A Scandalous Wager Page 2

  He could make his apologies now and leave before this turned embarrassing. He had accomplished what he set out to do, which was simply to gain entrance to the Black Raven’s lair. He was sure ravens didn’t have lairs, but entry to the Black Raven’s nest didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  He could have left, but he didn’t.

  Before he could quite make up his mind what to do next, a swishing sound came from behind him and a fragrance he knew could only belong to a woman drifted across his nostrils. Fresh, sweet, with a hint of something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His heart sped up considerably. A tingle of awareness settled uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. He tried to shrug the discomfort away.

  A soft, slightly husky voice emanated from some place behind him. ‘Stay still. I want to have a look at you.’

  He straightened, tensed. Ready for what, he wasn’t sure.

  She came around from his left side, disarming him instantly. He could do naught but stare at her. Lord, she had the most incredible blue eyes. They were dark and rimmed around the edge with an even darker blue. They were intense, unnerving, remarkable—and studying him.

  ‘Lord Bellamy?’

  He had to shake himself mentally. Dalmere had left out some important information, it seemed. He had expected an old crone, not this…goddess before him.

  ‘Lady Blackhurst.’ He bowed, though it was risky and not nearly as elegant as it should have been. Had she noted the slight wobble?

  He really shouldn’t have kept looking at her. He didn’t expect to turn into stone or anything as dramatic as that, but what he saw stunned him more than if a cobra had bitten him. The reality of her made him regret every drop he’d taken tonight. It was a sobering effect indeed, yet made him feel light-headed in a whole different way.

  Surreal in the shadowy light of the library, her features were small and elegant. Oliver couldn’t look away, hypnotised, lured into the dark sapphire depths of her eyes where he would surely have drowned, and gladly.

  He was damned for sure now! Well, he’d be damned if he would be damned alone. So, damn Dalmere, damn brandy and damn the French for makin’ it. Damn Henry, too, for dying and leaving him in this damned position. If not for his brother he wouldn’t have taken on this damned ridiculous wager or any of the other damn wagers he’d taken on in the last couple of days.

  Damn, but she was beautiful!

  Her eyes widened slightly before long, dark lashes lowered and broke the contact between them. She walked a few paces and turned back to him. ‘I don’t believe we have met before, Lord Bellamy. I must say, I am intrigued to hear why you are so anxious to see me.’

  Her voice was calm and extremely alluring. He could have listened to her all night. He tried not to sway in her direction.

  A finely arched brow rose in unimpressed expectation.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, I imagine you are. Intrigued that is. I came here because…’ Bloody hell, why was he here again? He couldn’t think of a damn thing, except he was hungry and felt like eating toast smothered in marmalade. Citrus! That’s what she smelled like.

  ‘Come, Bellamy, surely you know what it was that had you camped out on my stairs?’ she urged.

  Oh, yes, the wager. Well, he could hardly tell her that, could he? He gave her his best half-smile to cover the fact he could only come up with the most pathetic of excuses, none of which he could use. ‘Of course I know why I am here.’

  ‘Then pray continue, my lord. You have ten minutes left.’ She made a cursory glance at the mantel clock.

  ‘Ten minutes?’ Ten minutes ’til what? He looked at the clock too, but it did little to help him with his current dilemma. It was a nice enough clock to be sure and he supposed it kept good time—

  ‘Yes. I would hate to see you out on my steps again tomorrow when you finally remember why you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that…’ Oliver looked around him as if the shelves would somehow whisper some sort of logical answer, but to no avail.

  She sat now in an olive-green, overstuffed chair situated in the middle of the room with its mate opposite, a small inlaid table set between and occupied by a silver coffee service. Hastily he glanced around him. Nothing unusual here. A large desk over towards one corner was the only other piece of furniture. All else seeming safe to ignore, he returned his gaze to the woman who had her eyes directed solely at him.

  The intensity with which her eyes bored holes in him was a little off-putting, to say the least. They were like the ocean before a storm, dark and broody. He felt a storm brewing in this very room and then a little voice inside his head yelled, ‘Retreat now!’

  At least on the steps below he hadn’t felt like a lummox, having trouble putting two words together. Reality was such a cruel mistress.

  The Countess of Blackhurst was in black, of course. What else would she be in? She was a widow, after all, and they didn’t call her The Black Raven for nothing. She wore a delicate black shawl over her shoulders, which made her look oddly small and fragile. This conflicted exceedingly with the other image he had of her—the one where she stood over her husband’s dead body with a smoking pistol in her hand.

  ‘Perhaps some coffee will help your memory, Lord Bellamy?’

  Her emotionless yet husky tone made him sweat but for what reason he wasn’t quite sure. His breeches seemed tighter too. Perhaps he did know the reason after all. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ Coffee would sober him up enough to get out some sort of decent excuse and get this doomed interview over with. But how to explain a lie when one had not yet thought of the lie? Think, Oliver, think.

  She handed him a cup and he sniffed at it suspiciously. ‘What is this strange smell?’ he asked as he eyed his cup.

  ‘It could be a touch of cinnamon,’ she informed him. She sipped delicately at the edge of her cup, watching him all the while.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, and happily stirred in an extra lump of sugar.

  Wait a minute! Could be?

  He put his cup down on the table so fast it clattered and spun on its saucer. He wanted to say, ‘Now see here, just because you are beautiful and I am full to the brim does not give you the right to toy with me in this manner,’ but of course he didn’t. It was simply too many words all in one go.

  The Black Raven’s lips twitched slightly. ‘Are you alright, Lord Bellamy?’

  ‘Ah, yes, fine. I just remembered I have to be…somewhere.’ Yes, definitely somewhere else.

  ‘But you have yet to tell me the reason for your visit.’

  ‘I believe…’ He gave her a sheepish look meant to charm. ‘I wanted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her tone turned cold. ‘For what reason, Lord Bellamy? You wanted to advise me on a financial matter?’ she suggested, sipping her coffee and watching him intently. ‘Perhaps you thought I needed a protector. Were you about to volunteer your services to the poor little widow?’ she enquired.

  This is going very badly, Oliver thought. He was usually so good with women, charm being one of his more rewarding traits. Somehow he knew his usual tactics would not work here, nor unfortunately his brain.

  ‘Did you say you required a protector?’ he asked, nearly picking up his coffee cup again.

  ‘No,’ she replied. Her hands held her cup with long graceful fingers which were slightly ink-stained. ‘Not exactly.’

  Confusion set in like a rotten tooth. He must get out of here. Oliver looked up from his study of her delightful digits to be confronted with eyes that blazed with an impatient intensity. It set his pulse racing in a way he hadn’t experienced in quite a while—not since he had been back in England at any rate.

  Her eyes still bored holes in him.

  ‘Perhaps you wanted to see the Black Raven for yourself?’ Her voice remained even and calm though she probably wanted nothing better than to put those ink-stained fingers around his neck. This barely concealed dislike was novel, and because of who she was he couldn’t di
smiss it. It made him itch with anticipation.

  ‘Let me put you out of your misery,’ the Countess said. She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where she promptly picked up a fire poker, weighing it in her hands.

  Oliver looked at the poker and nearly laughed out loud. Surely not! He had been threatened by much worse and survived.

  ‘How much are you getting?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ His eyes were riveted to her hands, studying the way her fingers curled around the shaft of the wroughtiron poker. Damn me.

  ‘How much are you getting from your little bet?’ she asked, the fire poker tapped against her black skirt in a steady rhythm.

  ‘Wager,’ he corrected, before he mentally smacked himself. Oh, yes, that was very well done, you foxed fool.

  She inclined her head. ‘I stand corrected.’

  He watched as the fire poker changed hands. He could take her if he needed to, he decided. She was only a slip of a woman, after all. He’d feint to the right, catch her wrist and kiss her witless. Oh, yes, good plan.

  ‘Lady Blackhurst, this is not necessary. I really should go. I am disgracefully intoxicated and shall remove myself immediately.’

  He was up in a wobbly flash but his legs refused to move any further. His eyes never left the fire poker, which she now raised and poked at the coals in the grate with exaggerated stabbing motions. He could not see her face but imagined she was scowling fit to make spring birds drop stone-cold-dead from their branches. He smiled at the thought. It was an involuntary reaction, surely, to the ludicrousness of this situation.

  She spun to face him, fire poker drawn level with his heart. ‘Do sit down, Bellamy.’

  This time he did laugh. He was in no doubt he could overpower her before she did much harm with that mere stick in her hand—as pointy and well-crafted as it seemed.

  ‘I believe you owe me an answer, Lord Bellamy.’ She moved towards him brandishing the poker like a rapier. He couldn’t believe his bloodshot eyes. He laughed louder. He nearly told her to keep the tip up, until he saw where her target was and it was no longer his heart. He stopped laughing.

  ‘Fifty pounds,’ he confessed with a slow smile, for there was no longer any reason to conceal his true mission here. Confounded woman had him at a disadvantage though. If only Henry had not been such a blasted fool, leaving him with more debt than he knew how to handle, a doddery old aunt and two entailed estates full of dependents. Oh, and no money.

  He saw her glance at the mantel and realised his time was up. Should he start praying now or…? He wanted to laugh again. If only the Frenchies could see him now. Undone by a handsome widow and a fire poker.

  Her gaze left the clock and seemed to focus on his cravat. ‘I fail to see what is so amusing to you, Lord Bellamy. I can only assume you know of my reputation. Why else would you be here? Ah, yes, the money. Fifty pounds, was it? How would you like to earn a lot more?’

  This was a twist he had not expected. ‘Excuse me?’

  She glided over to him and pointed the poker at his vitals. ‘Let me explain it for you. These little wagers have been happening for quite some time, Lord Bellamy. You see, you are not the first man to sit on my steps and demand entrance. Some have even tried to break in. I find this whole business very childish and most annoying. Can you understand my frustration, Lord Bellamy?’ The poker came very close to his pride.

  ‘Yes, most annoying,’ he replied, his eyes riveted on the poker. She had no idea how easily he could turn this scenario on its, or in this case, her derrière. He was too intrigued, however, by her suggestion to bother demonstrating just now.

  ‘However, if you will assist me, I think you will be more than happy with the arrangement I am proposing.’ She stared at him coolly.

  ‘Arrangement?’ The fire poker remained hovering above his most important asset.

  ‘Yes. I find I require an escort. You see, I presume there are a number of…outstanding wagers concerning my reputation as the Black Raven, and I will allow you to collect them on the condition you but play the gentlemanly escort.’ She took the poker away from his crotch. ‘Are we in agreement?’

  He took a deep breath. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding it. This annoyed him more than her gall to try and threaten him. ‘And where would I be escorting you, madam?’

  ‘To the theatre, the opera, some balls, soirees and the like.’ She turned as if dismissing him as a danger to her.

  ‘And for how long would I need to be your escort?’

  ‘Until the end of the London season,’ she announced.

  This was certainly not what he had expected but then he had anticipated some old hag with a black bird on her shoulder.

  ‘And I get to collect all the wagers?’ he asked, contemplating the vast amount of money that could become available to him with little or no effort. It would give him the perfect cover. So far he had been able to hide his desperate financial situation from not only the ton but the creditors as well and he wanted to keep it that way.

  The occasional wager and gambling win had kept him from having to fight off creditors at his door, but every day his situation became more desperate.

  ‘Within reason, of course,’ she replied placing the fire poker softly back in its stand.

  ‘Of course.’ He couldn’t help the slight lift of his lips. ‘That is very generous of you, Countess,’ he said.

  He watched her put a long finger to her chin in a thoughtful pose. ‘Is it? I suppose there are a great many wagers,’ she remarked in a dismissive gesture.

  It was all too evident to Oliver the Countess was indeed deeply bothered by these wagers. There was something about her eyes, but in his state his perception could hardly be relied upon.

  ‘There may be a few,’ he lied. In actual fact he had no idea how many there were. There could be hundreds for all he knew, but the prospect of being able to claim them was immense.

  ‘Can I depend on you, Lord Bellamy?’ Her voice was strained and she kept looking at the clock on the mantel as though if it were to chime midnight she would turn back into a pumpkin or perhaps…a black raven?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he answered. If there was one thing he knew it was duty. Duty to his family name, his inheritance, his King and his country and now, it seemed, to the Black Raven for whatever it may be worth.

  ‘Then we are agreed? Good. You may go.’ She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘I shall send a messenger in the morning with our first appointments. Goodnight, Lord Bellamy.’

  She looked once more at the mantel clock, collected a little book off the desk, and left him.

  Oliver looked around him. Not feeling at all well.

  Out in the hall her butler was waiting for him with his hat and his gloves. Oliver blinked. The old man was nearly smiling.

  ‘Did that just happen?’ he asked the butler as they made their way back to the front door.

  ‘Yes, I believe it did, my Lord,’ was the butler’s only reply.

  Chapter 2

  The scandal sheets were full of lies, half-truths, salacious rumours, and slander. For the first time in over two years Lisbeth was glad to see her name in print. Though the subject matter was distasteful to her, it had done what she had intended—brought her back to the lips of every member of the ton.

  Her plan was in motion.

  ‘I expected much worse,’ she said to Rollands as he hovered by her elbow in the breakfast room. ‘Lord Bellamy must have been very kind in his recitation of our meeting.’

  Her butler’s tone was dry as he replied, ‘I suspect he had half-forgotten it by the time he reached his cronies, my lady.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. He wouldn’t have forgotten our agreement, do you think? In any case, I dare say he is feeling very unfavourable this morning. It is little more than he deserves, of course, but I admit I was a little harsh on him.’

  ‘No harsher than necessary, I’m sure, madam.’

  Lisbeth nodded at her butler
and folded the paper. He immediately poured her some tea.

  ‘Thank you, Rollands.’

  He bowed and left the room. He had been here from the very start and had stood behind her throughout all the days, months, and years after. No thanks would ever be enough. She knew his loyalty was beyond reproach and she trusted him implicitly.

  Lisbeth sighed and sipped her tea.

  Alone again.

  Even when Nathaniel had been alive she had been alone. His dedication to their courtship had been nothing but a dedication to her dowry. What a naive, silly little fool she’d been then, believing in the fairy tale. A fairy tale which had so quickly turned into a nightmare.

  She sipped her tea and closed her eyes for a moment. Yet, even in those few moments memories assailed her. Flashing images passed behind her eyelids in quick, painful succession, each frame of memory causing her to jolt and shudder in her seat. She felt every fist, every boot as they connected; his angry tirades hardly heard through ringing ears. Every cruel word he’d uttered was a scar upon her very soul.

  She gasped, her lungs struggling for air, and opened her eyes as she looked around frantically.

  Sun poured in from the windows. A cheerful flower arrangement displayed vibrant reds, yellows and green. Her mother’s china graced her table and in the distance she could hear the sound of the servants going about their business.

  Safe.

  She released a breath slowly, then another, until her heart had slowed to a more temperate rate.

  She picked up her schedule sitting neatly on the table and fanned herself with it. Lisbeth usually took comfort in knowing she had something else to think about besides her horrid, pathetic past but her schedule’s purpose had morphed overnight into something more than a direction for her day. The origins of this simple sheet of vellum lay in her desperate attempt to do everything in exactly the manner and timing Nathaniel had demanded. It had become her sole means of self-preservation.