Wicked Wager

“We shall respect your wishes, of course,” Lane said. “But you must take special care! Are you certain riding is wise? Bayard, as head of the family—” he imbued the words with a trace of sarcasm “—do you not think you should forbid Jenna to put herself at risk?”

Bayard shrugged. “I expect she knows what’s best.”

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of Cousin Bayard’s personal servant. A swarthy bear of a man, he resembled less a manservant, Jenna thought with an inward smile each time she encountered him, than one of the convicts who’d chosen to join Wellington’s army rather than face punishment at home.

The man bowed to the assembled company with a swagger that belied the deferential gesture. “Beggin’ your pardon, your ladyships. Master, the supplies you ordered are being delivered. You need to show me where to stow ’em.”

“Thank you, Frankston. I’ll come at once.”

“Bayard, you cannot leave now! We haven’t yet settled the details of Garrett’s service!” Aunt Hetty protested.

“I’m sure you can arrange something suitable without me,” Bayard said. “I’ve more important work.” Ignoring Hetty’s wail of protest, he strode out the door.

Frowning, Lane watched his cousin leave. “Work more important than upholding the honor of the Fairchild name? Dash it, Jenna, I hope to heaven Garrett’s child is a son!”

“As long as the babe is healthy and safely delivered, I shall be content,” she replied.

“So do we all hope! Finish your tea, cousin. You must keep up your strength now—and we shall have to take special care to see that she does, shall we not, Aunt?”

“Naturally. Now, about the service.” Hetty glanced at Jenna, the frown returning to her face telling Jenna her sojourn in that lady’s good graces had just ended. “It must be something suitably solemn and impressive. Though ’tis scandalous, to be reduced to holding a memorial service for a viscount whose family can trace its roots back to the Conqueror! I can’t imagine why you had Garrett buried in heathenish foreign land, rather than bringing his bones back to rest among his ancestors at Fairland Trace.”

Half-choking on her tea, Jenna swallowed the mouthful in one gulp. Did the woman have no discernment? Given the extent of Garrett’s wounds—knee, thigh, chest, shoulder—did she not realize to what condition his poor lifeless body would have been reduced after the several-day transit in July heat from Brussels to distant Northumberland?

A flash of memory seared her—finding Garrett, after a frantic all-day search, lying among the dead on the Waterloo plain, no more than a valiant spirit stubbornly holding on in a ragged scrap of flesh. Nausea seized her stomach and her throat closed in anguish.

She couldn’t bear to remember. Tea sloshed over the rim as she set her cup down. “It—wasn’t possible.”

Shooting Aunt Hetty a warning look, Cousin Lane took her hands in his and rubbed them gently. “I’m sure it wasn’t. You did everything you could, under the most ghastly of circumstances. We realize that.”

The older woman sniffed. “All the more reason to hold the most impressive of services. St. George’s, Hanover Square, I should think. Prinny and the cabinet will certainly attend, and Wellington, of course. We could have a funeral cortege from the house—”

“No!” Jenna cried. “No funeral. I’ve buried him once. I will not do it again.”

“Now that I am aware of your delicate condition, my dear,” Hetty said with a thin smile, “I will make some allowances, for ladies in your circumstances sometimes take the most peculiar ideas into their heads. But the decision isn’t yours alone. There’s the family’s honor to be considered, and I would be failing in my duty if I allowed Garrett’s passing to be commemorated in less than a fashion befitting a Viscount Fairchild of Fairland Trace.”

“What was being viscount to Garrett?” Jenna exclaimed. “He never expected it, was shocked to learn of the accident that brought him the title. Garrett lived and died a soldier. He’s buried near the field where he fell. Let him rest in peace!”

“Please, ladies, don’t upset yourselves!” Cousin Lane appealed to them. “Surely we can arrange something which will accommodate Jenna’s grief while still upholding the dignity of the family. Aunt Hetty, why do you not plan on a memorial service like the one we discussed? I believe Society would understand if Jenna does not attend, given the recentness of her bereavement. She could receive the mourner’s condolences at the reception here afterward.”

He turned to Jenna. “Do you think you could bear that, Jenna? Just a reception, to honor Garrett and let his friends mourn with you?”

Jenna took a shuddering breath. Could she force herself to nod and shake the hands of the gawking curious, most of them strangers? But at least she’d be spared the torment of a long funeral service lamenting Garrett’s loss and extolling his many virtues.

She had that litany of regret by heart.

Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly weary, tired of tussling with Aunt Hetty over the running of the house, of dealing with her petty criticism of everything Jenna did—or didn’t do—of carrying the crushing burden of grief. Slumping back, she said, “Yes, I suppose I can endure it.”

“You look fatigued, my dear,” Lane said with concern.

“I am, a little,” she admitted.

“Why not go upstairs and rest? Aunt Hetty and I will finish here. I’ll walk Jenna up,” he said to his aunt.

“If you must,” Aunt Hetty said, her tone implying she felt Jenna sadly lacking to shirk so important a duty.

Putting a solicitous hand under her elbow, Lane escorted her from the room. When they reached the hall, he said softly, “Please try to forgive Aunt Hetty’s pettishness. She’d been living in straited circumstances after her husband’s death and was thrilled when Garrett invited her to come here to look after Fairchild House while he remained away with the army. Now that you have arrived, she’s terribly afraid you will supplant her and send her back to her modest lodgings in Bath.”

“If she fears that, I should think she’d be making herself agreeable, rather than crossing me at every turn.”

He smiled wryly. “So one would think. But of course, she adored Garrett, and feels strongly that his demise should be commemorated with all due pomp and ceremony. An aim, I must admit, with which I am entirely in sympathy. All the years I was growing up, Garrett was my hero.”

Jenna felt her eyes filling. “He was mine, too. Do you not think I wish him suitably honored?”

“Of course, and you are being wonderfully brave about all this. ’Tis so difficult, even for me, to accept his loss. I cannot imagine how terrible it must be for you.”

There being no answer to that, Jenna gave none.

As they ascended the stairs, Lane hailed a passing footman. “Tell Lady Fairchild’s maid to bring up tea in an hour.” After the man trotted off, he turned to Jenna. “I’m sorry, that was rather presumptuous. Forgive me?”

Too tired to resent a usurpation of her authority for which, in another life, she would have given him a sharp setdown, she shrugged. “It appears everyone wants to dictate my actions. At least you, cousin, seem to have my welfare at heart.”

They reached the door to her chamber, but when she turned to go in, he retained her hand, halting her. “I’m sorry you must suffer through this all over again. I hope you indeed realize I will do everything within my power to make things as easy as possible for you.”

His kind words brought tears once again to the surface. “Thank you, cousin. I appreciate that.”

Grief and the coming child did exhaust her, for she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She woke an hour later at Sancha’s knock, feeling much refreshed. Before she could decide whether to ride yet again, choose a book from the library downstairs, or take a carriage to inspect the selection at Hatchard’s, a footman knocked to inform her that she had callers below.

She wondered who it might be. Since she had no acquaintance in London beyond her husband’s family, it must be someone from the army who had learned of her return.

Ah, that it might be Major Hartwell or Captain Percy, good friends and two of her late father’s finest subordinates! Feeling a stir of interest for the first time since arriving in England, she instructed the footman to tell the visitors she would be down directly.

But her enthusiasm checked the moment she stepped across into the parlor. Rather than those old compatriots, smiling at her from the sofa was Mrs. Ada Anderson, wife to the colonel of the Fighting Fifth’s neighboring brigade.

Before she could utter a word, the woman spied her. “Jenna, so you left Brussels at last! I had to call as soon as I learned you’d arrived and convey my deepest, sincerest sympathy!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson.” Jenna pasted a smile on her face while mentally kicking herself for coming down without first ascertaining the identity of her visitors. Now she would have to remain at least half an hour or be thought unpardonably rude. “Please, do sit down. How kind of you to come with—” she indicated the tall, angular woman in the modish bonnet and pelisse.

“Lady Fairchild, allow me to present my sister Persephone, Lady Montclare. You may remember I intended to send you back to her in London after your papa died at Badajoz. Except that you snabbled yourself a husband first! I was, you will recall, quite vexed at you for throwing away your chance at a London Season and entrusting your hand and fortune to a mere younger son. Who knew then he’d turn out to be viscount one day, eh, you clever girl?”

“Charmed to meet you at last, Lady Fairchild.” Lady Montclare rose from her curtsy to subject Jenna to a penetrating scrutiny. “My sincerest condolences.”

“Oh, yes—such a tragedy!” Mrs. Anderson lamented. “With his ability and your fortune, I expect he should have become a general. Not that he had any need of a military career, once he inherited, of course.”

“Given his responsibilities as the new viscount, after his brother was lost in that storm off Portsmouth, I am surprised Garrett did not immediately resign his commission,” Lady Montclare said.

“After Bonaparte escaped from Elbe, Garrett would not have considered leaving the army, nor, I suspect, would the Duke have permitted it had he asked. With so many Peninsular veterans dispersed from India to the Americas, he needed every battle-tested commander.”

“Given how things turned out, I imagine you now wish Lord Fairchild had not remained with the army,” Lady Montclare observed.

“I would not have had Garrett shirk his duty or disregard his loyalties,” Jenna replied stiffly, “regardless of how ‘things turned out.’”

“Well, ’tis no matter,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You must now think to your future—which means carefully evaluating the new contenders for your hand.”

“Contenders for my—?” Jenna gasped. “I hardly think it necessary to concern myself about that yet!”

“I know you were sincerely attached to Garrett,” Mrs. Anderson said. “But a widow with a fortune as vast as yours is not likely to be left to mourn in solitude. As soon as the ton finds out you are established here in London, you can expect all manner of invitations.”

“Your husband’s aunt is charming,” Lady Montclare said, “but I fear she doesn’t move in the first circles. Since you quite rightly wish to pay proper honor to poor Garrett’s memory, ’tis of the utmost importance that you know which invitations to accept, which you should refuse. Ada and I will be happy to assist you.”

“It will be our privilege! The first thing you must do—” Mrs. Anderson cast a pained look at Jenna’s three-year-old gown “—is procure a proper wardrobe.”

Reining in the temper that urged her to demand that the visitors leave immediately, Jenna forced herself to speak politely. “Mrs. Anderson, Lady Montclare, I appreciate your kindness in offering to help, but I haven’t the least interest attracting ‘contenders’ for my hand.”

“Come now, Jenna, you were with the army long enough not to be missish about this,” Mrs. Anderson countered. “You wed Garrett before your papa had been dead a month!”

“That was…different! I couldn’t remain with the army alone, and I loved Garrett.”

“Desire it or not,” Lady Montclare said, “your youth, beauty and wealth—added to the connection you now boast to the ancient name of Fairchild—will catch the interest of every bachelor of the ton on the look for a bride.”

“Since you cannot avoid scrutiny, ’tis only prudent to plan on it,” Mrs. Anderson advised. “Reconnoiter the ground and use it to your advantage, my husband would say! And as one of Lady Jersey’s bosom bows, Persephone stands in perfect position to advise you on the most select entertainments—and most desirable gentlemen.”

Both ladies beamed at her, appearing supremely confident that Jenna must be thrilled at their offering to guide her in her choice of beaux. Appalled by the notion, for a moment Jenna contemplated informing the ladies of her pregnancy. Surely a widow who was increasing would be less appealing to discerning ton courtiers.

But though her condition would soon be obvious, for now she did not wish to share the news of her secret joy with these sisters whose supposed concern for her welfare barely concealed their relish for obtaining a social pawn they might manipulate.

As the mantel clock chimed, signifying the elapse of the requisite half hour, Jenna rose and offered a curtsy. “Ladies, I am quite…overwhelmed by your offer. Please know I will carefully consider it.”

Obligated to rise as well, the sisters returned her curtsy. “I’m staying with Persephone while Walter prepares for his next posting,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Call on us any day—your butler has the card with our direction.”

“Indeed,” Lady Montclare said. “I shall be very happy to take you under my wing, dear Lady Fairchild.”

Stifling the impulse to tell Lady Montclare just what she could do with that wing, Jenna made herself incline her head politely. “Good day, ladies.”

Long after Manson had escorted them out, Jenna stood staring at the closed door, recalling the various ton gentlemen she’d observed during her rides—Dandies and Bucks in skintight coats and trousers, elaborately arranged cravats, ridiculously high shirt collars. She’d found their appearance quite amusing.

The idea of such men calling on her was less amusing.

Men who had remained safely at home while other men fought and bled to protect their liberty. Indolent men with nothing better to do than drink, gamble away their nights—and entice widows of large fortune into marriage.

The handsome face of one such dark-haired, gray-eyed man materialized out of memory, his lips curved in a sardonic smile that was half interest, half disdain. Heat rose in her cheeks as she forced the image away.

Cousin Lane seemed thoroughly familiar with the London ton. Perhaps she should ask him whether the sisters’ prediction about the interest she would arouse among its gentlemen was likely to prove true.

For if dealing with reprobates like Lord Anthony Nelthorpe was to be her fate in London, the convention about living with Garrett’s relatives be damned, she would start immediately looking for a residence elsewhere.

Chapter Three

TWO WEEKS later, Jenna sat in the parlor, trying to keep a polite smile pasted on her lips while the notables of the ton paraded past to offer their condolences, their gimlet eyes and assessing glances evaluating the dress, manners and breeding of Viscount Fairchild’s widow. She’d even overheard one dandy, in a whisper just loud enough to reach her ears, compare her unfavorably to the Lovely Lucinda—the fiancée who had jilted Garrett for an earl.

Nearly as annoying, Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare arrived early “to support dear Jenna through her first public reception.” Effusing with delight at their thoughtfulness, Aunt Hetty had chairs installed for them beside Jenna’s, where the two were now dispensing sottovoce commentary on each caller who approached.

Jenna had thrown an appealing glance at Lane, seated beside Aunt Hetty on the sofa, but he’d returned nothing more helpful than a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. While Cousin Bayard, alleging anyone who wished to convey their regrets to him had had ample opportunity during the service at St. George’s, abandoned the parlor minutes after the reception began.

Not that she’d really expected to escape the function—or her two watchdogs. Apparently Lady Montclare did wield as much influence among the ton as she’d claimed, for Aunt Hetty had been both shocked and ecstatic to learn of her call, and did everything she could to promote the connection. In her listless state, Jenna had neither sufficient interest nor strength to oppose them, and had soon found herself trotted around to all the merchants Lady Montclare favored, pinned and prodded and led to purchase a vast quantity of items those ladies deemed essential for a recently bereaved viscountess.

She’d felt a twinge of conscience at expending blunt on gowns that in a matter of a few weeks she’d be unable to wear. Someday soon, when the simple business of waking, rising, and surviving each new day didn’t exhaust all her meager mental and physical reserves, she’d sort out what to do about the sisters—and her life without Garrett.

Onward the crowd continued—like buzzards circling a kill, Jenna thought—an endless progression of names and titles. In vain she looked for the real comfort that might have been afforded by the friendly faces and heartfelt condolences of “Heedless” Harry or Alastair Percy or other men from Garrett’s regiment. By now, she realized with resignation, her military compatriots had doubtless returned to their respective homes or rejoined the army.

Then a stir from the hallway caught her attention. As she’d hoped, a few moments later His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, walked into the salon, trailed by a crowd of well-wishers eager to shake the hand of the great general.

“Excellent! I so hoped he would appear,” Mrs. Anderson said in Jenna’s ear.

After exchanging a brief word with Lady Montclare and Mrs. Anderson, he took Jenna’s hand.

“It’s been a long and difficult road since India. England owes her safety to the selfless service of your father and husband. Take solace in that, Jenna.”

“I do, your grace.”

She blinked back tears as he kissed her hand, bowed and walked away, the crowd parting respectfully to allow the passage of England’s Savior. Who, it was said, had wept while he wrote his dispatch after Waterloo at the loss of so many good friends and soldiers.

Napoleon’s Vanquisher would be going on to other important duties. What was Jenna Montague Fairchild, soldier’s daughter and soldier’s wife who had lost father, husband and army, to do with herself now?

Think of the babe, she told herself, fighting back grief and despair. Rebuild your life around the child.

“How excellent of the Duke to show so singular a mark of favor,” Lady Montclare murmured.

“We are old acquaintances,” Jenna replied.

In the wake of the Duke’s departure, the crowd in the drawing room began to thin. “My sister has presented you to everyone of note in London this afternoon, including most of the gentlemen who will be your potential suitors,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling her satisfaction.

“And your conduct has been excellent, my dear!” Lady Montclare reached over to press Jenna’s fingers. “A grave demeanor indicative of continuing grief, with just the right touch of hauteur.”

The woman obviously believed Jenna was assuming the role she’d been urged to play. She wasn’t sure whether to dissolve into hysterical laughter—or tears.

“Oh no—not him!”

At Mrs. Anderson’s gasp, Jenna’s looked to the door, through which a gentleman now strode with languorous ease.

Jenna exhaled in relief. Though the half-mocking, half-amused smile on the handsome face of the man now approaching was reminiscent of the grin she’d so disliked on another gentleman, this man’s hair gleamed guineagold rather than blue-black and his eyes were the turquoise of a tropic ocean’s depths—not, praise heaven, gunmetal gray.

“The effrontery!” Mrs. Anderson whispered.

“We’ll soon send him to the rightabout,” Lady Montclare soothed. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Jenna—a notorious rogue and gambler. ’Tis said he mended his ways since he beguiled a rich widow into marriage, but I doubt it. His aunt, Lady Charlotte Darnell, is the daughter of a duke and a Society leader, so you cannot, regrettably, cut him, but his reputation for seducing foolish women was well-earned. Take care to avoid him whenever possible.”

A moment later the blond man bowed before them. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Fairchild, at your service.”

As if fully conscious of the condemnation that had just been pronounced by her companions, after nodding to them, he seized Jenna’s hands and gave them a long, lingering caress that sent heat rushing to her cheeks.

She had just opened her lips to deliver a sharp set down when he gave her a quick, conspiratorial wink, so fleeting she wasn’t sure whether she’d seen or imagined it. Then he tugged on her hands and pulled her to her feet.

“By the saints, dear Lady Fairchild, your grief has rendered you pale as the shades of my Irish kin! Let me assist you to stroll down the hall, that exercise might return a little color to your lovely face.” Before she could think what to reply, over the sputtering protest of her chaperones, he nudged her into motion.

Not until they reached the hallway did she realize how great a relief it was to escape the confines of the parlor. Nonetheless, torn between amusement and irritation, she felt moved to protest.

“Gracious, Mr. Fitzwilliams, you are a rogue indeed!”

“That, Lady Fairchild, is for you to decide.” Turning to her with an unexpectedly sympathetic look, he continued, “Nonetheless, your expression so clearly called out ‘rescue me!’ that I could not help but respond.”

That reading of what she’d thought to be her impassive countenance belied the carelessness of the grin with which he had, she suspected, deliberately taunted her chaperones. Though she heard again Lady Montclare’s warning to avoid him, she found herself curious to know why he’d called.

Besides, over her years with the army she’d encountered men who truly were seducers and reprobates. The instincts that had protected her on more than one occasion were now telling her this man was neither.

“You are right, Mr. Fitzwilliams. I did long for rescue.”

He rewarded her honesty with a smile of genuine warmth that lit his handsome face and set mesmerizing lights dancing in those intensely turquoise eyes.

Heavens! she thought, shaken by the force of his charm. If he were a rake, small wonder women succumbed!

“If what I’d heard of your adventures with the army had not already convinced me of your stalwart character, I knew Garrett would marry none but an enterprising lady.”

“You were…acquainted with Garrett?”

His eyes dimmed and she read real sorrow on his face. “I had that honor and so offer you my deepest condolences. I cannot boast to have been one of his intimates, but at Eton he stood my friend, and when I became the focus of some…unpleasantness at Oxford, he continued to recognize me when few others, including my own family, did. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

His heartfelt testament moved her more than all the grand tributes glibly offered by the influential of the ton. “He was indeed,” she replied, her voice trembling.

“Respecting Garrett as I did, I felt I must call today, even though my aunt, Lady Charlotte, is out of town and unable to lend me countenance—or protect you from the censorious who will take you to task for having strolled with me. For which injury, I do apologize. Despite the appeal in your eyes, by whisking you off, I fear I have doomed you to almost certain criticism. I really should not have kidnapped you with you unaware of that danger.”