The Wager. Sally Cheney

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СКАЧАТЬ So Peter assumed ownership of the Kingsbrook manor and estate outside of Reading, and his father, with a stony face but a clear conscience, sent the boy away, vowing he would never see him again.

      It was unbeknownst to his father, young Desmond was sure, that his mother sent him a semiannual stipend that more or less kept him afloat. It was meant to supplement the estate upkeep, but more often than not it supplemented Desmond’s gambling expenses. Fortunately, his gaming had improved to the point where he could pay the few Kingsbrook servants with fair regularity and travel to all the great gambling Meccas here in England and on the Continent to make additional monies for himself and the estate.

      It was a difficult, strenuous life he had chosen for himself. Despite his dismissal from boarding school, he was accepted into the Reading University on his scholastic merit. Though the lessons came easily, he would not focus on his education and left the university after four years with no better idea of what to do. By then he had been disowned by his family; he had lost the generous remembrances of his uncle and grandfather. His father had roared and his mother had wept, and through it all Desmond kept his jaw stubbornly squared and refused to admit to any shame.

      Now, though, as he stood between the pillars of the little stone gazebo, facing the girl he had claimed as prize in his latest game of cards, his cheeks grew warm and he was forced to acknowledge his own ignominy.

      He would have given anything to have relegated this meeting to someone else, but to have taken that happy option would have required a fuller disclosure than Desmond intended to ever give anyone about what had happened that night.

      He cleared his throat. “Good day, Miss Trenton,” he said.

      She did not answer, only continued to watch him warily.

      He took another step into the gazebo, and she hitched herself farther away from him on the bench, as far as she could without falling to the stone flooring.

      He sighed.

      “Miss Trenton, I wish I could convince you that you do not have to fear me, but I do not suppose that is possible now. Here, I will stand with my back against this pillar. I will not take another step toward you the entire time I am here. And you, if you could, may relax your hold on the edge of the bench there so your knuckles are not quite so white.”

      He nodded toward where she gripped the stone seat, apparently clinging for dear life. She released her hold and then looked up at the man standing on the other side of the little enclosure, his back dutifully flat against the supporting pillar. She folded her hands in her lap, but dismay and terror still filled her eyes with dark shadows.

      Peter Desmond, though an admitted roué, having advanced from dark dens to glittering palaces of prostitution, had never taken a woman against her will or even below her top price. It was his habit, though hardly a regular one, to meet with such ladies and leave them satisfied, as well as pleased, as it were. Despite his decidedly wicked ways, he had never expected to see in a young lady’s eyes the expression he saw in Marianne’s.

      He cleared his throat gruffly. “I will come directly to the point,” he said. “I have spent a number of sleepless nights contemplating your immediate future, as I am sure you have.”

      The girl nodded slightly.

      “If I understood you correctly that night…” the young woman’s pale cheeks suddenly blazed at the mere mention of the episode, and Desmond uncomfortably cleared his throat again “…you are not a regular girl of Mr. Carstairs’s then?”

      Marianne looked at him blankly, furrowing her brow slightly in her attempt to understand his meaning.

      “You do not…work for Carstairs?”

      “I am the ward of Uncle Horace,” Marianne whispered.

      They were the same words Carstairs had said to him, the same words he had laughed over and repeated to Abbot and Phillips, almost the exact words Mrs. River had employed to announce Miss Trenton’s arrival. Why, then, did they mean something so very different when the girl whispered them?

      “Yes, of course,” Desmond murmured. “Nevertheless, I do not believe you should return to Mr. Carstairs’s establishment.”

      He watched her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to his decision. Would she quarrel with him and be difficult? Did she want to return to that pit?

      She shook her head, but did not venture any comment.

      Desmond nodded briskly. “Right. I should tell you then, I have been into London to consult with legal counsel, reviewing the situation in which we find ourselves.”

      Marianne’s expressive face registered surprise. After what Mr. Desmond had done, how could he go to a representative of the law?

      “I do not know if you are fully aware of the circumstances that brought you here, Miss Trenton, but Mr. Carstairs wagered his guardianship of you and lost. I won.” He could not keep the ironic tone from his voice. “My lawyer informs me that, though unusual, such a transfer of responsibility can be legal. There are papers and signatures involved, but Mr. Bradley assures me that dating from my meeting with Carstairs and the others at the Grand Hotel, you may be considered in my legal custody.”

      “Oh.”

      It was a very small sound, but Desmond hoped there was more surprise in it than fright. But there was some fright in her eyes, which cut him to the quick. Seeing her here, clothed in dress and pinafore that made her look like a child fresh from the nursery, Mr. Desmond was, as his housekeeper had been, struck by how young she appeared. If she had arrived at Kingsbrook dressed this way, or had come to supper that night in this outfit instead of that indecently provocative green gown that seemed to set her hair ablaze, Desmond would never have attempted what he had.

      Now the gentleman hitched his back in discomfort against the hard rocks, but kept his shoulders squarely against the pillar. “It is my intention to enroll you in a respectable boarding school.”

      He had arrived at that happy solution in the long waking hours of that night before he left for London, though he was not prepared for the amount of money such a solution would cost. Mr. Bradley, his solicitor, had informed him a “good” school would cost every bit of the money his mother sent him each year. It was lucky for Desmond that he had done the girl no physical harm, or this damned conscience of his, which had chosen a most inconvenient time to reintroduce itself, would have had him selling Kingsbrook to recompense her.

      As it was, he would be required to tighten his belt and pass up his forays to Paris and Monte Carlo for the next few years. As he discussed the proposition with Bradley and contemplated the sacrifices that would be required of him, his resolve had faltered a bit. He might have been willing to seek another solution, but as the lovely young girl sat quivering on the cold stone bench before him, his chin firmed and he determined to limit his gambling trips to London and Liverpool as long as she was enrolled, if need be.

      By gad, it felt good to be noble!

      “I have made no inquiries yet, so if you have a preference for the part of the country in which you wish to be located, or for a school you may have heard about, I will certainly give your choice consideration.”

      “I—I attended Miss Willmington’s classroom on Miller Street for a while,” she whispered.

      “You have had some schooling?” Desmond asked, surprised. He had assumed the girl, though not a professional yet, was СКАЧАТЬ