Mary Balogh: The Double Wager

"I'll wager that you would not really choose so carelessly if it came to the point, though, Marius," Sir Wilfred Denning said.

Eversleigh considered the words at his leisure. "Ah, but it has come to the point," he said.

Horton threw back his head and laughed. "You can't be serious, old boy," he said. "You really want us to believe that you would go out and grab the first female you see just because you have taken it into your head that you wish to be a papa?"

His laughter became less hearty when the quizzing glass was raised again and his friend's half-closed eye, magnified out of all proportion to the rest of his face, was fixed on him again. "Ah, but it is not so much my paternal instinct that motivates me," he said softly. "I really cannot imagine being fond of any person below the age of five and twenty. It is my dislike of my present heir that disconcerts me.'

"Can't say I blame you, Eversleigh," Darnley said sympathetically. "Oliver Cranshawe ain't everyone's cup of tea. The ladies love him, of course. Oozes charm."

"He's a smarmy devil, right enough," Denning agreed,

"Is he giving you a rough time, old boy?" Horton asked.

"Nothing I can't handle," the duke replied. "But I find it does not help one's digestion too much to have the fellow inviting himself to breakfast and making a mental count of every silver fork and spoon on the table and sideboard. Especially when one knows that one is being mentally consigned six feet under at the same time."

"I'll still wager that you are not serious about choosing a wife at random, though, Marius," Denning persisted. "Why, it was you, man, who suggested our forming this club eight years ago, and you have been its staunchest supporter."

Eversleigh drank slowly from his glass. For a while it seemed as if he would not answer. Eventually he looked up at Sir Wilfred, his eyes keen behind the heavy lids, a cynical smile playing about his lips.

"Now what would that wager be, Wilfred?" he asked.

Sir Wilfred leaned back in his chair and steepled his smooth fingers beneath his chin. The light of a new game shoe in his eyes. In fact, all the occupants of the room suddenly looked less melancholy and riveted their attention on the two cerebral players.

"If you are serious, Marius," Sir Wilfred said, "I wish to see your betrothal announcement in the Morning Post within the nonth and your marriage vows given within two."

Eversleigh's eyes were steady on his challenger. The smile that was not quite a smile curled one side of his mouth even further. "Ah, but you make things almost too simple, Wilfred," he said quietly.

Sir Wilfred smiled too. "Very well, Marius. If you insist on talking yourself into a quite impossible corner. Shall we say six weeks?"

Eversleigh's expression remained unchanged.

"I say, old boy," Horton said, interrupting the air of interested tension in the room, "aren't you acting rather hastily here? As Wilfred said a while ago, we are talking life sentences here, you know. It's no topic for a light bet, Marius. "

Eversleigh showed no sign of having heard him. "And if I win?" he asked Denning.

Sir Wilfred considered for a moment. "I have too much regard for your good sense to believe that you will carry this through, Marius," he said. Then he smiled. "If you win, Eversleigh, my matched grays."

Eversleigh's brows rose. "You must be confident, my dear chap," he said lazily. "I have been trying all winter to get you to sell me those horses. And now you are prepared to give them away?"

"I do not believe I am in any danger," Sir Wilfred replied.

Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the other steadily. "And if I lose, Wilfred?"

Denning did not twitch a facial muscle. He paused for effect, until all attention was focused on his answer. "Mrs. Suzanne Broughton," he said finally.

Eversleigh lowered the quizzing glass unhurriedly. He rose to his feet and sauntered to the sideboard again, where he took his time to refill his glass. He crossed the room again and took up his old position against the mantel.

"I have no intention of losing this wager, Denning," he said, "but even if I did, how can I give what is not mine to give? Mrs. Broughton is her own person, dear boy. She clearly has a mind of her own. I am not even her, er, protector, you know."

"We all know what you are to Suzanne," Sir Wilfred said. "But let us face facts, Marius. If you would take your title and your wealth and your damned good looks out of the way, I have reason to believe I would stand next in line to her good graces."

"Ha! The modesty of the man!" observed Horton.'

"All I ask, Marius," Sir Wilfred continued, directing a quelling look at Horton and patting his curls into place again, "is that you undertake to cut all ties with the lady if you lose this wager."

Eversleigh considered. "You would leave me very womanless, would you not, Wilfred?" he observed dryly.

"A true knight of freedom!" someone remarked.

Eversleigh pulled himself upright and extended his right hand to Sir Wilfred Denning. I accept the wager, he said.

"Splendid!" Rufus Smythe declared. "Bring us the betting book, Horton, and let us have the matter properly recorded.

It was duly entered into the book that by Friday, May 25, four weeks from the date of the entry, the Duke of Eversleigh's engagement to a lady as yet unknown must be publicly announced, and that his marriage must take place on or before Friday, June 8. If either event did not transpire, the duke was to break off all connections with the widow Mrs. Suzanne Broughton. If both events occurred on or before the dates specified, Sir Wilfred Denning was to relinquish to the duke his pair of matched gray horses. Both men signed their names to the bet. Sir Rowland Horton and another member of the club signed as witnesses.

Soon afterward, Rufus Smythe decided that it was time to see "poor" Hanley home to his bed. A hackney was summoned and the inert form of the unhappily betrothed man was carried out to it. His departure was a signal for the breakup of the whole party, it being little short of three o'clock in the morning.

Sir Rowland Horton walked home with the Duke of

Eversleigh, his own home being close to the duke's residence on Curzon Street.

"You're going to regret this wager in the cold light of day, dear boy," he said, shrugging deeper inside his greatcoat as the chill of the April night penetrated his consciousness.

"I think not, Rowland," the duke replied coolly. "A wife I must have. I cannot imagine ever finding a woman whose companionship I would enjoy for the rest of my life. Taking time to make a choice would be a pointless exercise. Anyone will do."

Horton laughed uneasily. "Why not Suzanne, Marius? She is beautiful, witty, experienced, and I am sure she would have you at the drop of a hat."

Eversleigh cocked one eyebrow and glanced sidelong at his friend. "Are you quite mad, Rowland?" he asked. "Marry my mistress? The situation would be quite intolerable."

"Why so?" Horton persisted. "It would not be like marrying a light-skirt. Suzanne is accepted by all the highest sticklers; she is independently wealthy."

"She also knows our world too well from the inside," Eversleigh reminded him cynically. "One would not be able to live one's own life and forget her existence during the day. She would demand too much. And frankly, Rowland, I would not bet on her fidelity. As things are now, it matters not to me if someone else occasionally occupies my place in her bed. But to be a cuckolded husband, 'Rowland? It is out of the question."

"Well, never say I did not warn you," his friend concluded sagely.

"You may depend upon it," Eversleigh assured him, slowing his steps as they approached the gate of Horton's house. "Will you be at Jackson's in the morning?"