A Wedding Wager (13 page)

Suddenly exhausted, drained as if she had run a marathon, Serena sank down into the low armchair beside the fire and rested her head against its cushioned back, closing her eyes. The first time she had seen Sebastian Sullivan had been at a small party given by one of the regular patrons of General Heyward’s gambling house on Charles Street. The young host had professed undying love for Lady Serena Carmichael and followed her around like a lost puppy. Left to herself, she would have let him down gently and moved on, but her stepfather had decreed that she keep the young man on a leading rein. He stood to inherit a large fortune and was kept in ample funds, and it suited the general to see most of those funds absorbed by the Charles Street faro bank.

Serena had obeyed, as she usually did. Young Lord Fairfax would not be hurt overmuch, certainly not enough for her to risk her stepfather’s wrath. And then into that intimate gathering had walked the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan. A golden-haired Adonis, with the most startling blue eyes and a smile that filled her with
sunshine. He had seemed only to glance once at her before moving into the room, losing himself among his friends, but it hadn’t been many minutes before he’d materialized at her side, handing her a glass of champagne with the careless comment, “I have a feeling this will be welcome.” She had laughed, asked how he could tell, and he’d responded, “Oh, I have a feeling that I’m always going to know exactly what you would like and when you would like it.”

The audacity of it had taken her breath away, and even now, bruised though she was, Serena smiled, remembering the overpowering thrill those words had given her. And Sebastian had fulfilled that promise in every detail.

Until … until she’d done what had to be done. And now he couldn’t forgive her. How could he? She couldn’t forgive herself.

The young man who stood outside the house on Bruton Street self-consciously adjusting his cravat was clearly nervous. He was dressed with impeccable taste in coat and breeches of dark brown silk with a waistcoat of old gold striped with green. His black leather shoes were highly polished, their red heels showing not a hint of scuff, his silver-knobbed cane carried at exactly the right angle, his black tricorne hat nicely edged with gold. Twice he stepped up to the door to lift the brass knocker, and twice he stepped back. After a moment, he turned and walked away to the corner of the street, where again he stopped, looked back, seemed to make up his mind, and turned to walk back to the house.

Abigail had been watching the pantomime from the parlor window. “Oh, Mama, only see, Mr. Wedgwood’s coming back again. D’you think he’s afraid he has the address wrong?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Abigail. Now, come away from the window. It’s not in the least ladylike to be hanging out into the street like that. Whatever will
the neighbors think?” Marianne was not looking best pleased as she plied her needle to her tambour frame.

“I don’t believe the neighbors so much as glance from their windows, Mama.” Abigail withdrew her head with a little pout. “No one is the least curious here, haven’t you noticed? At home, everyone knows what’s happening on the street. Who’s visiting whom … who’s not talking to whom. It’s so much friendlier.”

“That kind of nosiness is not appropriate in good society,” her mother informed her with a sniff. “Now, pick up your work. If we’re to have a visitor, he can’t find you with idle hands.”

Abigail picked up her embroidery, her ears pricked for the sound of the door knocker. She jumped when she heard it, and a slight flush enlivened the perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. Resolutely, she kept her eyes on her work, not looking up when the butler appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Jonas Wedgwood, ma’am, wishes to know if you are at home.”

Marianne glanced up. It was a nuisance that Abigail had come to the attention of the young man. For all his family’s prominence in their local Society, he was not the husband Marianne had in mind for her daughter. But good manners forbade her denying hospitality to the son of such a family, whose social consequence in Stoke-on-Trent was of the highest. “I believe we are, Morrison. Desire Mr. Wedgwood to step up, please.”

Morrison bowed and retreated, and a few minutes
later, the young man appeared in the doorway, sweeping off his hat in a deep bow. “Mrs. Sutton, ma’am … Miss Sutton … how good of you to receive me. I had hoped to leave my card … had not dared to hope to find you at home.” His eyes darted to Abigail, who remained head down at her embroidery.

Marianne set aside her tambour frame and smiled graciously. “Do sit down, Mr. Wedgwood. We had not expected a call from you so early. I had thought you to be on some business for your uncle.”

“I am, ma’am, but it does not occupy all my time, and my uncle has encouraged me to take some time to become familiar with London.” He glanced at Abigail, who finally raised her head and bestowed a shy smile on the visitor. “I was hoping you and Miss Ab … Miss Sutton would accept an invitation to the theatre one evening, followed by supper. I have a box at the Drury Lane Theatre. They are playing
The Tempest,
I believe, and if you would not think it an impertinence, ma’am, I would be most honored …” The speech faded. He twisted his hat between his hands, and his cane fell to the floor with a clatter. Blushing, he bent to pick it up.

Abigail clapped her hands. “Oh, Mama, that would be wonderful … to visit the theatre … oh, how I have longed to go. Who is playing Miranda, Mr. Wedgwood? Do you know?”

His blush deepened as he straightened, his cane firmly held across his lap. “I’m afraid not, Miss Sutton. I … I fear I neglected to discover that.” In truth, he had no
idea what the play was about, only that it was respectably classical. He looked appealingly at Marianne, who was frowning at her tambour frame.

Mrs. Sutton looked up with a chilly smile. “I will have to consult Mr. Sutton. He may not consider the theatre a suitable place for a young girl, Mr. Wedgwood. Abigail has a reputation to consider.”

Crestfallen, the young man stammered that he hoped he had not offended with his invitation. He had merely wished to give Miss Sutton pleasure … and her mother, of course. Marianne responded with another chilly nod, and silence fell.

“I do so hope Papa will let us come, Mr. Wedgwood,” Abigail said after a moment’s awkwardness. “I would dearly love to go, and you must not think for an instant that such an invitation could offend … oh, no, quite the opposite.” She cast a defiant glance at her mother. “In fact, I will ask him at once.” She darted to the bell and, before Marianne could expostulate, had given it a vigorous tug. Morrison appeared immediately.

“Please ask Papa if he would come up to us and decide something, Morrison.” Abigail spoke in a rush, trying to forestall her mother. “It’s a matter of the utmost importance, tell him.”

Marianne would not countermand her daughter’s instructions in front of a servant. She set her lips tightly and returned to her embroidery as the butler left.

Mr. Sutton bustled into the parlor in a very few minutes. “Now, what is all this about, my sweet? What do
you want from your old papa now? Oh, it’s Jonas Wedgwood, isn’t it? Welcome, young man … welcome, indeed.” He pumped Jonas’s hand heartily. “So how has your business fared … tell me all. I’m fair starved of good business talk these days.” He looked as if he was about to bear the young man away, down to the library, there to discuss the pennies and guineas that so interested him.

“No, Papa,” Abigail stated, jumping to her feet. “You cannot take Mr. Wedgwood away until you have ruled on his invitation. He has invited Mama and me to the theatre one evening. It would be the best thing of anything, and I so long to go, but Mama says you must give your permission.”

“Oh, does she, indeed?” William looked at his wife and had no difficulty understanding the situation. Marianne expected him to veto the outing, although he could not for the life of him see why. In general, he followed his wife’s wishes when it came to their daughter, telling himself that women understood these things better than men, but this morning, a little devil stirred. Abigail was looking with those great, pleading eyes fixed upon him, her soft little hand was on his arm, and he liked young Jonas Wedgwood, had known his uncle for years.

“I see no harm in it,” he pronounced. “It will be good for you, puss, to see a little town life, have a little excitement, don’t you agree, my love?” He offered his wife a cajoling smile, which she did not return.

“If you approve, sir, then that is all there is to say
on the matter,” she declared, setting her needle with a vigorous jab that caused her husband a stab of vicarious pain.

“Well, now that’s settled, I must take Jonas here down to the library for a tankard of ale and a good talk about the markets. Come … come, my friend. Say farewell to the ladies. You’ll be seeing enough of them, I don’t doubt.” He tucked a hand under the younger man’s arm and bore him off after Jonas had managed a hasty bow to the ladies.

“Oh, Mama, what should I wear?” Abigail was jumping with excitement. “I shall go and choose straight away. Becky shall help me. Do you think the blue velvet with the overskirt of sky-blue gauze? ’Tis exactly the color of my eyes, the seamstress said so. And I could wear the blue straw hat with the gauze veil … or perhaps the jonquil muslin … or d’you think that will be too light for the evening?”

“Do stop rattling on, child.” Marianne attempted to repress this exuberance. “’Tis only a visit to the theatre on some evening. No one will see you, you’re not going into Society.”

Abigail stopped bouncing. “People
will
see me, Mama. Everyone is on show at the theatre. I know ’tis not like going to a ball, but it is my first real outing, and I know people will notice me. People always notice me,” she added with a slightly complacent smile.

“You’re a pretty enough child, I grant you,” her mother said, “but ’tis most unbecoming in a girl to draw
attention to her beauty. Now, sit down and get on with your work.”

Abigail hesitated, then obeyed. She had won one victory, the most important one. It would be politic now to rest on her laurels.

“So, have you talked to the girl yet?” The Earl of Burford stood, hands behind his back, in front of the fire in the library at Pickering Place.

General Heyward poured claret into two glasses before answering. He brought one over to the earl. “Not as yet.” He raised his glass in a silent toast that was not returned.

“When d’you propose telling her, then?” His lordship took a sip of wine. “I tell you, Heyward, I’m not prepared to wait forever. I want the girl now, not when she’s lost all her freshness. I thought she was looking peaky the other night at the tables.”

“I assure you that Serena is perfectly well, Lord Burford.” The general’s tone was a little haughty. “I will talk to her when I have the mortgages in hand.”

The earl gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Indeed? And you think I’m fool enough to pay up before I’ve sampled the goods?”

“You will not sample them else, my lord.” General Heyward was a gambler through and through. He watched his visitor carefully through hooded eyes, judging
how far he could go before the earl called his bluff.

“And what if the girl’s not willing?” Burford changed tack, sipping his wine with a critical frown. “Not bad, this … not bad at all. One thing I’ll say for you, Heyward, you keep a good cellar.”

The general looked gratified but answered the question with a vague gesture. “Serena will do as she’s told, Lord Burford. You may rest assured.”

His lordship merely grunted. “Let’s to business.”

“By all means.” The general waved to a chair. “Shall we be comfortable?”

The earl sat down, stretching his rather stubby legs clad in fashionably striped stockings to the fire, twisting the stem of his glass between his fingers. “So the terms of our agreement … I have exclusive rights to your stepdaughter for as long as it pleases me. In exchange, I will return to you the mortgages that I hold on this property, giving you free and clear title.”

“Exactly, my lord.” The general’s eyes gleamed. He leaned forward a little in his chair. “I suggest as earnest money that you burn in my presence the smaller of the two mortgages, for nine hundred guineas, I believe, and then I make Serena available to you. Once you have … uh … consummated your liaison, shall we say, then you will destroy the larger of the two … that for ten thousand guineas. After that, Serena will be yours for as long as she pleases you.”