Mary Balogh: The Double Wager

"I always play fair!" she cut in indignantly.

"Cool down, Sis," Giles continued. "What you need to do, Doug, is to pin her down to one particular man."

"Good idea," said George. "Who, though?"

The three young men leaned against their horses and thought, while Henry hovered in the background, glowering.

"Cavendish?" suggested Douglas.

"No," said Giles after a moment's consideration, "he ain't got a chin. I wouldn't want m'nephews and nieces to be chinless."

They thought again.

"Blaisdale?" George suggested.

'No good," Giles said again. "He has to dangle after an heiress. Pockets to let all the time. Henry ain't rich. How about Eversleigh?"

There was a short, stunned silence, and the three friends burst into laughter.

"No, it would be too cruel, Douglas said. "No wager at.ill."

"What is wrong with him?" Henry asked, brows knit.

"The Duke of Eversleigh is about as starchy as they come, Henry," Giles explained kindly. "He's incredibly high in the instep. If he notices you at all, he looks at you through his eyeglass as if you were a toad who has dared to inhabit the same planet as he. And he never takes any notice at all of the young girls. Even the most persistent mamas have given up on him."

"He'll do," Henry decided. "I'll get him to offer for me.

A roar of unrestrained glee greeted this announcement.

"Within six weeks, Henry?" George asked.

"Of course," she answered. "What is so difficult about ensnaring a conceited town fop?"

"Town fop? Eversleigh? Oh, Lord," Giles gasped, collapsing into laughter again.

I don't have to marry him, anyway," Henry decided crossly. "The wager is only that I receive a proposal. Is it not, Douglas?"

"Oh, say," he said, "how will I know that you tell the truth if you don't marry the man to prove it?"

Both Henry and Giles stiffened. "My sister don't lie," Giles said, all laughter wiped from his face.

"It don't signify, anyway," George said practically. "She ain't going to win."

Henry clucked her tongue in impatience. "Let us get to the point," she said. "What do I win if you lose this wager, Douglas?"

He considered for a moment. "A new high-perch phaeton for a wedding present," he said.

"I Say!"- she replied, surprised. "That is splendid of you. Can you afford it, Douglas?"

He bowed stiffly. "That ain't a ladylike question, Henry."

"What must I forfeit in the unlikely event that I lose?" she asked airily.

He grinned. "Your horse will do," he said, glancing appreciatively at the gleaming black coat of the stallion she held by the reins.

"Jet?" she said uncertainly. "He was Papa's."

"Yes, but he's yours now, Henry. You won't have much use for him in London, anyway. And you would have to learn to ride him sidesaddle."

"Oh, I never would!" she exclaimed in dismay.

"Then it will be just as well to lose him to me," he said smugly.

"He will never be yours, Douglas," she declared. "But the wager is on. Come, shake hands on it. What is six weeks from today?"

They all did quick mental calculations.

"June eight," said George.

"Come. Manny will be fretting if we are late for tea," Henry said, removing her hand from Douglas' and mounting her tall horse without assistance.

"Yes, Your Grace of Eversleigh," Douglas snickered, and they all turned their horses' heads in the direction of the manor.

The Duke of Eversleigh was up quite early and riding in the park on the morning following the farewell party for Hanley. A late night was not likely to keep him in bed. He found a brisk gallop a far more effective cure for a thick head than a morning spent sleeping.

Before noon he had returned home, changed his clothes, and driven himself to Jackson's boxing saloon, where he spent an invigorating couple of hours exercising and sparring with friends. Only the very best of Jackson's clients would accept a challenge from the duke. Lord Horton was not one of that number, but the two friends did sally forth together to White's Club afterward for luncheon.

Eversleigh was back at home again by midafternoon. After changing his clothes yet again, he sauntered down to the office occupied by his secretary, James Ridley. Ridley was a youngish man, about the same age as the duke, in his early thirties. He had been at the university with his Grace when both had been youths. His father was a country gentleman who had fallen on hard times. He had struggled to be able to educate his son, as that son would have to be gainfully employed.

Ridley had been ambitious in those days. He had hoped for a career in government service, or at the very least in the Church. He had accepted temporary employment from Eversleigh, who had befriended him and insisted that he needed a competent secretary, as his title was then new to him and his duties unsure. The temporary employment was now in its thirteenth year.

Ridley sat at his desk surrounded by an ordered confusion of papers and ledgers when Eversleigh strolled in. The latter raised his quizzing glass and let his eyes roam over the desk.

"How revolting, james!-•he sighed wearily. "Do I really keep you so busy? And do I insist that you work such long hours? It is a delightful afternoon, my dear boy. You would be much better employed viewing the ladies in Hyde Park."

James Ridley looked up and smiled absently. "Do you realize how often you say that to me, your Grace?" he asked. "I would not feel that I earned my more than generous salary if I did not put in a full day's work. And you know that you already insist that I take off both Saturday and Sunday, and' force me to take a two-hour luncheon break each day."

The duke moved into the room and leaned one elbow against a bookshelf. "Do I really, James?" he asked, crossing one booted leg over the other. "And when did you manage to wrest such favorable conditions from me?"

Ridley gave a cluck of exasperation, but did not venture a reply.

"And what letters clamor for my attention today?" Eversleigh asked.

"These, your Grace," Ridley replied, indicating a neat bundle on the top corner of his desk. "And please do not forget the speech that you are scheduled to give in the Upper House next week."

"Am I really? Ah, did I know about this before, James?" asked Eversleigh languidly.

"I have reminded you twice in the last week, your Grace," Ridley replied, pained.

"Have you indeed? You must have spoken at a time when my mind was occupied with more pressing matters," his employer commented.

Ridley locked even more pained.

"The topic, James?"

"The deplorable plight of chimney boys in London, your Grace."

"Ah, yes, now I recall," said Eversleigh, still leaning indolently against the shelf. "And do you have the speech written for me, James?"

Ridley allowed his exasperation to show. "You know you never allow me to write your speeches on topics about which you feel particularly strongly, your Grace," he said.

Eversleigh raised his eyebrows above lazy eyes. "And this is one of them, James?" he asked. "Quite so. I suppose you are right. You usually are, dear boy. A quite disconcerting habit you have."

Ridley gave him a speaking glance.

"And what invitations arrived today?" Eversleigh continued.

"Invitations, your Grace?" James Ridley looked blankly at his employer. "All the invitations are in the wastebasket, where you have instructed me always to place them."

"Quite so, dear boy," the duke agreed, regarding his secretary keenly from beneath his half-closed lids. "Humor me today, James, by removing them from their resting place and reading them to me."

"Reading them, your Grace?"

Eversleigh lifted his quizzing glass unhurriedly again. "Dear me, is my speech blurred today, James?" he drawled. "I assume that all that crumpled paper in the wastebasket is my invitations. Pull them out, man, and read them to me."