A Wedding Wager (37 page)

“The dinner party went well, don’t you think, Mama?” she ventured after a moment.

Marianne sipped her tea and buttered a finger of toast before saying, “On the whole, yes, I think I did.”

Abigail knew her mother too well to let this stand. “But?” she said.

Marianne dipped her toast into her tea. “I’m sorry your father insisted on young Mr. Wedgwood’s being invited. I felt quite sorry for the poor young man … a fish out of water. You could see how uncomfortable he felt among such Society folk.”

“Oh, I didn’t think he was uncomfortable at all, Mama.” Abigail’s eyes flashed a little. “He seemed to have plenty to talk about with the other guests, particularly hunting. They all seemed to pay him most particular attention, I thought.”

“Hunting is not a suitable subject for a dinner table,” Marianne declared, closing her lips tightly.

Abigail’s eyes opened wide. “But Mama, ’twas Lady Serena who introduced the subject.”

Her mother contented herself by attacking her toast with the butter knife, rather as if it were vermin that required extermination. Abigail continued with her eggs
in silence until William’s entrance broke the tension.

“Ah, good morning … good morning, my dears. You slept well, I trust, Mrs. Sutton.”

“Not particularly well, Mr. Sutton,” Marianne responded with a sniff.

William helped himself to bacon and tomatoes from the covered dish on the sideboard. “I’m sorry to hear that, my dear.” He sat down and twinkled at Abigail. “So, puss, how would you like to be Lady Heyward, eh?”

Abigail paled. Her mother dropped the finger of toast she was dipping into her teacup.

“Yes, it seems that our little Abigail has caught herself a good husband quicker than we expected,” her husband continued with a bland smile, forking bacon into his mouth. “Doesn’t surprise me, though. Such a pretty, clever puss as she is. What d’you say to that, then, Mrs. Sutton?”

Marianne wiped her mouth delicately with a laceedged napkin. “Has the general spoken to you, then, Mr. Sutton?”

“Yesterday. Asked my permission to address the girl.” William glanced at Abigail with a sly smile. “I told him it was up to Abigail. So, how would you have me answer the general, puss?”

Abigail pushed aside her half-eaten plate of eggs. “I do not wish to marry General Heyward, Papa.” Her eyes darted to her mother, who was beginning to turn an alarming shade of puce. “Forgive me, Mama, but I cannot like him. He’s so … so
old.
”

“Nonsense,” Marianne declared. “I daresay he’s not above five and forty. A man in his prime, vigorous, successful, a respectable member of Society.”

“Now, don’t badger the child, Mrs. Sutton. If she’ll not have him, she’ll not have him.”

“She
will
have him.” Marianne fixed her daughter with a gimlet eye. “You can’t expect a chit of a girl to know what’s best for her, Mr. Sutton. I tell you, she
will
have him.”

“I will not.” Abigail threw her napkin to the table, pushed back her chair, and ran from the room.

“Now, see what you’ve done, Mrs. Sutton,” William said, not without a degree of satisfaction. His daughter’s reaction had been all he had hoped.

“You would see our precious child waste away an old maid,” Marianne cried. “Just because the child has taken a notion into her head that Sir George is too old for her, she’ll wither on the vine … wither on the vine.” She burst into noisy tears.

William sighed and continued placidly with his breakfast until the storm had abated somewhat. “Now … now, my dear. Nothing so dire is going to happen to Abigail. I already have another, most suitable offer in hand for her.”

His wife’s tears dried miraculously as a wonderful thought occurred to her. “Another … oh, could it be … oh, do not keep me in suspense, sir.”

“I fancy you have a pretty good notion already, my dear.”

Marianne could think of only one possibility. “Our daughter marrying into the family of an earl … oh, Mr. Sutton, what a wonderful thing!”

“Eh?” He blinked. “An earl, you say. Oh, I doubt Mr. Wedgwood has any earls in his family, ma’am.”

“Mr. Wedgwood?”
His wife stared at him. “That … that tradesman’s son?”

“You seem to be forgetting, my dear, that your daughter is a tradesman’s daughter,” William pointed out drily. “If she’s good enough for him, then I daresay he’s good enough for her.”

“Oh, but Mr. Sutton …
William
… you know my hopes. We came to London to give Abigail a Season, to give her the chance to make a fine match. She could have married Jonas Wedgwood in Stoke-on-Trent.”

“And I daresay that’s exactly where she will marry him, if she wishes.” William sighed. “Come now, my dear. Look at the bright side. You’ll have your daughter well married before she’s eighteen. I daresay your friends will be green with envy. They don’t have a daughter among them who can hold a candle to our little Abigail.”

“But that’s exactly the point,” wailed Marianne. “Abigail is so lovely, she could make a stunning match, but you would throw her away on a
Wedgwood.
”

“They are a fine family, ma’am. I’ll not hear them traduced.”

William’s tone of voice was one his wife had heard rarely during their marriage, but it was one she understood. She subsided into her handkerchief.

“Well, we’ll hear what Abigail has to say about it,” William said, his tone now soothing. “She may dislike the idea, for all I know.”

“I hope she has a better appreciation of her own merits than to agree to such a match. I have the headache. I shall go and lie on my bed.” Marianne rose and swept from the room.

William drained his ale tankard and followed her. “Morrison, ask Miss Abigail to come to the library immediately.” He wanted to tell his daughter himself, before Marianne could get her oar in.

Abigail had locked herself in her chamber and was pacing restlessly, tearing at her cambric handkerchief, when Morrison knocked on her door. “Your father wishes to see you in the library, Miss Sutton. Immediately, he said.”

Abigail hesitated, but she didn’t have the courage to disobey a summons from her father. He was a doting parent, always inclined to indulge his daughter, but there was no question about his being the master of the house. She unlocked the door and hurried past Morrison, glancing once at the closed door to her mother’s chamber.

William was awaiting her in the library and smiled cheerfully as she came in. “There, now, puss, let’s have no more tears. What a to-do about nothing.”

“’Tis not nothing, Papa, when you would force me into a loathsome marriage.” She scrumpled the handkerchief tightly in her balled fist.

He shook his head. “Such a drama, child. No one will force you into anything. But I do have another offer for you to consider.”

Abigail’s heart jumped.

“Young Jonas Wedgwood called upon me this morning and asked me for permission to address you. What d’you say to that, puss?”

His daughter’s expression told him all he needed to know, and he smiled with satisfaction.

“Oh, yes … yes,
please,
Papa,” Abigail managed to say at last, clapping her hands like an excited child. “I do like him so very much.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

Abigail looked suddenly doubtful. “But Mama …” she began hesitantly.

“Oh, you leave your mother to me, m’dear. She would never stand in the way of your happiness, Abigail, once she sees that’s where it lies.” He patted her shoulder, then kissed her brow. “Jonas is coming to take his pot luck with us this evening, so you go and buy yourself some new frippery. Look your best for him, and I’ll persuade your mama to leave you two alone for a few minutes so that the young man can make his declaration to you himself.”

“Yes, Papa.” Abigail flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You are the
best
father anyone could ever wish for.” She ran off, and he heard her calling to Morrison, “Have the barouche brought around in an
hour, please, and tell Matty I will need her to accompany me shopping this morning.”

William resumed his business, knowing it would be best to leave quiet reflection to do its work on his wife. His peace was short-lived, however. Half an hour later, Morrison announced General Sir George Heyward.

William grimaced, but he was never one to shirk an unpleasant duty. “Show him in, Morrison, and bring some of that sherry wine these London folk seem to like.” He could at least offer the man a drink to soften the blow.

Heyward came in, rubbing his hands, beaming broadly, with every appearance of bonhomie. “Good morning, Sutton. And ’tis a fine bright one.” He extended his hand with a little military bow.

William shook hands and bowed in turn. “Have a seat, sir.” He gestured to a fireside chair. “Oh, here’s Morrison. A glass of sherry, General?”

“With pleasure, Sutton.” Still with his jovial smile, Heyward received the glass from the butler and settled back into his chair. He waited until Morrison had left before broaching the subject of his visit. “So, Sutton, have you discussed my offer with your dear lady and little Abigail?”

“I have.” William looked pensively into his own glass. “Fact is, General, the child don’t much fancy the idea.”

Heyward’s expression changed, lost all sign of conviviality.
His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched. “Why’s that, sir?”

“Got the odd notion you’re too old for her,” William said, still somewhat pensive.

“Nonsense … utter nonsense,” his visitor blustered. “A man in his prime … I daresay I could beat any of these young bloods at whatever sport he might choose. Oh, I grant you, I’ve a deal more worldly experience than these youngsters who think the world belongs to them, but experience is no bad thing in a husband, Sutton.”

William gave a light shrug. “Well, that’s as may be, General. But the girl won’t have you. Simple, but there it is.”

The general’s complexion became a dark, angry red, and his small eyes filled with fury. “If she were mine, she’d know better than to disobey her father.”

“Oh, Abigail’s biddable enough,” William said mildly. “But I’m disinclined to compel her in such a matter. ’Tis her life, after all, and if her heart lies elsewhere, then that’s the way it is.”

“She has accepted another offer?” Heyward’s voice was now very quiet, little more than a hiss.

“In a word, sir, yes.” William stood up as his visitor sprang from his chair like a jack-in-the-box.

“You led me to believe there was no competition for the girl,” the general accused, pointing a finger at his host.

William shook his head. “No, sir, I did not. At the time, I said I would put it to my daughter. Her answer
you now know. I believe that closes the matter.” He was angry himself now. In his opinion, the general was behaving like a cad. Any gentleman worthy of the title would have mastered his disappointment and gone on his way without a further word.

Heyward stood, red-faced and glaring, for a long moment, then spun on his heel and marched out. The front door slammed in his wake, making the house shake.

“Good riddance,” William muttered, wondering what Marianne would say if she’d witnessed that display. Abigail was well out of it.

General Heyward stormed into the house on Pickering Place and slammed his way into the library. He filled a goblet with brandy and tossed it down, refilled it, and as his rage dropped from full boil to an angry simmer, he considered his situation. Marriage to the little Sutton had been his last chance to get a handle on things before they spun out of control. Burford’s disappointment at not getting Serena into his bed had turned nasty, and his threats to call in the mortgages grew more persistent by the day. Heyward knew he could not meet the payments, even with a killing at the tables.

He opened the desk drawer and took out the accounts, sheets of parchment covered in Serena’s neat columns of figures. Addition, subtraction, division—it was all there, and the conclusion was unmistakable. They were making small profits every night but nothing large
enough to make a one-off dent in the debts. Serena had always stressed the need to build profits slowly, cautioning that if the bank started to win particularly heavily, then the gamers would become suspicious, and however addicted they were to faro, they wouldn’t play where the odds were consistently so heavily against them. There were other gambling houses.

He needed one coup. One perfect coup that would banish his troubles once and for all. Abigail Sutton was that coup. It was simply a question of how to effect it. He took his brandy to the window and looked out at the bare trees. An idea slowly took shape; it would need a little refinement, but it would work. The chit was such a naïve little fool; she would fall into his hand like a ripe plum. His reflections were disturbed by a sharp rap on the door. It was a rap he recognized. Serena was never one for gentle taps.

“What is it?”

She came in. “I just wished to inform you that I am going to be out for the day. I will be back for this evening.”

“And where are you going?”

“Oh, just visiting friends,” she said vaguely. “No one you know. But I will be back in plenty of time for the evening.”

He glared at her, wanting more than anything to assert himself but knowing that he couldn’t. That Rubicon had been crossed. As long as Serena performed her allotted tasks in the gaming salons, he could demand
nothing else from her. He needed her skills more than ever at present, and that knowledge, together with his helplessness, burned like acid. The time for his vengeance would come, however.