distance to London. Outwardly, she was as coolly poised and unapproachable as ever.

Even Cecily was eventually daunted in her efforts to penetrate her aunt’s reserve. Questions about the Marquess of Brandon elicited only warnings: he was precisely the sort of man young ladies must scrupulously avoid; he had not been so near death as he pretended; if he could deceive an experienced physician, what hope was there for an innocent young girl—and so on. Cecily would have preferred to be told what she didn’t already know.

As Mrs. Davenant’s carriage was entering London, the subject of her disapprobation was reclining upon a richly upholstered sofa in the cavernous drawing room of a massive country house many miles away. He was being wearied half to death listening—or trying not to listen—to his cousin’s litany of woes.