Knave's Wager

“Indeed he does,” she said. “Miss Twillworthy can’t help her spots—not when her foolish grandmother overindulges her in sweets and keeps her trapped in that oppressive, musty house all the day. The girl scarcely ever goes out, but at night, like a little mole.”

While she spoke, Lilith debated what to do. To go with him was asking for trouble. On the other hand, she had something to say that could not be said before others. The matter on her conscience proving powerful enough to squeeze out other anxieties, she walked on with him.

She had kept clear of Lord Brandon all the past week. Now they were alone, she knew she could no longer—and should not—shrink from the apology she owed him. Had he appeared as coldly hostile as he had that morning in the park, her task would have been easier. She might simply make her speech and, her duty done, exit quickly.

His amiability made her far more uncomfortable. Either he was a remarkably forbearing man or too careless and unfeeling to be affected by—to even recollect—the harsh, unjust accusations she’d flung at him.

It didn’t matter what he was, she chided herself. She had made a grievous error and must apologise. She swallowed, lifted her chin, and spoke.

“My lord, a few minutes ago you referred to—to ears being blistered. I believe—I know—that is—some days ago, we had words.”

He stopped and looked at her. “We did. Mrs. Davenant, I do humbly beg your pardon for that. I was a beast. I was just this moment trying to compose my apology. Yet what expressions of regret could excuse me? I am still appalled by my behaviour. I never knew I had a temper, but I must have, because I lost it. And for what? Because you spoke some unpleasant truths.”

“Unpleasant, yes, but the truth—”

“Oh, it was that.”

“It was not,” she blurted out guiltily. “It was not the truth you hastened my husband’s death. He did that himself. It was not the truth you destroyed my marriage. It was a wreck from the start. There was no repairing it, no matter how—”

She hesitated, but that was foolish, when he knew already. His words the other day—as though he had known her intimately all those years ago, or had somehow looked into her heart. A generous heart, he had said. He must be generous, certainly, to forgive her and regret his own remarks.

“No matter how I tried,” she said softly. Though tears pricked her eyes, there was relief, she found, in saying it aloud, finally, after all these years, and so she went on. “If I had been older and wiser, perhaps I would have seen the futility.” Willing back the tears, she mustered up a smile. “Or perhaps not. I am supposedly older and wiser now, yet I needed you to point out my mistake.”

‘”You are far more generous than I deserve. No more on this topic, I beg, or I shall commence sobbing uncontrollably.”

A small titter escaped her, and she had to admire how deftly he’d drawn her back from perilous emotional waters.

He threw her an admiring glance. “What a remarkable girl you are,” he said.

“Hardly a girl,” she answered as she resumed walking.

“You are eight and twenty. I am seven years your senior. What do your calculations make me, I wonder? Shall I order a Bath chair at once?”

Her smile broadened at the image. “Now, there’s an intriguing picture. My Lord Brandon—a pair of spectacles upon his nose, a horn at his ear, shawls wound round him—being trundled about in a Bath chair.’’

“A fitting end. I know that’s what you’re thinking. You can’t deny it.”

“I should not presume to say what would be fitting in your case. Recollect I have but recently been tumbled from my throne of judgment.”

“Then you must be in need of support.”

He offered his arm and she, reluctant to spoil their truce, took it.

“If you continue in a penitential frame of mind,” he said, “I had better hasten to take advantage. I have a case to plead with you. Not my own,” he added before her newfound ease in his company could dwindle. “You may assume your wig once more, My Lady Judge. Take out your black cap if you will—though I hope you will not have occasion to don it.”

“A cardinal offence, is it? Not murder, I hope.”

“Not precisely, though a life is at stake, in a manner of speaking. A man’s life or—in the interests of accuracy—a fool’s. My cousin, Robin.’’

His handsome face was serious now, or appeared so. Lilith thought she had better not study it too closely.

“I do not see how any judgment of mine could in any way affect Lord Robert’s life,” she said carefully. “If you refer, as I assume you do, to this business with Cecily—”

“I do, and I beg you to reconsider. I do not believe you acted wrongly. I have told him so myself, repeatedly, but he refuses to listen. In consequence, I’ve had to endure a week of his incessant complaints and gripes and sulks and sullens. If you will not take pity on him, I wish you would take pity on me. Another day of it and I shall shoot him.’’

His face was still grave, but his aggrieved tones made her grin. “I am to be responsible for your cousin’s murder and your own hanging, my lord? Is that not excessive?”

“You would not say so if he were moping and grumbling the livelong day in your house, or if you had the hauling of his morose carcass about.”

“You cannot be hinting he is serious about Cecily. He cannot have serious intentions towards two women simultaneously. I need not, I hope, remind you of the moral character of one of these women.”

“Miss Glenwood is the only human being who has managed to draw Robert from the demimonde. I cannot say what his feelings are. I know only that since he met her, he has neglected his mistress. He has taken up quarters in my house—he who would scarcely leave his paramour’s side for an hour, is gone from her days at a time.”

“Yet he continues to send her gifts.”

“When passion dwindles, one often finds presents easier to give than time and attention. In any event, the less time he devotes to his mistress and the more among his social equals, the better his chances of finding a more suitable object—in the family’s eyes, at least.”

“I do not prevent his enjoying good society,” she said.

“Miss Glenwood’s is the only society that interests him at present Banished from her, he is bored and fretful. Worse, with each passing day, the risk increases he’ll return to his mistress.” He paused briefly, as though to allow the implications to sink in. “I’m convinced Robert means your niece no harm. Still, I shall promise to keep a close watch on him, if you will be so compassionate as to end his exile.”

She did not answer immediately, though she knew what her reply must be. She, who had accused Brandon of leading her husband astray, could not refuse to help lead another man aright.

“You are an eloquent solicitor, my lord,” she said at last. “I seem to be hoist by my own petard.”

“Not at all. I counted on your generous heart.” His gaze was warm.

Lilith looked away. “The heart that concerns me is Cecily’s. If I discern any signs of infatuation—unreturned, that is—”

“Then I shall knock the lad unconscious and drop him onto the first vessel bound for New South Wales.”

“I do not demand so extreme a remedy. Paris will do,” she said magnanimously. “Or Rome. With the end of hostilities, I expect half the Beau Monde will be flocking abroad.”

“With the hostilities ended, the Continent is not so interesting to me,” he said, a shade of meaning in his voice. Then, more briskly, he went on, “At any rate, Redley and his ancestors have transported half the Continent here. What works of art they could not buy or steal outright, I understand, they copied. There was once and I expect may still be an excellent reproduction of Bernini’s ‘Apollo and Daphne’ round the next turning. Will you permit me to expound upon its aesthetic qualities?”

The path, shaded by enormous rhododendrons, opened into a large clearing, in the centre of which the statue stood. The shrubbery all around was tall and dense. A narrow

opening through the leaves indicated yet another path, leading heaven knew where. The foliage was too thick to permit more than a glimpse of the way beyond. The place was quiet, except for the occasional ruffling of leaves in the light breeze.

“I was mistaken,” said Lord Brandon as they approached the sculpture. “This, as I recall, is the work of Lord Redley’s artistic great-grandfather. He called it The Abduction of Helen.’ The pose obviously owes something to Bernini’s ‘Pluto and Persephone’—though I never considered the two ladies’ cases quite the same. I prefer to believe Helen went with Paris of her own free will.”

He had already treated Lilith to several amusing theories regarding the expected Bernini. He was surprisingly well-read. Lilith wondered wryly when he’d found time for books. She had known he could be charming, but she’d expected a more shallow, social charm. She had not expected to find his conversation quite so... stimulating.

She smiled up at his sun-dappled face. “You think Helen willingly abandoned the throne of Sparta? Were Greek women so impractical, then?”

“I have decided she was very young, in an alien land, the husband chosen for her an old, insensitive lout. Paris appeared, and the two young beauties were instantly smitten. They tried to be discreet, but their affair was betrayed to Menelaus. Helen fled with her lover to escape a horrible death.”

Lilith laughed. “Leave it to you to devise extenuating circumstances.”

“I can’t help it. I am a hopeless romantic.” There was a pause—two heartbeats, maybe more.

Then, in lower tones, he went on. “I can guess, at least, what the Trojan must have felt when he met Sparta’s queen. In my vision she is tall, proud, and spirited, with eyes like Poseidon’s storms and hair tinged with Hephaistos’ fire.”