The Twelfth Night Wager Page 5

  “I was twenty at the time and remember it well. Lord Hardwicke is a man I admire, for his integrity as well as his positions on many questions before Parliament. Just now Sir Alex and others are working with me on the Catholic issue. Hardwicke has been a stalwart on emancipation, something I much favor.”

  Apparently there was more substance to Eustace than she had initially thought. She had known he was an admired member of Parliament, but this seemed to involve more than merely making an appearance as some peers did. Perhaps his rakish ways masked a more serious nature, one that had him deeply involved with significant issues of the day. She wondered.

  “Have you always been interested in politics?”

  “Yes, though my father frowned upon it, as he did my other pursuits. He wanted a son who would concern himself with only the land, his tenants and their crops. He considered politics unworthy of his heir.”

  “I’m glad you saw fit to defy him, at least as to your work in the Lords.”

  Eustace chuckled, finding some amusement with her remark. He gazed at the earl in the painting, and she studied him. The viscount had a strong nose but one well suited to his face, balanced by high cheekbones, sensuous lips and a thick head of wavy auburn hair. He was a handsome man by any standard.

  He must have sensed her watching him, for he turned and smiled again. “Do you watch me, my lady? As for me, I cannot seem to get enough of the sight of you.”

  She shook her head and smiled in return. “Such flattery, Eustace. You do live up to your reputation.”

  He took her hand. “In your case, my lady, it is not flattery. It is true, and not just the outside, but I sense that as a person you are lovely as well. There is such a peaceful air about you. And then, in complete contrast, there is that love of speed you seem to have in common with me. Just the right spice, I should think.” He chuckled. “I look forward to tomorrow’s ride.”

  With that he kissed her palm, sending shivers down her spine, and escorted her back to the drawing room.

  They had been gone only moments, but she felt like it had been much longer. Even stranger, something had changed in her thinking toward the man. There was more to him that the rake she thought. A young man who would defy his father to pursue politics was driven by more than a desire for conquests in the bedchamber.

  Which made him more dangerous still.

  * * *

  The next day Christopher was up early to join the men for the shooting party.

  By mid-morning, the pheasants were no longer foraging in the fields and had to be flushed from their hiding places. Lord Hardwicke kept a kennel of springer spaniels for that purpose, and once the men took their positions behind a line of beech trees, poised to shoot, they were set loose. Ears flying, the dogs went to work dashing through the brush forcing the birds to wing.

  The birds’ wings whirred, and Christopher glimpsed the russet plumage and long tail feathers. His shotgun erupted, breaking the stillness of the morning air and joined by many others in a cacophony of sound. The spaniels, having been recalled to their masters, upon command took out after the fallen birds to retrieve them.

  Christopher was shooting next to Ormond, who loved the sport as much as he did. As the morning wore on, each of them shot two braces, four birds. Christopher was pleased. If all the hunters did the same there would be plenty of roast pheasant for dinner.

  He knew some of the men would stay for the midday search for partridge, when the pheasants took to their roosting places in the grassy stands and marches, but Christopher had better plans for the afternoon. Handing his gun to a servant waiting to assist, he dropped his birds in the cart where they were being collected for transport to the kitchens.

  “I bid you good hunting, Ormond,” he called. “I’ve plans for a ride.”

  Ormond looked at him with curious eyes. “I trust your other hunt goes as well?”

  “Slower than I might like, but then, it’s a delicate operation.” With a droll smile he added, “Still, I sense victory in the air.”

  As he headed back to the manor, he could hear Ormond’s laughter all the way up the hill. Let the marquess have his humor. Christopher would have the Lady Leisterfield.

  * * *

  Grace was on her way back from the gardens when the footman approached.

  “Lady Leisterfield?”

  “Yes?”

  “A message for you, my lady.” The footman held out a small silver tray.

  She paused to thank him and accepted the envelope, taking a seat on a nearby stone bench. Inside was a shock:

  I will be expecting payment at the folly Saturday afternoon at 4 o’clock. Be there, or I will find you in the manor house.

  —Lord P.

  Here? The despicable man would come here to pursue his wretched payment for keeping Charles’s secret? Surely he was doing this merely to harass her, as she would hardly carry such a sum with her to Wimpole. Then she remembered Lord Hardwicke had said there would be additional guests coming for the ball. Pickard must be one of them.

  The horrible little man!

  Hurrying into her bedchamber to change into her riding habit, Grace welcomed the distraction of a ride with Eustace. She donned the new habit she’d ordered with Lady Ormond the day they’d gone shopping, thankful the marchioness had suggested it. The soft green wool was warm and comfortable and fit her well.

  Eustace was prompt, already waiting for her in front of the estate with two horses, his chestnut and a black mare.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. “You seem a bit harried.”

  “Yes, I’m well, though the morning was a bit unsettling.” Why had she said that? Perhaps she was tempted to tell him of the threat that loomed? Yet, he was not her friend she reminded herself. She would tell no one, not even Lady Claremont. But when his face took on a worried expression she offered, “It’s nothing I can speak of.”

  As if to cheer her, he smiled and said, “Then a good gallop is just what you need.”

  They rode the horses at a walk at first while he told her about the morning’s hunt.

  When he described the dog that had retrieved one of his birds she said, “I had a springer spaniel once who looked much like that. He was a gift from my father on my seventh birthday. I’d long admired the dogs he used for shooting fowl.” She smiled at the pleasant memory. “I think he realized, too, that I wanted—perhaps needed—a friend. The dog became my constant companion.”

  “You loved that dog,” Eustace stated.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “How could an only child not love a cheerful animal happy to be at her side? I miss him.” Then she spurred her mare into a gallop.

  “Ah, the lady will have a race!” Eustace shouted from behind her.

  She could hear the pounding of his chestnut’s hooves as the viscount spurred his horse into a run to join her, and the wind whipped around her face. The horses’ hooves tore up the ground, urging each other on to faster speeds. Exhilarated as they galloped over the long stretches of green, Grace soon left behind the sadness of the memory of her dog who was no longer with her.

  Finally, they slowed the horses to a trot. Grace’s heart was still racing, and her cheeks were hot from the exertion.

  “That was wonderful!”

  Eustace smiled, his copper eyes twinkling. “I never would have guessed the demure Lady Leisterfield had such a good seat or could give me such competition. Why, you’re nearly Newmarket meet material, my lady.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “I love a good race. As a girl I used to gallop over the hills at Ashdown.”

  “Well, then. Since I can see you thrive on such gallivanting, I shall see we race often.”

  Grace wondered at his words. After all, she was nothing to him but a wager. When he lost, he would move on to other women. The thought saddened her, for she enjoyed his company and knew in her heart she didn’t want him to be with other women. But perhaps once she rejected his attentions, as she must, they might remain friends.

&n
bsp; “I shall hold you to that, my lord.”

  “It’s Eustace, remember? And I hope you do.”

  Chapter 5

  Christopher was frustrated as he mounted his horse for the fox-hunt. It had been two days since his afternoon ride with Lady Leisterfield. He’d glimpsed her briefly at dinner, but they were never seated together. Due to those arrangements and the press of Lord Hardwicke’s other guests, their only exchanges had been polite greetings. Several of the unattached men paid court to the lovely young widow, which Christopher supposed was inevitable though he didn’t particularly like the idea. He told himself it was only because if he were to seduce her he must have her to himself.

  This morning he intended to ride to hounds with Ormond and Alvanley. The quick jumps and turns and the challenge of chasing the fox were the distraction he needed, and the prospect of a November fox-hunt was the reason he’d brought his own hunter to the Hardwicke affair in addition to his chestnut gelding.

  Lord Hardwicke, who had declined the hunt but saw them off, had invited some of his neighbors to participate so they had a good group of men assembled. Ormond and Alvanley seated themselves on their mounts and joined Christopher, all three men calming their nervous horses.

  The bugle screamed, and the hunters took off at a run following the baying hounds over a rise. It had rained the night before and the fields were muddy, so the wet brown liquid splashed onto Christopher’s thighs. It was a small matter given the thrill of the chase. Perhaps, he considered, it was not unlike his pursuit of women. The challenge of unexpected obstacles, the rush of victory. He thrived on it! But he couldn’t help wondering if it would always be thus.

  Alvanley, an avid horseman, spread his wit along the course, much to Christopher’s enjoyment until the baron alighted on a subject too close to Christopher’s heart.

  “You’ve slowed your pace,” shouted Alvanley over his shoulder. “Must be all that work for the wager you’re striving to win. Tired out before the day’s end, what?”

  “My very thought,” said Ormond with a grin as he cantered at Christopher’s side.

  “Now let’s see, what woman could it be…?” said Alvanley, talking to the trees.

  Christopher was glad for the sudden jump in the course that brought an end to the baron’s speculation. Alvanley was too clever by far. He might guess and guess right. Christopher would not have the lady’s name drawn into conversation. In addition to his oath, he was feeling very protective of the widow.

  They skidded around a bend and came to a stop as the hounds, having lost the scent, floundered. Then one loud howl signaled a dog had caught the scent and they were off again riding at breakneck speed, flying over downed tree limbs.

  Soon, the hounds had their victory and the hunt was over. The end of the hunt always brought him a spirit of melancholy. Still, he was content with a good hunt, and as Christopher rode back to the manor house, his thoughts turning once again to Lady Leisterfield. What would she be doing now? Perhaps a card game in the library, or as he had observed was her wont she might have spent the morning in the gardens. Determined to see her but splattered with mud, he planned to clean up and go in search of the lady, hoping for some time alone with her before dinner.

  An hour later, he had shed the mud in Wimpole’s most elegant bathing chamber, the one with the new plunge bath, changed his clothes and headed for the library where, he had it on good information, the ladies were playing cards.

  * * *

  Grace stretched her back, aching for a walk. When she thought about it, she realized she wasn’t all that fond of cards, and loo with its endless rounds and accompanying gossip always left her in need of a good stretch and a sherry. The latter, to their host’s credit, was close at hand.

  Lady Claremont shuffled, while Grace allowed her gaze to shift from their table to the other tables where more guests played cards. From there she eyed the tall stacks of leather volumes that lined the walls. She had browsed among the shelves before joining Emily and Muriel and the two brunettes—Miss Pricilla Wentworth and Miss Rachel Stoke—in this game of loo. Many of the books dealt with horticultural subjects. Perhaps that was why her late husband had so enjoyed the company of Lord Hardwicke. They would have found much to talk about.

  Again she thought of the liaison Charles had fallen into. It was not so difficult to understand. But she deeply regretted he had taken that path.

  In addition to a formidable collection of books, the library featured many tall windows, a large fireplace and an Axminster carpet with gold and yellow shells and green palm fronds on a chocolate background. The same design was reflected in the ornate ceiling and the rest of the room. It was a place where a man would feel comfortable. A man like Eustace, surprisingly. He might be a Corinthian, indulging in all manner of sport, but at Wimpole she’d seen a new side of him. He was thoughtful and intelligent, not the superficial rake she had first thought him to be.

  “You seem distracted, Grace,” remarked Muriel. “Have you lost interest in the game?”

  “After many hours of sitting, I believe am in need of some fresh air.”

  “They’re to bring in a small luncheon,” said the violet-eyed Emily. “If you wait, we shall have food to revive us.”

  “I just love cards,” sighed Miss Wentworth, the younger of the two brunettes. “I would be quite content to play all day.”

  “You prattle as much as you play, dear Priscilla,” teased her friend, “more eager to hear the on-dits from London than you are to watch the cards. You’ve lost the last two rounds.”

  “Well, Rachel, I need not look beyond Wimpole at the moment for good gossip. Have you been observing Viscount Eustace? He has been most charming to me.” Pricilla raised her nose slightly. “If you’d taken the time to notice, you would see he has several times favored me with his attentions.”

  Lady Claremont raised her brows and looked up from her cards. “Best not to put the goose in front of the fox, my dear. You might end up in his jaws.”

  Grace hid a smile behind her cards, but Emily was not so subtle. “That one is not for the inexperienced, Miss Wentworth,” she counseled. “Besides, as far as I can see, Eustace has favored all the women here this week, spreading his charm evenly among them like so much jam on bread.”

  “Speak of the devil,” said Lady Claremont.

  The five women looked toward the doorway that led to the smaller book room. There on the threshold stood Eustace, in a dark blue coat over a white shirt and buff-colored breeches. Grace thought him very dashing. When his eyes focused on her, followed by a warm smile, her heart skipped.

  She thought she heard Priscilla Wentworth let out a sigh. Apparently Eustace had made another conquest. How tiring it must be for him, she thought to herself, all those ladies falling at his feet. But even to herself, that sounded like jealousy.

  He strode to their table, stopping along the way to greet other guests playing cards. When finally he reached them, he wished the group of five women good-day.

  “How’s the card game going, ladies?”

  “It’s not whist,” said the countess, “but ’twill do as it’s loo.” She chuckled at her own rhyme, and the ivory feather above her silver locks flicked in jaunty fashion. Emily rolled her eyes.

  Eustace chuckled, too. “You look well settled into the game.”

  “Have you just come from the fox-hunt?” Grace asked.

  “I have. But you can be thankful I first cleaned off the mud. It’s positively soggy out there. Still, it was worth it; Ormond, Alvanley and I had a good run through the woods.”

  “It sounds delightful,” said Emily. “I love the sounds of the bugle and the hounds eager to give chase to the wily fox. Did you catch him?”

  “Sadly, yes. The end of the chase is always so…final, and somehow disappointing.”

  Eustace’s words drew her attention and she noticed his serious expression. She had the feeling he wasn’t talking only about fox-hunts.

  “Sit yourself down, my lord,” said the
dowager countess, “and join us for the next round.”

  “I would, but I have a need to see a promise fulfilled. I came to take Lady Leisterfield for the walk I promised her days ago. I am late to deliver on my word. Forgive me.” He looked pleadingly in her direction, and Grace, on to his game, refrained from asking, “What promise?” as she’d first been tempted.

  Relieved at the excuse to be free of the card-play, Grace rose. “I am delighted you finally remembered. And your arrival just now is well-timed. A walk is precisely what I need.”

  Grace could feel the look of envy from the younger brunette as she took Eustace’s proffered arm and they strolled out of the library. Emily had no designs on the viscount that Grace could ascertain, and perhaps neither did Miss Stoke, but Priscilla Wentworth was in awe of the handsome rake. Did the young debutante really have no idea the danger into which she would throw herself?

  She turned to Eustace. “You know as well as I that we had no such walk scheduled, my lord…but I am glad all the same that you saw fit to imagine one. I was weary of sitting so long, and I confess I am not a cardplayer at heart.”

  “Cards are not my favorite game either,” the viscount replied, with a smile that told her in no uncertain terms the correct answer to that question. “And please call me Eustace. Else I shall have to remind you what good friends we already are.”

  Grace felt her cheeks warm at his words, and at the memory of his lips touching hers in the carriage. The man had a powerful charm and she was not immune.

  “All right, Eustace. Where shall we walk?”

  “I had thought to show you the lakes, but with the outer paths so muddy perhaps we should confine ourselves to the gardens. There are well-tended paths that lead from there to the nearby wooded areas. What say you?”

  Grace loved the structured gardens of Wimpole, so while she wasn’t too certain about wandering off into the woods with the man, she would take the risk. After all, he’d been a gentleman thus far. “The gardens are beautiful after a rain. Yes, I’d quite like that.”