Lady Allerton's Wager
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Nicola Cornick
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Chapter One
The Cyprians’ Ball was scarcely an event that featured on the social calendar of any of the debutantes of the ton, although more than one bitter chaperon had observed that it was the only place outside the clubs where all the eligible bachelors could be found. The most unobtainable of gentlemen, who would scorn to step inside the doors of Almack’s Assembly Rooms for fear of ambush, showed far greater alacrity in striking up an intimate acquaintance of quite another sort, and a masquerade was ripe with all sorts of possibilities.
It was late in the evening when Marcus, sixth Earl of Trevithick, joined the crowds of revellers milling in the Argyle Rooms. Being neither a callow youth nor particularly requiring an inamorata, he had seen no need to hurry to be first through the door.
The room, with its elegant pillars and lavish decoration, seemed as gaudy as the birds of paradise that flocked there. Marcus knew that he was already drawing their attention. With his height, stature and wicked dark good looks it was inevitable, but he felt little pride in the fact. Once his name was whispered amongst the Cyprians he knew that some would lose interest and hunt for bigger game, for they were motivated by cupidity rather than lust. He had the looks and the title but he had little money, for he had inherited estates that had gone to rack and ruin.
‘Been rusticating, Marcus? I had heard you were still in northern parts!’
It was his cousin, Justin Trevithick, who had clapped Marcus on the shoulder. Justin, the only child of a scandalous second marriage between Marcus’s Uncle Freddie Trevithick and his housekeeper, was a couple of years younger than his cousin. The two had never met as children, for Marcus’s father, Viscount Trevithick, had disapproved of his brother’s morals and had steadfastly refused to acknowledge his nephew. When Marcus was twenty-two he had bumped into Justin at White’s and they had hit it off at once, to the amusement of the ton and the despair of the strait-laced Viscount and his wife. Now, eleven years later, they were still firm friends.
Marcus and Justin shared the distinctive lean Trevithick features, but whilst Marcus’s eyes and hair were the sloe-black of his pirate forebears, Justin’s face was lightened by the fair hair and green eyes that in his mother had captured the attention of Lord Freddie. He turned and took two glasses of wine from a passing flunkey, handing one to his cousin. Marcus grinned, inclining his dark head.
‘I have just returned from Cherwell,’ he said, in answer to Justin’s enquiry. ‘I was there longer than I had intended. The tenant there has been fleecing the estate for some time, but—’ he gave a sardonic smile ‘—it won’t be happening again!’
Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t believe our grandfather ever visited that house. Towards the end he never even left Trevithick. It led the unscrupulous to take advantage.’
Marcus nodded. He had inherited from his grandfather a bare fifteen months before and had swiftly discovered that people had indeed taken advantage of the late Earl’s infirmity in his last years. It seemed ironic that his grandfather, whose soubriquet had been the Evil Earl, had himself been cheated in his old age. The Trevithick estates were huge and the subsequent confusion had taken until now to sort out. There were still places that Marcus had not had the time to visit, business that remained unfinished.
‘Do you intend to stay in London for the little Season?’ Justin asked.
Marcus pulled a face. ‘I should do, as it’s Nell’s debut. I would like to, but—’
‘Lady Trevithick?’ Justin enquired.
Marcus took a mouthful of his wine. ‘It is damnably difficult to share a house with one’s mother after an absence of fifteen years!’ He grimaced. ‘I have already asked Gower to find me a set of rooms—preferably on the other side of town!’
Justin smothered a grin. ‘I saw Eleanor at Almack’s earlier this evening,’ he said, tactfully changing the subject. ‘Pershore and Harriman were dancing attendance, to name but two! She seems to have taken well, which is no surprise since she has all the Trevithick good looks!’
Marcus laughed. ‘I do believe that Mama is uncertain which of us to make a push to marry off first, though I believe she will have more success with my sister! I don’t look to take a wife just yet!’
‘Well, you certainly won’t find one here,’ Justin said, turning back to scan the crowds. ‘Women of another sort, perhaps…’
‘Perhaps.’ Marcus allowed his gaze to skim over the ranks of painted faces. ‘It is a complication I could do well without, however.’
Justin grinned. ‘There’s one that would be worth it!’
Marcus turned to follow his cousin’s gaze. The ballroom was packed and the dancers were executing a waltz, which was the excuse for much intimate and provocative behaviour. Yet in the middle of the swirling crowds, one couple stood out, for they danced beautifully but with total decorum. The gentleman was tall and fair, but he did not have much of Marcus’s attention. The lady in his arms was another matter, however.
She was taller than most of the women present and only a few inches short of his own six foot. She wore a silver mask and her silver domino swung wide as she danced, revealing beneath it a dress in matching silk that clung to a figure that Marcus could only describe as slender but voluptuous. Her face was pale with a hint of rose on the cheekbones and her ebony black hair was piled up on top of her head in a complicated mass of curls that was just asking to be released from its captivity. Marcus grinned. Her hair was not the only thing that looked as though it would benefit from being given its freedom—the silk dress hinted at all sorts of delightful possibilities and he was already entertaining the idea of peeling it off her like the skin of a ripe fruit. Glancing around, he realised that at least half the men in his vicinity were thinking along the same lines and his grin broadened. Perhaps they had tasted the fruit already, for the very fact that she was at the Cyprians’ Ball marked her as no lady. Marcus shrugged. It mattered little to him who had been before him, but he had every intention of being next in succession.
‘Setting your sights, Marcus?’ Justin Trevithick enquired, a smile in his voice. Like the Earl, he was watching the dancing couple. ‘From what I’ve just overheard, you are at least tenth in the queue!’
‘I don’t like waiting in line,’ Marcus murmured, not taking his gaze from the girl’s face.
‘Who is she, Justin?’
‘Damned if I know!’ Justin said cheerfully. ‘No one does! The guesses are inventive and range wide, but no one can put a name to the face!’
‘What about the lady’s escort?’
Justin was laughing at his cousin’s persistence. ‘Now, there I can help you! The fortunate gentleman is Kit Mostyn! A shame we are not on terms with the Mostyns and cannot beg an introduction!’
Marcus gave his cousin an incredulous look, then laughed in his turn. ‘Mostyn! How piquant! Then it will be doubly enjoyable to take the lady away from him…’
Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this love or war, Marcus?’
‘Both!’ his cousin replied promptly. ‘They say all is fair, do they not? Well, then…’
The dancers were circling closer to them now. Marcus thought that the lady looked very comfortable in Lord Mostyn’s arms, for she was talking eagerly and smiling up at him. Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He had nothing against Kit Mostyn personally, but there had been a feud between the Mostyn and Trevithick families for centuries. Marcus knew little of the detail of it, and just at the moment he had no interest in healing the breach. He waited until the couple were directly beside him, then made a slight movement that attracted the lady’s attention. She looked up and their eyes met for a long moment before she deliberately broke the contact. Marcus had the impression of a wide, smoky gaze, a slightly deeper silver colour than her dress. A moment later, she looked back at him over her shoulder, with what he could only interpret as a gesture of invitation.
Justin laughed. ‘A result, I think, Marcus!’
Marcus thought so too. He watched as the music ended and the lady and her partner strolled to the edge of the dance floor, then, without haste, he made his way towards them through the crowd.
‘Your servant, Mostyn.’ There was a mocking edge to Marcus’s drawl and he saw the younger man stiffen slightly before he returned his bow with the very slightest one of his own. Marcus’s attention had already moved to the lady, which was where his real interest lay. At close quarters she looked younger than he had imagined, but then he realised that it was not so much a youthful quality but an impression of innocence. Her eyes lacked the knowing look that characterised so many of her profession. Marcus reflected cynically that that air of innocence must be worth a great deal of money to this particular lady. Gentlemen would pay over the odds to possess so apparently unspoilt a beauty. It amused him, for in his youth he had become entangled with a Cyprian who had pretended to a naïveté she simply did not possess and had tried to sue him for breach of promise. Such can-dour was appealing but ultimately an illusion.
He held out his hand to her and after a moment she took it in her own.
‘Marcus Trevithick, at your service, ma’am. Would you do me the honour of granting me a dance?’
Marcus felt rather than saw Kit Mostyn flash the girl a look of unmistakable warning. She ignored him, smiling at Marcus with charm but absolutely no hint of coquetry. Grudgingly, Marcus had to admit that she might have been at a Dowager’s ball rather than a Cyprian’s masquerade. She had an inherent dignity. As she smiled, a small, unexpected dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.
‘Thank you, my lord. I should be delighted.’
He bowed slightly and led her on to the floor, where a set was forming for a country dance.
She carried herself with a poise that contrasted starkly with the flirting and ogling that was going on all around them and Marcus found it oddly touching—until he thought that this was no doubt all part of the act. Innocence, dignity…It was a clever way to set herself up as out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, her artfulness mattered little to him and he was confident that they could come to an understanding. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. He was beginning to want her very much. He studied her bent head and the way that the ebony curls brushed the nape of her neck. He wanted to touch her. Her mouth was as sultry as her figure, promising sensuous delight. He felt a powerful impulse to kiss her where they stood.
‘Will you give me a name for a name?’ he asked softly. ‘You already know who I am.’
Her smoky grey gaze brushed his face and made him feel suddenly heated. She smiled a little, the dimple flashing. ‘My name is Elizabeth, my lord. In fact, I am known as Beth.’
‘Yes? And…?’
She considered. ‘That is all I wish to tell you. There are no names at a masquerade. You have already broken the rules once by telling me your own identity.’
Marcus laughed. He had no problem with breaking any of society’s rules that he did not agree with.
‘What is Mostyn to you?’ he asked, as the music brought them together again. ‘I would like to know—before I attempt a trespass.’
He felt her fingers tremble in his before she freed herself and stepped away from him. She danced most gracefully.
‘Kit is very dear to me,’ she said, when eventually they came back together.
‘I see.’
‘I doubt it.’ Once again that silver gaze pierced him. ‘He is a friend. Closer than a friend—but that is all.’
An old lover, Marcus thought, with a vicious rush of envy. That would explain why they looked so comfortable together, yet had none of the heat of sensuality between them. Old passions had burned themselves out, leaving only the flame of friendship. It made him jealous to think of their past relationship, yet it also implied that there might be a vacancy…
‘And is there anyone else?’ Foolish question, when she probably had a dozen admirers paying for her favours! Yet her cool gaze searched his face and she answered quietly.
‘I do not care to discuss such matters here, my lord.’
Marcus allowed his gaze to hold hers for several long seconds. ‘Then may we discuss it in private? I confess that would suit me very well…’
He felt that he might reasonably have expected some encouragement at this point, even if it was only a smile, but Beth gave his suggestion thoughtful consideration, and then inclined her head.
‘Very well. There is a study off the hallway—’
‘I know it.’
She nodded again. The dance was finishing anyway, but no one paid any attention as she slipped from the line of dancers and went out into the entrance hall. Marcus waited a few moments before following her, pausing to see if he was observed. It seemed that everyone was too preoccupied with their own amours to be concerned about his.
He picked his way through the entwined couples and crossed the checkerboard black and white tiles of the hall. He vaguely remembered that the study was the third door on the left and he was just in time to catch the faintest swish of material as Beth whisked through the door, leaving it ajar for him.
Marcus smiled to himself. The situation was most promising and, despite his cynicism, he had to admit that there was something intriguing about the lady’s air of aloof mystery. Perhaps it was all assumed simply to whet jaded appetites, but it was working on him and he was more world-weary than most. He quickened his step, went into the study and closed the door behind him.
It was a small room with a mahogany card table and chairs in the middle and matching mahogany bookcases about the walls. Long amber curtains shut out the night and the only light came from one lamp, standing on a side table.
Beth was standing beside the window. She had taken the dice from their box on the table and was tossing them lightly in one hand. She did not look up when Marcus came in and for a moment he thought he sensed something tense and wary in her stance, though the impression was fleeting.
He took a step forward. ‘Would you care to indulge in a game of chance, sweetheart?’ he asked.
She looked at him then, a stare as straight and protracted as the one she had first given him in the ballroom. Marcus was amused. He knew of few men and even fewer women who were so direct. Her eyes were a shadowed silver behind the mask, her gaze as deliberate and fearless as a cat.
‘If you are sure that you wish to play, my lord.’
They were talking in double entendres now and Marcus appreciated her quick wit. It made the pursuit even more enjoyable. He wondered if she knew who he was, even though he had given only his name and not his title. It was entirely possible. She had focused on him from the first and he did not flatter himself that it was simply because she was attracted to him. She might well consider that his status and physical attributes outweighed a lack of fortune. And fortune was relative anyway. He could pay her well enough.
He kept his eyes on her face and smiled slowly. ‘I’m sure. Which game do you prefer?’
The lady smiled too, the dimple quivering again at the corner of her deliciously curved mouth. Marcus suddenly wished he could cut to the chase and simply kiss her. It was a high-risk strategy and might backfire, but it was very tempting. He took a step closer. She took one back.
‘Hazard might be appropriate,’ she said coolly, tossing the dice from one hand to the other. ‘One throw of the dice. The winner takes all.’
Marcus hesitated. It was clear from her words that she would be his prize if he won and he considered it very sporting of her to offer her services for free. The reckoning would come later, of course, if they suited each other: the villa, the carriage, the jewels…
But if she won the wager…
‘I like your terms, but first I need to know what you want from me if I lose,’ he drawled. ‘I do not have a fortune to offer. What would you settle for, sweetheart?’
He waited confidently for her to name her price. A necklace of diamonds, perhaps, to outclass the exquisite but tasteful grey pearls already around her neck.
She moved closer until he could smell her perfume. It was a subtle mix of jasmine and rose petals, warm as the sun on the skin, and it sent his senses into even more of a spin. Damn it, whatever the price, it had to be worth it.
‘I don’t want a fortune,’ she said sweetly, ‘just a small part of your patrimony. I want Fairhaven Island.’
Marcus stared. It comprehensively answered the question of whether or not she knew who he was, but it seemed an extraordinary suggestion. Fairhaven fell in the part of his estate that he had not yet had time to visit, but as far as he was concerned, it was a storm-swept isle in the middle of the Bristol Channel that supported a few people, a flock of sheep and nothing else. There was no earthly reason he could see why it should appeal to a courtesan. It was worth absolutely nothing at all.
Part of his mind prompted him to ask a few questions and get to the bottom of the mystery. The other part, tantalised by her perfume, suggested that there was no need to cavil and he was bound to win the bet anyway. Even if he lost he was fairly certain that he could persuade her to humour him. The time for a discussion on land and property was not now, when he wanted to sweep her into his arms, but later and best left to the lawyers.
‘Very well,’ he said, adding slowly, ‘Do you always honour your bets?’
She looked away for the first time. ‘I do not usually gamble, my lord. Do you honour yours?’
Marcus laughed. No man would have dared ask him that question but, after all, he had questioned her integrity first. And she still had not really answered him.
‘I never renege,’ he said. He took her hand in his and felt her tremble slightly. Her skin was very soft; he turned the hand over and pressed a kiss on the palm. ‘But you did not answer my question.’
There was a flash of something in her eyes that almost looked like fear but it was gone as swiftly as it had come. She raised her chin.
‘I will pay my debt, my lord—if I lose.’
Marcus nodded. He drew her closer until one of her palms was resting against his chest.
‘And if I wish to take something on credit?’ he asked, his voice a little rough.
‘Then you might find yourself even further in debt since there is no guarantee that you would win.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘If you are willing to take the risk—’
It took Marcus only a split second to decide that he was. He bent his head and brought his mouth down on hers.
He was experienced enough not to try to take too much too soon. Even a Cyprian liked to be courted and he was no naïve boy to pounce without finesse. He kissed her gently, exploratively, holding her like china until he felt the tension slide from her body and she started to respond to him. She tasted soft and sweet and very innocent. She even trembled in his arms. It had to be an illusion, but it was such a beguiling one that Marcus felt his self-control slipping dangerously. He deepened the kiss and, after a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back tentatively, pressing a little closer to him. Desire surged through his body, so powerful it pushed all other thoughts aside and he pulled her to him fiercely, careless now of gentleness. But it was too late—she was withdrawing from him, as elusive as she had ever been. Marcus stifled a groan of frustration.
‘The game, my lord?’ Her voice was husky.
The game. He had forgotten. Intent on a different game of his own devising, he had not been certain that she would persist in their wager. Still, he was quite willing to indulge her.
‘If you wish.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘All on the one throw.’ He gave her a slight bow. ‘I will concede you the honour of calling the main, madam.’
Beth threw him one swift glance. ‘Then I call a nine.’
She took the dice up and cast them on to the walnut table. Marcus watched them spin and settle on the polished wood. A five and a four. She really had the devil’s own luck. He could not believe it. He smiled a little. ‘Will you play for the best of three?’
‘Certainly not.’ She sounded breathless and as she turned into the light he saw the expression on her face. He had expected triumph or greed. What he saw was relief.
‘Fairhaven,’ she said, on a questioning note. ‘You will honour your bet, my lord?’
Marcus did not reply. For the first time, doubt surfaced in his mind, faint but troubling. She had come close to him again; her skirt brushed against his thigh. Part of him responded to her proximity, but he clamped down hard on his desire and tried to concentrate.
‘Why do you want it?’ he asked.
She laughed then and he saw the triumph that had been missing a moment before. ‘Your question comes a little late, my lord! Surely that is academic now.’ She took a step back and her silken skirts rustled. ‘My man of business will call on yours on the morrow. Goodnight, my lord!’
She turned to go, but Marcus caught her arm in a tight grip and spun her round to face him. He tore the mask from her face with impatient fingers. Without it she was even more striking than he had supposed. Her face was a pure oval, the smoky eyes set far apart beneath flyaway black brows, the nose small and straight, the sultry mouth that was not smiling now. She was breathing very quickly and he could tell that she was afraid. And that she was not the courtesan she pretended to be. For some reason that took all the anger out of him.
‘One of us is in the wrong place, I believe,’ he said slowly.
‘It is I,’ she said simply. ‘Did you truly believe me a Cyprian, my lord?’
Marcus started to laugh. He could not help himself. ‘Assuredly. Until I kissed you.’
That gave him the advantage. He saw the colour come up into her face and she tried to free herself from his grip. He stood back, letting her go with exaggerated courtesy. No, indeed, this was no courtesan, but even so he still wanted her. He had no idea whom she was, but he intended to find out.
‘You will honour your bet?’ she asked again.
Marcus grinned, folding his arms. ‘I will not.’
He saw the fury come into her eyes and held her gaze steadfastly with his own.
‘I will make you do so!’ she said.
‘How?’ Marcus shifted slightly. ‘Are you telling me that you would have honoured yours had I won? If so, I would press you to play me for the best of three!’
She blushed even harder at that but her mouth set in a stony line. ‘What I would have done is immaterial, my lord, since you lost. You claimed never to renege!’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I lied.’
‘A liar and a cheat,’ Beth said, in a tone that dripped contempt. ‘I repeat, my man of business will call upon yours on the morrow, my lord, and will expect you to have ready the title to Fairhaven to hand over.’
The study door closed behind her with a decided snap and Marcus heard the quick, angry tap of her footsteps receding across the marble hall. He picked the dice up casually in one hand and sat down in one of the chairs. A whimsical smile touched his lips. He could not believe that his judgement had been so faulty. To mistake a lady for a Cyprian, even given the circumstances…He had been thoroughly misled by his desire, like a youth in his salad days. Led by the nose—or some other part of his anatomy, perhaps. It had never happened to him before.
He tossed the dice absent-mindedly in his hand. So he had been richly deceived and for an intriguing reason. He wanted to know more about that. He wanted to know more of the lady. Damn it, he still wanted her. Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. And he needed a drink. Urgently.
Justin found him in the refreshment room after he had already downed a glass of brandy in one swallow. Justin watched him take a refill and despatch it the same way, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Unlucky in love, Marcus?’
‘Unlucky in games of chance,’ Marcus said feelingly. He took Justin’s arm and drew him into the shelter of one of the pillars, away from prying gossips. ‘Justin, you know more of West Country genealogy than I! Tell me, does Kit Mostyn have a sister?’
Justin nodded. ‘He has a widowed younger sister, Charlotte. Allegedly a blonde beauty, but she lives retired so it is difficult to say with certainty.’
Marcus frowned. Beth had never been a blonde and she could scarcely be described as retiring. Perhaps she was Mostyn’s mistress after all. Yet something in him rebelled at such a thought.
‘What is all this about, Marcus?’ Justin was asking, looking puzzled. ‘I thought you were about to make a new conquest, old fellow, not indulge in a mystery play!’
‘So did I,’ Marcus said thoughtfully. His face lightened and he held up the glass. ‘Only find me the bottle and I will tell you the whole story!’
‘I cannot believe that you just did that, Beth.’
Christopher Mostyn sounded mild, but his cousin knew full well that he was angry. She had known him well enough and long enough to tell.
Beth sighed. ‘It was your idea to escort me there, Kit—’
‘I may have escorted you to the Cyprians’ Ball, but I did not expect you to behave like one!’
Now Kit’s voice sounded clipped, forbidding further discussion. Beth sighed again. Kit was head of the family and as such she supposed he had the right to censure her behaviour. The fact that he seldom did owed more to his easygoing nature than her obedience.
Beth rested her head back against the carriage’s soft cushions and closed her eyes. Truth to tell, she could not believe that she had behaved as she had. And she had only told Kit half the story, the half relating to the wager. She knew that if she had told Kit that Marcus Trevithick had kissed her, very likely he would have stormed back and challenged the Earl to a duel and matters would be immeasurably worse.
Beth opened her eyes again and stared out of the window. They were travelling through the streets of London at a decorous pace and the light from the lamps on the pavement skipped across the inside of the carriage in bars of gold and black. It hid her blushes and a very good thing too, for whenever she thought of Marcus Trevithick, she felt the telltale colour come into her face and the heat suffuse her entire body.
Not only had she overstepped the mark—by a long chalk—but she knew that she had been completely out of her depth with such a man. She had a lot of courage and, allied to her impulsive nature, she knew it could be her downfall. However, her nerve had almost deserted her in that secluded room. If he had won the bet…Beth shivered. Like as not he would have demanded his prize there and then on the card table or the floor…But he had not won. She took a deep, steadying breath.
Marcus Trevithick. Children of her family were taught to hate the Trevithicks from the moment they were born. There were tales told at the nursemaid’s knee—stories of treachery and evil. The Earls of Trevithick were jumped-up nobodies, whereas the Mostyns could trace their ancestry back to the Conquest and beyond. The Trevithicks had stolen the Mostyn estates during the Civil War and had wrested the island of Fairhaven from them only two generations back, taking the family treasure and the Sword of Saintonge into the bargain. No good had come to the Mostyns ever since—their fortunes had fallen whilst the Trevithicks had flourished like an evil weed.
Marcus Trevithick. Beth shivered again. She could not believe that he was evil, but he was certainly dangerous. He was also the most attractive man that she had ever met. Having been a child bride, her experience was necessarily small, but even so she was certain that he could stand comparison in any company.
The carriage drew up outside the house in Upper Grosvenor Street that she had rented for the little Season. Kit descended and helped her out with cold, studied politeness. He did not say a word as he escorted her up the steps and into the entrance hall. Beth bit her lip. She knew she was well and truly in disgrace.
Charlotte Cavendish, Kit’s sister, was sitting in the red drawing room, her netting resting on the cushion beside her. She was reading from Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield but cast the book aside with a smile as they came in. Like her brother, she was very fair with sparkling blue eyes, slender and tall. A scrap of lace was perched on her blonde curls as a concession to a widow’s cap.
‘There you are! I had almost given you up and gone to bed…’
Her smile faded as she looked from her brother’s stony face to Beth’s flushed one.
‘Oh, dear. What has happened?’
‘Ask your cousin,’ Kit said shortly, stripping off his white gloves. ‘I will be in the book room, enjoying a peaceful glass of brandy!’
Charlotte’s gaze moved round to Beth. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said again, but there was an irrepressible twinkle in her eyes. ‘What have you done, Beth?’
Beth wandered over to the big red wing-chair opposite and curled up in it. She was beginning to feel annoyed as well as guilty.
‘It is all very well for Kit to act the moralist, but it was his idea to go to the Cyprians’ Ball in the first place—’
Charlotte gave a little squeak and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Beth! You told me you were going to Lady Radley’s rout!’
‘Well, so we did, but then Kit had the idea of the Cyprians’ Ball!’ Beth wriggled uncomfortably under her cousin’s horrified stare. ‘We were masked, so I thought there would be no harm…’ She looked defiant. ‘Very well, Lottie, I admit it! I was curious!’
‘Oh, Beth,’ Charlotte said in a failing voice. ‘I know I cannot accompany you about the town, but I thought you would come to no harm with Kit!’
‘Well, you were wrong!’ Beth said mutinously. It suddenly seemed much easier to blame the whole thing on her cousin. ‘None of this would have happened if Kit had not decided to have some fun!’
‘None of what?’ Charlotte asked, in the tone of someone who was not entirely sure they wanted to know the answer.
Beth yawned. She was very tired and suddenly wanted her bed, but equally she wanted someone to confide in. Her cousin had been as close as a sister this year past, closer than they had ever been in childhood when Charlotte’s five years’ seniority had put Beth quite in awe of her.
Beth, Kit and Charlotte had grown up together, but time and differing fortunes had scattered them. Charlotte had married an officer and followed the drum, Kit had spent several years in India and Beth had been orphaned at seventeen and left penniless. Friends and relatives had murmured of schoolteaching or governessing, but two days after her bereavement, Sir Frank Allerton, a widower whose estate marched with that of the Mostyns, had called to offer her an alternative future. He had not been a friend of the late Lord Mostyn, but Beth knew that her father had esteemed him as an honest man, and so she had accepted.
She had never regretted her decision, but she did regret the lack of children of her marriage. Her home and parish affairs had given her plenty to do, but when Frank had died, leaving her a widow at nineteen, she had been lonely. Though Kit had inherited Mostyn Hall and the title he was seldom at home, and it was Beth who kept an eye on the estate. Then, a year into Beth’s widowhood, Charlotte had lost her husband during the retreat from Almeira and had come back to Mostyn. Fortunately she and Beth had found that they got on extremely well. Charlotte was cool and considered where Beth was impetuous and tempered some of her cousin’s more madcap ideas. Beth’s liveliness prevented her cousin from falling into a decline.
‘So what has happened?’ Charlotte asked again, recalling Beth’s attention to the lamp-lit room. ‘You went to the Ball…’
‘Yes. We only intended to stay for a little, although I think Kit might have lingered if he had been there alone!’ Beth said, with a sudden, mischievous grin. ‘At any rate, it was not as I had imagined, Lottie! There was the most licentious behaviour—’
Charlotte looked exasperated. ‘Well, what did you expect, Beth? You were at the Cyprians’ Ball, not a Court Reception!’
Beth sighed. ‘Yes, I know! Everyone was staring at me—no doubt because they thought me a demirep!’ she added, before her cousin could make the observation herself.
‘Yes, well, it was a reasonable assumption—’ Charlotte looked at her frankly ‘—and you do have a lovely figure, Beth! The gentlemen—’
‘Spare me,’ Beth said hastily, remembering the disturbing heat in Marcus Trevithick’s eyes. ‘I thought you wished to hear what had happened, Lottie?’
‘Yes,’ her cousin said obligingly, ‘what did?’
‘Well, Kit and I had a few dances and, as we were waltzing, the behaviour was becoming more and more uninhibited so I decided it would be wise to come home. Then a gentleman came up to us and asked me to dance.’
Beth looked away. When Marcus Trevithick had first approached her she had been amused and some dangerous imp of mischief had prompted her to play along. She had not known his identity then, but she had been tempted by the atmosphere, tempted by him…
She looked back at Charlotte, who was waiting in silence. ‘We danced a country dance together and he introduced himself as Marcus Trevithick. I had had no notion—I have never met Trevithick before, and although he knew who Kit was he did not know me, though he made strenuous attempts to find out my name…’
‘I’m sure he did,’ Charlotte said drily. ‘Did he proposition you, Beth?’
‘Lottie!’ Beth looked shocked, then smiled a little. ‘Well…’
‘Well, who could blame him?’ Charlotte seemed torn between disapproval and laughter. ‘The poor man, thinking you Haymarket-ware and no doubt getting a set-down for his trouble!’
‘It was not quite like that,’ Beth admitted slowly. ‘Yes, he did…make his interest plain, but I did not discourage him exactly…’ Suddenly, foolishly, it seemed difficult to explain. Or at least difficult to explain without giving some of her feelings away, Beth thought hopelessly. And Charlotte was no fool. She would read between the lines and see all the things that Beth had not admitted.
‘It is just that I thought of Fairhaven,’ she said, in a rush. ‘You know that I had been intending to make Trevithick a financial offer for the island! Suddenly I thought how much more fun it would be to make a wager…’ She risked a glance at her cousin from under her lashes and saw that Charlotte was frowning now, all hint of amusement forgotten.
‘So I suggested that we step apart, and then I challenged him to a game of Hazard, with Fairhaven as the stake—’
‘Beth!’ Charlotte said on a note of entreaty. ‘Tell me this is not true! What did you offer against his stake?’
Beth did not reply. Their eyes, grey and blue, met and held, before Charlotte gave a little groan and covered her face with her hands.
‘Do you wish for your smelling salts, Lottie?’ Beth asked, uncurling from her armchair and hurrying across to the armoire. ‘You will feel much more the thing in a moment!’
‘I feel very well, thank you!’ Charlotte said, although she looked a little pale. ‘I feel better, in fact, than you would have done if Trevithick had claimed his prize! I take it he did not win?’
‘No, he did not!’ Beth felt the heat come into her face. ‘I won! And if I had lost I should not have honoured the bet! It was only a game—’
‘No wonder Kit cut up rough!’ Charlotte said faintly. ‘Stepping aside with a gentleman who already thought you a Cyprian, challenging him to a game of chance, offering yourself as the stake…’ She took the smelling salts and inhaled gratefully. The pale rose colour came back into her face.
‘I have shocked you,’ Beth said remorsefully.
‘Yes, you have.’ Charlotte’s gaze searched Beth’s face before she gave a slight shake of the head. ‘Each time you do something outrageous, Beth, I tell myself that you could not possibly shock me more—and yet you do!’
‘I am sorry!’ Beth said, feeling contrite and secretly vowing not to tell Charlotte any more of the encounter. ‘You know I am desperate to reclaim Fairhaven!’
‘Not so desperate, surely, that you would do anything to take it back!’ Charlotte sat back and patted the seat beside her. ‘This obsession is ridiculous, Beth! The island was lost to our family years ago—leave it in the past, where it belongs!’
Beth did not reply. She had learned long ago that Charlotte was practical by nature and did not share the deep mystical tug of their heritage. Beth could remember standing on the cliffs of Devon as a small child and staring out across the flat, pewter sea to where a faint smudge on the horizon signified the island that they had lost. The tales of her grandfather, the dashing Charles Mostyn, and his struggle with the dastardly George Trevithick, had captured her child’s imagination and never let it go. Lord Mostyn had lost the island through treachery and, fifty years later, Beth had vowed to take it back and restore the family fortunes. In her widowhood, a woman of means, she had twice offered George Trevithick, the Evil Earl, a fair price for the island. He had rejected her approach haughtily. But Beth was persistent and she had fully intended to repeat the offer to his grandson, the new Earl. It was one of the reasons that she had come up to London. Fate, however, had intervened…fate, and her own foolish impulse.
But perhaps it had not been so foolish, Beth thought. Whatever the circumstances Fairhaven was hers now, won in fair play. And she intended to claim it.
‘What sort of man is Marcus Trevithick, Beth?’ Charlotte asked casually. ‘What did you think of him?’
Beth jumped. She was glad of the lamp-lit shadows and the firelight, for in the clear daylight she did not doubt that her face would have betrayed her.
‘He is perhaps of an age with Kit, or a little older,’ she said, glad that she sounded so casual herself. ‘Tall, dark…He has something of the look of the old Earl about him.’
‘The Evil Earl,’ Charlotte said slowly. ‘Do you think that his grandson has inherited his character along with his estates?’
Beth shivered a little. ‘Who knows? I was scarce with him long enough to find out.’
‘Yet you must have gained some impression of his nature and disposition?’ Charlotte persisted. ‘Was he pleasing?’
Pleasing? Who could deny it? Beth remembered the strength of Marcus’s arms around her, the compelling demand of his lips against hers. He was a man quite outside her experience. But he was also a liar and a cheat. She saw again his mocking smile. She turned her hot face away.
‘No, indeed. He was a proud, arrogant man. I did not like him!’
Charlotte yawned and got to her feet. ‘Well, I am for my bed.’ She bent and dropped a soft kiss on Beth’s cheek, pausing as she straightened up. ‘You did not tell Lord Trevithick your name?’
‘No,’ Beth said, reflecting that that at least was true.
‘And though you were with Kit, you were masked.’ Charlotte sounded satisfied. ‘Well, at least he will not know your identity. For that we must be grateful, I suppose, for it would cause the most monstrous scandal if it were known that you had attended the Cyprians’ Ball! People would assume—’ She broke off. ‘Well, never mind. But perhaps you will think twice in future before you play such a hoyden’s trick again!’
The door closed softly behind her. Beth lay back on the cushions and let out her breath in a huge, shaky sigh. Charlotte was in the right of it, of course—it would be very damaging for it to become known that she had been at the Cyprians’ Ball. And what Charlotte did not know was that whilst she had not given Trevithick her name, he had seen her face without the mask. Beth stared into the fire. Well, it mattered little. She would send Gough to call on the Earl’s man of business in the morning, and once the title to Fairhaven was in her pocket, she would leave for Devon without delay.
Even though he had said he would not honour his bet, Beth could see no reason why Marcus Trevithick would decline to surrender the island to her, for it could not be worth much to him. He had lands and houses far more valuable and there was no sentimental reason for him to hold on to the least important part of his estate. If he persisted in his refusal, however, she was still prepared to pay him, and, Beth thought with satisfaction, one could not say fairer than that. She had heard that his pockets were to let and she was certain that he would see the sense of the matter.
She raked out the embers of the fire, doused the lamp and went upstairs to bed. It should have been easy to put the matter out of her head but for some reason the memory of the encounter—the memory of Marcus Trevithick—still lingered as she lay in her bed. She told herself that she had seen the last of him, but some unnerving instinct told her that she had not. Then she told herself that she did not wish to see him again and the same all-knowing voice in her head told her that she lied.
