The Widow Wager

By

Jess Michaels

The Notorious Flynns Book 3

Copyright © Jesse Petersen, 2015

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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For Michael, who helps run all the things. This is truly the “family business” and I couldn’t do it without you. And for the readers who have helped me live this magical life.

July 1814

Crispin Flynn came awake in throbbing, painful inches. His head burned like it was on fire and his stomach churned with bile and whatever God-awful spirits remained there from the previous night’s revelry.

Or had it been revelry? In truth, he couldn’t remember much after the moment where he got on his horse and rode out from his home, hell-bent on drink and women and gambling and…well, utter self-destruction. None of that sounded as fun as
revelry
, especially not in the cold light of morning, which he could feel burning against his still-shut eyelids.

He hesitated to open those eyes, firstly, so he could avoid that light a little longer, but, secondly, because he was never certain anymore where he would find himself after a night out. He had awoken in gutters, in his carriage, and once in the bed of an obliging duchess with whose husband he had only just avoided a duel.

And the third reason he avoided opening his eyes was that once he was alert all the troubles of his world came rushing back, crushing him and drowning him in their wake.

Yet he could not pretend he was dead forever, so he gingerly opened one bleary eye. He flinched at the burning light of the sun that pounded down on him from the window he faced.

He was not in a bed, but on his settee. He recognized the brocade fabric that his mother had chosen for the chaise what seemed like a lifetime ago. He let out a sigh of relief. At least if he had managed to stumble home, he could not have done too much damage.

He opened his other eye and swallowed back the rush of vomit that greeted him. His body would punish him for what he had done to it, but it was worth it to turn off his mind for a few blissful hours.

Slowly, he moved, inching his way onto his back. Every muscle in his body hurt, which meant he had probably danced on a table, fallen off a horse or gotten into a fistfight. On a bad night, it could be all three. Certainly he would hear about it though if he had truly done any damage. He always did. He also always paid the tab without argument or question and with whatever semblance of an apology he could muster for the sins he committed when he was out of his right mind.

He rolled a little further and froze. He could see his bed about ten feet away from the settee. And it was not unoccupied. A lump was under his covers. A woman-sized-and-shaped lump.

He groaned. Now he was going to have to kick some lightskirt out of his house. Always entirely awkward.

At the sound of his groan, the lump spun around to face him, and Crispin froze. The lady-shaped lump had the most beautiful face he had seen in years. She had bright gray eyes filled with intelligence and a slender face with full, pink lips. Her hair was red too. Damn, but it would be. He’d never been able to resist a redheaded woman who offered to perch herself on his knee.

He sat up. “Morning, love,” he drawled, happy he didn’t cast up his accounts or pass out thanks to the wildly spinning room.

She said nothing, but also sat bolt upright to reveal she was fully clothed in a wrinkled green gown. She pushed herself across the bed, as far away from him as she could get.

Crispin covered his forehead with one hand and tried to maintain some of his dignity at least. He attempted a smile.

“If I owe you blunt, you can collect it from the butler on your way out,” he said.

Her eyes went wide at first, then narrowed to angry slits that barely revealed the sparking gray beneath.

“I am
not
a lightskirt, Mr. Flynn,” she snapped.

Crispin was distracted for a moment by the musical quality of her voice, which even when angry was probably the prettiest thing he’d heard in an age. But then he realized what she’d said in that beautiful voice, and he stiffened.

“Aren’t you?” he asked.

She folded her arms. “Certainly not.”

He cleared his throat and managed to get to his feet without toppling over sideways. It seemed he had succeeded in getting himself into quite a pickle, indeed, last night. This one might be harder to extract himself from than the usual paying for a broken vase or returning a stolen phaeton.

“Damn. See here, miss, I was deep in my cups last night and I may have said or done things I don’t recall.”

She was watching him still, wary and seemingly ready to run. “You must think me very stupid,” she all but growled.

He shook his head. “Honestly, miss, I do not remember a damn thing.” He looked at her a little closer. “Seeing you, I wish I did, actually.”

Her brow wrinkled and a fetching pink color filled her cheeks at the compliment. Then she tilted her head. “Are you being truthful, then? Do you really not remember last night?”

A sinking feeling worked its way through Crispin. A feeling that screamed he had really done it this time.

“No,” he said softly.

She held his gaze for a moment, as if she were reading him. As if she were determining his honesty with just a sweep of her stare. He shifted beneath the intimate quality of the exercise and then watched as she rose to her feet. She had as pretty a figure as she did a face, with a lovely bosom and the hint of a flare of her hips as her wrinkled gown fluttered around her.

“Then I suppose I should start by saying good morning, Mr. Flynn,” she said, but did not extend her hand. “My name is Gemma. I’m your wife.”

Crispin’s stomach churned higher and he slumped back onto the settee with a moan. “No.” He shook his head. “No, that cannot be true.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid it is very much true. We married in the middle of the night. Despite my protests.”

Crispin jerked his stare back to her.
Protests
? Had he forced this woman? She was dressed now, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t. Great God, he would never forgive himself.

“You are my wife,” he said slowly.

She nodded, her jaw set with strength even as tears sparkled faintly in her eyes. “Yes,” she said on a gasp.

He swallowed hard. “Gemma. Is that what you said your name was?”

“Yes,” she whispered a second time.

He nodded. It was a pretty name to go with her pretty face. A pretty face that seemed to entirely hate him, which gave him even more pause about what he’d done in his stupor.

“Gemma, I need you to tell me exactly what happened last night.” He shook his head. “I need to remember.”

One Night Before

Crispin staggered as he retook his seat at the gaming table and set a full bottle of scotch beside him. There was a tiny voice inside of him that screamed at him to stop. But, as always, he ignored that voice. Lately it had gotten smaller and smaller, as if his conscience was finally being drowned in booze.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

He looked around the room as the cards were dealt out by another player. It was a ragged place, indeed, not like the Donville Masquerade where he used to spend his time. But he didn’t go there anymore. Not since his sister had married the proprietor just a few weeks before.

Annabelle had sacrificed herself for him. Yet another life he had destroyed. Yet another reason to take a long, burning swig from the bottle before him. He did so with relish and then shoved thoughts of his family from his mind. He already knew how much they disapproved and likely despised him. There was no use lingering on it.

He focused instead on the cards before him. He didn’t have a good hand, in truth, but he examined his comrades, just three other men, before he placed a bet. He didn’t know any of them well, just from gambling with them. Two were thugs, dangerous men from London’s underground, but the third was a knight or some such thing. Sir…Oswald Quinn, he believed it was? The man was always loose with his cards and lost more than he won.

Which meant perhaps Crispin would stay a while, try his luck. He pushed some blunt into the center of the table and grinned at his companion.

An hour later, the other two men had faded away, but Quinn had stayed and the pile of money between them had traded back and forth several times, though at present it was all on the knight’s side of the table. Crispin tried to lift his head and focus on his cards, but the empty bottle, which had now been joined by half of a second, made it harder to do so.

“I’ll put it all in the center,” Sir Oswald said with a thin smile as he shoved the blunt in front of Crispin.

He stared at the pile of money and back at his cards, which were spinning wildly in his hand.

“You know I can’t call you,” Crispin muttered. “I don’t have enough.”

Quinn leaned back in his chair, tucking his cards into his jacket pocket as he did so. He watched Crispin closely. “Yes,” he finally said, “Your lack of blunt makes it a difficult hand, doesn’t it?”

Crispin shrugged and the movement nearly put him out of his chair. “So what do you want? My phaeton? My horse?”

Sir Oswald laughed. “No, thank you. I’m certain they are both very fine, but they won’t get me out of a particular bind I’m currently in.”

“Which is?” Crispin said with a hiccup. He asked only because it seemed expected that he would, not because he was particularly interested. He was more interested in ending this hand and limping home.

“I have a daughter, Mr. Flynn,” the other man said. “Two actually, but the elder is my current problem. She was married and she…well, her husband is dead, that is all. But she wasn’t settled well and now she has become a drain on my household. Not to mention that the circumstances of her husband’s passing have made her less marriageable than she was the first time around.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Sir Oswald leaned over the table. “If you lose, you marry her.”

Crispin’s eyes went wide. He had to be very drunk and misunderstanding. Or else this was a very strange dream. Certainly this man couldn’t be serious.

“Marry your daughter?” Crispin repeated.

Sir Oswald nodded slowly. “Immediately.” He leaned over and poured a drink from Crispin’s bottle. He shoved the glass toward him. “What do you say?”

“And if I win?” Crispin asked.

“You get back everything you lost tonight, of course,” Sir Oswald said as he motioned to the pile of blunt. “And then some.”

Crispin downed the drink he’d been offered and tried to think. Thinking was so hard right now, but he had to do it. It was a lot of money on the table and if he was honest with himself, he could use it. The past few weeks since his sister’s marriage had been a blur of guilt, wild bets and lost money.

But if he lost…

But he couldn’t lose. He stared at his cards again. It was a winning hand, for certain.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take the bet.”

Sir Oswald’s face didn’t move, but Crispin saw his eyes brighten enough that he questioned his decision. But it was too late now. He set his cards down so the other man could see.