The Wedding Wager Read online

  “By Jove, don’t they make a handsome couple?” Sir Hugo gazed the length of the Camden Place dining table where Morse and Frederica Hill sat side by side.

  “Most agreeable.” Leonora nibbled at her poached salmon. She might deny it, but what would be the use? Anyone with eyes and even a pinch of aesthetic taste could see how well Morse’s bold, dark aspect contrasted with Miss Hill’s fair, bland beauty.

  “Got to admit it, my dear,” Sir Hugo lowered his voice. “I’m becoming anxious about the outcome of this wager.” Despite his words, her uncle did not look much distressed.

  “What took you so long?” Leaning toward Sir Hugo, Leonora spoke softly. “Three months of my tuition and Morse Archer is the equal of any beau in Bath.”

  Her whispered words resonated with pride. She had worked this transformation. From a penniless soldier in disgrace, she had fashioned a sought-after gentleman officer, able to take his place in the town’s most fashionable company.

  Sought-after, indeed. The notion soured Leonora’s sense of accomplishment. Ever since Morse had come to Miss Hill’s defense, the young lady had set her cap for him in the most blatant manner. Either he was too dull-witted to realize it, or he was actively encouraging her. Leonora knew better than to think Morse dull-witted.

  “Glorying in your success, old girl?” asked Algie. He, too, nodded in the direction of Morse and Miss Hill.

  Leonora uttered a vaguely affirmative noise, unable to make herself smile, nod or say yes. She was beginning to feel like a sinner in hell with grinning demons on either side who took turns poking her with hot, sharp objects.

  “You set about to make him heiress bait and hasn’t he gone and hooked the most eligible catch in Bath.”

  Leonora raised her glass again in mockery of a toast to herself. “A female Pygmalion, I am, Algie.” She bolted a mouthful of wine—anything to raise her spirits, even temporarily.

  “Come now, I think you’re every bit as pretty as Miss Hill, in your way.”

  Leonora just managed to raise the napkin to her face before wine came sputtering indecorously out her nose. “Pygmalion, Algie!” It felt good to laugh—even at herself. “You must have studied him in Classics. The mythical Greek sculptor who created a statue of the perfect woman.”

  “Oh, Pygma-lion, of course!” Algie nodded vigorously. “Refresh my memory. What became of this sculptor chap and his pretty statue?”

  Against her will, Leonora’s gaze strayed back to Morse. “The poor fool fell in love with his stone woman.”

  Algie clucked his tongue. “Hard luck.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t the end of it. Conveniently for Pygmalion, the gods took pity on him and turned his beloved statue into flesh and blood.”

  “Well, that’s all right then. I do like it when everything works out at last.”

  Leonora nodded absently. She knew better than to expect such a miracle for herself. Life was not some morality play where everyone got what she deserved just by wishing for it. With books as her sculpting tools, she had fashioned Morse Archer into the outward semblance of her ideal man. Like Pygmalion, she had come to care for the image—forgetting that beneath his appealing facade lay the flint heart of a fortune hunter.

  For the first time Leonora’s faith in her philosophy faltered. Perhaps it was not enough to elevate a person’s intellect with knowledge. Not enough to cultivate proper dress, speech and manners, if the soul remained unenlightened.

  Some chance remark by Miss Hill’s brother-in-law made Morse laugh. Leonora watched his emphatic features contort with unforced merriment and golden glints of glee flicker in his compelling hazel eyes. Her heart strained in her bosom, as though trying to pull her physically closer to him.

  Like an obstinate sunbeam forcing its way into a tightly sealed chamber, memories of Morse’s good qualities penetrated her thoughts. The diligence with which he’d applied himself to his studies once he understood what the wager meant to her. His kindness to her pupils during their farewell party. Even his hotheaded defense of Miss Hill, which might have cost him the means to better his lot in life.

  The more she mulled it over, the more obvious it became. Morse Archer was not beyond redemption. If only he could recognize the error of his mercenary ways—the unfairness of using his power over women to secure his own selfish ends.

  Leave well enough alone! her common sense warned her. Morse’s attachment to an heiress like Miss Hill would go a great way toward winning her wager. Uncle Hugo had as much as admitted it himself. Besides, if Morse had his cap set for Miss Hill, he might resent any meddling. If he suddenly refused to cooperate, her wager would be lost beyond recovery.

  Ignoring the ache of her wounded heart, as she’d spent most of her life doing, Leonora allowed cool, reliable reason to reassert itself. At the first opportunity, she followed Miss Hill to the retiring room and regaled the heiress with an account of all Captain Archibald’s virtues.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Come along to Cross Bath, Morse?” Algie asked as the pair of them breakfasted alone. “Sir Hugo and I are going to make a morning of it.”

  Morse pulled a face. He’d smelled Bath’s pungent waters often enough. He felt no inclination to drink the stuff, let alone immerse himself in it. “Not today, Algie. I promised Frederica I’d go along with her to Milsome Street this morning.”

  Now it was Algie’s turn to make mouths. “Hope I never live to see the day I traipse behind a woman while she’s shopping. What kind of occupation is that for any self-respecting man? Toting all her purchases like the lowest degree of footman—without even a tip for your trouble.”

  Morse grinned ruefully. He had good reason to know Algie was not exaggerating. This would not be his first such excursion with Frederica. His youthful training as a footman had stood him in good stead.

  “Come with you and risk putting the richest heiress in Bath out of temper?” he asked. “This is strange advice from a fellow who’s been nudging me in Miss Hill’s direction practically from the moment we landed in Bath.”

  Algie spread a hot roll liberally with butter. “What fool ever told you the way to win a woman is by scurrying all over town at her beck and call? You’ve got her well and truly hooked, but you may lose the catch if you let your line go slack. Nobody wants what they can get too easily and I daresay that goes double for rich women.”

  Since Leonora was not around to lecture them on deportment, Morse picked up a bread roll and pitched it at Algie’s head. “Who says I have any intention of landing this catch? Really Algie, you make Miss Hill sound like a fine fat brook trout!”

  Snatching the bread roll, Algie looked ready to lob it back until Morse’s jest sobered him. “Do you mean you don’t plan to ask for Miss Hill’s hand? That would make quite a scandal after you’ve let things get this far. I’m sure the lady is expecting a proposal soon, and the quality of Bath certainly are. I wouldn’t have the nerve to disappoint either of them.”

  Had he let things get this far? Morse mused as he finished his breakfast coffee and pretended to read the newspaper. On reflection, he supposed he had. After Leonora had turned down his proposal, some nagging insecurity within him had responded to Frederica’s transparent admiration. She’d invented reason after reason to keep him in her company, until it had become a matter of course. Who, Morse asked himself, was landing whom?

  “Really, you ought to come with us,” Algie persisted. “Miss Hill or no Miss Hill. The baths might do your leg good.”

  To his surprise, Morse heard himself agreeing to accompany them. Before he could change his mind again, Algie dispatched a servant boy to Camden Place with a message for Frederica.

  The bells of Bath Abbey were chiming the hour of ten when Morse, Algie and Sir Hugo crossed Pulteney Bridge in their sedan chairs. Though heavily overcast, the day felt even milder than usual. A good thing, too, reflected Morse when he discovered they were to make the trip clad in their dressing gowns.

  The novel experience proved much more pleasu
rable than he had anticipated. His sedan chair conveyed him directly into the slips at Cross Bath where he donned a bathing costume of canvas waistcoat and drawers. Easing into the hot, pungent water, he waded over to join Algie and Sir Hugo.

  Wisps of vapor rose from the surface of the water, where bathers’ heads bobbed, as if disembodied. A few voices echoed off the walls of the chamber, but not many. Morse could understand why. The hot bath quickly sapped a person of energy, even for conversation.

  “Glad you could join us, my boy,” Sir Hugo greeted Morse. It would take more than Bath’s famous waters to still his voluble tongue for long. “I like to see a man not too tightly tied to his mistress’s apron strings.”

  “Keep your voice down, Sir Hugo! Miss Hill is not my mistress!” In fact, the notion of bedding the young lady held little appeal for him. Morse was blasted if he could think why, for she was pretty and agreeable.

  “Planning to make an honest woman of her, are you?” If anything, Sir Hugo’s voice rumbled louder than before. His deep chuckle rolled out over the steaming water.

  “Yes,” blurted Morse. “I mean…no. That is, I haven’t given the matter much thought until this morning.”

  “You really had better think on it.” Algie harped back to their talk at breakfast. “You can’t squire an eligible heiress around the Parade Grounds, escort her to concerts at the Assembly Rooms and sit in her family’s box at the Theatre Royal without asking for her hand in due course. Besides, wasn’t that the very object of your coming to Bath? You mustn’t let your enjoyment of the chase distract you from the necessity of the kill.”

  “It’s not much wonder you’re still a bachelor, Algie,” Morse snapped. “Talking about marriage as if it was a fox hunt or an afternoon’s angling.”

  If Algie was put out, he gave no sign of it, but lapsed into giddy laughter at Morse’s quip.

  Eyes closed, face serenely relaxed, Sir Hugo weighed back in with less than his usual vigor. “Algie may not put it very delicately, but he’s right all the same, my boy. If you love this Miss Knoll…”

  “Miss Hill, Sir Hugo. Miss Frederica Hill.”

  “Hill, of course. Did I not say that? If you love Miss Hill, you’d better ask for her hand. And if you don’t, you’d better push off and let some serious suitor have a go.”

  Their conversation ebbed into languorous silence for the rest of the hour. While Morse’s body relaxed, his mind churned. Did he love Frederica Hill? Then why had he left himself with no choice but to ask for her hand?

  When his hour’s soak was up, an attendant removed Morse’s bathing costume, dried him off and manhandled him back into his dressing gown. He sagged into the sedan chair, his flesh as warm and flaccid as rising bread dough. Algie had been right about his leg wound, though. It had never given him less pain. He resolved to visit the baths frequently for the rest of his stay.

  Returning to Sir Hugo’s establishment, Morse dressed, then set off for Frederica’s house. He needed to discover for himself if the girl was expecting a marriage proposal.

  He found the house at Camden Place in some confusion, with luggage being toted to and fro. A ripple of relief washed over him as he wondered if Miss Hill and her family might be quitting Bath. Then he realized the trunks and cases were all going into the house from a massive barouche parked by the curb.

  “Captain Archibald, how kind of you to call…at last.” A harried Lady Fitzwarren did not look especially pleased by his arrival. “Father and Stepmother will be joining us next week,” she added, gesturing around at the bustle.

  “I beg your pardon for calling at an inconvenient time.” Morse bowed and backed away, bumping into a perspiring footman laden with luggage. After more apologies to Lady Fitzwarren, and to the servant whose toes he’d trodden on, Morse added. “I’ll return when your household is more settled.”

  “Do stay.” Miss Hill’s sister looked ready to seize the breast of his coat and detain him by force if necessary. “It will do Frederica good to see you. She and Eustace are lunching in the small parlor. You must join them.”

  Seeing it was no use to resist, Morse picked his way through the entry hall, strewn with boxes and parcels. He found Frederica by herself in the parlor, nibbling on a sandwich.

  “Your sister insisted I must join you and Sir Eustace for luncheon…but…” Dining alone with a young lady, even on a sliver of bread and watercress, suggested a level of familiarity that suddenly made him uneasy.

  “Eustace does not feel equal to food at present,” she said, as if to explain her brother-in-law’s absence.

  He could not have faced luncheon, either, thought Morse, if he’d drunk quite as much brandy as Eustace Fitzwarren had on the previous evening.

  “Then perhaps I should come back at a more convenient time.” He attempted another strategic retreat.

  Frederica Hill looked up with red-rimmed eyes, loosing a barrage of guilt at Morse. “Do stay. I’m certain Henrietta will join us presently.”

  “If you insist.” Morse perched on the edge of a chair and accepted the cup of tea she poured him.

  A cumbersome silence settled over the parlor like an invisible dust cover. Morse drank his tea and made a determined effort to avoid Frederica’s gently reproachful gaze. Each second of quiet seemed to chide him, and he hated it.

  If Leonora had been angry with him, she would have made him aware of her displeasure in no uncertain terms. They’d have a jolly set-to. Attacking, defending and counterattacking in passionate ringing tones, stirring his blood, until one delivered the victory blow. Then they would put it behind them, all the better friends for a good open quarrel.

  “Did you make satisfactory purchases at Milsome Street?” he ventured. Might as well get it over with.

  “I decided against going.” Frederica sighed. “Shopping is never so enjoyable without company.”

  Morse sucked in a deep breath. To surrender without a fight felt so craven. Yet he could no more combat this passive censure of Frederica’s than he could grapple with a shadow.

  “Look here. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come with you as I promised.” He looked into her liquid blue eyes and discovered an apology would not be sufficient. Her wounded but expectant gaze demanded a good excuse for his actions.

  “My leg was paining me.” Not an outright lie, but hardly the truth, either. “I paid a visit to Cross Bath to see if the waters might ease it.”

  “Your wound, of course.” She looked vastly relieved. “It helped you, I hope.”

  “Tolerably.”

  “Good.”

  Silence fell again. Morse could hear the servants still moving about. Had Mr. Hill dismantled his entire house in Sheffield and sent it ahead to be reconstituted for the arrival of he and his wife?

  Frederica cleared her throat. Morse glanced up to discover a bright blush staining her cheeks.

  “I thought perhaps…that is…I worried you might have…well, Eustace said you must be squiring some other lady and hadn’t time for me.” Her words tumbled out faster and faster. “He can be perfectly beastly when he’s…er, out of sorts.”

  Though wary of where it might lead their conversation, Morse offered vague reassurance. “Then you mustn’t pay him any mind.”

  “That’s easier said than done.” She reached behind her and pulled out a much-crumpled handkerchief. By the thickness in her voice and the plaintive downturn of her eyebrows, Morse could tell she would soon need it.

  “Eustace has such a horrid way of divining the most hurtful thing one can possibly hear.” Sure enough, her tears began to spill. “Why, he insisted you are in love with Sir Hugo Peverill’s niece. Imagine, claiming you would prefer a poky, bluestocking tabby like Miss Free-mantle to me!”

  “I’ll thank you to not speak slightingly of Leonora in my hearing.” The words were out before Morse could restrain them. “She’s shown me great kindness while I’ve been Sir Hugo’s guest.”

  “Then it is true!” Frederica wailed. “Eustace said you love her and y
ou’re only dallying with me to make her jealous.”

  What could he say to that? Morse sat stunned by the verbal ambush. Fitzwarren’s cup-shot malice hit far too near the mark.

  “F-f-father’s coming next week,” Frederica blubbered into the sodden scrap of linen. “And he’ll be expecting me to have a s-suitable suitor…”

  The rest was impossibly muffled by her sniffling and the handkerchief, but Morse needed to hear no more. Algie had been right. Miss Hill was expecting a proposal—and more to the point, so was her father.

  He opened his mouth, not certain what might come out. Half afraid to discover.

  A noise at the door heralded the arrival of two footmen, who struggled into the parlor bearing a large picture swathed in canvas.

  “Sorry, miss,” said one. “We was told to bring this ’round here and see it hung up straightaway.”

  So grateful was Morse for the interruption, he longed to treat the men to a frothing pint at the nearest alehouse.

  Frederica Hill appeared to welcome the distraction, too. She leaped from the chaise and pretended to look out the window.

  “Bring it in, then,” she ordered over her shoulder. “We dare not leave it down and risk its getting damaged.”

  Morse eyed the footmen’s burden. “Does your father always take his pictures along when he travels?”

  “Only this one.” Though still muffled from earlier weeping, her voice conveyed an edge of bitterness. “He paid a great sum to have Mr. Lawrence paint a portrait of my stepmother. It must always hang in the parlor when they are in residence.”

  Two ladders were brought and the landscape hanging above the mantel was taken down to make room for Mrs. Hill’s portrait.

  “She must be a very decorative creature, your stepmother,” quipped Morse, mentally rehearsing his excuse to leave.

  “She was the widow of a viscount, Captain Archibald. Her picture is a sort of trophy for my father.”

  The servants removed Mrs. Hill’s portrait from the wrappings, and it began a lurching ascent to its place of honor.