The Double Wager

Chapter 8

Penelope was in hiding and seething with a feeling of ill-usage. Philip was out with the duke. He had been taken to see Jackson's boxing saloon and even to watch a sparring bout between Eversleigh and the great man himself. Penelope had not been permitted to go, though she had begged and pleaded and threatened. All that the threats had accomplished was to win her a long, cool stare through her brother-in-law's quizzing glass and a very disdainful comment.

"Really, Penny," Eversleigh had said, "if you must use the language of the stable, I shall have to send you to the stable and have you pitch some manure. However, I fear that you might corrupt my grooms, my dear girl."

So Penelope had been left at home. And to add insult to injury, Miss Manford had come up with the idea that this was the ideal time to continue her charge's embroidery lessons, which had been progressing in a very desultory manner for several weeks.

When Miss Manford left the drawing room to fetch the cloth, needles, and silken thread, Penelope came to a desperate decision. She would not be there when Manny came back! She decided on a ground-floor room as a hiding place because the children rarely had occasion to go down there. She darted out of the room, shutting the door firmly in the face of an indignant Brutus, raced along to the staircase, and peered cautiously down. Luck was with her-there were no footmen in the hallway below. She tiptoed down the stairs and across to the green salon and quickly let herself inside. She settled herself comfortably on a window seat behind the heavy velvet draperies, clasped her arms around her drawn-up legs, rested her chin on her knees, and began to indulge in her favorite indoor activity, daydreaming.

Poor Miss Manford was left to search the house for her charge. Fortunately for Penelope, she did not think of taking Brutus with her. She did look into the salon but did not search it because it seemed an unlikely place for the girl to have gone. She did knock timidly on James Ridley's office door and ask if he had seen the missing child.

"Don't distress yourself, Eugenia," he said soothingly, "she has probably gone to the kitchen for some food or has played a prank on you and has gone outside for some air."

"Oh, dear, but she is not in the kitchen," wailed Miss Manford, "and she can't have gone outside-she was wearing only slippers and has no bonnet or gloves. Where can the dear child be?"

"Dear child!" scoffed Ridley. "The girl needs a good spanking for upsetting you so. What is she supposed to be doing?"

"We were to embroider," Miss Manford said, "but she does not take to it. I fear very much that I shall never be able to teach her a lady's accomplishments."

"Maybe not," he said, "but I certainly feel that her disappearance has been explained. Depend upon it, she is hiding and will come out when she feels that there is no longer any danger of having to do her lesson."

"Oh, do you really think so, James?" Miss Manford asked, clasping her hands to her bosom. "How comforting you always are! So calm and sensible!"

He smiled. "You go back upstairs and ring for some tea," he suggested, "and don't worry about Miss Penelope anymore." And he patted her lightly on the shoulder as she turned to leave the room.

**********************************************************************************

Penelope was feeling a little bored by the time the salon door was opened and she heard the butler speaking to an unidentified visitor.

"You may wait in here, sir, until her Grace returns," he said. "I shall send some refreshment."

The visitor paced the room after the door had closed. Penelope peered cautiously around the curtains. When she saw that it was Mr. Cranshawe, she drew back into the shadows again and stayed very still. She had met the man only on one occasion when she and Phil had been out walking with Henry and he had stopped to talk, but she did not like him. He had been too friendly, too charming. His smile had been too broad, too practiced. She certainly did not want to be caught in the predicament of having to make polite small talk with him while they waited for Henry to return from her afternoon of visiting.

The wait was not a long one. A few minutes after the butler had brought a tray with decanter and glasses, Penel-, ope heard the door open and a rustle of skirts entering the room.

"Oliver?" Henry said. "I did not expect to see you here. "

"My dear cousin," he replied, crossing the room, clasping one of her hands in his and holding it to his heart, "I had to come here. Since we danced at Lady Sefton's ball four nights ago, I have hardly seen you. I have almost felt as if you were avoiding me."

"Don't be silly," she said matter-of-factly, and pulled away her hand. "It seems to me I have seen you each day and that we have talked or greeted each other on each occasion. "

"Yes, but always in a crowd of people," he complained. "You know that I feel closer to you than that, Henry."

"You must not say so," she said. "We are friends merely, and I have many friends."

"Oh, come, my dear, we are more than ordinary friends, surely," he cajoled, lowering his voice.

Henry stared. "You have been kind to me," she conceded uncertainly.

"Are you referring to the money you owe me, Henry?" he asked. "I have told you to forget it. Is that what has become between us in the last few days? Are you embarrassed?" He tried to take her hand in his, but she eluded him.

"Oliver," she said, moving behind a chair and placing her hands firmly on the back of it, "I shall repay the money, as I have promised. I am not embarrassed in your presence. I acknowledge you as a friend, but there is no other bond between us."

"Are you afraid?" he asked. "Has Marius threatened you since he came upon us in the park?"

"No, he has not!" she exclaimed firmly. "And, Oliver, I do not like the assumption you seem to be making that we are more than friends."

"You know that I admire you greatly," he said, coming around the chair and seizing her by the shoulders. "I cannot bear to see you with someone like Marius, Henry, who does not appreciate you and who disapproves of you and spies on you."

"He was not spying!" she cried indignantly.

"Have you not noticed, my dear, how he is always there whenever you and I meet? He is jealous. He has always had everything he wanted, Henry. There has never been anything he was denied. I hate to see him use you just as another possession. You deserve more."

"I believe you speak out of turn, sir," Henry said coldly. "It is of my husband and my marriage that you speak. They are not your concern."

"Oh, pardon me," he sighed, sinking into the nearest chair and hiding his face in his hands. "I have been unforgivably familiar. I just cannot bear to see a lovely, innocent little creature like you having to face the humiliation of having her husband flaunt his mistress before her face."

"What?"

He looked up, his face aghast. "Henry? You did not know?" he asked. "Oh, what have I said?"

"You will explain your meaning, sir," she said, her head held high but her face noticeably pale.

He groaned. "My wretched tongue!" he said. "But I may be wrong, Henry. In fact, I am sure I must be. Suzanne Broughton was his mistress before he met you. I am certain it cannot be so now. How could any man leave the embraces of so lovely a bride so soon?"

Henry said nothing. She clung to the back of the chair and stared at Oliver, seeing in her mind Marius dancing with Mrs. Broughton at the Sefton ball and on one or two other occasions, seeing him conversing with her during a soiree a few weeks before, seeing him sitting next to her at a recent dinner, seeing all the mature beauty and lure of the woman. And she had never even suspected. How naive she had been to assume that Marius was as satisfied by their sexless relationship as she was. And why did it hurt like a dozen sharp knives to think of that woman in his arms, that woman's hands in his hair, her lips on his? Henry's own lips parted in shock. The reason-of course! -was that she wanted Marius herself.

Cranshawe had risen and was looking at her in concern. "The best way to fight back is to show him that you do not care," he was saying. "Let me take you out one evening, Henry. Come to a masquerade with me."

"A masquerade?" she asked, dazed.

"Yes, Henry, a masquerade at the opera house. They are bright, gay entertainments. You would enjoy the evening. Your character cries out for more amusement than you can find in most drawing rooms."

"I do not believe I ought," she said doubtfully. "And I do not really wish to."

"You do not strike me as being the docile type of wife who would sit back and quietly endure her husband's neglect and infidelity," he wheedled.

She looked squarely at him. "Very well," she said impulsively, "I shall come." She did not pause to consider whether she really felt ill-used or neglected. She only felt bruised and bewildered.

He turned on her the full charm of his smile. "You will not regret it," he said. "I shall guarantee you a most entertaining evening, Henry. There is a masquerade on Wednesday night. Will you be free?"

"I shall," she said defiantly. "You will let me know when to expect you." She did not resist when Cranshawe lifted her hand to his lips, gazing into her eyes all the time.

He left immediately and Henry soon followed him out of the room.

Penelope lowered her legs painfully to the floor, one at a time, and flexed her neck and shoulders. As she crossed to the door and peered cautiously out, she could feel the blood hammering in her brain. She hoped that Phil was back already or would be back soon. She had a great deal that she was burning to confide in him. Seeing a footman with his back to her close to the outer door, she darted quickly from the salon and up the stairs.

**********************************************************************************

Miss Manford had no difficulty in persuading Penelope, at least, that it was time for bed that night. Philip, seeing his sister's eagerness to retire to her room, realized that something was brewing and did not employ his usual go-slow tactics.

Half an hour later, Penelope let herself into her brother's room through the connecting door. She crossed to the bed without the aid of a candle, climbed up onto the high mattress, and sat with her legs dangling over the side.

"You aren't sleeping, are you, Phil?" she whispered.

"Of course not, silly," his voice replied scornfully from the mound of pillows that she could see dimly in the darkness. "I knew you were coming."

"Henry is in trouble," she announced dramatically.

The dim shape of Philip was now clearly visible sitting up against the headboard. "Henry? In danger?" he asked excitedly. "I say, Pen. What has happened?"

"The toothpowder genius has some sort of hold over her," Penelope said. "I think she owes him money."

"Mr. Cranshawe?" Philip said. "I always knew there was something sinister about him."

Penelope gave her twin an exhaustive account of what she had heard in the green salon that afternoon.

"I say, Pen," Philip said when she had finished, "you really had an adventure. Are you not glad now that you weren't allowed to come to Jackson's with the duke and me?"

"I don't know about that," she replied, not so easily mollified. "But what are we to do, Phil? I don't believe what he said. I think his Grace really cares for Henry. He would not prefer this Mrs. Broughton. Otherwise, why did he marry Henry?"

"No, I don't believe it either," Philip agreed. "The duke is a great gun. But why would Henry owe old toothpowder money, Pen? And how much? Don't the duke give her enough?"

"I am certain he must," his sister replied. "He gives us lots. "

"Do you think she really wanted to go to that masquerade, Pen?"

"I think she was mad at what he said about his Grace, Penelope replied shrewdly. "But, Phil, if she owes him a great deal of money, don't he have some hold on her? Won't she always have to do what he says?"

"It must be a great deal," Philip said excitedly, "and it must have been for something that she could not go to his Grace about. I don't like it, Pen. We have to do some_.- thing to help."

"But what?"

"I don't know, but we have to try to find out more. And we have to protect Henry at this masquerade. I don't like the sound of that at all."

"You mean we are going to go there, too?" Penelope's eyes were as wide as saucers.

"I mean exactly that(" he said dramatically.

"But how?"

"This is what we have to work on," he replied, and they both lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

**********************************************************************************

Penelope and Philip were not the only ones to sit up late in a darkened bedroom that night. Henry sat propped up against her banked pillows staring into the darkness. She was feeling lost and confused. All her life she had felt in charge of most situations-bold, fearless, and independent. Even when she married Marius, she had felt in command of her fate. She had feared him a little, yes, but Henry was never one to back away from a challenge. She had been exhilarated by it.

Now, suddenly-and she did not know quite how it had happened-she felt vulnerable. She felt guilty about having agreed to go to a masquerade with Oliver. Although she had refused to believe in Marius' suspicions, she had made an effort to cool her friendship with his heir. She certainly had intended to keep her promise to see him only in public. And yet she had agreed to go with him to a place where really respectable people did not go. She had asked Marius once to take her to a masquerade and he had explained that they were rather wild and vulgar affairs, not suitable for a lady of her station.

And now, in the privacy of her own room, Henry had to admit to herself that she had been cleverly manipulated into accepting the invitation. Oliver had played his cards very well. Had he really let slip the suspicion about Marius and Suzanne Broughton, or had he deliberately divulged the information? His words were very probably true, she thought, but why had he wanted her to know? If he were really the friend he claimed to be, would he not do all in his power to protect her from the knowledge? And why would he wish to take her to a place that was not quite proper? For the first time Henry felt a twinge of uneasiness about Oliver Cranshawe.

She considered sending him a note the following morning to cancel the outing. But she realized with a dim premonition of dread that she could not afford to offend Oliver. He could press for an early repayment of her debt; he could tell Marius the truth. He had it in his power to make life very unpleasant for her. Henry was beginning to wonder if she had been very foolhardy to confide in him and to accept such a large loan from him.

She thought of going to Marius and telling him the whole. It would be wonderful to go now, she thought, into his room and tell him what had happened, to beg him to pay off Oliver Cranshawe for her, to put her head against his chest and close her eyes and relax. Would he put his arms around her and kiss her as he had that day when Peter had been so horrid, that time when she had felt such powerful and frightening sensations pulse downward from her lips to her breasts to her womb and her thighs that she had panicked? It would be such bliss just to go to him and let him take charge of her life. And he would do so, she knew.

Henry had closed her eyes and let her head sink back against the pillows. Suddenly she pulled herself erect again. It was useless and far too feminine to think that way! She did not want to become dependent upon any man. She did not need Marius to get her out of her troubles. She could fight alone. Maybe she was wrong to feel uneasy about Oliver. But, however it was, she would work her own way through this. Besides, she could not confide the whole truth to Marius without betraying Giles, and she had promised him that she would never disclose his indiscretion to Marius, or ask his help.

Henry's eyes hardened and her lips compressed in the darkness as she recalled the new information about her husband that she had learned that afternoon. It hurt more than she would ever admit to know that he had a mistress. And Mrs. Broughton was a formidable rival, Henry concluded. How could she hope to compete against a woman of such poise and elegant beauty, a woman with such an amply proportioned body? She thought of her own slim, boyish figure and small breasts, of her weathered and freckled face, of her short and wayward curls, and for the first time in her life was dissatisfied with her own appearance. How could she ever hope to attract her husband away from his other love? It was ludicrous even to consider Marius really wanting her-Marius, with his very masculine physique and good looks; Marius, at the age of thirty-two, with years of experience with women behind him. He would make love to her within the next few weeks, yes, but what joy or triumph would there be for her when she knew that he would merely be consummating their marriage, merely setting out to ensure himself an heir other than Oliver Cranshawe?

Why had he married her, anyway? There were so many girls of the ton more eligible than she. She amused him, he had said on more than one occasion. What sort of reason was that?

Henry turned and thumped a fist angrily into her pillows. "I wish this were your nose, Marius Devron," she said aloud, "and I. wish the blood would come gushing out. Everything was fine before those confounded boys thought to wager on my bringing you up to scratch. How I wish they had settled on the chinless one, whatever his name was. I am sure I should be much happier with him!"

**********************************************************************************

The next few days until the Wednesday were unhappy ones for Henry. She had to visit a modiste she did not usually patronize, with only Betty in tow. There she purchased a dark-green domino and mask and hoped either that the dressmaker did not know her identity or that she would find no topic worthy of gossip in the Duchess of Eversleigh's having bought those particular items.

Worse, Henry had to deceive her husband. They had not accepted any particular invitation for Wednesday. She perused the small pile of cards that she had received and set aside as being of no particular importance. Which one would Marius be least likely to want to accept? She settled on a musical evening to be held at the home of Mrs. Augusta Welby, a lady strongly suspected of being a bluestocking. The program seemed particularly promising to Henry. It was proudly billed as a ladies' evening: an unknown but promising lady pianist, lately come from the provinces to take the capital by storm; Lady Pamela Bellamy, one of the year's crop of debutantes, who had generously agreed to contribute a rendering of several English love songs; Signora Ratelli, the Italian soprano who was currently enjoying great success in a tour of England. She was actually known to have sung for Prinny at Carleton House. Henry read no further. She could almost picture Marius holding the invitation at arm's length while he regarded it incredulously through his quizzing glass before languidly ordering poor Mr. Ridley to get rid of it.

After dinner that evening, while riding in the carriage with Eversleigh on the way to the theater to watch the renowned Kean play Lear, Henry told him that she had accepted the invitation. At the same time her heart beat painfully with the necessity of telling the lie.

"Good God, Henry!" he exclaimed, his language unusually strong. "When did you acquire such highbrow tastes?"

"I thought it time to learn about more cultural matters," she answered primly. "You keep reminding me that the Duchess of Eversleigh is expected to behave in a more ladylike manner."

"I believe I was talking about bonnets," he, said, giving her a sidelong look. "But an evening of ladies' musical talent, Henry? Is that not going too far?"

"I think not," she replied crossly. "Why should female talent be more to be laughed at than men's?"

-1 might have known I could depend upon you to change the focus of the discussion, my love," he remarked indulgently. "Go and enjoy the triumphs of your sex. But you will not expect me to accompany you, will you?"

"I had hoped you would," she replied cunningly, "but I shall not try to insist, of course. I am sure you can find some other way to spend the evening."

"Horton has invited me to play cards that evening," he continued. "It will break my heart to be away from you for a whole evening, of course, my love."

"Absurd!" she said, dimpling. But then she remembered that her part in this conversation was all deception and turned to stare into the darkness outside the carriage window.

**********************************************************************************

By the time Wednesday evening came, Henry was feeling quite wretched. She had spent the afternoon with Marius and the twins at the British Museum, viewing the Elgin Marbles. It had been an absurdly happy-go-lucky outing. The twins were in high spirits, as they usually were before some prank, Henry had noted from past experience. They did not get into trouble, but had merely darted from exhibit to exhibit, exclaiming over everything with loud enthusiasm. Henry had held to her husband's arm and had been almost breathlessly aware of his masculinity. He had used his quizzing glass freely and affected a shocked disapproval of the nakedness of many of the statues. Henry had giggled more than she had since leaving Roedean.

Eversleigh had been invited to Lord Horton's home for dinner before the all-male card party. It was a relief to Henry at least not to have to face him across the dinner table, knowing what she was planning to do that night. It also eased her mind that it was a card party that Marius was attending. It was bound to keep him away from home almost until morning. But her conscience was not eased at all. It was with a heavy heart that she left Manny sewing placidly in the drawing room (the twins had already gone to bed, yawning loudly and claiming to be tired out by their afternoon excursion) and retired to her room to get ready for the masquerade.

Betty helped her into a modest cream-colored silk evening gown. It was high-waisted and fell almost straight to the hemline, an ideal dress to wear beneath the domino. She folded the domino beneath her evening cloak and put the mask into her reticule. She did not wish the servants to know where she was going. They might conceivably leak the information to the duke.

Oliver Cranshawe arrived promptly at nine o'clock. The butler knocked on Henry's door and informed Betty that he was waiting downstairs in the hallway. Henry left her room, feeling that doomsday had come, and descended the stairs quickly, before she could lose her resolve.

Oliver, she was relieved to see, was also not dressed for a masquerade. He wore a plain black cloak over his blue satin evening clothes.

"Ah, your Grace," he said, bowing over her hand and playing to the audience of two footmen and a butler. "How lovely you look. And how honored I am to conduct you to the concert in place of my cousin."

She smiled bleakly. "Let us not be late, Oliver," she said, and swept out of the house ahead of him.

**********************************************************************************

Upstairs, about one hour later, Philip let himself quietly into his sister's room. He was dressed in plain, almost-ragged breeches and shirt, borrowed from a stableboy who had considered the loan of two outfits well worth the guinea he had received in exchange. A cap was pulled low over Philip's eyes.

"Are you ready, Pen?" he hissed into the darkness.

I think so," she whispered back anxiously. "Do I look like a boy, Phil? I just hope my hair stays tucked under this cap. I should have it cut short like Henry's."

Philip peered into the darkness. He could see his sister dimly in the light that came through two large windows. "You'll do," he said. "Apart from the hair, you never do look much like a girl, anyway, Pen. You don't stick out in front. "

"Good," she said, not one whit offended by this blunt reference to her underdeveloped femininity. "Shall we go?"

They crept stealthily down the servants' staircase and let themselves out a side door, hoping that no one would come along and shoot the bolts across while they were still out. Penelope kept close to her twin as they turned south in the direction of the opera house, whose location they had studied carefully in the last few days.

"I wish we might have brought Brutus," she said. "But I suppose you were right. He would draw attention to us, and Henry and old toothpowder might recognize him if we get close."

"Now, Pen, let's go over again how we are to do this," her brother said.

"I still don't think it fair that you get to do the exciting part," Penelope complained.

"Ah, but you have the most difficult part," Philip replied diplomatically. "You have to do some acting."

They trudged along, going over once more their campaign plan, which had been formulated in many secret meetings over the previous few days.

When they reached the opera house, they stood across the road watching for a while, standing in the shadows of a doorway. Somehow their plan seemed more flimsy now that they could see the actual building and the activity going on before the doorway. There were two doormen on duty, both guarding the entrance against unauthorized persons and helping to open carriage doors and pull down carriage steps. And vehicles drew up with fair frequency.

"You see that pillar to the left of the entry?" Philip asked. "When you see me safely behind that, you wait for the next carriage to come and do your part. All right?"

"All right," she said, but she grabbed his shirt sleeve as he made to leave the doorway. "Phil, be careful," she added.

"Aw, don't start acting like a girl," he replied scornfully. "Just make sure that you wait for me at the corner of the street where we planned."

A few minutes later, Penelope could see that he was safely tucked behind the pillar. And she could see a carriage approaching down the street. With a deep breath and a thumping heart, she sauntered across the road. The doorman who had stepped forward to greet the approaching vehicle made shooing gestures with his hands. The other stayed where he was, hands clasped behind his back.

Penelope waited quietly until a dandified gentleman and a lady displaying an ample amount of bosom had descended from the carriage, and then stepped forward, palms cupped together.

"Spare us a penny, guv'nor," she whined, sidling up to the dandy. "Me mum's sick an' I ain't had nuthin' to eat in two days."

'Ere, 'ere," the closest doorman said, "be off with you, little tramp, and leave the quality be."

The lady gathered her skirts around her to avoid the contaminating touch of the beggar, and prepared to move around Penelope. The dandy completely ignored her.

"Just an 'apenny, then, lady," she said shrilly, stepping across the path of the female. "The baby's starvin and there ain't a crust o' bread in the 'ouse." She sniffed loudly and cuffed her nose noisily.

" 'Ere, I'll get the watch after you," the doorman growled, grabbing Penelope by the collar of her shirt and dragging her backward. The couple who had just alighted attempted again to go around her. In the meantime, another carriage had- drawn up and the other doorman had helped two couples down onto the pavement.

Penelope tore herself away from her captor and flung herself screaming to the ground. "Me pa's dead," she shrieked, "an' me mum's dyin'. The young uns is starvin' an' only me to provide for 'em. Have pity, ladies and gents. Have pity."

Everyone's attention was riveted to the ragged little figure rolling its eyes and drumming its heels on the pavement.

" 'Ere, Jake," said the first doorman, 'elp me clear the beggar away from the entrance."

Jake came forward obligingly, a menacingly burly figure as viewed from Penelope's vantage point on the pavement.

"Poor little soul," said a lady's voice, and Penelope looked up into the heavily painted but kindly face of an overweight lady from the second carriage. "Give him some coins, George. And please let him go in peace," she instructed the disappointed doormen.

Both George and the footmen obeyed, and within moments Penelope was slinking off down the street, a shilling clasped in one hand, while the street behind her was returning to normality. She noticed as she passed the pillar that Philip was no longer behind it.

Philip had taken advantage of the commotion that his sister had created in order to slip through the doorway into the opera house. The ruse had worked even better than he had hoped. But now came the hard part. How was a scruffy urchin to be able to roam around this grand old building, which teemed with richly dressed men and women, without attracting suspicion? He ducked into a dark corner, removed his hat, and took from inside it a cloth apron such as the kitchen boy wore and a white cloth. The apron he tied quickly around his waist; the cloth he clutched in his hand. He smoothed his hair as best he could without either comb or mirror, abandoned the cap, and walked purposefully along the narrow corridor that circled around the auditorium behind the ground-level boxes. He hoped that his air of open confidence would allay suspicion and convince anyone who might wonder that he had been sent about some clean-up job.

Philip's eyes darted sharply over every figure he passed and through every open doorway, in search of the sister he had come to protect. He came upon her finally, quite unexpectedly, in a shadowy doorway in the corridor. It was unmistakably she, even though she was enveloped in a green domino and wore a green mask. Her hood had fallen back and those short, unruly auburn curls could belong to no one but Henry. She was clasped in the close embrace of a black domino and was being very masterfully kissed. But her clenched fists were between her own ribs and his, Philip noticed as he stood still and gaped in shock for a moment.