A Scandalous Wager Read online

  And it had worked…most of the time. No plan was ever fool proof. Which brought her right back to the present.

  She sipped her tea and pondered the possible kinks in her plan, the main one being Lord Bellamy. Last night she’d had trouble dealing with him, despite his obvious inebriation. She had not expected him to be young, nor handsome, nor have a smile that made one’s heart falter.

  It had taken considerable effort not to admire his fine physical attributes at first. She had stared at him like he was an ice from Gunter’s, for heaven’s sake. His eyes had been a warm brown, almost like melted chocolate, and she’d always been partial to men with a cleft in their chin, though his cleft was not so deep as to be the focus of his face. This honour belonged to his mouth and the charming brackets which led her focus there again and again.

  She’d had to remind herself why he’d been standing in the middle of her library in the first place. It did not matter what he looked like, she told herself now. Only what he would allow her to do in terms of her plan.

  Lisbeth retired to the library where she sat behind her father’s huge desk and began her house accounts. She loved this beautiful desk and skimmed her fingers over its highly polished surface. She felt her father was with her when she sat at this desk. He would not have abandoned her, she was sure, but he was gone, as was her mother. Anyone who had cared or loved her was gone or had abandoned her. She only had herself to depend on now. There was no use feeling sorry for herself and she banished the maudlin thoughts away.

  However, it wasn’t long before her thoughts wandered towards further pitfalls of her previously perfect plan. Was she doing the right thing? Could she handle this man? What about tonight? Lord help her, he might be sober and then what? She knew what men were capable of and if he got even an inkling she wasn’t in control he would take over and destroy her. She couldn’t afford for him to think he could do what he wished. She would have to put him in his place right from the start. She had no choice.

  It all had to be perfect. She wanted no one to misunderstand her position and everyone to wonder what the devil her intentions were. Confusion would keep them guessing and inviting her to their gatherings.

  Her greatest pleasure would be to see the ton’s stunned faces when she revealed the identity of the real killer and they realised how wrong they had been about her.

  ***

  Oliver sat in his brother Henry’s breakfast room and looked at the sealed envelope. He rubbed his eyes. He was in no shape to be dealing with last night’s consequences. Was it too much to hope the Countess of Blackhurst was informing him she had changed her mind about their agreement? No amount of money could be worth it, surely…and yet… He rubbed at his forehead with increasing pressure which, of course, didn’t help at all.

  As a self-imposed punishment he seriously considered taking one of his aunt’s tonics. After sending her his apologies this morning, claiming a headache, a bottle of some dubious concoction had arrived. As if he did not feel bad enough already.

  Dear Aunt Petunia. It was just the two of them now. An elderly woman of uncertain mental faculties and he of uncertain financial security. What a pair they made. She depended on him now. He could not let her down.

  His temples contracted in pain; a staccato of pounding fists against his skull. He had to face facts. Until Henry’s investments came in, if they came in, he needed money—a lot of money. The kind of money the Countess’s plan could ensure.

  He glanced at the note.

  It still sat patiently to his left.

  He needed a new strategy, a new campaign but the territory was unfamiliar to him.

  When Henry had inherited the title at the grand old age of fifteen he’d had Aunt Petunia’s husband, Uncle George, to advise him, teach him. Uncle George was gone now too, in the family crypt that held all the Whitley family including the whisper of his parent’s memories.

  Henry had loved him, there had never been a doubt about that, but he had never been a parent to him. The brother who had always seemed so steadfast had left him, abandoned him. He needed him now and he wasn’t here.

  Why, Henry?

  Now Oliver was alone with a huge debt-ridden inheritance he didn’t know what the hell to do with and the bank was breathing down his neck.

  And the note.

  A footman politely coughed behind him before announcing the arrival of, ‘Lord Anthony Ashton.’

  Tony? Here? This was a surprise.

  Oliver shoved the note away and turned to greet his friend.

  Tony walked in, paused, his eyes taking in the room in a single glance before settling his eyes on Oliver.

  ‘This is worse than I expected,’ he commented as he moved further into the room, inspecting Oliver.

  ‘I don’t remember you being so dedicated to interior design. What are you doing here, Ashton?’

  ‘Well, it is an interesting story, actually. You see I’ve been back in the country for two days and all I seem to hear about is you. Why is that, Bellamy?’

  Oliver closed his eyes for a moment. He could really do without the interrogation right now.

  Tony laughed. ‘What, no smart remark? You must be suffering.’ He picked up the morning post and unfolded it. ‘Now, where was it? Blah, blah, Napoleon is rumoured to be ill, blah, blah. Can you believe it? Bonaparte has been near death every other week and still the Prince Regent nearly vomits at the mere mention of his name.’ Tony shook his head.

  Oliver raised a brow. ‘You came here to tell me about Bonaparte?’

  Tony sighed and flipped through a few more pages. ‘Only if his missives suddenly began to be written in code. Fortunately for you, he still prefers French. Vile soppy stuff too. Sentimental old fool.’

  A pained expression passed over Oliver. ‘Ashton, what do you want?’

  Tony looked up and smiled. ‘Lord B,’ he read in a clear voice. ‘That would be you, single-handedly won the long-standing Black Raven Wager last night. Witnesses confirmed he spent over twenty minutes in the infamous Countess’s townhouse and came out unscathed. Whatever did he do there, dear readers? Do tell, Lord B. We are all anxious to know.’ Tony raised a brow. ‘Yes, Lord B, do tell.’

  Oliver watched as his friend abandoned the paper to prowl around the room, and it was not an exaggeration. It was the way he moved.

  ‘I’m not telling anybody anything,’ Oliver replied, pretending to look interested in his breakfast.

  ‘Oh dear, you really did do it then. I thought perhaps my source had had one too many ales.’

  ‘Are things so slow in the Home Office you must spend your time spying on me? How dull, but if you are asking me if I won the wager the answer is, yes.’

  Tony looked out the window. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask you why you did it?’

  ‘No.’ He poked at the cold beefsteak in time with the throbbing in his head.

  ‘You should have told me about Henry.’ Tony appeared at his elbow.

  Oliver wasn’t surprised. ‘Why? What could you have done? Brought him back from the dead? Stopped him from riding that day?’ Oliver looked away.

  Good lord, his chest hurt.

  ‘He was my friend.’

  ‘He was my brother!’ Oliver spat out standing up and knocking his chair over. He walked over to the windows which overlooked the busy street beyond. ‘Your mother sent flowers,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Your brother, Warrington, wrote a lovely eulogy for the papers.’

  Tony nodded. ‘Yes, he’s good at those. I am sorry, damnable way to go.’

  Oliver looked back at him. ‘Hardly a glorious ending, was it? Breaking your neck is dramatic, but not glorious.’

  ‘It could have happened to anyone,’ his friend said.

  Oliver didn’t reply. Why was he so angry at Tony?

  Tony was a man you would never guess as being anything other than what he was—a younger son of an aristocratic family. He was so much more. Of average height, with sandy blond hair he was able to blend into a crowd easily. However
, if he wanted to have his presence known there was no way of escaping his gaze.

  Oliver had met him during the war when he was a code breaker under Scovell. Oliver had been quick-witted and handy with a pistol and so he had found himself often picked to go on special missions. He missed those times. At least then he’d had direction in his life, a purpose. The danger for some reason had never bothered him.

  ‘Oliver, there is something else…’

  ‘Please. There is no need of any pity. You can go away now.’

  ‘Oliver,’ Tony began.

  ‘It is done.’ And it was. There was nothing anyone could do for him or say to him, which could make this right. It was all wrong. It was supposed to have been him. He was the soldier, after all. He was the one who should have died on the battlefield—not Henry—with his neck broken and his face in the mud. Oliver rubbed at his chest again. Will this ache ever leave him?

  ‘The ton is going to want to know what happened last night,’ Tony explained.

  ‘The ton can go to hell!’ he said, and he meant it.

  Tony’s lips quirked. ‘Right, well, that would make the queues at Covent Garden less tiresome, but it won’t make this go away. You need a plan.’

  ‘I know.’ Oliver glanced at the note again. The precise handwriting mocked him.

  Open me!

  ‘I’m thinking on it.’

  Tony smiled. ‘Good, because I need you.’

  ‘You need me?’

  ‘I assume you know the story. The Black Raven, her dead husband and a certain financial speculation?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It’s the reason you are in this…situation.’

  Tony knew? Well, of course he knew. ‘Oh, that situation.’ He narrowed his eyes then, ‘How exactly is she the reason?’

  ‘Henry invested in the speculation with Blackhurst, along with others. When Blackhurst died, the scheme was found to be fake.’

  Oliver sat down in the nearest chair. ‘Henry invested in a fake speculation? He gambled the family fortune on a speculation? It doesn’t sit right. Henry never did risky things.’ Except jump fences.

  ‘Blackhurst was known to be very convincing; he managed to persuade many high profile men into this farce. They all lost out, but Henry…’

  Oliver nodded but still it didn’t make sense. He tried to picture Henry but it was getting harder. Perhaps he didn’t know his brother as well as he thought. Perhaps, he let himself become distant from him. How had his life fallen apart so quickly?

  ‘I suppose I should have known you would find out. I suppose everyone knows. Should I start packing for the continent?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody knows and nobody will if you do the sensible thing.’

  Sensible thing? Easier said than done it seems.

  ‘We need you to continue whatever it is you started with the Black Raven. You’re the first, Bellamy. No one else has been able to penetrate her inner sanctum.’

  Oliver coughed. ‘What makes you think I penetrated her inner sanctum?’

  Tony rolled his eyes. ‘I mean you were the first to be let in.’

  Oliver looked away. ‘Oh, right.’

  Tony watched him. He hated when he did that. Like he knew what he was thinking simply by where he put his hand or moved his eyes. Could he tell he had been very attracted to the Countess of Blackhurst? Under better circumstances, Oliver would not have been opposed to being near her inner sanctum at all.

  ‘This wager has been in place for nearly two years. All this time we have been trying to get someone in with no success…until you.’

  Oliver turned back to Tony, his eyes narrowed in anger. ‘We? Are you saying the Home Office is behind this?’

  Tony laughed at the apparent stupidity of his accusation. ‘No. I don’t work for the Home Office.’

  Oliver was beginning to dislike the turn in this conversation. ‘Then who?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that. All I can say is my client is a very influential person who lost a lot of money in the speculation.’ Tony shrugged. ‘He wants answers. I’m doing it as a personal favour.’

  Oliver shook his head but the knocking on his skull was still there and getting louder. ‘What has it to do with the Countess of Blackhurst?’

  ‘She was Blackhurst’s beneficiary. Everything that wasn’t entailed went to her. An obscene amount of money. There are persons who think she killed him or had him killed. She refused to repay the investors their capital. It made her very unpopular.’

  ‘I thought she was acquitted of his murder.’

  ‘She was, but still there is reason to believe she knows more about her husband’s dealings than she is willing to tell. We need you to find out what that more is.’

  Now it was Oliver’s turn to laugh. ‘And you think she is going blurt it all out to me?’

  ‘Given time and certain incentives, I am sure she will slip up and give herself away.’ Tony pushed the Countess’s note towards him with a forefinger. ‘Read it,’ he said, taking a seat back at the table.

  Devil take him, Tony was right. If she was the cause of Henry’s misery, if she was the cause of his current despair, he must find out.

  Oliver looked at the note again. How bad could it possibly be? The fact last night was more a blurred nightmare than actual memory was contributing to his lack of muster but it wasn’t as though she could kill him with ink, unless of course, it was poisoned. He shook his head to shake away the cobwebs.

  He picked it up, weighed it in his palm, and frowned for the forty-fourth time this morning. It was a little heavy for a note. What was in there, her whole life story, a confession, his requiem mass? Open it, his brain buzzed.

  He broke out in a sweat as he broke the wax seal and unfolded it. He read it briefly and stifled a laugh, read it again and then roared with laughter, ignoring the pain in his head. He was quite sure now she hadn’t killed her husband. ‘The daft bugger must have dashed his own brains out if this is the kind of thing she forced upon him on a daily basis,’ Oliver said, passing the note to Tony.

  He gave it a cursory glance. His face still serious. ‘Glad to find you are so amused by it.’

  ‘It hardly matters what’s in it. I’m not going to do it anyway.’

  Tony’s eyes turned cold. ‘I think you are. You have to.’

  ‘Ashton, I can hardly conceive how you know about any of this let alone what this note might say.’

  ‘I don’t really care what the note says, but I knew who it was from. I saw it being delivered this morning from the lady’s house. I had to ensure you read it.’

  ‘So, you are spying on me?’ Oliver put his hands on his hips.

  Tony smiled. ‘Not you, Bellamy. Her.’

  ‘Why should I do this for someone I don’t even know?’

  ‘You’re not. You’re doing it for me. And if you do, I will make sure you are handsomely rewarded. Is that incentive enough?’

  ‘Do I have much choice?’

  ‘Not really,’ Tony replied before patting him on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, hell, now you’ve taken all the fun out of it.’

  ‘I am sure you will find the Countess more than entertaining. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. When I return I’ll come to see you. Or, if you find out something interesting, you know how to contact me, discreetly.’ Tony turned and left the room.

  Oliver looked around the now quiet room. This certainly changes things. He picked up the note again. Could she have had anything to do with Henry and the loss of the family fortune?

  ***

  An hour later and feeling much more the thing, Oliver took a hackney to his tailor in Piccadilly. He needed decent clothes if he was going to be escorting a certain female around London. He pulled out the note and just for fun read it again.

  Bellamy, he read, here is your schedule for tonight. You will notice I have allowed fifteen extra minutes time between appointments for traffic and fog. ‘How thoughtful, Countess’s. Do not be late. ‘As if I
would dare,’ he said to the interior of the hackney. I will expect you to be properly attired and sober. ‘Cheeky Chit!’ I will expect you at exactly nine o’clock tonight. Tardiness will not be tolerated, as we must keep to the schedule at all costs.

  ‘No, Countess, at your cost.’

  Only it wasn’t at her cost at all, was it? She had quite cleverly arranged for the ton to pay her debt to him. He could only tip his hat to her. Combined with what Tony had said would come to him for information on the Countess, he could find himself retiring to the country and raising hunting dogs before he knew it.

  Surprisingly, the Black Raven never strayed far from his thoughts all day. Not because of the natural interest of all who had met him, but because her schedule had outlined exactly what she was doing practically every minute of the day.

  While his tailor was being astonishingly gymnastic in his bending and scraping and general grovelling, trying to extract details of his famous client’s night with the Black Raven, she was having a dress fitting. While Oliver was enjoying an excellent glass or two of claret with his slightly overdone spatchcock in orange sauce, she was tending her garden. Despite the toughness of his lunch the thought of the Countess of Blackhurst bending over was a more than appealing picture.

  By the time he reached his brother’s townhouse on Cavendish Square in the late afternoon, he was quite familiar with the lie he had made up for the masses.

  He and the Black Raven had become quite cosy on her Egyptian-styled chaise longue, while she had lured him with good French cognac and seduced him with her crystallite eyes and husky dulcet tones until he gave in to her considerable charms. It was so far from the truth as to be almost believable. If there were a few who didn’t trust his story they would no doubt be choking on their disbelief when he strolled into Wainwright’s ball tonight, with the delightfully beautiful and terrifying Countess of Blackhurst on his arm. The thought alone made him smile. Men were making more wagers by the moment, intent on catching him out, when really all they were doing were aiding him on cashing in.

  He had been at a distinct disadvantage last night, but tonight he would be in full control of all his mental and bodily faculties. She would not be holding the trump card this time for he had one or two aces up his considerably well-turned-out sleeve. The Black Raven was to find Oliver Whitely, Earl of Bellamy, could easily handle one fussy black-clad female.