Knave's Wager

“Well, my dear,” said Sir Thomas after the remaining visitors had left, “what is this I hear about a rival?”

“What is it you hear?” his betrothed responded stiffly.

“I met up with Sally Jersey—not long after she’d left here, I take it, and she tells me Brandon is sending you love notes and lilies.”

He stood by the table that bore the infamous bouquet. His hands folded behind him, he appeared to be weighing the flowers as Parliamentary evidence.

“I have been hearing a great deal of Brandon lately,” he went on. “In fact, in the last twenty-four hours, I have heard his name linked with yours more often than my own. I know better than to credit every piece of idle gossip I hear, and I know better of your character than to credit what has been hinted to me. All the same, I do not take my treasure for granted.” He turned to her. “Have I any reason to speak to him regarding the matter?”

Lilith removed the crumpled note from her pocket and handed it to him. “Judge for yourself,” she said frostily. “I have not read it. I have no wish to read it.” Her chin was high.

He scanned the note quickly, then threw her a puzzled glance. “He thanks you, according to this, for your ‘exceedingly wise counsel.’ He says your advice was invaluable. What advice was that, my dear?”

“Drains.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Drainage. Of his fields. It is... it is one of my hobbyhorses, you know.”

Sir Thomas chuckled. “Poor Sally. All a-fever to know of midnight assignations and stolen kisses, and we can offer her nothing but agriculture. How I wish you had read her the note.”

“I had no desire to read it, as I said. In any case, whatever was written, she would have put some base construction upon it-—and certainly it is none of her affair.”

“No, my dear, and none of mine, I am sure. I am done with farming, thank heavens. All the same, I wish Brandon would take himself off to tend those fields of his. Even innocent, he is a troublesome fellow to have about, I think.”

***

Lilith watched the two young people tear off at a frightening pace, Cecily’s groom trailing doggedly behind them. Cecily was a countrywoman, happiest in the saddle and— judging by her speed—galloping neck or nothing. Fortunately, her companion was a match for her.

As Glenda had said, there was an eager boy under the veneer of jaded sophistication. Lilith had not observed Lord Robert very closely before. She’d had too many distractions—or one too great a one. But en route to the meadow, she had found much to meet with her approval. He was not sly or insinuating. He was good-natured, and behaved towards Cecily as though she were his sister.

Equally important, Cecily was her usual levelheaded self. The elegant gentleman did not seem to throw her into any sort of confusion. He might have been her brother.

Such fraternal behaviour scarcely promised a match, yet so long as Cecily’s heart was not affected, one could not object to the friendship.

All the same, one could not help wishing the Season done already, with Cecily wed or soon to be. Lilith had never been overly fond of Town, though she made the best of it for her nieces’ sakes. At present... oh, London seemed a den of fiends. One, certainly, plagued her mind and heart.

The hoofbeats seemed to come in response to the thought. She glanced over her shoulder at what might have been an apparition, for in the shadowed path man and beast appeared one. As she recognised the rider, her heart began to thud ominously. In a moment, Lord Brandon was beside her, his restless dark stallion pawing impatiently at the ground, agitating her mare.

“She is like her mistress,” he said, subduing his mount. “She wants to bolt—though we mean them no harm, do we, Abbadon?”

The beast snorted, and Lilith’s mare backed away.

“We have only come for our scold,” he went on. “I trust you’ve had sufficient time to compose a thundering one.”

“That would be a waste of intellect and energy. You are beyond sermons. You are beyond any civilised rules of behaviour.”

“I object to having my life ordered by prigs, if that is what you mean by civilised rules. It was but a kiss, after all.”

She winced.

“I shall never be sorry I did it,” he added, his smile as unrepentant as his words, “though you threaten me with all the fire and brimstone of all eternity. You, on the other hand, are sorry, and therefore obliged to take it out on me. Well, do your worst. I shall gaze at your lips the whole time and not comprehend a syllable.”

A breeze ruffled the boughs above them. The shifting beams of sunlight played over the clear planes of his face and softened it, gentled even the mocking smile and insolent green gaze. Or perhaps it was the low, beckoning sound of his voice that weakened something within her. Her own glance lingered on his mouth longer than it ought, and then upon his eyes, and within her grew a yearning that shamed and enraged her as soon as she recognised it.

“I am sorry,” she said tightly. “To you it is nothing—a whim to amuse yourself. It is no joke to me, my lord. It does not amuse me that I have betrayed my affianced husband, dishonoured myself, earned the censure of my peers—oh, yes, and earned your contempt as well.”

“Good heavens, one would think you had committed patricide. It was not even adultery—though I’m hardly the man to discourage you from that.”

Lilith tried to hold her temper, but it was already ripping loose. She was sick at heart at the sin she’d committed, while to him it was nothing. She was nothing—her feelings were a joke to him.

“No, you would not,” she said. “You delight in wrecking marriages. A betrothal must be a mere bagatelle.”

“Not at all. Your betrothal is an atrocity. A woman of your spirit—to be shackled to that stale speechmaker. No wonder you are so short-tempered.”

“Your opinion is of no consequence, my lord. Whatever you think of him, Sir Thomas is my own choice. I will not permit you to sully my reputation and make a laughingstock of him. I will not permit you to taint my existence any longer. You have already killed one husband,” she went on in low, furious tones. “Was that not sufficient? Must you make a shambles of my life once again?”

There was a heartbeat’s pause. The teasing light went out of his eyes, and his voice was cold as he answered, “As I recollect, madam, your first was consumptive.”

“Consumptive, yes—though I know it was his so-called friends hastened him to an early grave. If you can call it friendship to encourage a sick man to exhausting faculties— drinking, gambling, dissipating-—when he should have rested. Perhaps you call it friendship to lead such a man to the stewpots of a filthy city, when he needed to breathe fresh air.” She blinked back angry tears. “He might have had a few more precious years—even one—were it not for friends such as you. But with you it is always an endless pursuit of pleasure. You have no care for anyone but yourself. Now you have a whim to amuse yourself at my expense. You shall not,” she said, her voice choked. “I despise you and all you stand for.”

It seemed as though every sound had been stifled about them, so potent was the silence when she finished. Even his restless mount stood still as a statue.

“I am not omnipotent,” he answered at last. “My mere presence is not sufficient to befoul your lily-white reputation and cuckold your friends. As to your late husband, I doubt even the Almighty Himself had the power to sway Davenant from his chosen courses. He was a wastrel and debauchee long before I met him. If marriage to a wealthy, eager-to-please, generous-hearted girl was not enough for him, then his case was hopeless.”

The pain wrenched her so suddenly that the tears spilled over before she could recall them. She turned her head, though she knew he’d seen her weakness.

“I beg your pardon,” she heard him say more gently. “My presence distresses you. It will do so no longer.”

Then he was gone.

“Idiot!” Lord Brandon muttered as he rode away. “Clumsy idiot!”

Abbadon uttered a deri

sive snort.

“You needn’t rub it in,” his master grumbled. “It was clumsy, yes—and craven—to stoop to defend myself. Still, I was much goaded. You must admit that, at least.”

The unsympathetic animal tossed its head.

“Ah, you had your mind—or some part—fixed on the mare. You were not attending. You did not hear her contempt. You could not read the loathing in her eyes. Until, that is, your crude bully of a master reduced her to tears. That is a fine way to win a mistress, don’t you think? Damn.”

Abbadon pricked up his ears at the oath.