The Wolfe Wager

The Wolfe Wager

A Regency Romance

Jo Ann Ferguson

For Nancy Bulk and Sharon Winn
,

whose phone numbers will always

be on my automatic dial
—

Thanks for being my friends!

Chapter One

The elegant room resounded with prattle and laughter, as the scent of French perfume and smuggled wine drifted from each person the tall man passed. He did not tarry to take part in any conversation, but offered a smile to a bald-ribbed dowager who appraised him candidly before turning to the young woman beside her to whisper. The young woman’s eyes widened as she glanced in his direction, her face flushing to an appealing shade.

His grin broadened, for none of the marriage-minded misses and their sponsors would be able to find anything to fault with the appearance of Ross Hogarth, Lord Brickendon this evening. His cream-white shirt was closed with a cravat of the same color, and the sedate shade of his dark coat and deep blue waistcoat would have been disdained by a dandy. After weeks of being cloistered in the halls of government, he was ready for a bit of innocent laughter. He could imagine no place better than this gathering near the end of the Season when he could watch the eager young maidens vie for the attentions of any titled gentleman.

“Lord Brickendon!” called the gaunt dowager. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you still among us! I had heard you intended to return to Essex for the rest of the summer.”

Ross bowed his head in her direction, keeping his smile in place when he saw how her younger companion hid giggles behind a lacy fan that matched the yellow silk of her gown. Hadn’t the young woman learned by this time in the Season how much most men disliked giggles? “You should have known I wouldn’t miss any evening with you as its hostess, Mrs. Averill.”

The gray-haired woman laughed, her eyes crinkling in her age-weathered face. “Save your lathering for those who appreciate moonshine, young man. I recall when you were a boisterous lad in short pants and tried to get yourself out of mischief with your wit.”

“Ah,” he said as she continued to chuckle, “those who regale a man with the tales of his misspent youth are a trial.”

“I daresay you have a bit of youth left in you that you haven’t squandered.”

“But who is truly the younger tonight, Mrs. Averill?” he asked with an arched brow. “Me who feels older than the stones of this house or you who remains so charmingly young at heart?”

“You have been given more than your share of charm,” she answered, tapping her fan in her hand, “albeit you have been dealt a full hand of cynicism this evening.”

Ross bowed over his hostess’s fingers as she smiled, but he looked at the woman next to her. His lips straightened when another collection of giggles clattered from her mouth. The chit had little sense if she thought he was amused by such a shrill sound. Not that she—he guessed her to be Mrs. Averill’s niece Darla—was unpleasant to the eyes. The blond curls clustering about her porcelain cheeks were the perfect match for her blue eyes—innocuous eyes, in Ross’s opinion.

“I trust you have met my niece,” Mrs. Averill said, confirming his thoughts. “Darla, this is Ross Hogarth, Lord Brickendon.”

Her niece held her hand almost directly under Ross’s nose. She twittered another trill as he bent over it.

“I’m honored, Miss Averill,” he said quietly. He released her fingers, which seemed determined to wrap around his. The lasses were becoming more aggressive with every day that passed, he thought. He was sure that, for these young women, ending the Season unbetrothed was the greatest shame they could imagine. “If you’ll excuse me …”

“My lord—” began Mrs. Averill, her warm voice underscored by the lyrical sound of a violin starting a quadrille. She glanced toward the opposite end of the long room where an orchestra was seated beneath a brass chandelier that matched the one directly over Ross’s head. “How can you leave now? I know your reputation for enjoying a dance, and you have spent so little time dancing this Season.”

“I would ask you to stand up with me, Mrs. Averille—” He forced a smile for the simpering lass beside his hostess. “—and your niece as well, but I told Franklin I would meet him at the card table long before this, and I do detest being late.”

“Sir Wilbur! That fat toad!” The younger woman sniffed. Color climbed her cheeks when her aunt flashed her a silent reprimand.

“Perhaps later then, my lord,” Mrs. Averill said.

“I look forward to that time.”

Ross locked his hands behind his back and watched as his hostess hurried away, her niece in tow. No doubt, Mrs. Averill would find someone willing to dance with her pretty niece, but it would not be him. Not tonight, at any rate. He had not left his duties behind to be stifled by the conversation of an insipid miss who was scarcely out of the schoolroom. Let Milhouse twirl her about the floor. That chucklehead was looking for a way to pay off his debts. Mrs. Averill’s niece surely could be the way.

Cynical—that was what Mrs. Averill had deemed him, and she was quite correct. He was bored with the Season and Town and the endless mesh of government. If he did not find something to entertain him soon, he
would
leave London for grassville.

With the solid heels of his low shoes striking the floor on each step, Ross crossed beneath the bowed ceiling of the expansive room to where an arched doorway opened onto a smaller chamber. Tonight he would spend time with his friends who had wisely remained unattached through the months of the Marriage Mart. It was time to enjoy a bachelor’s fare and leave the hapless blocks to their court-promises.

He choked back a curse as a slender form cut him off by almost walking into him. He put out his hands to steady the young woman, but she murmured an apology and rushed past without so much as a proper greeting. Ross watched the brunette disappear into the crowd near the orchestra.

A perplexed frown ruffled his brow. The woman looked familiar, but he could not put a name with the comely face he had caught a glimpse of so briefly. That surprised him, for he had been certain he knew everyone in the small circle of friends Mrs. Averill had brought together that evening.

By all that’s blue
, he thought,
why are you letting a lass intrude on your evening?
She probably had no more sense than Mrs. Averill’s giggling charge.

With a shrug, Ross strode into the room where tables had been set for those who preferred to spend the evening with a hand of books instead of dancing and aimless conversation. He scanned the smoky room. His smile returned as he saw a man motioning at him.

Trust Franklin to be so blasted impatient when Ross was but a few minutes late!

“Where have you been?” Sir Wilbur Franklin called in his rumbling voice. “My pockets are growing hungry for the money I plan to win from you tonight.”

“Mrs. Averill was anxious to introduce me to her niece.” Ross laughed as he came to stand by the table.

“That hornet!”

“Aunt or niece?”

As Sir Wilbur chuckled, Ross clasped his chubby hand. The man’s round cheeks grew broader each time Ross saw him. As the buttons strained across Sir Wilbur’s black waistcoat with his burst of humor, Ross wondered which one would pop first. It would be worth enduring Franklin’s many questions and opinions to see.

“Brickendon, didn’t you vow that, at your first opportunity to leave, you would be done with Town?” queried a sharp voice.

Ross was displeased to see Bruce Swinton, for he found the ginger-hackled man’s company annoying. A tint of sarcasm edged his retort. “You would be sorry if I said yes, for then whom would you have to lose to at the board of green cloth?”

Swinton’s dark eyes narrowed. Sitting at the card table, he whipped out the back of his garish, gold coat. “Your luck was uncommonly good last month, but I shall beat you this time.” He stretched his long legs beneath the table, ignoring the baronet’s grumbled complaints. “Do sit down, Brickendon, and show us the color of your gold. I trust I shall prove Franklin wrong.
My
pockets are the ones hungry to savor the flavor of your blunt.”

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” Ross pulled out one of the empty chairs. He grimaced as he sat. Apparently—by offering her guests such hard chairs—Mrs. Averill resolved to keep the gentlemen from lingering over their cards. She should know how futile such tactics were. Trying to get more comfortable, he asked, “Do we have a fourth?”

“Rollins.” Swinton motioned to a short man who was chatting at the next table.

The balding man stood straighter at the sound of his name. Beneath a bushy mustache that gave him the appearance of a well-fed badger, his smile was nearly hidden. Not that it was often seen, for the man had a dour personality that was compensated only by his skill at cards.

Ross sighed silently. Save for Sir Wilbur—and that was saying little, because the rotund baronet was tiresome at best—the company this evening was worse than he had anticipated. Perhaps he would have been wise to go directly home to Essex, but he had let the thought of the entertainment of the Season draw him to this party. He had pulled the wrong pig by the ear and now was saddled with this dreary company.

He listened to his companions’ gossip, but heard nothing new. Taking the cards, he started to ask a question. His first word hung in a sudden silence that smothered the whole room. Curious, he glanced about to see why all conversation had ceased.

A woman waved aside the puffs of cigar smoke and peered around the room, clearly searching for someone. A man next to the door leapt to his feet and spoke to her. The soft sound of her answer did not reach the table where Ross sat.

He struggled not to laugh when he realized his companions were regarding the lady in the doorway with the longing of land-lonely sailors for the shore. As he shuffled the cards, he said, “Do close your mouth, Swinton. You shan’t capture the lady’s attention that way—only flies.”

“Who …? Who …?”

“Must you sound like an owl? Have you been lost in daisyville, Swinton?” asked Mr. Rollins with obvious disdain. “Surely every gentleman in the Polite World has met Lady Vanessa Wolfe—and been rejected by her.”

“Not I!” averred Swinton stoutly. He shook himself and leaned forward to look past Rollins. “By Jove, I didn’t realize
she
would be here tonight. She is sweet on the eyes.”

“Nor have I been shown the door by the charming lady!” Sir Wilbur laughed and poked Ross with a pudgy elbow. “And you, my friend? Can it be that the marquess’s daughter has escaped your attentions? How can that be?”

Ross continued to shuffle the cards, but his gaze strayed again to the lady in question. Like his comrades, he was familiar with this particular lady’s situation. Lady Vanessa Wolfe—with her father, the Marquess of Wulfric, dead less than two years before and her brother missing after a heinous battle against the dirty Frogs on the continent—was the apparent heir to a vast fortune as well as Wolfe Abbey in the distant northwest of England. The title had gone to the closest male relative, a cousin, but the estate had never been entailed, so the dirty acres had come into the possession of the late marquess’s daughter. Such an heiress was certain to be the center of attention wherever she went, but the thought of that wealth was not what drew his eyes.

Sir Wilbur had—for once—not been exaggerating. Vanessa Wolfe
was
pretty. She was delicately made, but not fragile. It was obvious from the saucy tilt of her gently rounded chin that she was determined to have her way. Definitely the type of woman an astute man gave wide berth to, for she would insist on being the mistress of her home and her husband. Her rose-tinted cheeks were softer than the expression in her gray eyes as her gaze swept the room before she turned—the white silk skirt of her fashionable gown whirling to reveal the lacy work on her stockings—to leave without speaking to anyone else in the card room.

His brows lowered. Lady Vanessa Wolfe was the woman who had nearly collided with him in the main room. If she was always in such a hurry-scurry, that explained why no one had been able to capture her attention. The cards in his hands became motionless as he wondered if she spent the evening in such a rush in order to avoid becoming betrothed, for most men would care little about her high-handed ways when they could claim her father’s fortune, or mayhap there was another reason for the young woman’s skittishness.

“Beautiful,” murmured Sir Wilbur. His voice strengthened. “And ’tis a blasted shame the girl goes unwed when the Season is nigh to its end. If her father were alive, he would have insisted on a match for her before this. I would allow no daughter of mine to make such a mockery of the Season.”

“There remains a month.” Ross dealt the cards with the ease of much practice. He concealed his smile as he owned to himself that the lass was intriguing. A highly eligible maiden with no interest in marriage might be more entertaining than the women who coveted the chance to share his title. None of his friends could mask their interest in the enticing brunette whose wine-red lips had offered an invitation even as her cool poise kept any interested man at bay. She was an enigma, and Ross disliked puzzles.