Runaway Miss. Mary Nichols

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      Sir George Tasker was a year or two younger, dressed in a single-breasted green coat, a waistcoat of cream satin embroidered with silver thread and a fine lawn shirt with lace flounces protruding from the sleeves. He wore several rings, a crumpled neckcloth and a quizzing glass dangling from his thick neck. A film of perspiration caked his face. His dark eyes were wary and a twitch in his jaw told of a man reaching the end of his tether.

      Mr Jeremy Maddox was just twenty-one, a tulip of the first order. His shirt-collar points stood up against his cheeks and his cravat was tied in a flamboyant bow, the ends of which cascaded over his sky blue waistcoat. Undoubtedly his doting mama would have been horrified if she could see the company he was keeping.

      The fourth man at the table, Viscount Alexander Malvers, was very different, both in appearance and demeanour. He eschewed the fanciful garb of the pink of the ton, for a well-cut cloth coat of forest green, a white waistcoat and a sensibly tied cravat. At thirty years old, he had come back from service in the Peninsula and Waterloo in one piece and was thankful for it. He was not a habitual gambler, certainly not for higher stakes than he could afford, and had only consented to make up the four when Count Vallon dropped out.

      He had been watching them for some time before that and had come to the conclusion that Lord Bentwater was far too clever for Sir George—the latter, if he had had any sense, should have paid up and left long ago. Alex had joined them out of curiosity to see how far Sir George was prepared to go before throwing in the towel. Years in the army when boredom was, more often than not, the order of the day had taught Alex to be a skilled card player and he was prudent in the way he played so that he was a little on the plus side, but not by much. Now he, like the waiter, wished only for his bed.

      ‘Well, George?’ Bentwater broke the silence. ‘Do you go on?’

      ‘You’ll take my voucher?’

      ‘I’ve a drawer full of your vouchers at home, George. Ain’t it time you began honouring them?’

      ‘Drawer full?’ Sir George looked decidedly worried. ‘I never gave you above three that I can remember.’

      ‘I bought the rest.’

      Sir George was startled. ‘Why?’

      ‘An investment, my friend. Got them for half their face value, some of the older ones even less than that, since their holders had given up hope of being paid.’

      ‘In that case you don’t expect me to honour them for the full amount, do you?’

      ‘Oh, dear me, yes. Plus interest, of course.’

      ‘I can’t, you know I can’t.’

      ‘Why not? I thought when you married the widow, you were made for life.’

      ‘So did I,’ George said despondently. ‘I was gulled.’

      ‘You mean she had no money?’ Bentwater roared with laughter, though it was not a happy sound. ‘Oh, that’s a great jest.’

      ‘There was money there, all right, but she didn’t have the spending of it. Her baboon of a husband left her a small annuity and tied all the rest up for the daughter.’

      ‘Then you should have married the daughter, George. How old is she?’

      ‘Twenty now, eighteen when I married her mother.’

      ‘Old enough to be married,’ Bentwater said, thoughtfully tapping his wine glass against his rotting teeth.

      ‘I didn’t know she was the heiress at the time or I might have done. Now it’ll all go to whatever cock-brained cabbage marries her.’

      ‘Then, George, you had better make sure she marries where it will do you most good,’ Bentwater advised. ‘You need her dibs to pay off your debts.’

      ‘Then you had best tell me how that is to be done, Cecil, since the solution eludes me.’

      ‘Is she comely?’

      ‘She is. Fair face. Good teeth. Fine figure. Tall…’

      ‘How tall?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. I am an inch short of six feet and overtop her by two or three inches or thereabouts. What do you want to know that for?’

      ‘It ain’t right for a wife to be taller than her husband.’

      ‘True.’

      ‘And she has a fortune, you say?’

      ‘Will have. Until she marries it is administered by trustees. Thirty thousand a year at least. And I can’t lay my hands on any of it.’ It was said bitterly.

      ‘Then you have your answer, my friend. I’ll take her off your hands for the return of your vouchers…’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You heard me.’

      ‘How many have you got?’

      ‘A drawer full, I told you. Twenty thousand pounds’ worth. And there’s that diamond pin you gave me which turned out to be paste.’ He paused so that the others could digest this news and make what they would of it. ‘Have you had all your jewels copied, George?’ he added pleasantly, though everyone at the table was aware of the undercurrents of malice. ‘That wouldn’t sit well with your creditors if they knew of it.’

      Sir George gulped, while Jeremy laughed a little crazily and Alex, who had heard some bizarre wagers in his time, was beginning to wish he had never joined in the game and helped to bring about Sir George’s humiliation. The whole affair could cut up nasty.

      ‘You want me to give you my stepdaughter?’

      ‘Why not? I need a wife. The others I had were useless, never gave me an heir and a man needs an heir, so the younger and stronger the better. And if she comes from a good family with a generous dowry, that is all to the good…’

      ‘I say, gentlemen,’ Alex put in mildly. ‘Don’t you think that’s coming it too brown?’

      ‘None of your business,’ Bentwater snapped. ‘Unless you fancy buying Sir George’s vouchers and taking the chit off his hands yourself.’

      ‘No, I do not. I would never stoop to buying myself a wife. No need to.’ He saw the older man’s eyes darken with anger, but could not resist adding, ‘Supposing she won’t have you?’

      ‘In my book daughters do as they’re bid.’ He turned back to Sir George. ‘I’ll be fair. Your vouchers and five thousand in cash. With a little luck you could make that grow…’

      Sir George’s expression betrayed his wildly erratic thinking. His despair was suddenly replaced by hope, as if someone had thrown him a lifeline. He could survive. With five thousand he could make another fortune. All he needed was for the cards to fall right.

      ‘Mind you,’ Bentwater went on, ‘you don’t get the money until after the wedding ceremony.

      ‘Her mother would never agree…’

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