A Scandalous Wager Page 8

  ‘I’m glad you will be enjoying yourself then.’

  He laughed, for what else could he do?

  They were led into a large room which was decorated in rich gold and green. Large French doors led to a conservatory and many of the various plants had been moved inside for the evening, their exotic blooms releasing a sweet honeyed spice into the air. An assortment of chairs and sofas were arranged around the room, at the end of which a small platform—just large enough for a handful of musicians and a singer—had been created. The musicians were already tuning up their instruments and Lady Costello looked panicked as to where to put the infamous Black Raven and her companion.

  ‘We will sit here,’ Lady Blackhurst instructed their hostess.

  Oliver frowned at the scene before him. Lady Costello appeared to nearly swoon with relief and no wonder, many of the women had their fans held up to their left ear indicating they did not want the notorious Black Raven sitting next to them.

  ***

  A familiar pain invaded Lisbeth’s body. A feeling one would think she would be able to control by now. In the ballroom earlier, crowded and overheated with bodies, she had been able to pretend they were not truly there, just a sea of people she would not focus on. Here, there were too few guests. She had let her guard down for just a moment and she had let their twitters creep in. Let their judgemental whispers penetrate her defences, pressing and straining against the walls she had spent so many years building. She pressed back. She would not give in. She would not let them know how their actions affected her.

  Their seats were aptly at the back of the room and as soon as the lights dimmed and the music began Lisbeth took out Bellamy’s list of wagers. She scanned it, frowned, and then looked sideways at him.

  ‘I can’t read this,’ she said into his ear.

  He smiled and closed his eyes. ‘I know.’

  ‘Bellamy!’ she whispered in agitation. ‘Is this the real list?’

  ‘Actually, it is a shameful and wicked list of all the things I’d like to —’

  She elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Bellamy!’

  He opened one eye and chuckled softly. ‘Yes, it is the real list.’

  She was perplexed and it must have showed because he was looking very smug. ‘Then why can’t I read it? What language is it in? It isn’t ancient Greek, is it?’

  His lips lifted at the sides again, toying with her heart beat. ‘All in good time, Countess, all in good time.’ He took a deep breath and relaxed. The dratted man was enjoying her confusion. ‘Remember,’ he muttered. ‘It is bad form to shoot someone while they are sleeping.’

  Lisbeth looked at him in disgust. ‘You are a wretched man,’ she said as she studied his face. He was so handsome, even in profile and in this pose more boyish. She was tempted to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. No! Had she learnt nothing? This was all a game to him. He was not a child in need of care. Let him be. Ignore him. Pretend he is not there as he is so aptly pretending not to be here.

  Now he knew why she was here, did she really need to keep him so tightly shackled? When he had arrived this evening looking so elegant and handsome she had not known what trials he would put her through. Her plan, although well thought out, was woefully inadequate when it came to the complications and consternations one Lord Bellamy would put upon her. He was too much of everything and she never knew what she would be feeling from one minute to the next. It was like being blindfolded, spun around and then left to stumble about unsure of one’s footing or direction.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked him a minute later when he continued to keep his position, but all she got in response was a soft snore.

  He was asleep? How typical!

  Brow furrowed she looked at the list again. It looked like chicken scratchings with a few pretty drawings thrown in for good measure. Lisbeth glanced at her sleeping escort and shook her head. She thought she had been so clever in gaining the list but now it looked as though the joke was on her. He had let her have it because he knew she wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. ‘Impossible man!’

  Lisbeth looked his way again in her peripheral vision. She just wanted to make sure he wasn’t in danger of sliding off his chair. He seemed so at peace with himself. She envied him for his ability to sleep in a room full of people and appear not to have a single qualm about it.

  He sighed and shifted a little and she focused on his eyelashes, so ludicrously long for a man. It seemed so unfair, both his eyelashes and his slumber. She wanted so badly to be able to sleep with pleasant dreams and happy recollections, but sleep eluded her. All she had were dark corners and shadows, and a life which seemed more like a burden than a gift.

  Tucking the useless list into her reticule, she turned her attention to the small platform where the soloist was singing her aria. It had been so long since she’d had the opportunity to enjoy music. She wanted to let it wash over her in pleasant waves of bliss but she could not. She looked at the heads of the women who had been so cruel to her earlier. She did not deserve to be treated like this. A court had proclaimed her innocent and yet it seemed that gossip was far more convincing than law. It was clear that until she had proven her innocence she would not be able to take pleasure in even the simplest of joys.

  Bellamy murmured something beside her. She had valiantly tried to concentrate on the performance but she kept searching out his sleeping form. It would have served him right if he had fallen off his chair. On more than one occasion he had sighed and shifted in his seat, causing her to look at other parts of him. Parts she definitely should not have been looking at. She should not care one wit he had powerful looking thighs or that his legs seemed to stretch a considerable length ending in incredibly large shoes or at the fall of his trousers it seemed there was hardly enough room for what lay beneath. She’d felt heat rise from her throat to her cheeks and had fanned herself furiously, vowing never to look at him again. After another guilty look she realised how ridiculous her first vow had been and amended it to, not look at him again until the performance was over. She failed miserably at that vow too. By the end of the performance her sinful mind had memorised every inch of him.

  She wanted to kick him for being so…him. Her reactions to him were strange and varied. One moment she felt safe with him and the next she was all too aware of him and the danger he presented to her. The rest of the time she just wanted to push him off a cliff.

  He was a marvel to her really, such a nicely put together man. It surprised her more than she was willing to confess. Why wasn’t she repulsed by his masculinity? Physical exertions were not new to him by the muscular look of his arms and the strong and sturdy breadth of his shoulders. If only he were not so lackadaisical in his habits and have such a fondness for wastrel gambling.

  What was she doing to herself? As much as he was here beside her, she knew she was very much on her own. She was used to loneliness. It was a cloak she wore daily. Now, being amongst people again, she felt it wrap around her like swaddling. Constricting, choking and contracting around her.

  ***

  Oliver felt Lisbeth nudge him awake with her fan and reluctantly opened one eye. He quickly assessed his position and remembering where he was, grinned sheepishly, straightened in his chair, and joined in the clapping when the soloist had finished.

  Ironically, he wished the performance had gone on a little longer for he was having the best kind of dream. The fact Lady Blackhurst had been the subject was perhaps not as surprising as it should be. Hadn’t she been just about to shoot him only an hour or so ago? His lips twisted and he looked briefly towards the Countess. She was fussing with her small reticule, no doubt taking inventory of all her various time pieces, notebooks and fire arms. He really wouldn’t be surprised if she were to pull out a vial of arsenic. It had been that kind of evening and it was far from over. What she didn’t know was he quite fancied a challenge. Part of him wanted her to pull her pistol on him one more time and give him an excuse to set her straight about a few thin
gs.

  As if sensing his eyes upon her, she turned her head slightly and raised one fine dark brow. He smiled and resumed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, his clapping.

  ‘She was brilliant,’ he said, nodding at the others around them who were all commenting to each other on the singer’s performance.

  ‘The last singer was a man and I hardly think you are qualified to comment,’ she said, her tone wry, as they stood up and followed the others to the late supper which was being served in another room.

  ‘Not true, that was one of the best musical nights I have slept through this season.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She shook her head.

  He laughed as he continued to steer her towards the refreshments. ‘You’ll soon get used to me, Countess. You might even get to like me.’

  ‘But I don’t want to like you, Bellamy.’

  Was that said to put him in his place? He was determined not to react to her insult. ‘Ah, but you will, my dear. You will.’

  Oliver casually discussed the topics of the day with the other guests, usually Napoleon’s exile, or the latest exploit of the Prince Regent. It paid to be prepared with a standard comment or two. The unusual weather this year was a topic which was wearing thin. Yes, it was cold, terrible winds, chills one to the bone, bad for the crops, Mother Nature gone mad… He knew the weather should concern him more considering he was a landowner now. He just wanted to get through the next few weeks before having to deal with crops and cattle and the fickleness of the weather. With a heavy sigh he stuffed two lobster patties into his mouth and scanned the room.

  He knew she was watching him. What was she planning with those furtive looks? He had displeased her, he knew, with his nap, not to mention his list. It was in code and although he could imagine her and her pinch-faced butler trying to decipher it until dawn, if all of Napoleon’s army had not been able to crack it he doubted she would. It was better she did not know the contents of the list at any rate.

  Oliver made for his host, Lord Costello. He wanted to see if he could get anything interesting out of the man. Oliver had met him a couple of times at White’s but they had never really spent much time in discussion.

  ‘Bellamy, have to say I am mildly surprised to see you here. Thought these kinds of entertainments were not quite your thing,’ Costello said when Oliver presented himself.

  ‘It’s true, a musical night is not my first choice for sources of entertainment but my companion wished to come and who am I to deny her anything,’ Oliver replied, winking.

  ‘Indeed,’ Costello commented, frowning slightly.

  ‘I believe you were acquainted with her late husband, were you not?’ His host being a short stout man meant Oliver had to stoop over so as not to appear to be talking to the person behind him. Not to mention the glare coming off Costello’s balding head from the grand chandelier above them. Oliver absently patted his hair in appreciation of its staying power.

  Costello eyed him for a moment, his brows knitting together. ‘I knew him,’ he replied, looking over to where his wife and the Black Raven seemed to be having a rather awkward conversation.

  ‘Never met the man, myself. What was he like?’ Oliver asked.

  He noted that Costello was labouring over his answer. Finally, he came up with, ‘He was…tall.’

  Oliver wanted to laugh. Anybody would seem tall when you were Lord Costello. ‘Really? Tall, you say? Not very helpful. Could you try a bit harder?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes, of course, makes it easier to compete when one knows his adversary,’ Oliver said, taking a sip of his drink and making a face. Punch, vile stuff. Thankfully his host did not see. He quickly tipped the offending liquid into the plant next to him. The poor thing was liable to be withered by morning, but better it than him.

  ‘But the man’s dead, Bellamy!’ Costello explained.

  ‘Apparently so,’ Oliver replied. He looked around him, already bored with the way the conversation was going. ‘Buried and everything, I heard.’

  Costello gave a little snort and after a moment’s contemplation finally said something worth listening to. ‘He was a shrewd one, though. Blackhurst, I mean. He knew how to make gold out of nothing at all.’

  Oliver raised a brow. ‘I had not realised he was so inventive,’ he said with a smile. ‘Is it too much to hope he has passed on his secrets to his wife?’

  Costello snorted again. ‘Doubt it, but by God he knew how to make money.’ He lowered his voice considerably and Oliver was forced to bend closer to hear. ‘I’d invested with him a few times and always thought him a strange sort of fellow but sharp as a tack when it came to money, until the last time.’ Costello took a large swallow of his drink.

  ‘The last time?’ Oliver prodded gently.

  ‘When he was killed, the scheme went belly up too, but I’m sure you already knew that. Cost me a fortune, he did, I was luckier than most. I didn’t invest everything I owned, although some did and lost it all. It was not a pleasant time for any of us.’

  His tone was bitter and Oliver raised a brow in interest. ‘These other investors, the ones who lost everything, what happened to them?’

  Costello shrugged. ‘Wakehurst blew his brains out, Bristol took a bath with a bottle of brandy and his shaving razor, Simons fled to the Continent or the Americas, I cannot remember which. Your brother jumped a fence for no apparent reason. Is that what you wanted to hear?’

  Oliver narrowed his eyes on the little man. He wanted to put his hands around his neck and shake him, a lot. ‘You think my brother committed suicide, Costello?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, you just asked me what happened to them and I’ve told you.’

  ‘You and those still with us did not go to such extremes.’

  ‘Some of us were lucky enough to be able to go on, but it wasn’t easy. Everyone was shocked and angry and wanted answers. Answers that to this day we have not found out.’

  Costello didn’t say any more so Oliver let it drop. He couldn’t blame Costello for wanting answers. He wanted them too.

  Oliver caught Costello flicking his glance towards Lisbeth. Oliver looked up and watched her too. It was an enjoyable scene. ‘How is it then, Lady Blackhurst survived any financial hardships?’

  ‘Told you, Blackhurst was shrewd, made sure everything was in her name, or perhaps it was she who insisted it be so. Some of us tried to get back our deposit but Lady Blackhurst would not take any submission. It didn’t help her cause I can assure you. Some say she did it, you know.’

  ‘Did what?’ he asked the question even though he knew what the answer would be.

  ‘Killed him for his money or had him killed!’ Costello whispered. ‘Not that I think that, of course, but one never knows with women.’ Costello took a sip of his drink and turned his eyes away from Oliver.

  It seemed he had said more than he wanted. It was nearly enough for Oliver. ‘Yes, women are such strange creatures, but such beautiful ones too, however are we to resist them?’ Oliver watched the Countess as she excused herself and made her way towards him.

  ‘I agree and none more so than her. Enjoy yourself, Bellamy, but a word of warning; be watchful. There’s many a deadly weapon concealed in a pretty case,’ Costello said before moving onto his next guest.

  Oliver was still frowning when Lisbeth reached him and he was startled when she put her hand on his sleeve and said, ‘It’s time to go.’

  Chapter 7

  Dues must be paid when one has only one living relative, especially when that relative is a woman of significant age and health.

  Dear Aunt Petunia.

  His aunt’s long-suffering companion, Mrs Turner, greeted Oliver in the hall. ‘Lady Whitely says she is dying, my lord. The doctor assures me she is not but she is convinced. She insisted that you come here straight away.’

  Oliver nodded and handed his hat and gloves to his aunt’s butler, and followed Mrs Turner down the hall. ‘I’m relieved to he
ar that her health is not as dire as she has imagined. I am so glad you are here to watch over her. Although I know she can be trying at times,’ he said in a good-natured tone.

  She smiled. ‘It is an honour, sir. You know I have been her companion for near on twenty years. I am quite used to her ways.’

  Mrs Turner was a small woman, with light silver-streaked hair and intelligent hazel eyes. Oliver liked her very much, always had.

  ‘In any case I would make it known to you that I am very grateful.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She blushed.

  Oliver patted her hand as he left her in the hall and entered his aunt’s dimly lit parlour to be immediately set upon by three small yapping fur balls who took to jumping up on his legs. He sighed with the knowledge that his boots would be all but ruined by the dog’s small claws.

  ‘Ah, Bellamy,’ his aunt called from her chair by the fire. ‘You have finally come to me. Must I be on death’s door for you to visit?’

  He bowed and she waved him further into the room. ‘I was here but the day before yesterday, Aunt,’ he replied, placing a kiss on her cheek.

  Looking a little confused, his aunt Petunia squinted up at him over the rim of her spectacles. ‘Were you? Surely I would have remembered that,’ she said. Then, ‘Oh, do sit down, Bellamy, you are far too tall. Give me a crick in my neck looking up at you all the time. Anyway, it does not signify, for I am dying.’

  ‘Really, Aunt? Dying?’ Oliver took his usual seat.

  ‘Yes! The dear doctor said so.’

  Oliver raised a brow. ‘Mrs Turner said the doctor concluded you were not dying.’

  ‘What would that old sawbones know? He’s not me,’ she said in a superior tone, chin up in the air.

  Oliver stifled a chuckle. ‘Aunt…’

  His aunt began fussing with her shawl. ‘Bellamy, there are things that must be said before I curl up my toes.’

  Oliver took one of the small pug dogs, who kept leaping up at him, onto his lap. ‘I am at your service,’ he replied.