"Mine, I believe," Geoffrey Kirk, Viscount Sherbourne, said quietly, laying his cards upon the green baize surface of the table. It was late. Candles guttered in their sockets in this room of an exclusive gaming hell in London, and more than one bottle of wine had been consumed, but none of the five gentlemen grouped around the table seemed desirous of leaving. Geoffrey watched them all through a haze of satisfaction, though his still face and heavy-lidded eyes gave nothing away. Damn, but he still had it. True, it seemed of late that in the morning his body protested the late hours and the surfeit of wine he tended to drink, but in the evening his senses were as sharp as ever. Sharper, perhaps, or how could he have bested such skilled gentlemen as he had tonight?
His eyes rested upon the man across from him, Sir Harold Wyndham. It was well known that of them all Sir Harold could least afford to lose, which perhaps explained why his play had been so risky. Not all his opponents were so skilled, Geoffrey allowed, watching the expressions on Sir Harold's face change from stunned disbelief to dawning horror as he gazed at the pile of winnings at Geoffrey's elbow. There were bank notes and scraps of paper, for debts to be paid at some future date. There was also a hastily-scribbled piece of paper, Sir Harold's final wager. His estate. He had nothing left to lose. "Wait," Sir Harold said, his voice desperate. "Wait."
"Come now, Wyndham," one of the other gentlemen said. "The evening is over for you. You've nothing left."
"But I do." Sir Harold clutched Geoffrey's hand as he reached for his winnings. "Something more valuable than my estate, something worth more than all of that combined."
Geoffrey let his eyelids droop even more, though his interest was piqued. "Then it must be valuable, indeed."
"Yes, yes, it is. Worth more than you know."
Geoffrey steepled his fingers and gazed at the other man over them. "Pray enlighten us, then, sir."
"Very well." Sir Harold straightened, lending dignity to a face and figure that showed the effects of too many years of dissolution, too many tense nights spent at the table. "It is the hand of my daughter in marriage."
For a moment there was stunned silence, and then the men at the table protested at such a scandalous suggestion. One did not wager a person. It just wasn't done. Only Geoffrey sat quiet, though his initial reaction was quite different from the others'. He wanted to let out a bark of laughter.
"The hand of your daughter in marriage," he said, slowly. "Against what?"
"Good God, man, you can't be considering it!" Lord Adam Burnet, one of Geoffrey's friends, burst out. "Think of what will happen if you win. You'll be leg-shackled."
"Against all that." Sir Harold gestured toward the small pile at Geoffrey's elbow. "My money. My vowels. My estate. You're a veritable nabob, Sherbourne, everyone knows that, and you've three estates already-"
"Four."
"-but you haven't a wife. You could do worse than my daughter. She's pretty, and healthy. Not a silly chit on the marriage mart. Should breed well. Yes, you could do worse."
"I don't believe I've ever met the gel," Lord Portman, older and stout, said, sounding interested in spite of himself. "Has she made her come-out?"
"Six years ago," Sir Harold admitted. "But it's not that she didn't take. No one was up to snuff. At least for her."
"Six years ago. I remember. A tall girl. Quiet."
Six years ago, Geoffrey mused. He had been on the Continent then, during the brief interval of peace between England and France. No wonder he didn't remember her. If she had had her come-out then, that would make her - what? Well past her first youth, at any rate. Yet, if she had not returned to town since then, obviously she didn't want to. Of course, there was the question of money. Perhaps there hadn't been enough to give her another Season, given Sir Harold's gambling. Certainly there wasn't enough for a dowry, but that was hardly necessary. He was, as Sir Harold had pointed out, quite wealthy.
"Think, sir," Sir Harold urged. "You could get some milk and water miss with a dragon for a mother. My Ariel is at least a sensible girl, and biddable. She'll do as she's told."
Geoffrey sat back, considering the idea. Well, why not? he thought, recklessly. It was outrageous, but then, he had built his life upon outrageous acts. Besides, his family had been pressing him to marry, to beget an heir. Should he win, he could present to them a bride of unexceptionable lineage, who would likely want to stay in the country. If he lost, he would simply go on. In either case, nothing would change in his life. "Why not? I shall even settle your estate back upon her," he said, and waited while the expected uproar filled the room again.
"Done, then," Sir Harold said, and briefly his eyes gleamed. Briefly Geoffrey felt uneasy, but the sensation disappeared as he dealt the cards for piquet. It was just another game.
Those gentlemen who had participated in the earlier games watched now in fascinated horror and scandalized delight. This was between Geoffrey and Sir Harold, and there was no room for anyone else in the game, not even when other men drifted over, alerted to the fact that something extraordinary was happening. Geoffrey studied his cards with quiet, fierce concentration, barely aware of the audience or their various whispered conversations. It was like that when he played, whether the stakes were trifling, or as high as these were. The urge, the need, to feel the rush of joy at winning took over, and all else faded before it. Oh, every gentleman in the ton gambled. This was different, though, and it accounted for what many had called, not without envy, luck. This was sheer nerves and skill and competitiveness. Never did Geoffrey go into a card game with the thought that he might lose. It was a rare occasion when he did.
Sir Harold's concentration was as intense, but his skill, though not inconsiderable, was not up to Geoffrey's. "Carte blanche," Geoffrey said before Sir Harold could discard, meaning that he held no face cards, and immediately scored ten points. That it was a blow showed only by a slight flicker of Sir Harold's eyes; that same flicker hinted that his discards, made in an attempt to reach certain combinations, were not successful.
"Pique," Geoffrey said quietly when they had been playing for some time, adding thirty points for a total of seventy-four; only one hundred were needed to win, and Sir Harold had yet to score. From then on his play became more reckless, with the result that, more often than not Geoffrey won the trick. Steadily, Geoffrey's points added up; steadily, Sir Harold fell behind. When the last card had been played, Geoffrey had won the majority of tricks, with his score well over one hundred.
"Mine again," he said into the tense, hushed room, and there was a soughing sound as several gentlemen released their breaths. Sir Harold stared at the cards for a long moment and then sat back, closing his eyes. "Are you well, sir?"
Sir Harold stirred. "Quite," he said, straightening. "I shall have my man of business call upon you tomorrow to arrange matters."
Geoffrey nodded, gathering his winnings together, and rose. "I shall await his presence." He snapped his fingers at the footman to have his hat and walking stick brought to him. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said, and turned away, not caring about the excited buzz of conversation that broke out behind him, or the fact that the tale of tonight's events would be all over London by morning. He had acquired a bride, he thought, proceeding with a deliberate pace down the stairs to the entry hall, though he felt, as always, like running with exhilaration at winning. That should put paid to his grandmother's efforts at matchmaking. He had, quite on his own, acquired a bride.
The following day, Viscount Sherbourne was rather a different man. He sat on the edge of his bed, hands dangling down between his knees, head bent. If only his head didn't pound so. If only his mouth didn't taste so dry and dusty and foul that he suspected he could drink an entire lake full of water and still be parched. As for food - well, he knew from rude experience that that was not to be faced for a long time yet.
Why did he do it? he wondered suddenly. Why did he continue with the late nights, the drinking, the women, when they all were beginning to pall on him? Well, perhaps not the women, God bless 'em, he thought, and as he did so felt a flicker of something at the edge of his consciousness. He concentrated, but it was gone. If it were something that mattered, he would remember it eventually.
"Here." A hand thrust a glass of some dark, vile-smelling stuff before him, and he reared back, though his head pounded all the more. "Drink this."
"What the devil is it?" he growled, taking the glass, though he knew.
"What I been givin' ye practically every mornin' for years," Briggs, his valet, growled. "And if it tastes bad, it's no more than ye deserve."
Geoffrey took a gulp, grimaced at the taste, and then manfully tossed it back. For a moment his stomach rose in protest and he feared he was about to disgrace himself, but then, remarkably, it settled down. He was beginning to feel more the thing, except for his head. "You sound like a damned Puritan, Briggs."
"Someone has to look after ye." Briggs moved about the room, gathering up the clothes Geoffrey had carelessly discarded late last night. Or, rather, early this morning. "When ye're up to it, there's someone here to see ye."
Geoffrey focused bleary eyes on him. "So early?"
"It's afternoon, my lord," Briggs said, with absolutely no expression.
"Oh." Geoffrey took the card Briggs held out to him and squinted at it. Lawrence Chase, Esq., a name unfamiliar to him. A solicitor. Chase, Chase, he repeated to himself, and suddenly it all came back to him, what he had done the night before. "My good God," he muttered. Now what the devil had he got himself into? And how could he get out of it?
Apparently, he couldn't, he learned a little later, when, shaved and dressed, if still pale, he discussed the situation with Mr. Chase. The wager with Sir Harold had been made in good faith, and no matter if he'd been the worse for drink at the time. So had Sir Harold. So had everyone else at the table. And, he was reminded delicately, in such situations it was up to the lady to cry off, not the gentleman. Viscount Sherbourne, it seemed, was honor-bound to go through with the ridiculous wager he had made the evening before, and actually marry Miss Wyndham. And everyone knew that a gentleman would not go back on his word, or a wager.
Marriage. Good God. Geoffrey drew his hands down his face once Chase had left. Why the deuce had he ever agreed to such a thing, even if he had been foxed? This was beyond anything, far worse than merely drinking too much, or gaming, or having more than his share of mistresses. This time he had involved an innocent girl. He had done something truly beyond redemption.
"Got yerself into a proper coil, haven't ye," Briggs said, clearing away the used teacups.
Geoffrey looked up. "Listening at doors again, Briggs?"
"Someone has to protect ye from yerself."
He rose abruptly. "I'll take care of myself, thank you."
"Oh, don't go all lordly on me. We both know this is a proper mess, and no mistakin'." Briggs paused in the doorway. "So what are ye goin' to do about it?"
"God knows. I can't marry her, obviously."
"Might be she feels the same about ye. If she knows."
Geoffrey's gaze snapped to him. "You think that's possible?"
"Aye. Considerin' her father, could be. Bad enough you accepted the wager, but worse that he made it."
"True." Geoffrey stood with his fist at his mouth, frowning. It had been unconscionable of Wyndham to make such a wager. And he himself would wager - no, unlucky word, he'd guess instead - that Wyndham was still in town, unable yet to face his daughter. Geoffrey knew little of the man, but he did know that he was not reputed to be particularly brave. Telling his daughter what he had done would take courage. "I'll have to tell her."
"Go into the country, ye mean?"
"Yes." He turned to face Briggs. "If her father hasn't gone, then I'll have to. It's likely she won't want this any more than I do."
"And she'll cry off."
"And she'll cry off," he agreed. "Find out if Wyndham is still in town, and then pack a bag for me. I want to make a start as soon as I can."
"That's the first sensible thing ye've decided in a while," Briggs said, and left the room before Geoffrey could answer.
Engaged. He closed his eyes at the thought, and the world spun crazily around, making him grab at the back of a chair to steady himself. He'd need more of Briggs' remedy, nauseating though it was, before setting out. Nor would he take a drop of anything on the road. He needed to be quite sober when at last he faced his prospective bride.
In the meantime, there was little he could do but wait. Briefly he considered stopping in at White's, in spite of the curious and teasing reaction he was likely to get, or visiting his current mistress, but neither idea appealed to him. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on a book, and after last night gambling was out of the question. There was only one thing he could do, then, the only thing he really wanted to do. Flexing his fingers, Geoffrey crossed the room and sat down at the pianoforte.
Two days later Geoffrey turned his curricle into the drive of Wyndmere, Sir Harold's country estate in Leicestershire. Last evening they had put up at the Three Crowns in Leicester, rather than press on the remaining twenty miles so late in the day. Geoffrey had found both food and lodgings tolerable, though he disliked the country and was not enamored of fox-hunting, so popular in the county and represented everywhere in the inn. "Place isn't in good shape," Briggs commented. "Grass growing up in drive."
"Mm," Geoffrey said. The estate did look poorly tended. The gates to the drive had been open, he suspected from being rusted into position, and one of them listed crookedly on its hinges. Nor had the gatehouse been occupied. Not for the first time since that disastrous card game, Geoffrey cursed himself. Everyone knew that Sir Harold's pockets were always to let. If, by some remote ill fate, Miss Wyndham decided to hold him to the wager, he'd have to see to the estate's repair. He was indeed in it proper this time, as Briggs had told him repeatedly in the last days.
The drive continued on under elms that created as attractive an allee as he'd ever seen, and then, curving, opened abruptly into a circular drive before the house. For a moment he sat just looking at it. Somehow it was appealing, in spite of the obvious signs of decay. Oh, the fountain in the neglected patch of lawn before the house appeared not to have worked in years, and the lawn itself had gone to seed, but the house, built in the golden limestone so prevalent in the region, was classic, of solid Georgian design. And the park, with freshly green elm and ash and oak trees, showed, from what he could see of it, the hand of a master landscaper. Unfortunately, it would take more time and care than he wished to in vest to restore either house or land to their past glory.
Climbing down from the curricle, he tossed the ribbons to Briggs. "See if you can find stabling for them. I'm surprised no groom's come out to greet us," he added, frowning.
"I'll give 'em what for about it," Briggs promised, and drove off, leaving Geoffrey alone with his fate. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then resolutely climbed the shallow stairs to the door.
The door was not opened at his first, or even his second, knock. He was in the middle of lifting the knocker for the third time when abruptly the door opened, revealing a tall woman wiping her hands on an apron. A servant of some kind, he thought, taking in her shapeless gown of some brown fabric and her mobcap, from which strands of pale yellow hair escaped. Where the deuce was the butler? "I am Sherbourne," he said curtly, and swept by her into the hall. "Pray announce me to Miss Wyndham."
At the door, still held open in her hand, the woman stared at his card, and then at him. "My lord, I-"
"Are you deaf, girl? Pray announce me to your mistress."
The woman continued to look at him, and then her lips twitched. "Of course, my lord," she murmured, closing the door. "If you'll just come this way."
He waited as she stepped past him to open a door to the right of the hall. This was shabby treatment, but somehow he had expected it. It was no more than he deserved. No one else had got him into this fix but himself.
"Well?" he demanded, when he was inside what he judged by the sorry state of the furniture was an old and possibly unused sitting room, and the maid still had not done as he bade. "Where is Miss Wyndham?"
"I'm afraid, my lord," and her lips twitched again, an odd habit, "that you are looking at her."
The pounding at the front door had taken Ariel completely by surprise, just as she finished cleaning the windows in the dining room and was on her way to the dairy. The last thing she needed now was a distraction. Lord knew she and Mary, her one remaining servant, worked as hard as they could, but there was so little time in the day. Thank heavens that Mrs. Smedley still came in from the village to do at least some of the housework; thank heavens, as well, that Tom Barker, one of the tenants, saw to the few remaining cows, in return for reduced rent, of course. She herself saw to the kitchen garden, and Mr. Hoskins, the butcher, was quite understanding if one fell behind in paying his bill. As she was now. Father's stay in time was longer than usual this time, leaving her both short of coins and very worried. It was in town that he tended to get into the most trouble.
The pounding sounded at the door again; with Mary in the village, she had no choice but to answer it. Rarely did she have visitors anymore. The Mason family, the Kellers, the vicar - all of them realized that she could ill afford to spare either provisions or time in visits. That she missed simply being with others of the gentry was beside the point. The circumstances of her life dictated that she live as she did.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," she muttered now, crossing the flagged hall, and opened the door to see the most arresting-looking man she she had ever beheld.
For a moment, she simply stared. He was not from the country, even she knew that, not with that traveling coat of fine blue merino that must have been crafted by an expert tailor. And his hair was as expertly cut, a la Brutus, though it was thick and straight and showed not the least tendency to curl. The gaze from his gray eyes, under appealingly heavy lids, paralyzed her, while his lips were both well-cut and surprisingly full. He wasn't quite handsome, not with that prominent nose, but his was not a face one would soon forget. Ariel certainly knew she would remember it for a long time.
She was about to speak when he suddenly swept by her into the hall. "I am Sherbourne," he said, thrusting a card at her. "Pray announce me to Miss Wyndham."
A little dazed, Ariel looked down at the card. Viscount Sherbourne? Whatever could he want with her? Not that the name was familiar to her, but she couldn't remember the last time a person of such rank had been entertained here. Or someone so stylish. She saw herself suddenly through his eyes, realized that her old gown of brown fustian was hopelessly out of date and unkind to her coloring; saw that her mobcap and apron must make her appear like a servant. And she saw anew the shabbiness of the house, that no fire was laid in the great hearth, no flowers bloomed in a vase upon the table that was the single remaining piece of furniture, no paintings hung on the walls, though there were lighter oblongs from those that once had. What he must make of this, of her, she didn't know. Why it should matter was another question altogether.
The viscount chose at that moment to speak, breaking her out of her reverie, ordering her again to announce him. Her lips twitching, she turned to lead him into the morning room. Oh, her wicked sense of humor. It would lead her into trouble someday, she'd been told often enough by her Aunt Emma. For now, though, the situation tickled her.
Some of her inner glee faded when they were in the morning room. Here, as in the hall, she was conscious again of shabbiness. The green striped sofa was faded where the sun had touched it, in spite of all her efforts to protect it; the Axminster carpet was worn and threadbare; and the ivory brocade draperies were so frayed it was a wonder they hadn't fallen of their own weight. The room was clean, though. She had too much pride for it to be otherwise.
She also had to end this situation, as amusing as she found it. Again, though, he spoke before she could, demanding in that imperious voice to know where Miss Wyndham was. This time she was more annoyed at his arrogance than amused. Thus she was quite calm when she finally answered him. "I'm afraid, my lord," and again her lips twitched, quite by their own will, "that you are looking at her."
For a moment he simply stared at her, as she had done earlier. "You can't be," he said baldly, in which she hoped was not his usual manner. Surely he was usually more courteous than that, especially to a baronet's daughter. Even if that daughter did look like a maid.
"Oh, but I am, sir. Would you care to be seated? I'd ring for tea, but I fear that the bellpull doesn't work." She glanced at the intricate, petit-point bellpull she had worked when she was just a child, long ago broken. "Even if it did, there's no one to answer it." He frowned as he sat, carefully spreading the tails of his coat so they would not wrinkle. He was something of a dandy, she perceived, far above her touch. "How can that be?"
"No money," she said, bluntly. "Have you not guessed?"
"I've met your father, but-"
"Ah. Then you know."
"-but I'd no idea matters were as bad as this."
"Did you game with him, sir?"
He hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes. And-"
"Oh," she said, cutting across his words, and closed her eyes. He'd promised he'd stop. He really had. He'd told her he'd never gamble again, and, fool that she was, she'd believed him one more time.
"Miss Wyndham." Something in his voice, a note of urgency, caught her, and she opened her eyes. "Are you well?"
She took a deep breath and straightened. "Yes, quite. Why?"
"You went rather pale."
"You needn't worry about me, my lord. I have no tendency toward the vapors."
"I hope not."
She frowned at him. "Why?"
"Well." He shifted position, the first sign of discomfort he'd shown. "When I was with your father the other evening-"
"Excuse me," she interrupted. "Will what you have to say to me take very long?"
"It might, yes."
She rose. "Then you'll have to follow me."
"I beg your pardon?" he said, rising as well.
"I've things to do that can't wait. We can discuss your business at the same time."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"No, you wouldn't," she said over her shoulder as she led him through a narrow corridor and into the courtyard fronting the outbuildings and the long-untended stables. A fine curricle stood there, she noticed; his, undoubtedly. No, the Viscount Sherbourne would not understand about the work she had to do, day in and day out. Doubtless he could afford an army of servants to see to his every need.
"Where are we going?" he called, sounding confused.
"The dairy."
"The dairy?"
"Yes," she said, and stepped into the cool dark building where the day's fresh milk was stored.
"Good lord," he muttered, looking about, and she smiled. She had a suspicion that the viscount was seeing a side of life he'd rarely, if ever, encountered.
"So." She took up the paddle of the butter churn. "What is it you wish to speak to me about?"
"I - surely you're not actually going to work that thing."
"As it happens, my lord, I am."
"Why?"
"Because someone has to."
"But your servants-"
"Are unaccountably missing. What did you want to say to me?" she repeated, working the dasher with more vigor than usual.
"Well." He looked distinctly uncomfortable and very out of place. "I played cards with your father, as you guessed.
"Yes, and?"
"I'm sorry. But I'm afraid he wagered the estate, and lost."
Ariel glanced sharply at him. "Not again!"
"What do you mean, 'again'? How could he lose it more than once?"
"Someone always redeemed it before."
"But not now?" he said, apparently alerted by something in her voice.
She straightened. Her problems were not his. "It hardly signifies."
"Then I am saddled with this place, after all."
"So it appears."
"Dashed inconvenient."
She looked up, momentarily diverted from her the enormous worries suddenly facing her. "An odd reaction, sir."
"I do not look forward to restoring it."
"Yes, it does need work," she agreed. "But the building is fine, and the park can be beautiful. I remember when-"
"What?" he prompted, when she didn't go on.
"When everything was well-run here. Before my father caught the gaming fever."
"Is that what it is?"
"Oh, yes," she said, wondering why she was speaking so to him, a stranger. "It seems to be an illness with him. He cannot seem to stop. Though he promises he will."
"I see." He gazed at her thoughtfully, and she had the strangest feeling that compassion lurked in his eyes. As if he knew... "That explains much."
She continued working. If Sherbourne had come all this distance only to tell her she was without a home, his business with her was done. Yet still he stood there. "Such as?"
"Another wager he made."
"My father is forever making wagers."
"This one is different," he said, and again she could feel compassion radiating from him. "It concerns you."
She looked up. "Me?"
"Yes, you." He looked away, swallowed visibly, and then turned resolutely back to her. "He wagered your hand in marriage. To me."
