The Double Wager (26 page)

The evening was as painful as Henry had expected it to be. Dinner passed tolerably well, as Manny, Mr. Ridley, and the twins were also present. Conversation was general, and Henry was able to withdraw into herself and take her silent farewell of the table’s occupants. Phil and Penny were boisterous and frequently troublesome, but she loved them fiercely. They reminded her so strongly of the golden age of her own life, when she had been at home with Giles and his cronies for friends, when she had not had to worry about society and what it would think of her, when she had had no idea of the existence of love and longing. It would be hard to leave them. She would see them again, no doubt. But it might be years in the future. They might be quite grown-up. They would certainly be changed.

It was hard, too, to know that Manny was facing a difficult time, and that she, Henry, was largely responsible. The governess was more like a family member than a servant. She was a sweet and sensitive person. It would hurt her to be severed from the family she had served for so many years. Henry shuddered inwardly when she recalled that soon she would know what it was like to be in a situation like Manny’s, not really belonging anywhere, not secure in any position.

She watched Mr. Ridley as he talked knowledgeably about the growth of factories in the northern towns and about the changes in society that would surely occur before long. He was a dry and sober man, and yet she had developed an affection for him since her marriage. He was undoubtedly a man of integrity and was devoted to his employer. Even him she would miss.

And, inevitably, her attention turned to Marius himself, looking darkly handsome in dark-gold satin evening clothes with gleaming white linen; his hair, longer than usual, was brushed forward around his face and over his forehead. He made conversation with each of the varied members of his household with a languid grace; yet each one, Henry noticed, was flushed with happiness. Each was made to feel important. What went on in the mind of the man? she wondered. She had been married to him for six weeks already, had spent time with him almost daily ever since, had conversed with him freely, had made love with him on one occasion. Yet she felt that she did not know him at all. So much seemed hidden behind the half-closed eyelids and the disciplined face that almost never smiled or displayed any other emotion, in fact. Reason warned her that he was a man to be despised, yet, intuition told her that he was a man to be trusted and loved. She supposed it did not matter now which part of her brain was correct. After tonight she might never see him again. She would certainly never live with him again as his wife.

They sat side by side in the town carriage on the way to the ball, in silence for a while. Finally Eversleigh took his wife’s right hand in his and looked down at her.

“You are very quiet tonight, my love,” he commented. “Are you not feeling quite the thing?”

Henry tried to remove her hand. She could not think straight when he touched her. “I am fine,” she said. “Just a little tired, perhaps.”

“I thought you did not indulge in human frailties like tiredness, Henry,” he said.

“Absurd!” she replied.

“I see you have had your ring returned,” he commented, fingering the sapphire on her hand. “Do you feel better now that you have it safely back where it belongs?”

Henry swallowed. “I felt that it needed checking,” she mumbled.

“Quite so,” he agreed, “but now it should be safe for another lifetime.” And, to Henry’s discomfort, he continued to hold her hand as he lapsed into silence for the rest of the short journey to Lord Spencer’s mansion.

Marius danced with her twice, a pleasure that was too much like torture for Henry to enjoy. She danced every other dance, too, and was very thankful that she had the perfect excuse to avoid Cranshawe. Her card was full, she told him quite truthfully when he came to solicit her hand for a waltz. He bowed gracefully and bared his teeth in what might have seemed a charming smile to any onlookers.

“When will you stop fighting me, my dear?” he murmured, for her ears only. “You know that you must give in to me soon. I can wait for a while, my dear, because the prize seems to be worthwhile, but I am not by nature a patient man, you know. Do not try me too far.”

It was at that moment that the need for revenge was reborn in Henry’s mind. She could not be contented with simply disappearing and leaving him to his triumph. She had to do something to make him feel as trapped and humiliated as he had made her feel. The plan did not develop at all—she was too busy dancing and smiling and conversing. But she would think of something. She was not Henry Devron if she let the rat get away with what he had done to her.

The most painful part of the evening came when Eversleigh and Henry returned home. She was achingly conscious, as he escorted her as usual to the door of her room, that this was the last time she would be with him like this. She hoped, and feared, that he would say a quick good night and leave her. He paused and waited for her to turn and face him. His hands lightly framed her face, his fingertips buried in her curls.

“Henry,” he said, “you have not been quite yourself lately, I think. Would you like it if I finished my business here early and we left for Kent later this week instead of waiting for another fortnight?”

Henry felt dangerously close to tears. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Perhaps we could spend more time together, get to know each other better,” he continued softly.

Henry did not reply, only stared at him wide-eyed.

“You need not fear that I shall press my attentions on you,” he said with a strange, crooked smile. “Let us just be friends, shall we?”

Henry continued to stare. “I am tired,” she said finally.

He dropped his hands immediately. “Of course,” he said. “We shall talk tomorrow.”

“Marius!” she said, reaching out a hand as he turned away.

“Yes, my love?” He turned to face her again, a look on his face that she had not seen there before. He looked almost hurt.

She smiled bleakly. “I’m sorry,” she said, but she did not know for what she was apologizing.

“Good night, Henry,” he said.

“Good night, Marius.” She had to rush into her room and close the door hastily behind her so that he would not see her face crumple.

CHAPTER 13

T
he Duke of Eversleigh was from home most of the next day. His wife had not been up when he finished breakfast. So he left without seeing her and was busy until late in the day. Despite the cool reception his suggestion had had from Henry the night before, he pressed on with his plan to finish his business in the city within the next day or two. He felt that she needed to get away from Cranshawe. His own preference was always for the country, especially at this time of year, when the city was hot and dusty. The children, too, he felt, would be happier with more freedom.

Eversleigh was not sure if his marriage could be saved. His wife had obviously accepted his offer only to win that absurdly childish wager. It seemed as if she had regretted her decision ever since. For one night he had hoped that perhaps she was beginning to lose her abhorrence of his touch. But he had rushed his fences and driven her farther away.

Perhaps in Kent he would be able to woo her trust and, eventually, her love. They would be in a quiet, relaxed atmosphere, free from the constant tedium of social activities, free to spend their time doing what they both enjoyed best, riding in the wide open spaces.

So Eversleigh spent the day with his man of business, settling his affairs for the following few months, at least. He went immediately to his room on returning home and summoned his valet to help him get ready for dinner.

“A letter for you, your Grace,” that individual said, handing him the folded sheet that Henry had given to Betty’s care the night before, “to be delivered to you as soon as you returned home this afternoon.”

“Ah!” said Eversleigh. “Why was it not dealt with by Ridley?”

“It is personal, I understand, your Grace,” his valet replied. “Her Grace entrusted it to her maid’s care.” Eversleigh gave his servant a swift glance and took the letter. When he had finished reading it, he threw it down onto a dressing table and shocked his man by swearing aloud.

“When was this given to you, John?” he asked.

“At noon, your Grace.”

“And how long had the maid had it?”

“I did not ask, sir.”

“Summon her,” Eversleigh ordered, picking up the letter again and pacing the floor as he reread it.

A frightened-looking Betty knocked timidly at the door a couple of minutes later and bobbed a curtsy when she was let inside.

“This letter,” Eversleigh said, “when did my wife give it to you?”

“Last night, your Grace.”

“And why was it not given to me this morning?”

Betty was twisting her apron around and around one finger. “Her Grace told me I must not give it to John until noon today, your Grace,” she explained, “and I was to tell him to hand it to you when you came in.”

“I see,” he said, terrifying the poor girl further by fixing her with a stare from beneath his heavy lids. “Have you seen my wife today?”

“No, your Grace.”

“No?” His eyebrows rose disdainfully. “Is it not part of your normal duties to help her rise in the mornings?”

“Yes; your Grace, but she was gone when I took her chocolate upstairs this morning.”

“Indeed?” he said. “And what time was that?”

“Nine o’clock, as usual, your Grace.”

“Did it not strike you as strange that she was not there?” he asked.

“Her Grace sometimes rides early, sir,” she replied.

“I see. But did it not alarm you when she did not come home, even at luncheon time?”

“Yes, your Grace,” she whispered.

“Speak up, girl,” he barked. “Did you tell anyone of your fears?”

“I spoke to Miss Manford and the young lady and gentleman,” Betty said.

“Ah, the Bow Street runners,” Eversleigh commented. 

“They helped me search the room, your Grace.”

“Indeed? And by what right, may I ask, did you do such a thing?” Eversleigh asked.

“Mr. Ridley suggested that we see if the duchess had taken anything with her, your Grace.”

“Ah, the plot thickens,” he commented with irony. “And what did you find, Betty?”

“Some clothes and a valise have been taken, your Grace,” she replied.

“And anything else? Any jewelry or other valuables?”

“No, nothing, your Grace.”

“Little fool!” he exclaimed savagely. “No, not you, girl,” he added when an already overwrought Betty burst into tears. “John, send Mr. Ridley to me.”

John ushered Betty out of the room ahead of him. Ridley arrived a few minutes later.

“Well, James,” Eversleigh said, “what do you know of my wife’s disappearance?”

“Nothing, your Grace, except that she has gone,” said Ridley, “and has taken a small amount of hand luggage with her. I have checked at the stables. She has taken no horse or carriage.”

“So she is still here in London,” Eversleigh mused, “or has taken the stage somewhere.”

Ridley did not reply.

“How much money had she, James, do you have any idea?” the duke asked.

“She received her allowance three weeks ago, your Grace. The next one is due next week.”

Eversleigh slammed the letter down on the dressing table and swore again. “I am a prize fool, do you know that, James?” he asked.

Ridley was wise enough not to offer an opinion.

“I would return that ring and that signed document anonymously,” Eversleigh continued. “I did not wish to give her the humiliation of knowing that I had discovered her secret and paid her debt. And it never for a moment crossed my mind that she would think that rogue cousin of mine was responsible.”

“Did she think that, your Grace?”

“Yes, and has confessed all in a farewell letter to me,” Eversleigh answered with vicious self-reproach in his voice. “Where would she have gone, James?”

“I have spent all afternoon searching my mind for an answer, your Grace,” Ridley said.

“To her brother, do you think?”

“We have checked there, sir.”

“Ah. ‘We’ being you and the Bow Street runners, I presume?”

“The Bow—? Yes, your Grace. Sir Peter and his wife know nothing of her whereabouts. We did not hint that the duchess had disappeared.”

“Thank you, James,” Eversleigh replied dryly. “I suppose all of London will know of it before the world is much older.”

“Not from me, your Grace.”

“Hmm. I believe I shall pay a call on my illustrious heir, James.”

Ridley coughed. “He is in London, sir, and has not had contact with her Grace today. He lunched at Watiers and visited Tattersall’s this afternoon. He is currently at Whites, I believe, sir.”

Eversleigh gave him an interrogative glance, eyebrows raised.

Ridley coughed again. “I promised Miss Manford a few days ago that I would have him watched, your Grace. I have taken the liberty of engaging the services of one of the younger footmen.”

Eversleigh regarded his secretary through his quizzing glass. “I seem to have a houseful of spies,” he commented. “We should perhaps hire ourselves out to the government for use against the French. That will be all, James. And, ah,” he added as Ridley turned away, “if my household has not collapsed without the services of that footman for a few days, I could probably do without him for a while longer.”

Ridley bowed his head. “He shall receive your instructions,” he said curtly, and left the room.

Eversleigh rang for his valet again.

“A clean neckcloth, John,” he ordered, “and my cane, please. Instruct the cook that I shall not be home for dinner.”

Five minutes later, Eversleigh was again leaving the house to begin the tedious task of visiting every stagecoach stop in London in the hope of discovering some clue as to Henry s whereabouts. He tried not to think about where he would begin looking for her in the city itself if he could find no evidence of her having left it.

* * *

Henry sat on the stagecoach for much of the day, although she had had a long wait after her dawn departure from home. She had an inside seat, which would have been a blessing on most occasions. But inside a stage, sandwiched between an amply endowed matron and a thin man in dark city clothes, was not the place to be on a sweltering hot day in July, especially when one was wrapped in a heavy gray cloak to camouflage the fine appearance of a peach-colored muslin day dress. Henry was conscious of leaning into the fat lady to her right, while the city man, gazing through the window to his left and apparently lost in thought, leaned into her left side, his thigh pressed knowingly against hers, his upper arm brushing her breast whenever a jolt in the road gave him the excuse to move. And it was a very bumpy ride.