Knave's Wager

“Boredom, I suppose.”

“Somethin’ in the paper?”

“Only that his engagement is announced.”

George put down his silverware. “You don’t say! He’s done it, then. Well, there’s a few chaps stand to lose money on that. Mean to say—It’s Davenant’s widow he’s marryin’, ain’t it?”

Lord Brandon nodded.

“Better him than me. Feel an east wind blowin’ just thinkin’ of her. Cold female, Julian. But you knew her, I expect. You and Davenant were together a good deal.” George returned to his meal.

“I never met the lady then. She was in Derbyshire. Charles was in London. He took ill and returned to the country shortly after I was required to take residence out of England.”

“I recollect. Annoyin’ that. And not a bit fair. Stupid female. Burstin’ out from the wood, shriekin’. If it wasn’t for her, you’d have only winged him. A wonder we weren’t all killed. Duel’s no place for a woman.”

“Perhaps, having provoked the situation, Lady Advers felt obliged to see it through to the conclusion. At any rate, she taught me a valuable lesson.”

“Yes. Keep away from married women.”

The marquess laughed. “Good heavens, no, George. What I learned was never to let my attention wander, on any account.’’

Two hours later, Lord Brandon threw his relatives into transports of joy and relief when he announced plans to proceed to London that very day. He was bored with rustication, he said, and from all reports, Castlereagh seemed to be muddling along well enough without his dubious assistance. Since he had nothing better to do elsewhere, Lord Brandon thought he might toddle off to look into this tiresome little matter of Robert’s nuptials.

Chapter Three

Lord Enders’s opera box was rarely an object of interest to the audience. If he and his wife had company, it was bound to be the wife’s brother, Sir Thomas Bexley, and he was sure to be escorting Mrs. Charles Davenant. Though Bexley was absent tonight, the widow was not, and her severely cut, sombrely coloured costumes had never aroused envy or even interest in her neighbours.

Lady Enders was equally unexciting. Hers were the same passable features as her brother’s. Unlike him, however, she always appeared fussy, a veritable snowstorm of stiffly starched ruffles and furbelows heaped upon her gown, and the entire contents of her jewel-box mounded upon her throat and bosom.

Nonetheless, on this particular evening, the opera box received second, third—indeed countless—glances from a majority of the gentlemen present. This was because tonight a young lady broke the monotony. She was a jewel of a young lady, with her guinea-gold curls, her wide blue eyes, her dainty nose, and (here the sighs became audible) her pink, bee-stung lips. More than one masculine pulse accelerated at the sight of Miss Cecily Glenwood.

“I see we may expect a stampede at the intermission,” said Lady Enders in an undertone. “I had not thought it possible, but the child is even prettier than her cousins.”

One of her rare smiles softened Mrs. Davenant’s features. “She is a dear, sweet girl as well,” she said softly. “Those her beauty attracts will return on account of her nature.”

“You have always been so fortunate in your girls, Lilith. Lady Shumway, on the other hand—Why, whatever are they gaping at?”

The enquiry was occasioned by a sudden stirring in the audience. The usual buzz of voices preceding the curtain’s rise had swelled to a Babel, and every head was swivelling in the same direction.

Lilith followed the general gaze... and stifled a gasp. The Marquess of Brandon, in the company of one fair-haired gentleman and one brunette female—of obviously dubious character—had entered the box nearly opposite.

“Brandon!” Lady Enders whispered harshly. “I cannot believe my eyes. He has not been seen in Society in years. Why, he has scarcely been in England, to my knowledge— not since he killed Advers in that scandalous duel. Seven years ago that was, when Brandon had to flee the country. Wicked man! Do you see how brazenly he stares back at them, the insufferable scoundrel?”

Mrs. Davenant had looked away as soon as she recognised him. Like her companion, she had observed how more than one head turned away, abashed, upon meeting the marquess’s haughty stare.

Cecily had not missed this phenomenon. “Why, Aunt,” she said, “is that not the gentleman—” Then she fell silent.

Puzzled, Lilith slanted another quick glance at the box. She’d not regarded the other, younger, gentleman before. Now she perceived he was perfectly capable of attracting notice in his own right, for he was remarkably good-looking. Still, had not Cecily expressed an aversion to blonds?

Lilith was about to point out that staring was rude when she experienced a prickling sensation at the base of her skull. Almost reflexively, she looked away from Cecily and across the theater... and locked with Lord Brandon’s mocking gaze.

The marquess smiled and made an elaborate bow.

Instantly, Lilith felt every eye in the audience upon her. Her poise held, however. She did not withdraw, in confusion or otherwise. Turning deliberately from the marquess, her own gaze swept coldly over the audience and finally came to rest upon the stage. To her relief, the orchestra started up.

Mrs. Davenant heard little of the performance. She could not have said afterwards whether it had been Gluck or Mozart. Lord Brandon’s presence had spoiled it for her, tainted the very atmosphere of the hall. She was too conscious of him throughout, too tense with pretending he was not there. Nor did Rachel improve matters by relating in rasping whispers every outrage the marquess had ever committed.

By the interval, Lilith could not endure another word. She left Lady Enders to deal with any stampeding gentlemen, took Lord Enders as her own escort, and made for the box of an old friend of her grandmother.

Mrs. Davenant was careful to remain with the ancient dowager until the last minutes of the interval. There were several famous gossips in the audience. Thanks to Lord Brandon’s attention-drawing gesture, they would be sure to seek her out.

She and Lord Enders had nearly reached the door of his box when Sally Jersey popped out of it.

“Why, my dear Lilith,” the countess gushed, “whatever have you done with your betrothed?”

“Lord Liverpool had need of him,” Lilith answered tightly. “Lord and Lady Enders were kind enough to invite my niece and me to join them this ni

ght.”

“Oh, yes. Rachel made me acquainted with your niece. Charming girl. Naturally, you may expect vouchers for Almack’s. We dare not deny them,” she said with a silvery laugh. “The gentlemen would be sure to break out in violence.”

“That is exceedingly kind of you.” Lilith moved to let her pass, but before the widow could step through the door, Lady Jersey’s gloved hand dropped lightly upon her arm.

“Speaking of gentlemen,” the countess said too sweetly, “I was not aware you were acquainted with Brandon.”

“Nor was I,” Lilith said with perfect composure. As soon as she spoke, she experienced once more the odd prickling in her neck.

“Not formally introduced, that is,” came a low, resonant voice behind her. “May I suggest the oversight be corrected?”

Lilith turned slightly. The green eyes were lazily contemplating her shoulders—or rather, the prim few inches to be seen of them.

She threw him one frigid glance, then deliberately turned her back. Mercifully, Lord Enders was holding open the door to the opera box. As Lilith entered, she heard Sally say, “Why, Brandon, you rogue, I don’t believe she wants to know you.” The door closed, cutting off her ensuing tinkle of laughter.

Apprised by her husband of the confrontation, Lady Enders congratulated Lilith. “You did right,” she declared. “One can only hope the others will follow your example and shun him as he deserves.”

Cecily made no comment, and Lilith wondered whether the girl had heard a word. Though Cecily sat, her attention apparently fixed on the stage, a rapt expression glazed her eyes, and from time to time her glance stole across the hall.

The object of this devoted study knew nothing of it. Lord Robert Downs was, as usual, devotedly studying the countenance of his mistress.

As soon as Lord Brandon reentered the box, the mistress turned her amused attention to him.

“I wonder if I can make a guess, milord, what drove you from us the instant the curtain fell,” she teased.

“There is no need to guess,” he answered. “In twelve minutes, half the audience will know. In another twelve, the other half. By the end of the performance, the Watch will be announcing it.”