Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (6 page)

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Then the truth is, telling you that you can’t do something almost always ensures my success.”

That made more sense. Still, he would gain nothing from this bargain. “If my only prize for all I will suffer is relief from your nagging, then this proposition is highly one-sided.”

“It would be, if not for one more coin I’m placing on the table.” She smiled in a way that reminded him of a lethal wolf’s trap. Something told him he was about to spot the bait. “I have the name of your grandfather’s secret solicitor.”

He stilled, the tip of his cup halting against his lower lip. His breath rushed against the dark elixir, causing ripples that nearly splashed over the rim.

Bane lowered the cup. “How did you discover his identity?” Shirham, the family solicitor, had known next to nothing of the late marquess’s plot, neither had he known the name of the person who’d carried out his grandfather’s diabolical orders. In all the years of searching through records, no evidence had been found concerning the secret solicitor’s identity.

Eve grinned, dangling the bait directly over the trap. “A letter, which I have in my possession. It came to me by accident shortly after Mangus’s death, little more than two years ago. You knew he died, didn’t you?”

He’d heard. Shortly after Bane had proven his legitimacy and secured the title and all the lands warranted to the Marquess of Knightswold, he’d removed every servant who’d once been loyal to his grandfather. Unlike the monster his grandfather had been, however, Bane had settled them all with generous stipends and recommendations for other posts. Mangus, beyond the age for service, had gone to live with a widowed sister in Downend.

Bane thought they’d parted on decent terms, considering. Apparently, the old codger had still held a grudge against him. “Then he knew all this time?”

“No.” Eve shook her head. “What he told us when we’d questioned him was true. He never knew of the plot, nor did he witness any clandestine meeting between your grandfather and the secret solicitor.”

He was losing patience. “Then how?”

“I read his letters. Years ago, he wrote to his sister about a series of weekly visits to an obscure tavern in the next township.” She flitted her fingers as if shooing an errant bee. “He made nothing of it at the time, but it sparked my interest enough to drive there and ask the old tavern keep if he remembered.”

“And?”

“I was fortunate enough to speak with him. A good thing, too, because within days of our conversation, consumption claimed him.” Her eyes gleamed, knowing she had Bane on the hook. “Which, in the end, leaves me the sole proprietor of the information you’ve sought for so long.”

Her tone made it sound like a mere trifling thing. Yet she knew he would do anything to complete his own revenge.

The odds were suddenly in her favor. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Bane’s brow lifted, which reminded him of Venus and the way her expression had told him that she had little patience for games.
Ah, Venus, if only you were here in this room instead of my pesky aunt . . .

“Then tell me, what’s in it for you? What will you win if I choose to fail, because we both know I have never lost unless I’ve wanted to,” he said, feeling the need to remind her.

“Gypsy,” she said without hesitation. “Once the foal is weaned, she stays with me.”

He felt as if she’d slapped him, and he reeled back reflexively. “Out of the question. She was never yours to keep or even to consider.”

Undeterred, she shook her head. “Jester is quite fond of her, and I enjoy seeing them together.”

In the short time Gypsy had been at Eve’s estate, the mare had formed an attachment to a gelded skewbald pony they called Jester, which had been given to Eve by Bane’s late uncle. Together, Gypsy and Jester made quite the odd-looking pair.

“I wanted to keep her safe. I never gave you any reason to believe anything else.” Then it suddenly occurred to him.
This
was the reason she was here. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

Eve drew in a deep breath, as if debating whether or not to continue her game or simply be done with it. She sighed. “Amberdeen won’t end his pursuit of my land. You know how much it means to me, especially after your uncle . . . died for it.”

Guilt rifled through him. After taking everything from his uncle, the old marquess had gone after Eve’s land. Shortly afterward, Spencer killed himself, and Bane was partly to blame.

Of course, it didn’t help that Eve would never let him forget it.

Nonetheless, he hated to mention the hitch in her plan. “Amberdeen’s claim is sound. He has estate maps that clearly show his property markers.” The markers revealed that 140 acres of what Eve had thought to be her land actually had been Amberdeen’s all along. Considering the vast amount of acreage they shared between their two properties, 140 acres was a pittance. But family pride was on the line as well.

“I know. I’ve seen them,” she said, her tone short and clipped. “That’s why I asked him what it would take for him to leave things as they are now, as a sort of . . . a settlement.”

Bane didn’t like where this was going. “And?”

“He wants a foal from Gypsy.”

He let out a bark of laughter. The idea was ludicrous. Not one single person of his acquaintance would even suggest a thing. Above all, she was more than just a prized broodmare. “That will never happen.”

Eve swallowed. A clear indication she was hiding something else, but he didn’t pursue it for the moment. There was no use trying to get the whole truth from Eve. It could take ages. He would have to investigate and find out on his own.

“Every time I’ve spoken with Amberdeen, he’s come across as a reasonable man. I’m sure you can offer him something else he wants in return,” he said with a smirk. They both knew that if the only thing Amberdeen wanted from Eve was the land, he easily could have taken the matter to the courts. Besides, Bane had suspected for quite some time that her neighbor wanted a far more
amicable
relationship with Eve. He doubted it had anything to do with wanting a foal. “A man always has his price.”

She gritted her teeth. “He isn’t reasonable in the least. Which is precisely why you’ll give Gypsy to me when you lose our bargain.”

“It won’t come to that,” he said, determination setting his jaw. “Besides, you said yourself that Amberdeen only wants a foal.”

“If a foal was all he wanted, then he would have gone to you,” she said evenly, losing her patience. “Don’t you see it won’t end there? Therefore, once she is mine, I can dictate the terms with Amberdeen.”

He watched her carefully. Why was she so desperate to have him attend this house party? Was it simply because she wanted him to lose the bet and claim her prize? Or was there was still something he wasn’t seeing? He didn’t like not having the full picture. Then again, there were always ways to go around Eve and speak with Amberdeen himself.

She set her hands on her hips. “For the sake of our bargain, I must have an answer.”

“First,” he began, pausing to drain the last of his second cup, “tell me how you will know if I engage in
sexual congress
. Plan to have a footman follow me day and night?”

“I have eyes everywhere.” She glanced pointedly toward his bed. “Inside your table drawer is a sheaf of
preventatives
. I doubt you’re ever without them, as you would never take the risk of begetting a Fennecourt heir.” She looked entirely too smug for his liking.

If her definition of sexual congress involved only activities where he donned a
preventative
, that left quite a bit of fun she’d overlooked. Then again, her recently deceased husband had been an old man. So perhaps she’d forgotten the fun parts.

Yet it was impossible to see past his need to complete his revenge. His task seemed simple enough.

Perhaps even too simple.

He knew there was a hidden trap, something she refused to divulge. Eve didn’t truly care if he married or not. Pestering him was just another one of her games. Strangely, she found pleasure in reminding him of the tragic circumstances that had led him to vow against marrying or begetting an heir. More than anything, she seemed to delight in his hatred.

Yet when such a reward dangled before him, he’d be a fool not to play her game. Attend a house party and avoid tupping one of the guests for a fortnight? Done.

Surprisingly enough, it was the former that posed the most difficult task. The latter had grown tiresome of late. He never kept a mistress for long, finding it monotonous. Yet for some reason, even random encounters provided nothing more than a few hours of pleasure and were easily forgotten. In fact, the most extraordinary encounter he’d had in recent memory was being petted and kissed by a green girl who hadn’t an inkling about pleasure. Though, she’d had a natural talent for it—that much was certain.

However, because of his skewed perspective and boredom, he’d already decided that a period of abstinence would set him back to rights. Though Eve didn’t know it, she’d given him the perfect excuse.

“Very well. You shall have your bargain. However,” he began, clarifying the terms, “
I
will draw up a contract stating the details. That way, if you decide they do not suit you and refuse to sign, then I will leave your party and be on my way.” He waited a beat, letting her see the cold determination that had been bred into him. “If that happens, I will remove Gypsy from your stables, refuse to attend your party, and leave you to get out of Amberdeen’s clutches all on your own from that point forward.”

There was no way he could lose.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

M
erribeth stared at the silver lamé behind the glass case. That length of ribbon must have been there before today. After all, she frequented Haversham’s Draper Shoppe at least twice a week. This time, though, it felt like she’d never been here before. In fact, her entire world seemed equally foreign.

“Which one would you choose—the amaranthine or the chartreuse?” Delaney McFarland asked as she stepped forward, obscuring Merribeth’s view of the silver lamé.

She blinked and suddenly Haversham’s came into focus. Ribbon spools filled the far wall, trays of embroidery thread covered tables, and towers of perfectly creased handkerchiefs stood on either side of the counter. From behind copper-rimmed spectacles, the aproned clerk stared at her as he held a length of ribbon in each hand. His stance shifted, indicating he’d been waiting for her response for some time.

Her world was usually in color, some bright and vibrant, others in shades of pastels. Yet today, everything she saw was silver and gray, shadow and light. How many times had she noticed a coal black top hat or coat, or a silver pin winking from beneath the folds of a cravat? Everywhere she looked, her eyes sought comparisons to Lord Knightswold’s hair and eyes, while all the colors she normally noticed went dim.

“Well? Which do you think?” Delaney exhaled her impatience, making Merribeth wonder how many times she’d repeated the question.

“The silver lamé . . .” The words at the forefront of her mind spilled out, unheeded. Too late, she realized that hadn’t been one of the choices. “I mean, the chartreuse, of course.”

Delaney turned her head, the motion setting free several wildly curling auburn tendrils from beneath her stylishly askew periwinkle hat. Her pale violet eyes squinted in disapproval. “For
my
coloring?”

It was Merribeth’s turn to exhale her impatience. She felt her notorious brow lift. “The amaranthine, then.”

“Ah. There you are,” her friend whispered and tossed a cheeky wink. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”

Her comment drew Emma and Penelope’s attention away from the selection of new threads. They both looked at Merribeth curiously, as if they’d also noticed her absence of mind on this afternoon’s outing.

Since last night, Merribeth realized, her mind had gone on holiday. That could be the only explanation for what she’d done. She’d lain awake, replaying every aspect of her folly. She didn’t know the woman who’d brazenly pressed her mouth to Lord Knightswold’s, but she certainly wasn’t the same woman standing here today.

She was changed. “I
am
out of sorts.”

“Then we shall do our very best to put you back in,” Emma said as she sidled up beside Merribeth and linked arms with her. She grinned in her usual friendly manner, yet there was a certain glow about her ever since she’d married Lord Rathburn only a month ago. It was obvious to anyone who saw her that she was quite splendidly happy.

A brief, unwelcome image of Mr. Clairmore flashed in Merribeth’s mind, where she recalled his expression of supreme joy—
or
madness. She still wasn’t certain which. Perhaps love was a combination of both.
Strange
. Although she’d been nearly engaged since she was eighteen, she didn’t know the answer. Lately, her primary feeling was the bitterness over losing five years of plans.

Penelope joined their trio, holding three variations of blue embroidery thread, amusement lighting her eyes. “Back into sorts? I’m not certain anyone would want that either.”

“Yes, I quite agree. Back into sorts sounds much worse than being out,” Delaney said and then turned her attention back to the clerk. “This chartreuse is far too yellow green, as opposed to a greener yellow.”

The clerk blinked at her logic and then looked past Delaney to their trio. After a mere glance to Emma and Merribeth, his gaze settled on Penelope as if seeking commiseration.

“Seems perfectly sensible to me,” Penelope said with a slight shrug that caused her shawl to droop.

Grateful for the distraction her friends provided, ridiculous though the change in conversation may be, Merribeth felt relaxed for the first time all day.

From the moment they’d first met, they’d become the best of friends. It had all started here at Haversham’s. A clerk had mixed up their orders, sending the wrong packages to each of their Danbury Lane addresses. By the time they’d set matters aright and discovered their common interests—needlework as well as their statuses as wallflowers—they’d become fast friends.