A Wedding Wager (22 page)

Perry nodded. “We’ll find a way through the maze, I’m sure, but I definitely can’t face an irascible Uncle Bradley now; one tongue lashing a day is my limit. Are you staying?”

“Having got here, I might as well,” his twin said. “Besides, I’m curious to get a peek at the scandalous memoir.”

Louis came into the antechamber, having seen the earl and his companion out. “I’ll see if his lordship is receiving, sirs.”

“Oh, just me, Louis,” Sebastian said. “My brother has recollected a pressing engagement.”

“Very well, sir.” Louis knocked on the double doors to the bedchamber and entered at a muffled command.

Peregrine raised a hand in farewell to his brother and hurried from the antechamber. Sebastian couldn’t blame him for needing to lick his wounds. Jasper was rarely angry with his younger brothers, but when he was, they crumbled beneath his tongue.

“His lordship will see you, Mr. Sebastian,” Louis announced from the door to the bedchamber.

Sebastian nodded and stepped past him into an overheated chamber, where a fire blazed in the massive hearth. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the windows, blocking out the crisp autumn sunlight, and the room was illuminated with the glow of wax candles. There was a faint odor of sickness in the stuffy air.

Sebastian bowed to the figure ensconced in an armchair beside the fire. The old man was wrapped in a furtrimmed robe, with a fur rug nestled across his lap. He held a wine glass between his fingers and regarded his nephew with surprisingly sharp eyes in a rather waxen countenance.

“Two nephews in one day. I’m honored. Where’s the other one? You don’t normally come singly.”

“Perry had another engagement, sir.” Sebastian stepped further into the room, and Louis closed the
door gently behind him. “How are you, sir? Feeling better, I trust.”

His uncle laughed. “Don’t give me platitudes, boy. I’ve no time for ’em. Sit.” He pointed imperatively at a straight-backed chair opposite. “Cosgrove, you black crow, fetch a glass of wine for m’nephew.”

Sebastian, glancing towards the shadowy far corner of the room, made out a darker shadow than the rest. A shadow that moved forward into the light and became truly visible as the tall, gaunt, black-robed priest with a heavy cross around his neck and rosary beads at the waist of his cassock.

“Good day, Father Cosgrove.” Sebastian greeted the priest with a polite smile.

“Good day, sir.” The priest filled a wine glass from the decanter and brought it over to the visitor. His angular face was expressionless, except for his eyes, which held a rather haunted look, much like a fugitive with the hounds baying at his heels. Sebastian felt only compassion. He took the glass with another smile, and the priest melted back into the shadows.

“So, I wonder if you can imagine who I saw the other night?” the viscount challenged, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.

“I didn’t realize you went out at night, sir.” Sebastian sipped his wine. It was certainly superior to the sherry on offer in the anteroom.

“Oh, when the mood takes me.” The old man settled
back in his armchair, looking very pleased with himself. “I’d heard tell of a new hell just opened on Pickering Place.” He regarded his nephew with the same amused malice. “Thought I’d pay it a visit.”

“Indeed, sir.” Sebastian wondered uneasily what was coming next. “I trust you enjoyed your evening.”

Bradley sipped his wine before saying, “I did enjoy myself. Played piquet with the ever lovely Lady Serena. I must say, she’s improved over the last three years. A few years on the continental circuit always does wonders for the demimonde … teaches them a few tricks of the trade, gives them a touch of varnish, smooths over the rough edges.”

Sebastian maintained an impassive expression. His uncle watched him through lowered lids. “I’ve a mind to renew my suit there. What d’ye think, boy? D’ye think she’ll have me?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Sebastian leaned forward and kicked a falling log back into the hearth. The movement gave him time to compose himself. “How should I? I am no longer particularly acquainted with the lady.”

“Ah, is that so?” The viscount set down his glass with a snap. The light from the candle on the table beside him caught a massive ruby carbuncle, which glowed against a strangely youthful, slender, and elegant white hand. “Cosgrove?”

Instantly, Father Cosgrove stepped forward with the decanter. In silence, he filled the viscount’s glass and retreated once more.

“Well, if you’ve not visited Pickering Place, nephew, I suggest you do. Quite a tasty morsel she’s turned out to be. I hear that Burford is interested in having her under his protection. Can’t make up m’mind whether to enter the lists against him. That old fool Heyward is only interested in the highest bidder for the girl, of course, so I could probably outbid Burford. Just can’t make up m’mind whether ’tis worth the effort.”

Burford. Highest bidder?
Sebastian felt suddenly nauseated. The wine became acid on his tongue. Was this just the old man’s malice, or was Heyward genuinely intent on prostituting his stepdaughter? She had said nothing of the kind when she’d talked of the miseries of her life. She’d referred to degradation, in terms of running a gambling hell, of debts unpaid, of running always a step ahead of creditors. But nothing of prostitution.

He managed to say with icy calm, “Well, I certainly can’t help you to make it up, sir.” His eye fell on a stack of closely written sheets on a table on the far side of the earl’s chair.

The earl followed his eyes, and he chuckled suddenly. It was a chuckle that merely increased Sebastian apprehension. “My memoirs, m’boy. I was showing ’em to Blackwater just now. Perhaps you’d like to take a look … Cosgrove, you crow, fetch me the pages from the chapter about Charles Street.” He clicked his fingers imperatively.

Sebastian steeled himself. Charles Street had been General Heyward’s first gaming house, the house where
Sebastian had first met Serena. His uncle had been a frequent player there and, like the majority of the players, had enjoyed Serena’s company. He couldn’t possibly have been aware of the nature of the relationship between his nephew and Lady Serena, they had been scrupulously careful, but now Sebastian wondered if that had been a pipe dream. In such a small, close-knit society, utter secrecy was almost impossible to achieve.

“I hardly think …” he began, but then stopped as the priest brought a slim sheaf of papers to his employer. Curiosity had the best of him now. However unpleasant it was going to be, he needed to see what his uncle had written.

“Take ’em into the antechamber, boy. I’m tired.” Viscount Bradley abruptly brought the visit to an end, waving away the papers. “Crow, ring for Louis. I want him to put me to bed.”

Silently, Father Cosgrove handed Sebastian the sheaf of papers, then rang the handbell.

Sebastian rose from his chair and bowed to his uncle. “Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’ll feel better s—”

“Spare me the platitudes,” his lordship repeated irritably. “Get out, and leave me alone.”

Sebastian took his leave without a further word. In the antechamber, he sat down beside a lascivious sculpture of Indian origin, where a scene of multiple and improbable copulations was taking place, and took up the first sheet of paper.

It began:
An afternoon with the lovely Serena … how

delicious to bring that proud beauty to her knees, to teach her how to please—”

Sebastian felt a renewed wave of nausea and raised his eyes from the priest’s spidery script. The viscount seemed to be implying that he had had Serena in his bed, and yet Sebastian was confident that that had never happened. Or was he so confident? There was so much about Serena that she kept to herself. And now this talk of Burford’s protection … what did that mean? Did Heyward force her to sell herself? And if he did, how often had it happened?

But he couldn’t believe Serena had ever been in Bradley’s bed …
wouldn’t
believe it. The old man was out to make mischief as he always did. He had the irresistible urge to hurt, to maim, whenever he had the power to do so, and if he knew or guessed at his nephew’s long-ago liaison with Serena, he would know how sickened Sebastian would be by these debauched ramblings.

Resolutely, Sebastian began to read again, and as he did so, he suddenly began to see clearly through the fog of revulsion. His uncle was painting a lecherous picture of Serena as he imagined in his twisted mind how she would be, how she would respond sexually to his demands. And vile demands they were, for the most part. Sebastian wondered how many of the other incidents laboriously recorded by the pious Father Cosgrove had actually taken place. Were they all like this? The obscene but unrequited dreams of a pathetic old man?

He read through to the end, even though just entering
the viscount’s dark imagination made him feel soiled. When he had finished, he stacked the pages neatly, set them down on an ornately carved table, and quietly left the house.

He walked briskly, letting the chill air of late afternoon blow the murky residue of his uncle’s filthy dreams out of his mind. He realized suddenly that he was in Covent Garden. He had been so absorbed in his reverie he hadn’t noticed where he was going. The Piazza was thronged at this time of day, the courtesans and common whores all plying their trade in their own fashion, the drinkers stumbling from the taverns in various stages of inebriation, and the sellers of pornographic prints doing a roaring trade under the colonnades.

Sebastian turned aside into the Shakespeare’s Head Tavern and called for a bumper of ale. He took it to the fireside, where he found a seat in the inglenook, and idly watched the noisy scene around him. And as he did so, letting his mind wander where it would, the answer to his dilemma became crystal clear. How could he possibly have failed to see the obvious? And if he hadn’t read the viscount’s disgusting memoirs, it would probably still have eluded him. It was the perfect answer to the dilemma, the perfect answer to Lord Burford, to General Heyward, and to Viscount Bradley.

Except …
and it was a significant
except.
Would Serena see it as he did? Was she still the same woman he had loved? He really didn’t know. She had become an enigma. What if she
had
been selling herself across Europe?
Even if her prostitution was coerced, could he live with that?

Some days later, Serena was reading in her parlor when Flanagan informed her that Lord Burford was below and wished to see her.

“Tell him I’m not available,” she said, barely looking up from her book. Her skin crawled at the thought of an interview with his lordship. The general was not at home, so she could safely deny the earl without fear of being countermanded.

“Yes, m’lady.” Flanagan bowed and retreated, making his stately way back down to the library, where the earl was waiting.

“Lady Serena is not at home this afternoon, my lord.”

The earl looked with irritation at the impassive butler, who stood holding the door, ready to escort the visitor from the house.

“Tell your mistress that my mission is of considerable urgency, and I must see her without delay.”

Flanagan hesitated. He couldn’t bodily throw the earl from the house, but his loyalty was always first and foremost to Lady Serena. “I will convey your message, my lord, but Lady Serena was very firm in her desire not to be disturbed.”

“Go and tell her what I say.” The earl waved an imperative hand in dismissal.

Flanagan retraced his steps. “Your pardon, my lady,
but Lord Burford insists that the matter is of great urgency and he must see you without delay.”

Serena felt the familiar sense of futility that she forced herself to fight every day of her life. It was as if she had no free will, and yet she
did
have, she told herself. She could tell Flanagan to repeat her denial, and eventually Burford would have to leave. He couldn’t force himself into her private parlor. But she knew that that was only delaying the inevitable. At some point, she had to see him and confront the issue. For as long as the general let the earl go on thinking that her capitulation was eventually inevitable, Burford would continue to pester her. Now was a good moment, when her stepfather was out of the house and couldn’t interfere or attempt to coerce her.

“Very well, Flanagan. I’ll see him in the small parlor downstairs.” She set aside her book and went to check her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. She looked absurdly radiant and glowing, she thought with a flicker of gallows humor. Her eyes were bright, her complexion like thick cream, and her hair gleamed with blue-black lights. The picture should have pleased her, but she found herself wishing she could look a little less enticing. A drab appearance, with lank hair and dull complexion, preferably with a few carefully situated spots—a big red one on the end of her nose would do beautifully—might serve to put off the earl.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it. She was as she was. A morning’s spat with Sebastian in the fresh
air of Green Park could do wonders, it seemed. She made her way down to the small parlor, where the earl was already waiting.