Loretta Chase - Knaves Wager

Knaves' Wager

By

Loretta Chase

It was late March 1814. On the Continent, Buonaparte's once-great Empire lay in smoking ruins about him, his Grand Army reduced to a handful of ragged, starved boys. Yet the Corsican clung stubbornly to his throne, even as the Allied net closed about him.

That was all far away, however. The stretch of English landscape through which Mrs. Charles Davenant travelled this day lay quiet. Yet snug and secure in her well-sprung carriage, the widow gazed into the grey distance as unhappily as if she too knew what it was to lose empires. She had, after all, been privileged to rule her own life these last five years. Now that precious sovereignty was slipping from her grasp, and in her sad fancy, she rode in a moving prison to her doom.

A small, wry smile tugged at the corners of her set mouth. Though her tiny kingdom seemed to be in ruins, remarriage was hardly Doom. Her predicament was a mere twist of Fortune, a hard tangle in the thread of one insignificant life.

Without, the darkening sky cast its chill shadow upon the spring countryside. The widow turned from the sombre scene to the more heartening one within the carriage: her niece, Cecily Glenwood. Here was the radiant sunshine of golden curls, the clear heaven of wide blue eyes, and the fair blossom of pink and cream complexion. Here was youth and promise, the endless possibilities of a life just beginning, for Cecily Glenwood was travelling to London for her first Season.

Like her sister and cousins before her, Cecily would succeed. She could scarcely help it. All the Davenants and their offspring, male and female, were blessed with abundant good looks. The majority were charming, as Mrs, Davenant's late husband had been. Some, also like Charles Davenant, had their failings. Selfishness, for instance, was a quality prominent among his siblings. Had these in-laws been otherwise sensible and. trustworthy parents, for example neither Cecily nor her cousins (there were yet more approaching marriageable age) would have needed Mrs. Charles Davenant's help at all.

She had already guided three nieces through successful London Seasons and seen each happily wed. Though she loved this niece as dearly as the others, the widow could not help but wish, this once, Conscience would permit her to have the responsibility where it belonged.

Fortunately, she was suited to her chosen responsibility. She was but eight and twenty and of remarkably unexcit-able disposition. In physique and character she was built for endurance.

Lilith Davenant was tall, slim, and strong. Her classical features a decided jaw, a straight, imperious nose, and high, prominent cheekbones had been carved firmly and clearly upon cool alabaster. Her eyes were an uncompromising slate blue, their gaze direct, assured, and often, chilly. In fact, the only warmth about her was the tinge of red in her thick, shining hair. Still, even that rich, dark auburn mass was resolutely wound in rigid braided coils about her head.

Her character was as uncompromising as her appearance. According to some wags, Mrs. Davenant bore such a stunning resemblance to a marble statue that it was a wonder she had a pulse. Some doubted she had. No one of the masculine gender (excepting her husband, who was reputed to have died, not of consumption, but of slow freezing) dared approach near enough to find out.

This was precisely as Mrs. Davenant preferred, though she'd hardly have said so, if anyone had been audacious enough to ask. Her manner did not invite personal questions. Her feelings were sealed and locked, as secure in her breast as were her funds in the Bank of England. More secure, actually, for Mrs. Davenant was running out of money.

Her former man of business had lost most of it in mad speculations during the last year. His replacement, in reorganising the widow's affairs, had come upon an enormous unpaid debt Charles's debt a small fortune lost in wagers to his erstwhile companion in debauchery, the Marquess of Brandon.

Once this last debt was paid, there would remain scarcely enough to keep Lilith. Seasons for her remaining nieces would be out of the question. This prospect was as unendurable as the alternative: to wed again.

The widow had spent the better part of the journey wrestling with Duty and Conscience, as well as a host of other demons she had rather not name. Yet not even her dearest confidante (if she'd had one) would have suspected Mrs. Davenant was troubled. She sat beside her niece, as cool, assured, and marblelike as ever.

"Oh, I do hope he'll be dark and devilish-looking," said Cecily.

Lilith slowly turned to examine her niece, who had remained uncharacteristically silent this past hour.

"To whom do you refer, my dear?" she asked.

"Him," said Cecily. "The husband I am supposed to catch in three months. That is a frightfully short time. There is one fox Papa has been after for seven years, and Papa is a brilliant huntsman. I don't see how I'm to catch anyone in just three months when I've had no experience at all."

In the seat opposite, Mrs. Davenant's plump companion suppressed a smile. Emma Wellwicke was older than her employer, and more tolerant as perhaps a soldier's wife must be in these tumultuous times. While Mrs. Wellwicke might find Cecily's outspokenness amusing, the companion knew as well as anyone else that plain speaking would never serve in the Beau Monde. It had best be gently discouraged. "My dear," said Lilith, "one does not speak of 'catching a man' as though it were a hunt."

"Oh, I would not say so to them, of course," Cecily answered. "But I cannot pretend to myself that catching a husband is not what I am about and I know I must do it quickly. Otherwise, Mama says she and Papa will be obliged to find me one at home. I now that is a deal more economical way to go about it, but it is not a pleasant prospect. None of the local bachelors is dark and devilish-looking I am so tired of blonds. We are all fair. It is so monotonous."

"Looks are not everything, Cecily," said Emma.

"Yes, I know. But I daresay you have never met Lord Evershot, whom Papa is so fond of. Such an ancient man past forty, I think and such a red, blotchy face. And you have never seen anything so absurd upon a horse. Meanwhile, Mama drops hints about TheHonorable Alfred Crawbred, and he has the tiniest little black eyes and the most squashed-down nose. I am certains his nurse must have dropped him repeatedly upon his face. Yet he believes himself an Adonis and is forever waddling after the maidservants."

Emma bit her lip.

"Cecily, please," the aunt warned.

"That will do Cecily," Lilith said quietly. "Though I cannot approve of Mr. Crawbred's behavior regarding the maidservants, neither can I countenance uncharitable observations upon his physical attributes. Nature is not so generous with everyone as she has been with my nieces and nephews."

Cecily gazed at her in surprise. "I did not mean to be uncharitable, Aunt. I only meant I had much rather not become Mr. Crawbred's wife. Why, you know he will expect to kiss me arid that is not the half of it."

"Oh, my," said Emma.

Mrs. Davenant turned with an inward shudder to the window, in order to compose both herself and a suitably quelling yet tactful response. In an instant, all this was forgotten.

Hastily, she opened the coach window and called to her coachman to stop.

"What is it?" Cecily and Emma asked simultaneously.

"An accident."

The coach slowly came to a halt, and Lilith climbed out, adjuring the other two women to remain where they were.

Though somewhat in awe of her queenly aunt, Cecily remained where she was approximately seven seconds before clambering out. Emma followed, to urge the girl back. This was sensible on more than one count, for the rain which had threatened all afternoon had commenced, and the road dust was rapidly turning to mud.