The Double Wager

Chapter 12

Some of Henry's confidence and natural ebullience of spirit had been restored by the time she turned her phaeton into Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five. She had paid duty calls on several acquaintances and had been made much of by male and female friends alike.

In the park she was soon surrounded by her usual court of young men, who enjoyed her company because they could talk freely in her presence without sending her into a fit of the vapors if they happened to say the wrong word. She also tolerated talk about horses and hunting and boxing. In fact, she was often treated merely as "one of the fellows." Most important, perhaps, was that Henry was a safe companion. She was safely married. They could talk and laugh and flirt with her without their intentions being misconstrued by a watchful parent. Henry was very obviously not even in the market for an affair. Either she had nerves of iron, the young men concluded among themselves, or she was incredibly innocent (they were inclined to favor the former), because even the most blatant sexual innuendo left her unflinching and unblushing. Soon no one even tried to proposition her. She was apparently either very afraid of her husband or else very much in love with him. And not many of her frequent companions could imagine Henry being afraid of any man.

The exception to all these trends was, of course, Oliver Cranshawe. He sensed that he was close to achieving the great goal of his life, and he intended to press his advantage. He was again on foot, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at them with easy charm. He joined the small crowd of men surrounding Henry's carriage, which she had drawn to a halt.

"Good afternoon, cousin," he called affably. I see that it is, as usual, well nigh impossible to get close enough to you to pay one's compliments."

Henry smiled. "But you always seem to find a way, do you not, Mr. Cranshawe?" she cooed.

"But, Henry," he continued, sending a sparkling smile in her direction, "you are not going to keep your husband's relative at such a distance, are you, and with a crick in his neck from gazing up at you? I should not refuse the offer of a turn in the park with you."

Henry's animated expression hid the near desperation that she felt as she looked around the group to see if there was any other man not on horseback, with whom she could claim a prior agreement to drive. There was none.

"I am afraid, sir, that I must return home soon," she said, returning her gaze to Cranshawe. "My husband and I have an early engagement this evening."

"Then let me ride with you to the park gates,' he said. "I have something I must tell you."

Henry bowed her head in unwilling acquiescence. While Cranshawe climbed into the high seat beside her, she laughingly engaged to dance with two of her eager admirers during the Spencer ball to be held on the evening of the following day.

She expertly turned the grays in the crowded pathway and started them in the direction from which they had come. "To the gateway it is, then, Oliver," she said grimly, staring straight ahead.

"Oh, come now, my dear," he said, "you need not be so stiff in my presence."

"I am not your dear, Oliver," Henry replied firmly. "And I cannot imagine anyone in whose presence I more wish to appear stiff."

He laughed softly. "Do you know, Henry," he said, when I first set out to befriend you, I thought it would be an utter bore. I was quite wrong. You are most delightful. I admire your spirit more than I can say. I look forward to unusual sport when you finally capitulate to me."

"Unusual sport is right!" she spat out. "You would go away with a few cuts and bruises for your pains, Oliver Cranshawe, if you even tried to behave improperly with me.

He chuckled again. "Soon now, Henry, you will have to admit that you have no choice," he said. "I offer you an easy way out, do I not? One night spent with me, and I shall give you a signed note to say that all your debt has been paid. You will be free, Henry."

"Do you think I would let you so much as touch me?" she hissed. "If you imagine that I would ever give myself to you for even one minute, you must have windmills in your head, Oliver."

He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice, though there was no one within hearing distance. "How do you know that you would not enjoy it, Henry?" he said. "I think your only experience so far has been with Marius, and I have good reason to believe that he would not make much effort to give you pleasure. I, on the other i hand, find that I have a genuine desire to find out what sort of passion you are capable of beneath the bedcovers."

Henry jerked on the ribbons and the horses drew to a halt. She turned on her companion, fury sparking from her eyes. "How dare you speak to me so!" she cried. "I am not so much in your debt that I have to listen to such indignities."

"Come away with me, Henry," he said, quite undeterred by her anger. "We will go to France and Italy, and I shall show you what life has to offer a woman of such vitality. "

"You can go to the devil, Oliver Cranshawe," she said. Then an arrested look came over her face. "What did you mean," she asked "by saying that you have 'good reason' to believe that Marius is not really interested in me?"

Cranshawe grinned. "I perceive that his opinion matters to you, Henry," he said, "What a shame, my dear. I have it on good authority that Marius married you only as a result of a rather sordid wager."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, chin jutting forward.

"It seems he was beginning to feel the need to find some female to breed," he said, flashing her his most brilliant smile, "to squash my hopes, of course. When he publicly announced that he despised all women and that it mattered not to him which female he chose, one of his cronies wagered that he would not, in fact, choose so carelessly. He was to choose himself a bride and marry her within some indecently short time. He won the wager, of course."

"You are a liar!" Henry cried. "Where did you hear such a stupid story?"

"Almost from the horse's mouth, my dear," Cranshawe replied. "Are you acquainted with Dick Hanley and his bride? They were sharing a box at the opera with Suzanne Broughton last evening. The wager was made at his bachelor party, it seems."

"I do not believe one word of what you have said," Henry replied. "You merely wish to discredit Marius in my eyes so that I will more readily comply with your demands."

Cranshawe laughed. "Henry, I do believe that you love the man, he said. "How very interesting, my dear. I see that we are close to the gates. I shall get down here. You will be hearing from me, Henry. I believe a few days will help you to see matters in a different light. I shall look forward to our eventual encounter. By the way, how do you like the grays?"

Henry stared stonily at him.

He smiled. "Marius did well out of the wager, did he not?" he said. "He had been trying for months to purchase them."

Henry whipped the horses into a trot and turned from the park entrance into the street at a daring pace. I don't believe it, she thought, I won't believe it. But she found it impossible to believe her own denials.

Philip was feeling rebellious. Manny was insisting that Pen and he stay in the schoolroom and do their lessons. The afternoon before she had refused to allow them to follow Henry when she had gone out alone in her phaeton. He had tried to convince her that his sister was in constant danger from the teeth and from the moneylender's spies, but Manny, for once, had remained firm.

"The dear duke put his trust in me at a time when I had been dismissed," she had said. "I feel it my responsibility to keep watch over you, dear children, and to make sure that you learn your lessons."

"But, Manny," Penelope had complained, "we can catch up with all that horrid work once we know that Henry is safe."

"She will be safe, never fear," Miss Manford had replied firmly. "Philip talked to Mr. Giles this morning and I talked to Mr. Ridley. He assured me that the duke himself is concerned and is doing his best to protect the dear duchess."

"But, Manny-"

"That will be all, dear boy," his governess had interrupted. "For the next hour we will converse only in French."

Penelope had groaned.

Philip, remembering a conversation with Eversleigh and a narrowly averted thrashing, had decided that it would be ungentlemanly to argue further.

"Blood and thunder!" had commented Oscar from the floor of his cage.

Now this morning Philip had escaped for a few minutes on the excuse that he would go to the kitchen for a tray of milk and cakes. He dawdled about the errand, wheedling the cook into letting him sample some jam tarts fresh from the oven, and watching an undergroom polishing the duke's riding boots. It was quite by accident that he arrived in the main hallway with his tray just when a messenger was delivering a small package to the butler and directing that it be placed in the hands of the Duchess of Eversleigh.

By the time Philip arrived in the schoolroom one minute later, milk from three glasses had been sloshed onto the tray and one cake was looking unappetizingly soggy.

"Henry is receiving a secret message again," he announced excitedly almost before he could close the door behind him.

"What is it and who sent it?" Penelope demanded.

"I don't know, but I mean to try to find out," Philip replied.

"I bet Mr. Cranshawe is sending her gifts and trying to charm her," Penelope said.

"More likely that moneylender making demands already, Philip replied.

"It is probably merely some ribbons that she has had delivered," said Miss Manford, "or some small piece of jewelry she has bought."

"Well, when she goes out later today," Philip said firmly, "Pen and I are going to go into her room again and see if we can find what it is."

"Oh, bless my soul," Miss Manford added, hands waving ineffectually in the air, "do you really think you ought, dear boy?"

Henry was out riding when the package arrived. She was in a very black mood. She knew that she ran the risk of meeting Oliver Cranshawe, but she did not care. If she saw him, she would gallop away from him. If he persisted in following her, she would ignore him or use her riding crop on him if she had to. But she had had to get out.

She had made Marius bring her home early from a dinner party the evening -before, pleading a headache. And, indeed, it had not been just an excuse. She had ridden home in the carriage beside her husband in unaccustomed silence. He, too, had made no effort to sustain a conversation. But she had had a feeling, as she gazed out of the window into the darkness, that he watched her from beneath half-closed eyelids. He had accompanied her to the door of her bedchamer and kissed her hand as he said goodnight, with something she might have called tenderness had she not known differently. She had not slept before dawn but had tossed and turned in her bed, in a fever of jumbled thoughts.

Cranshawe was not in the park. A couple of young men who were- occasionally part of her court looked as if they were about to join her, but she smiled and waved vaguely at them and spurred jet into a canter, and they did not follow.

Henry felt wretched in the extreme. Until her conversation with Oliver the day before, she had not known just how deeply in love with Marius she was. The knowledge that he had married her so cynically, with no feeling for her at all, except perhaps contempt, hurt like a knife being slowly turned in her chest. For a while she had tried to convince herself that Cranshawe had been lying, but she did not credit him with enough imagination to invent such an ingenious story. It was undoubtedly true.

It hurt terribly to know that the conditions of her marriage must be widely known. She must be the laughingstock-the little green country girl who had been picked at random because she was young and likely to be a good breeder. He would have chosen a horse, or even a cow, with more care.

She could not quite understand why, if he had married her only for her reproductive functions, he had not asserted his rights on their wedding night and continually ever since. Probably he had made that wager on impulse and had found himself repulsed when faced with the physical fact of a wife for whom he had no feelings. He had finally taken her, goaded on by anger at her clandestine meeting with his heir. But he had obviously found the experience unpleasant. He seemed to find it preferable to be without an heir of his own issue than to have normal marital relations with his wife.

Henry wanted to hate him. She did hate him! But she could not stop herself from caring. She had grown to enjoy his companionship, to need his attention and approval. She had come to love him and want his caresses. She had given herself to him completely on that one night they bad had together, and had believed that for him it had been as earth-shattering an experience as it had been for her. It was painful and humiliating to know that it was anger merely that had provoked him and that all he had been feeling was contempt, or at best only a momentary lust. Henry had never wanted a man, had never wanted caresses or tenderness. She had certainly never wanted the dependency of love. Her fall was, therefore, all the harder. She had no defense against the pain of an emotion that she had never experienced before and that she did not understand.

She did not know what she was going to do. She could not stay with Marius. She would not live with him day by day, aching for every kind word or chance touch. She would not be thus shamed in her own eyes. But what choice had she? She was her husband's property, totally dependent on him for the necessities of life. He had once told her that he would apply for an annulment if she truly wanted one, if she loved Oliver Cranshawe. Would he still be willing? Not an annulment, of course. It was too late for that. But a divorce? It was almost unthinkable. There were only a few instances of divorce in living memory, and the divorced woman was ostracized from society for the rest of her life. Not that that would bother her, Henry thought. But where would she go? What would she do? She had had very little money of her own to start with." That little had all become her husband's when she married.

Henry's thoughts were interrupted at that point when she noticed that jet's coat was beginning to lather. She realized with guilty dismay, that she had been constantly spurring him on, refusing to walk him for even a short distance. It was as if she had been trying to outdistance her own thoughts.

She rode her horse to the stables and satisfied herself that the head groom himself would immediately rub down poor jet. She walked to the main doors and into the hall, where she paused to remove her riding hat and leather gloves.

"I have instructions to deliver this package into your hands at the earliest possible moment, your Grace," the butler said, bowing stiffly from the waist and holding the parcel out to her on a salver.

Henry took it with a murmured thanks. Drat the man, she thought. Could he not leave her alone even for a day? What now? She went straight to her room and shut the door firmly behind her.

A couple of minutes later she sat on her bed, feeling the blood draining from her head. She believed she was about to faint. In one cold palm, shining accusingly up at her, lay her sapphire ring. In the other hand she clutched the short note that had accompanied it, written apparently in a disguised hand. Another sheet of paper lay in her lap.

Henry closed her eyes and let her head hang downward until she felt the blood pounding through her temples again and knew that she would not faint. She put the note down on the bed beside her for a moment and pushed the ring back onto the third finger of her right band. She had never thought that she would be dismayed to see it again so soon. She picked up the paper from her lap. Yes, it was the contract she had signed and left with the moneylender. She really was free of that debt, then. She laughed shakily, but the sound came out very like a sob.

Henry picked up the note and read it again.

Your Grace [it said],

Your debt has been paid in full and your ring

redeemed. Please do not be afraid. All will be well.

[There was no signature.]

Henry closed her eyes again and crumpled the note into a tight wad. It fell to the floor unheeded, to be found later by Philip and Penelope. How had he found out? She had not given him any indication about where she had got the money. And even if he had suspected, how did he know which moneylender? And why had he paid off the debt and sent her the ring and the contract? Did he delight so much in tormenting her?

One thing was clear, at least. If she had not been entirely in Cranshawe's power before, she most certainly was now. She was more in his debt than ever. The money' he had paid to redeem her loan amounted to much more than the original three thousand pounds. And, in addition to the money she owed him, he now held even more of her secrets. He could expose, not only Giles' secret and her own indiscretion in turning to him for help instead of to her husband, but also the fact that she had dabbled in the underworld of moneylenders. Her reputation would be ruined beyond repair. Marius would never believe in her essential innocence. Not that his good opinion mattered any longer, of course.

And so Henry's resolve to leave, to disappear somewhere far away from this life that she had ruined so thoroughly, was hardened. If she left Marius, her social standing would be ruined, anyway. Cranshawe would no longer have the power to hurt her. She supposed that he could still hunt her down in order to demand repayment of her debt. It was even conceivable that she would end up in debtors' prison for failure to do so. But she did not believe that he would go that far. He was comfortably rich in his own right, she knew, and she did not think that the money would be an issue with him. It was her ruin and the humiliation of his cousin that were his chief objects. Well- he would have accomplished his goal. She believed that he would leave well enough alone once she had disappeared.

As for Marius, she did not think he would really care if she disappeared. His pride would be hurt, but his consequence was so great that he would live down the scandal with ease. He would probably be relieved to be out of a marriage that he had entered so impetuously. He would be free to return more openly to his mistress.

Henry's only really big problem was the twins and Miss Manford. She did not suppose that Marius would keep them on after she left. It would be quite unreasonable to expect him to do so. The twins, of course, would go back to Peter. They would hate it, and she did not blame them, but at least he was their brother. They would not be turned away. They would not lack for anything, except perhaps for the tolerant understanding and yet firm guidance that Marius had given them. But they would survive. They were tough, as she was.

Manny was not so easily dismissed from her conscience. Henry knew that Peter would not allow her to return to his household. She would have to trust to the compassion of her husband, who had always treated the governess with gentlemanly courtesy. Surely he would help her find another post, or at least provide her with a good reference.

All that needed to be decided now, Henry thought, was where she was to go and what she was to do. It was not an easy problem to solve. What did a destitute ex-duchess do to provide herself with the necessities of life? She supposed that she would have to try to get herself a position as a governess, though she recalled with dismay her lack of accomplishments. The only other possibility was to try to find some old lady or invalid who wanted a companion. She could not quite picture herself wheeling a crotchety old dear around Bath to take the waters, but beggars cannot be choosers, she decided philosophically.

In the meantime, while she was waiting around for a suitable position with which to fill the remainder of her life, Henry decided that she would go to Roedean. No one need know. The staff there had known her all her life. They would certainly not turn her away, and if she asked them particularly, they would keep her presence there secret from Peter. It would just be a temporary arrangement, anyway.

Henry decided to leave very early the following morning, before the servants were up. She did not believe that she would be missed until late in the day. She would take the stagecoach into Sussex so that she could not be easily traced. She would leave a note to be delivered to Marius late in the afternoon. She hated having to delay; it would have suited her better to leave immediately. But common sense told her that it was too late in the day to begin a journey. Anyway, she would be missed within a few hours. She and Marius were due to dine early at home before going to Lord and Lady Spencer's ball. She did not feel in any mood to playact for a whole evening, but she supposed that she would somehow live through the ordeal.

Henry sat down at her escritoire and set herself immediately to the task of writing her farewell letter to Marius. It took her a long time and many aborted attempts, but finally she was reasonably well satisfied with what she had produced.

Dear Marius,

When you read this, I shall be gone. I shall not tell you where I am going, because I do not intend ever to return. Please do not concern yourself over my welfare. I shall contrive somehow to live alone. I wish you may divorce me.

I feel that I should inform you of a large debt that I have incurred, since it is possible that payment will be demanded of you. I borrowed three thousand pounds from Mr. Cranshawe to pay some gaming debts that I was unwise enough to incur. Later, I borrowed money from a usurer to repay your cousin, but he has since repaid that debt for me. Thus, the money I now owe Mr. Cranshawe must be considerably more than the original. I am sincerely sorry that you may become involved in this matter.

Marius, I know that I am in no position to ask a favor of you. But I beg you to do one thing, not for me-I shall never ask anything more of you for myself. Please, your Grace, will you help Manny find a new post? You have been kind to her. I am confident that you will not leave her destitute.

Good-bye, Marius. I truly believe that I am taking the course that will be best for both of us.

Henry signed her name resisting the temptation to add a brief message of love. He must not know that this separation would be more painful to her than it would be to him. She folded the letter carefully and hid it in the drawer of her jewelry case.

The evening was as painful as Henry had expected it to be. Dinner passed tolerably well, as Manny, Mr. Ridley, and the twins were also present. Conversation was general, and Henry was able to withdraw into herself and take her silent farewell of the table's occupants. Phil and Penny were boisterous and frequently troublesome, but she loved them fiercely. They reminded her so strongly of the golden age of her own life, when she had been at home with Giles and his cronies for friends, when she had not had to worry about society and what it would think of her, when she had had no idea of the existence of love and longing. It would be hard to leave them. She would see them again, no doubt. But it might be years in the future. They might be quite grown-up. They would certainly be changed.

It was hard, too, to know that Manny was facing a difficult time, and that she, Henry, was largely responsible. The governess was more like a family member than a servant. She was a sweet and sensitive person. It would hurt her to be severed from the family she had served for so many years. Henry shuddered inwardly when she recalled that soon she would know what it was like to be in a situation like Manny's, not really belonging anywhere, not secure in any position.

She watched Mr. Ridley as he talked knowledgeably about the growth of factories in the northern towns and about the changes in society that would surely occur before long. He was a dry and sober man, and yet she had developed an affection for him since her marriage. He was undoubtedly a man of integrity and was devoted to his employer. Even him she would miss.

And, inevitably, her attention turned to Marius himself, I looking darkly handsome in dark-gold satin evening clothes with gleaming white linen; his hair, longer than usual, was brushed forward around his face and over his forehead. He made conversation with each of the varied members of his household with a languid grace; yet each one, Henry noticed, was flushed with happiness. Each was made to feel important. What went on in the mind of the man? she wondered. She had been married to him for six weeks already, had spent time with him almost daily ever since, had conversed with him freely, had made love with him on one occasion. Yet she felt that she did not know him at all. So much seemed hidden behind the half-closed eyelids and the disciplined face that almost never smiled or displayed any other emotion, in fact. Reason warned her that he was a man to be despised, yet, intuition told her that he was a mail to be trusted and loved. She supposed it did not matter now which part of her brain was correct. After tonight she might never see him again. She would certainly never live with him again as his wife.

They sat side by side in the town carriage on the way to the ball, in silence for a while. Finally Eversleigh took his wife's right hand in his and looked down at her.

"You are very quiet tonight, my love," he commented. "Are you not feeling quite the thing?"

Henry tried to remove her hand. She could not think straight when he touched her. "I am fine," she said. "Just a little tired, perhaps."

"I thought you did not indulge in human frailties like tiredness, Henry," he said.

"Absurd!" she replied.

"I see you have had your ring returned,'' he commented fingering the sapphire on her hand. "Do you feel better now that you have it safely back where it belongs?"

Henry swallowed. "I felt that it needed checking," she mumbled.

"Quite so," he agreed, "but now it should be safe for another lifetime." And, to Henry's discomfort, he continued to hold her hand as he lapsed into silence for the rest of the short journey to Lord Spencer's mansion.

Marius danced with her twice, a pleasure that was too much like torture for Henry to enjoy. She danced every other dance, too, and was very thankful that she had the perfect excuse to avoid Cranshawe. Her card was full, she told him quite truthfully when he came to solicit her hand 16r a waltz. He bowed gracefully and bared his teeth in what might have seemed a charming smile to any onlookers.

"When will you stop fighting me, my dear?" he murinured, for her ears only. "You know that you must give in to me soon. I can wait for a while, my dear, because the prize seems to be worthwhile, but I am not by nature a patient man, you know. Do not try me too far."

It was at that moment that the need for revenge was reborn in Henry's mind. She could not be contented with simply disappearing and leaving him to his triumph. She had to do something to make him feel as trapped and humiliated as he had made her feel. The plan did not develop at all-she was too busy dancing and smiling and conversing. But she would think of something. She was not Henry Devron if she let the rat get away with what he had done to her.

The most painful part of the evening came when Ever-sleigh and Henry returned home. She was achingly conscious, as he escorted her as usual to the door of her mom that this was the last time she would be with him like amp;s. She hoped, and feared, that he would say a quick good night and leave her. He paused and waited for her to turn and face him. His hands lightly framed her face, his fingertips buried in her curls.

"Henry," he said, "you have not been quite yourself lately, I think. Would you like it if I finished my business here early and we left for Kent later this week instead of waiting for another fortnight?"

Henry felt dangerously close to tears. I don't know," she said.

"Perhaps we could spend more time together, get to know each other better," he continued softly.

Henry did not reply, only stared at him wide-eyed.

"You need not fear that I shall press my attentions on you," he said with a strange, crooked smile. "Let us just he friends, shall we?"

Henry continued to stare. "I am tired," she said finally.

He dropped his hands immediately. "Of course," he said. "We shall talk tomorrow."

"Marius!" she said, reaching out a hand as he turned away.

"Yes, my love?" He turned to face her again, a look on his face that she had not seen there before. He looked almost hurt.

She smiled bleakly. "I'm sorry, she said, but she did not know for what she was apologizing.

"Good night, Henry," he said.

"Good night, Marius." She had to rush into her room and close the door hastily behind her so that he would no4 see her face crumple.