Knave's Wager

Still, Robert told himself as he brought the carriage to the mews, he would press, because she must be got to go away peaceably. Good God—what if she took to haunting him, as Lady Caroline had haunted Byron all last year? What if they met up in public and Elise created a scene?

She very well might. Julian had warned about that only the other day. Cecily might understand, but her aunt—Gad, if Elise enacted any scenes in front of the widow, he and Cecily would be done for.

Julian. Of course. Julian always knew what to do. First, unfortunately, there’d be hell to pay about borrowing the curricle. Still, he’d only rip up fierce for a while, and after, he’d order brandy. Then Robert would ask his advice.

Accordingly, when Julian had returned to the house to change for the evening, Lord Robert squared his shoulders, marched up the stairs, and knocked at the door.

He found the marquess standing by the window, staring out. “What do you want now?” Julian asked.

Stammering a good deal, Robert made his confession to his cousin’s back.

“Sims would not have let you take the curricle if he did not trust your skill,” was the dispassionate response. “Feel free to drive yourself to perdition.”

“Yes, well, that’s very kind of you,” Robert said nervously.

“Indeed, I am a model of every Christian virtue.’’

Julian turned round. His face was its usual mask of boredom. Obviously, then, he could not be miserable, regardless what Cecily believed. Tired, perhaps.

“I hate to bother you,” Robert said, trying for airiness, “but I’m in a devil of a fix, don’t you know? You see, I borrowed the curricle so I could take Miss Glenwood driving—”

The black eyebrows rose slightly. “Her aunt permitted the girl to drive with you?”

“Well, not exactly—though I don’t see why she shouldn’t. Anyhow, she’d gone to Lady Enders’s. Still, Mrs. Wellwicke didn’t raise any sort of fuss. Don’t see why she should. No harm in a fellow taking a girl out for a drive in an open—’’

“Good God.”

I beg your pardon?”

The marquess turned back to the window. “Get out,” he said.

“But, Julian, I have to speak with you. It’s very important. Elise—”

“Go to hell.”

Man of honour or no, Lord Robert saw no alternative but to confide these latest developments to Cecily. Julian clearly was not going to be any help. He was apparently in a perfectly hideous fit of the blue devils. Even Hillard had quietly advised Robert to keep out of his cousin’s way.

If Julian wouldn’t help pacify Elise, the poor distracted woman might very well do something rash. It was only fair to prepare Cecily for that eventuality.

The information was relayed that night in short bursts while they danced.

Cecily accepted the news with her usual imperturbability, and told him not to worry about that. The major problem at present was Aunt Lilith.

“She was terribly disappointed in me because I went driving with you,” said Cecily. “And so we had another heart to heart talk, and now you and I must be exceedingly cautious.”

Caution, it turned out, meant that Lord Robert was not to attend every single affair she did. Cecily had promised her aunt she’d not spend so much time with him.

Cecily had not promised anything else, which must have made her conscience perfectly easy regarding the notes which thereafter travelled surreptitiously between the marquess’s and the widow’s town houses.

While these letters were being exchanged, the owner of a few dozen far more torrid ones was weighing her prospects.

Elise suspected within three days of the event that the widow had given Lord Brandon his conge. Elise heard of his reappearances at several of his old haunts, and saw him herself at the performance of Othello.

Therefore, she put off Lord Robert, visited with her friends, and listened to the shop girls’ talk. Before a week had passed, her suspicions were confirmed: Society noted with disappointment that Lord Brandon had once again vanished into the depths of the demimonde.

Little more than a fortnight remained of the stipulated seduction period. He would lose, as Elise had been certain he would. She was equally certain his pride would not permit him to revert to his previous threats.

Perhaps he no longer cared what became of the letters or of Robert. On the other hand, what of the girl Robert was so eager to marry? Surely the marquess would wish to forward this oh-so-suitable match. In that case, he was bound to offer more than a mere half of Robert’s paltry trust fund—and more likely to pay. Once wed, Robert might conveniently forget what he owed his mistress for two years’ fidelity. Besides, Robert could not legally promise any portion of his trust fund until he was twenty-five. He might be wed before then.

Mille. Fourgette concluded that, of her two options, the marquess was the lesser risk. She would gamble on him.

When, at the end of her week’s recovery, Lord Robert called to renew his pleas, Elise was adamant: she would never give him up. He’d made a terrible mistake, but she’d forgive him, and would wait until he came to his senses. She did not, however, promise to wait quietly.

***

My Darling Cecily,

I’ve done my best but it’s just as you feared and I know we’re bound to raise the very Devil of a Dust but there’s no Choice. Julian and your Aunt are too wrapped up in their own Troubles. Do forgive me Dearest Darling Cecily because I should of known better and been Patient, you are always so LevelHeaded. Now I only wait for you to give the Word only please let it be Soon as possible, we can’t wait much longer and don’t dare. I know I can’t wait much longer to make you Mine.

Your Adoring,

Robert

Miss Glenwood did not, as was her custom, tear this missive to tiny pieces and burn it. She only smiled and murmured to herself, “Dear Robert. How sweetly you write—and so cleverly to the purpose.”

Susan entered a while later, looking for the reply she knew must be forthcoming. “You’d better make haste, miss,” she warned. “Hobbs can’t be lingering about much longer.”

“There’s no need for him to linger,” said Miss Glenwood. Tell him the answer is Tuesday.”

On Tuesday evening, Lord Brandon stood before his glass and stabbed an emerald pin into his cravat. The pin set off admirably the green embroidery of his satin waistcoat, and the combined effect drew riveting attention to his eyes.

This effect might not have been altogether desirable, considering his eyes were edged with deep shadows, the lines at the corners clearly evident, even in the flattering candlelight of his dressing room. In a few years, the lines would set deeply, and the furrow between his dark eyebrows would harden and deepen too. His face, like those of his older acquaintances, would reflect the empty, corrupt life he lived. In another few years, he’d look like every other aging roué.

Still, so long as he had money, he’d never lack for company. Even a troll could find some trollop to warm his bed, so long as he had the gold to persuade her.

Not that this night’s harlot would require any great expenditure, he reflected. He was not decrepit yet, and though he’d not troubled to exert his notorious charm, the woman was willing. Another actress—but then, weren’t they all?

He turned from the glass as Hillard entered.

“I’ve conquered the thing at last,” his lordship said, with a brief glance at the heap of discarded neckcloths he’d flung onto a chair. “Still, even Brummell has his share of failures.”

“So he does, m’lud,” said the valet, taking up his master’s black evening coat. As the marquess thrust his arm into the left sleeve, a folded piece of thick stationery fell out. Hillard picked it up and handed it to him.

Five minutes later, Lord Brandon was running down the stairs, shouting for his curricle.

“The bloody fool!” he raged as he stomped to the vestibule, “I’ll hang him myself! Where the devil is my curricle?”

A trembling footman wrenched op

en the front door. His lordship thundered through, and stormed round the comer to the stables.

“He’s taken it?” Lord Brandon repeated, glaring at his tiger.

“I was just comin’ to tell you, my lord. I was out, enjoyin’ a pint with Hobbs and Jem, and these others,” Sims said indignantly, glaring at two much abashed stable lads, “didn’t know any better.”

“Never mind. Ill take the other carriage. Only, be quick, will you?”

While he waited for the carriage to be readied, Lord Brandon considered his options. He could go after them himself—now. They could not have more than an hour’s start of him, more likely less. But Lilith—did she know yet? He hoped not. That idiot Bexley would be no help. His plodding nags would be better employed behind a plough.

“Had Hobbs any word for me?” he asked his tiger.

“He only said his mistress was going to Lady Jersey’s, and the young lady—Miss Glenwood, that is—was sick at home. The other lady was staying with her. I meant to tell you, my lord, but I come back and these numskulls—”