Janice Preston - Lady Olivia And The Infamous Rake

‘D-different kind? I do not understand.’

Clevedon proffered his hand and, as if in a dream, she took it and rose to her feet.

‘Come walk with me, Beatrice. A kiss. Or two. That is all I ask. There are private nooks aplenty in the Dark Walks.’

His eyes lowered to her décolletage. She snatched her hand from his and pulled her domino tightly across her chest, her hand at her throat.

‘I...no. I should rather not. Thank you, sir.’

‘Your address, then? Or how shall I know where to apply for my winnings?’

Beneath her fingers was the hard outline of Mama’s necklace. In a panic, she slid her hands inside her hood and reached behind to unclasp the necklace. She tugged it free and almost flung it on the table.

‘There. You may take that as my promise to pay my debt. And, when I do, you must return my necklace.’

A low whistle reached her ears. Lord Hugo’s eyes had widened at the sight of the necklace. Belatedly, Olivia recalled she could have offered the bracelet or even the eardrops—either would have covered the amount she owed and both were worth far less than the necklace.

And Papa is far more likely to notice the necklace is missing than he would the others.

But it was too late to change her offer now for Clevedon had already pocketed the necklace, saying, ‘A pledge? Hmmm... I should have preferred a kiss, but very well. I accept your pledge. I shall still require your address, however.’

‘No! Why?’

His brows rose. ‘No? But how, my dear, are you to pay my winnings and how am I to return your necklace? Unless...but of course. You may call upon me at my house in Dover Street. If you wear your domino, then it is unlikely you will be recognised. Shall we say, Saturday evening at seven o’clock? Bring the money—and your delightful self for dinner—and I shall return the necklace.’

‘Dinner? No. I could not possibly—our agreement was for me to pay my debt, nothing more.’

‘There is the little matter of interest payable, my dear. I shall hold the necklace for you until Saturday, but should you fail me I shall have no choice but to sell it to defray expenses. You do understand, I trust? Don’t be late.’

She could stay there no longer. Sick at heart, she fled the box, stumbling a little in her haste, and plunged into the dense mass of people thronging the square, desperately searching for Alex or Neville.

* * *

Lord Hugo Alastair watched the mysterious Beatrice vanish among the crush of people, who were growing rowdier by the minute, and he hoped she would quickly find safety with Beauchamp or Wolfe—he’d wager she was younger than she’d tried to appear, but she was without doubt a lady. He bit back a cynical smile—yet another young wife, unrecognisable in her hooded domino and lace-edged mask, out with her lover, proving yet again that matrimony was for fools. Hugo had had his fair share of disenchanted wives on his arm in the past. Although—now he considered it—neither Beauchamp nor Wolfe had paid her much attention. If either of those young greenheads was her lover, they weren’t making a very good fist of it.

He scanned the densely packed square and disquiet threaded through him. A female on her own would prove an easy target for the many predators prowling the Gardens—thieves, pickpockets...and worse.

He frowned, recalling the way Beatrice had taken fright at Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss or two. That was not the reaction of a married lady out with her lover. And, now he came to think about it, neither was Clevedon’s suggestion one that Hugo would ever have expected of the man who was now examining that ruby and diamond necklace with a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

‘Care to enlighten me as to who the mysterious Beatrice is, Clevedon?’

Clevedon smiled smugly. ‘My salvation, dear boy. My future wife.’

‘Your wife ?’ Hugo’s astonishment was perhaps too overt and Clevedon looked up with suddenly narrowed eyes.

‘Why ever not?’ he said, evenly. ‘A man in my position must marry eventually. The Beauchamp chit is as good as any.’

Hugo racked his brain to come up with a mental picture of Cheriton’s daughter. Their paths rarely crossed; young ladies in their first Season held no appeal for him and he, as a younger son with no prospects, held even less appeal for them. Or for their parents. Lady Olivia Beauchamp. He remembered her now: a true beauty, with a willowy figure and the same black hair and silver-grey eyes as her sire. And utterly innocent. Anger stirred, deep in his gut.

What the hell is Beauchamp about, bringing his sister here and then abandoning her?

‘I never had you down as the marrying kind, Clevedon.’

Hugo had always suspected the other man’s proclivities, but that was a delicate—not to say, illegal—matter and not one he could even mention, although he was aware Clevedon was not the first man to prefer the company of other men and neither would he be the last. He could see now that Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss in payment for the debt had been an elaborate ruse... Clevedon had known damned well that the Lady Olivia Beauchamp would never consent to walking down those shady pathways with him. He had well and truly hooked her in.

Clevedon shrugged. ‘It is not by choice, dear boy, but I find myself in need of a wife with a wealthy father. And they don’t come much wealthier than Cheriton. Besides, our marriage would be one of pure convenience. My life need not change.’

Distaste mushroomed in Hugo’s gut. Lady Olivia might be a spoilt little rich girl who wanted for nothing—and a foolish chit for taking the risks she had tonight—and yet he could still find sympathy for a young girl who would marry with high hopes only to find her dreams dashed by the indifference and neglect of her husband.

His face must have revealed his feelings because Clevedon laughed out loud.

‘Scruples, my dear Hugo? Surely not.’

Hugo stood up. ‘I don’t approve of playing games with innocents.’

‘Needs must, dear boy. Needs must. It would not be my choice were things different, but her dowry will compensate for the inconvenience. And, of course, there will be the added bonus of marrying into such a powerful family.’

‘You think you can force Cheriton into agreeing to a marriage?’

Clevedon shrugged again. ‘Why not? When a juicy plum like the Catch of the Season drops into one’s lap, it would be remiss not to take advantage. And now, with this,’ he held the sparkling necklace aloft, ‘I have the means to exert a little additional persuasion, shall we say.’

Hugo tried to mask his revulsion at what Clevedon had in store for the girl. Marrying money was one thing. Ruining a girl’s reputation and innocence in order to force a wedding was beyond the pale, particularly when the man had no taste for female flesh.

‘Look here, Alastair. It was her decision to come here, presumably against Cheriton’s orders.’ Clevedon shrugged. ‘If she wants to play with the grown-ups, she must accept the consequences, as must her fool of a brother. He, too, will get his comeuppance very soon, if I’m not mistaken.’

His words resurrected a memory from earlier that evening—Sir Peter Tadlow cajoling Marie Shelton, ‘Please, Marie’ , until Marie, with an irritated huff, had flounced out of the supper box and intercepted Beauchamp, Wolfe and their female companion. Tadlow had followed Marie from the box and not returned. Not that that was any loss—Hugo never had taken to the man. But he had wondered at the time why Marie—mercenary to her core—was bothering with Lord Alexander Beauchamp, whose pockets always seemed to be to let, even with a father like the Duke of Cheriton, who was rich as Croesus. Why had she draped herself all over Beauchamp and plied him with punch before enticing him away from the supper box? And where did Tadlow fit in?