A Scandalous Wager Page 5

  ‘They do, a little…but that is beside the point,’ he grumbled. Oh, she was a dirty player.

  She looked at him then for a long moment. ‘While I stand by my theory, in terms of certain types of gentlemen of the ton, I would never undermine the military’s importance to the safety of England. Though, through history, it is a repeated scenario that is a lust for the spoils of war which often necessitates the need for one.’

  ‘You don’t know the first thing about war, Countess. I do not think you should presume to have any opinion on the matter.’ Oh, he loved it when he made her twitch. She obviously did not like his pet name for her. He decided he would continue to call her Countess, just for the pleasure of seeing her twitch.

  ‘I know the taxes I pay go to fund them,’ she parried.

  ‘And I know the soldiers who fight them die,’ he deflected.

  ‘That is very true, and sad, don’t you think?’

  Touché, Countess. ‘I think we should talk of something else.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, but said nothing further and neither did he.

  He had just realised what she was doing. She had neatly distracted him from his purpose, to get the pistol from her. He would let her assume for now it had worked. She lent closer to the window to try and catch the lamplight on her pocket watch. He knew how she felt; he was thinking the same thing. Was this carriage ride ever going to end?

  ‘I wish you would put that thing away,’ Oliver said, folding his arms across his chest. It must have been the fifth time she’d done it since getting in the carriage. If she was going to do it all night it was going to drive him to drink—heavily.

  ‘I must know what the time is,’ she stated, her voice as cool as ever.

  ‘Does it really matter if we are a few minutes late?’ He was baiting her on purpose, and he knew it was dangerous considering what was in her reticule, but it was dark so he did have an advantage.

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  He waited. Nothing. ‘Is this another one of your theories, Countess? I suppose we men can’t be trusted with timepieces either? God forbid we may tell each other the wrong time.’

  Frowning, she set the watch back in her bag and looked at him. ‘You are like a child, aren’t you? Must you know every little thing? I think I liked you better when you were a witless drunk.’ She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

  Nice. What was she expecting, his blood to start boiling, or his face to take on the look of chopped liver? Prove he was a child and throw a tantrum? Not bleedin’ likely! Instead, he laughed, for what he really wanted to do was take her over his knee and give her a good spanking on her conceited derriere.

  Whatever she may think of him, which was obviously not much, he was a man of his word, a man who was intimate with the word duty.

  ‘Are you ever serious, Bellamy?’

  He could see by the severe set of her mouth she wasn’t the least impressed.

  ‘Occasionally, but I am usually ill at the time,’ he replied flippantly as the carriage came to a stop. They both sighed in relief.

  He sprang out of the coach and handed her down. ‘Your audience awaits, my lady.’ Her hands were cold, so he tucked them in the crook of his arm and glanced down at her for a moment. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her face, in profile, was serious and intense. He almost felt sorry for her. It was no mean feat to walk into a room full of people. People who thought you were a murderess.

  ‘You’re allowed to smile. People are going to think I dragged you here by your hair if you don’t,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Don’t be ludicrous, Bellamy. The last thing they will expect is for me to smile.’

  Chapter 4

  Oliver was surprised the Countess of Blackhurst wasn’t combusting right here, in the entrance of the Wainwright’s ballroom, so intense was the focus of the assembled crowd around them.

  This is what it must be like to stand in front of a firing squad, he thought.

  Heads turned in ripples across the room as the word spread of their arrival. It reminded him of the quiet before the battle cry. The nervous energy that surrounded you until you could not stand still. Every muscle contracted, tense, ears straining to hear the command that would send you riding down the hill and into the mêlée.

  Despite his own resolve to feel nothing for the Black Raven, a small dose of respect stole over him, until he recalled their encounter in the carriage. He felt her fingers tense on his arm and then release.

  The hosts scurried over, their expressions wary. Lady Wainwright looked a little pale and in need of some smelling salts, but was rallying. Wainwright bowed and babbled like a fool.

  Beside him the Black Raven kept her chin high, her gaze regally down her nose, and stared at the assembled crowd with a chill that made him shiver.

  Released at last from the formalities, the Countess of Blackhurst inclined her head and sailed off in the manner of a war ship heading straight for the enemy, all cannons primed and ready to go. What exactly her mission was still needed to be determined because he didn’t believe for a moment that she just wanted to have an excuse to wear a pretty gown.

  A few in the crowd gave her the cut direct, turning their backs to her, but most were too caught up by their curiosity to act so hastily. The infamous Black Raven was in their midst and they were all no doubt wondering why. A lesser woman would have swooned from the lack of air in the room and the amount of eyes watching her every breath, but not the Black Raven.

  Their whispers billowed up behind her like the dust of a racing coach but she remained stoic and her step never faltered. The music resumed and everyone scurried to take up their places on the dance floor or resume the best vantage points in which to view the goings on.

  She sat then in the style of a queen taking her throne and looked around the room.

  Oh, bravo, Countess.

  He stood at her shoulder for a few minutes, counting familiar faces and their varying expressions. They were all watching intently on what might happen next. He had to admit, he was too.

  Later, they took a few turns around the room in which she asked him general questions regarding those who were new to her. She seemed intently interested in the standing of several gentlemen but paid surprisingly little attention to the women.

  ‘What, no snippy comments about the dampness of the debutantes’ gowns, Countess? What about the latest hair styles or the ridiculous amount of feathers protruding from their heads?’

  She gave him an annoyed look but said nothing.

  ‘There must be bald ostriches all over Africa. What a sight that must be.’ He could have sworn he’d seen her lips twitch slightly at the edges.

  When he returned her to her seat, she took out a small notebook from her reticule and began scribbling down a list.

  ‘Taking notes, I see,’ Oliver said, handing her a glass of champagne.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Notes on?’

  ‘None of your business.’ She closed the notebook, returned it to her reticule, and resumed her study of the ballroom and its occupants.

  ‘You cannot write a list in front of me and then not tell me the nature of the list. You are a cruel tease.’

  ‘You expect me simply to hand over my private thoughts?’

  Well, no, he supposed. Still…it was damn annoying. Now he was going to have to steal it from her, read it, and decide whether it was worth worrying about. He just hoped it wasn’t a list of ways to kill Bellamy, slowly and painfully.

  The strains of a waltz started. This would be the perfect time to take care of his wager. He’d snag her little notebook later. He hadn’t spent nearly a decade as a soldier and code breaker and learnt nothing useful. ‘The pleasure of a dance, Countess?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She turned her eyes back to the dancers, her hands folded in her lap.

  ‘Perhaps later then. Let me put it on your card.’ He went to take up her dance card.

  ‘I do not enjoy dancin
g, Bellamy.’

  ‘Never say such a thing,’ he joked. ‘Next you will be admitting you don’t like kittens.’

  She turned towards him then and regarded him with thinly veiled irritation. ‘Would you like me to confess to such a crime, Bellamy? Would you like me to embellish further by adding that I detest flowers, spring rain and chubby-cheeked children?’

  He chuckled. ‘It is just a dance, Countess. It is not like I am asking you to hitch up your skirt and do a jig while balancing two mugs of ale.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Your imagination is immeasurable. One would think you had actually witnessed such a scene.’

  He took the seat next to her. ‘Once, in Germany. They are very skilled and well balanced dancers in Germany, you know.’

  ‘So it seems,’ she said flatly. She looked around and then took a sip of her drink he had fetched off the refreshment table for her earlier.

  He figured he’d lost her somewhere between skilled and Germany. It was actually a most amusing story but certainly not one for ladies ears, even the Black Raven’s, so it was probably just as well.

  He realised she had neatly ended the subject of dancing, with her, at least. Still, he could wait. He imagined dancing with the infamous Black Raven was going to be a most interesting and entertaining business—eventually.

  ***

  Lisbeth decided she disliked him immensely. It mattered not that Bellamy was as handsome as any man in the room. He was acting like a love-smitten pup. A hand on her waist here, a brush of his fingers on her shoulder there, a faint breath near her ear. What game did he think he was playing? It was…ridiculous. She wanted to smack him with her fan. Hard.

  She did not like the way he was making her aware of every breath he took, of every move he made and every annoying flash of his warm chocolate eyes. It was hard enough to breathe as it was. She told herself she was not the least bit jealous of his ability to converse with such an ease of manner she looked like a walking stick he just happened to be holding on to. She had better things to do than be any man’s accessory.

  A half hour later and Bellamy was now happily bantering on about some horse at Ascot to an elderly gentleman and she looked around for an escape. She saw an opening in the crowd and excused herself.

  She made as if heading to the withdrawing room but made a quick right turn and found herself in the servant’s hall. Squaring her shoulders she took the first step.

  ***

  ‘So, Bellamy, how did we manage to get the devil’s daughter to leave her crypt?’ Dalmere asked in a jovial tone.

  Oliver turned to find his brother’s friend at his elbow. Dalmere had the look of an angel about him. His halo of golden curls had made him the subject of much female admiration. He was a thin man, with a sharp eye and a vicious wit when provoked. He had also been the first to offer his condolences after Oliver had returned from the continent. He didn’t know how he would have survived the first few days in London without Dalmere.

  ‘I would take offence to that if you had not described her so aptly.’ Oliver took a sip of his drink, the stress like a boulder between his shoulder blades.

  ‘Lord Fitzsimons and the others are going to be ill when they hand over their pounds to you on the morrow. I don’t think anyone quite believed you.’

  ‘Considering the wagers put on in the last day, I would say a great many didn’t believe me.’

  ‘Do you blame them? The woman has hardly left her house in years.’

  ‘There is a first time for everything. This is your fault anyway. If not for you I would never have taken up that wager in the first place.’

  ‘Don’t put the blame on me. I tried to talk you out of it.’

  ‘That is not how I remember it.’

  ‘I was surprised you remembered your own name that night.’

  ‘You handed me the flask.’

  ‘You didn’t have to drink it.’

  Oliver shook his head in dismay.

  Dalmere inspected Oliver with concern in his pale green eyes.

  Oliver raised both brows. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for bite marks and bruises,’ Dalmere replied.

  Oliver laughed. ‘Believe me there are wounds aplenty. Verbal ones. The woman has a tongue like a horse whip.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Dalmere’s gaze turned serious. ‘Then what are you doing with her? You won the wager; surely you are under no obligation to adopt the chit.’

  Good question. I’m selling my soul to a she-devil in return for money I make on wagers. It sounded ludicrous and desperate, even to him. As it was, Oliver wasn’t even sure about this arrangement with the Countess of Blackhurst himself, so how could he explain it?

  Oliver glanced at Dalmere. ‘Besides the obvious, you mean? Have you looked at her? Really looked at her?’

  ‘I have eyes, Bellamy, same as you, so yes, besides the obvious.’

  ‘I don’t really know, but she is an interesting woman. I am determined to figure her out,’ Oliver explained.

  Dalmere laughed. ‘Give up now then, my friend. The female species is a puzzle not even the brightest male minds have been able to comprehend.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she will be so hard to understand, once I crack that shell of hers.’

  ‘Is that bravado talking or do you really believe your own balderdash?’

  Oliver winked at him, took a sip of his champagne, and glanced around, looking for Lisbeth. Beside him Dalmere huffed, but Oliver ignored him. The truth was he wasn’t sure at all, bravado or not, whether he would live long enough to make even a small dent in her shell the way things were going so far. First things first, he had to get her pistol and notebook.

  Where the devil was she, anyway? Why he felt the need to keep her within arm’s reach was beyond him. She was as likely to try and break that arm as not. Still, he felt he should protect her from those who might like to make mischief, and there were plenty.

  ‘Well, old boy, you had better think of some novel ways to say nothing because the hordes are about to descend.’ Dalmere motioned towards a group of young men coming towards them. They were already smirking and jeering within their little group before they had reason to do so.

  Oliver groaned. He knew he would have to deal with this kind of situation but had foolishly hoped to avoid it.

  ‘I say, Bellamy, just the man we wanted to see,’ said one fellow who was bleary-eyed and sweating profusely. ‘How are you and the Black Raven getting on? At this rate you’ll be leg-shackled and spending her inheritance by the end of the month.’

  ‘Really? Why on earth would I want to do that, Bently?’ Oliver said in reply.

  ‘Why, for her fortune, of course. It’s why she did it, don’t you know, for the money.’

  Oliver decided he didn’t like Bently.

  ‘Leg-shackled to her? I’d rather think he doesn’t want to wind up dead, like the last one,’ said Dalmere in mock horror.

  ‘Dalmere, that accusation was never proven.’

  ‘If it was proven, Bellamy, she would have swung from the Tyburn Tree. Doesn’t mean she didn’t do it,’ said Lord Chalmers.

  ‘Mind you,’ said a young man who Oliver had seen last night at his club, but whose name had escaped him. ‘I’d risk it for one night with her. I’ve never seen anything like those eyes before, makes me so hot I could fry eggs.’

  The men all laughed, all except Bellamy. For some reason he didn’t find their banter at all funny.

  ‘I have nothing to fear from the Countess of Blackhurst I assure you, gentlemen, though your concern is touching.’

  The others all snorted, coughed, and laughed in their amusement. He, on the other hand, had had enough of amusing them. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe I need to see if the Black Raven is sharpening her dagger correctly.’

  Their laughter followed him through the crowded room. They are all simpletons, he thought to himself and then stopped. Yesterday, he would have been laughing
along with them. This thought did not sit well at all considering his dislike for the woman. He looked around the ballroom again. Now, where is she?

  ***

  ‘Well, isn’t this is a very pretty picture of a very naughty little Countess?’

  Lisbeth’s heart froze at the sound of Bellamy’s voice behind her. How had he found her? She turned slightly from her position on her hands and knees, where she had been searching for a key or a hidden panel to Wainwright’s desk. Didn’t they all have hidden panels? The quick glance over her shoulder confirmed his presence. He wore an arrogant look on his handsome face as he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and one brow raised nearly to his hairline. She closed her eyes. This could not be happening to her. The man was a veritable homing pigeon.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Looking for my mistress, actually,’ he replied casually. He stepped further into Wainwright’s study, looked around, and tested the top of the nearest table for dust, before turning his attention back to her.

  ‘Well, she isn’t here, is she?’ Lisbeth hotly retorted, sitting up and absently checking her hair. She tried to convey she wasn’t the least bit flustered by his having found her. By the look on his face she hadn’t succeeded. She would like to wipe the grin right off his face but there were no fire pokers on hand.

  ‘Au contraire, my dear, she is right where she ought not to be.’

  It took a few seconds for her to realise to whom he was referring. ‘What? Me? No!’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘What have you been saying, Bellamy?’

  ‘I haven’t had to say anything,’ he said. ‘They all presume it. You’re a widow, I’m an unattached man, and I am bandying you around town on my arm. What did you imagine they would think? We are whist partners?’

  Lisbeth hadn’t thought about it. She was astonished she even cared what those people downstairs thought of her or her arrangement with Bellamy. If anything it made things more believable, but it also made her feel distinctly at his mercy, a feeling that was definitely uncomfortable. Of course he hadn’t expected her to answer his last question. He was now hooking one hip on Wainwright’s desk and looking down at her.