The Wedding Wager (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 3) Read online

  God, he hated the way she talked to him. And the way she could read him. Stiffly, he responded. “Of course not, though I’d stake my money on Miss Montrose. She’s a far better fish than her cousin.”

  Fanny looked admiringly at him. “What a betting man you are, George. I didn’t know you knew anything about her cousin. Or perhaps yours is in fact a true love match?” She put her hand to her heart and her expression softened, before her eyes gleamed with mocking humour. “I’m curious, though, as to whether you’d still be prepared to go ahead with the marriage if Miss Montrose doesn’t inherit her aunt’s fabulous fortune?”

  “We would contest the will. I didn’t offer for her without consulting a lawyer, who said I’d have a good claim. Or rather, Miss Montrose would. She’s lucky to have me to look out for her interests.”

  “Lucky, indeed,” Fanny murmured, again leaning over the battlements.

  “Yes, indeed,” corroborated Rufus, leaning over the battlements also, and appearing to lose interest in what George was saying.

  A flare of anger skittered through George at the boredom in Rufus’s voice. He hated the way people dismissed him. Well, Miss Montrose—Eliza—never would. To reclaim their attention, he said, “She is beautiful, and kind, and that is enough for me. Have you noticed how she achieves stillness like an art form?”

  They both looked at him in some surprise. Yes, they were well-crafted words, George decided, and they were true. The latter part, anyway. He pointed at the tiny figure that was Miss Montrose, still reclining in her chair exactly as they’d left her. Indeed, she could have been a statue, for Antoinette had left her side and was returning to the house, already some distance up the sweeping slope that greened the hill between the manor and the lake.

  In front of Miss Montrose was the broad expanse of water, a small island in the middle, two rowing boats bobbing in between. Fanny and Antoinette’s children—Young George and Katherine—were in one, pulling at the oars with the straight-backed figure of Nanny Brown at the helm. In the other, sat the nursemaid who was being rowed by the urchin from the foundling home who often visited his uncle’s estate.

  “I hope Eliza hasn’t bored them,” George muttered, not sure at this stage whether it would add more to his consequence to build up the supposed assets of his bride-to-be, or to highlight her deficiencies.

  “It’s true; she doesn’t say much,’ Fanny conceded. “Still, she is very lovely to look at, and I’m sure you’ll make it your life’s mission to bring a smile to her countenance, George.” She shaded her eyes. “Poor Nanny Brown. Do you think I should go down now and rescue her? She does hate the water, and Katherine does love to torment her.”

  Rufus grinned as he pointed. “She’s doing it now. Look, there’s a veritable water fight going on. I meant to ask earlier, who is that fair-haired lad in the other boat. Oh look, your Katherine is trying to climb over to join him.”

  “I do wish she wouldn’t,” Fanny murmured anxiously. “She’s utterly besotted by him. That’s Jack from the foundling home. He comes three days a week to play with Young George, who was becoming so sulky and difficult without a playmate to keep him in check. Lately, however, Katherine seems to want exclusive rights to his company and Young George is forever in tears since he wants exclusive rights to Katherine, it would seem.” She sighed. “Still, having a foundling lad was a good idea for young Albert, Grayling’s son.”

  “Good Lord, do you mean that gypsy boy who left with the Graylings was young Albert Grayling’s companion? And the two boys are from the foundling home? I thought that gypsy lad was the bootboy.” Rufus looked surprised, though not scandalised as George was by the liberal goings-on in his uncle’s home.

  Unexpectedly, Fanny flashed a smile at George, and his heart ratcheted up a notch before he cursed himself. She’d done it on purpose, he was sure. Yes, she’d deliberately brought into the conversation mention of her cousin, Miss Thea Brightwell—now married and the mother of the aforementioned young Albert Grayling—reminding George that his attempts to blight the marital aspirations of another unworthy Brightwell had been inferior to Fanny and Antoinette’s efforts to effect for their Cousin Thea a fine matchmaking outcome.

  Fanny brushed her hand lightly across the back of Rufus’s where it rested on the battlement, and George felt a surge of jealous rage. It only intensified as he registered the flare of unmistakeable interest in Rufus’s eyes before she said, “I must tell you the story of how Jack comes to be spending three days a week at Quamby House, Mr Patmore. It’s most diverting. Would you care to hear it?”

  “Indeed, I would.”

  Fanny then launched into a tale of the afternoon Fanny’s cousin, the penniless Miss Thea Brightwell as she was then, had been travelling in her carriage when her coachman had knocked over a young woman running across the road. In her arms was a bundle, a young boy of about three months with, Thea noticed, a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.

  “Anyway,” Fanny went on, “after Grayling and Thea’s darling Albert was five, they decided he needed a playmate, and it would be a fine thing to choose one from the foundling home en route for a five-day visit to Quamby House. Well, when she was there, Thea discovered Jack, whom she knew must be the infant her coachman nearly killed, because of his sixth finger. His mother had obviously been trying to put her unwanted child into the basket near the gates of the home when she’d been knocked over.”

  “What a coincidence,” Rufus remarked, clearly invested in the story.

  “Indeed it was! Cousin Thea is so softhearted, she couldn’t bear to leave Jack behind. Nor could she resist taking another child, the big, strong gypsy boy whom she thought would be the ideal playmate for Young George, since Antoinette was forever wailing that he needed putting in his place if he weren’t to grow up a puling, whining creature.”

  George turned his head away from the quick look Fanny darted at him, and pretended he wasn’t listening as she went on.

  “Unfortunately, the gypsy lad, Rafe, was forever getting into scraps with Young George, while Jack was the consummate diplomat. Rafe and Albert seemed to like playing together and are today as thick as thieves. Meanwhile, Fenton and I decided that after five days of peace and calm and no fights between Katherine and Young George, we should have Jack here on a regular basis.”

  “And Lord Quamby allows this?”

  “He agrees to anything if it’ll make Antoinette happy and his life easier.”

  George had to bite his tongue as he knew any interjection would only further encourage Fanny, who went on, “It’s not as if these orphans are being brought up to expect the privileges of their playmates. The foundling home boys come only three days every week. They share Katherine and George’s lessons so that, with a little rudimentary education, they will not disgrace their noble playmates. It’s all rather a novelty, really. My Katherine, and Antoinette’s George are brought up to understand that they are superior, but that they’re not to take advantage. Thea and Grayling live some distance away, but they have a similar arrangement.”

  Rufus laughed. “How novel and modern. I must say, I did think Young George rather an unprepossessing ninnyhammer compared to your spirited Katherine, and Grayling’s bold young Albert, not to mention Jack, who seemed a lively, intelligent lad.”

  George pushed his shoulders back and his chin forward. Cousin Fanny was secretly taunting him, while encouraging Rufus to deride the boy. Well! His detractors would be singing a different story when his horse Devil’s Run made him a fortune, and became the lauded champion of the East Anglia Cup, in less than two weeks’ time.

  He cleared his throat. “If Young George is to be criticised, then might I say that I think your Katherine could do with a little less spirit.” Young Katherine was far too much like her mother and in decided need of a set-down, he thought. “Most gentlemen like their wives pliant. I certainly do, which is one of the reasons I’m happy to wed Miss Montrose.”

  Fanny raised an eyebrow and offered him a smile he did not like. However, she was prevented from saying more by a piercing scream from the direction of the lake, which had them all jerking their heads around, and shading their eyes to see if the children’s high jinks had progressed to downright naughtiness that Nanny Brown was unable to suppress.

  It was far worse than that.

  “Dear God, one of the boats has overturned!’ Fanny screamed, hiking up her skirts and flying down the slippery stone steps that wound to the bottom. Her fear was so intense she could barely focus in front of her as she thought of her precious Katherine, barely six and unable to swim.

  “Are you all right, Lady Fenton!” Mr Patmore’s voice was loud in her ear as he passed her with difficulty in the cold, damp stairwell, for Fanny had doubled up with the pain of a turned ankle.

  “Pay me no mind—just get to the children!” Fanny gasped, supporting herself against the wall by the archers’ slits while George now passed her on the stairs. Her heart pounded against her rib cage as she stared through the narrow window, searching in vain for more timely assistance that might be rendered the vulnerable children, then screamed again when, in the distance, she caught sight of Katherine’s dark head as the little girl floundered in the murky water, her white cambric dress bubbling up about her.

  Despite her pain, Fanny continued to the bottom of the staircase to the lawn, her breath rasping as she saw Antoinette far away by the manor house, her sister only turning now and becoming aware something was wrong as Mr Patmore pounded down the slope.

  Fanny tore after him, scanning the far distance before she saw the most incredible sight. The previously marble-like Miss Eliza Montrose had left her sanctuary and was at the water’s edge, as fleeting as a hare. Now she was plunging into the lake, and with strong, expert strokes had almost reached Nanny Brown, who was clinging to the side of the non-upturned boat. The two children and their nursemaid in the other boat surged over to the side, hands wildly clawing for Katherine, who mercifully gripped the older woman’s hand, and Fanny was just thanking God her precious child was safe, when that boat suddenly flipped, plunging the others—including Young George and Jack—into the water.

  “Dear God, no!” In all her life, Fanny had never felt so helpless, so frightened, and so at the mercy of the gods. Her ankle be damned! Her feet barely touched the ground as she flew across the lawns, praying for forgiveness for all the terrible things she’d done, though she hadn’t been so bad, surely? Fanny’s many past detractors had warned her she’d one day be called to account for her sins, but what god would punish an innocent child? Besides, Fanny’s transgressions had been done in the name of self-preservation.

  Jaw clenched, eyes trained ahead, she could see in her peripheral vision that her sister was now tearing down the slope—screaming. Meanwhile, Miss Montrose had reached one of the upturned boats, but there was too much flailing and splashing for Fanny to deduce what was happening.

  Then—dear Lord! Miss Montrose disappeared beneath the water. Did she no longer have the energy to save them? Were they all to be consigned to a watery grave?

  “Save them! Oh, please save them!” she shrieked, placing all her hopes now in Mr Patmore, who had just torn off his jacket to plunge into the water.

  But it was Miss Montrose who came up triumphant, emerging at the water’s edge, staggering out of the shallows with two bedraggled children, one under each arm. Fanny arrived the moment she dropped them ashore, before she wordlessly turned back, wading through the water, her expression dogged, her breath coming in short bursts.

  Mr Patmore, who had since disappeared in a spray of water, rose from the shallows after righting one of the boats and tossing the nursemaid into it. Bedraggled Nanny Brown was too heavy, so clung to the side as he towed the boat back to shore.

  Fanny was just heaving a sigh of relief when Antoinette arrived at her side, slipping on the wet grass, barely coherent as she cried, “Where’s George? Dear God, the children are all accounted for except Young George!”

  The sisters shaded their eyes to gaze across the lake, glittering beneath the high sun, Fanny turning to George Bramley who was standing, dry-footed, at the lake’s edge. “Find Young George!” She gripped his lapels and shook him. “He must be under the water still! Go!” She had to push the odious creature into the murky depths to find his own son, realising with a jolt of horror that she was forcing him to save the life of the one creature who stood between him and inheriting his uncle’s title and estate.

  There was no time to see how far reluctance would have stood in the way of decency and duty, for at that moment, Miss Montrose rose from the depths clutching the collar of the bedraggled young George, who sucked in a huge breath and began to splutter and then cry as he was deposited on the shore by the other children.

  The three youngsters, nanny, and nursemaid had all been saved from drowning through the efforts of Miss Montrose—who stood staring down at them as if she too couldn’t quite believe what had happened.

  Antoinette was weeping, crouched over Young George, while Jack the foundling lad looked as he’d just had a wonderful adventure, and Katherine was just fine, dancing about the others, taunting Young George for being a crybaby. She didn’t need her mother. But then, she never had, Fanny thought a touch sadly. Miss Independence was her Katherine.

  Fanny moved forward to thank Miss Montrose, but Mr Patmore cut across her, putting his hand on Miss Montrose’s shoulder.

  His voice was full of wonder. “Miss Montrose, you were remarkable. Where did you learn to be so…fleet of foot and…like a fish in the water?”

  She blinked as if coming out of a daze. Then she smiled, and because the young woman had never smiled, Fanny noticed she was suddenly transformed into a beauty. “I grew up by a river. My brother and I swam in it all the time.” She began to shiver, and Mr Patmore called out. “We need a blanket. Miss Montrose is in shock. Hurry!”

  A servant was soon running down the grassy slope with a blue woollen blanket which Mr Patmore wrapped around Miss Montrose, rubbing her vigorously at first, before turning her in his arms to look down into her face. And Fanny, who was about to take Katherine in her own arms, caught a fleeting glimpse of the look that passed between Mr Patmore and Miss Montrose, and was most intrigued.

  Chapter 2

  Eliza had forgotten what it felt like to enjoy a man’s attention. Mr Patmore had started to dry her in a vigorous attempt to warm her, but then his touch gentled, and he simply stared down at her.

  The wonder in his eyes as he murmured words of praise was a rare sensation. Embarrassed, she turned away. Yes, turned away because she could not afford to be so obviously disquieted by another man when she was affianced to George Bramley, who stood a few feet away from her. Mr Bramley was also staring, but there was no softness in his countenance.

  Hoping to avoid any more gestures of admiration or kindness from Mr Patmore, Eliza politely extricated herself and put out her hand to arrest the progress of the foundling home lad whom Nanny Brown was pursuing with a piece of dry linen.

  His impish grin reminded her of young Miss Katherine’s, Lady Fenton’s daughter. Clearly, the two had had a great adventure, unlike Young George, who was lying on his stomach upon the grass, shaking with sobs.

  “Did you drink a lot of water, Young George?” Eliza asked, looking down at the crying boy, but he ignored her.

  “I said we shouldn’t go out! I said!” He pounded his fists on the ground. “No one ever listens to what I say!”

  Eliza shared a wry smile with the rather lovely Mr Patmore. He was still staring at her and, disconcertingly, looked about to approach her again. To deflect him, she knelt to address the foundling boy. Eliza would not have Mr Bramley—or anyone else—accuse her of encouraging the attentions of a man not her betrothed.

  “Jack—that’s your name, isn’t it? Well, you’ll have something to tell them back at the foundling home, won’t you?” She’d seen him only from a distance and now, mud bespattered and with his hair matted over his forehead, it was difficult to make out his features, though she knew from various anecdotes that young Jack distinguished himself for keeping Miss Katherine’s wilfulness in check, and peace between Katherine and her cousin, Young George.

  Jack stood obediently before her as he started to wring out his threadbare shirt. “Nah, I’m fine, m’lady,” he said, glancing up to reveal a pair of small white teeth in a freckled face. “But thanks for savin’ me, an’ all.”

  Eliza was about to let him go. Releasing her grip a second later might have changed the course of her life, she thought that evening, and perhaps it would have been better if she had. Why repeat the trauma she’d already experienced?

  But for now, she was acting on instinct, and instead of letting him go when it would have seemed natural, her grip on his wrist tightened while the air in her lungs disappeared, and she had to open and close her eyes three times before she was ready to believe what she saw.

  “Gideon?” There seemed still no air to say his name. A great pressure was building in her head. Finally, she was able to gasp in a breath, forcing herself to resist the urge to draw him into her embrace and wail her joy.

  How many other boys of seven years sported a tiny extra claw on their left hand? Or had been thrust into the cold, unloving world of the foundling home, she thought bitterly.

  He stopped what he was doing to look at her uncomprehendingly, and she added faintly, “Though that’s not what they call you, of course.”

  An amused look crossed his face, making him seem older and wiser than his seven years. Nearby, the weeping and wailing George was a puling infant. Smiling at her was a little man.

  He pushed out his chest and said in a tone that was neither boastful nor self-pitying, “There’s some ‘at call me Devil’s Cub, or bastard, but at the manor here they call me Jack.”