A Wager for Love Read Free Page B

of fact the sole occupant of the small sunny breakfast parlour was a young lady of some three and twenty summers, slightly under average height, and with a trim figure which was not really displayed to advantage by the rather faded and old fashioned dimity morning gown she was wearing. A profusion of chestnut ringlets, dressed very simply with green ribbons framed a face, which although not strictly beautiful, had a good deal of charm and character. Had she given much thought to it, Miss Lavinia Davenham would have probably declared her eyes to be her best feature. Indeed they were uncommonly large, grey and rather apt to sparkle; a warning to those who knew her best that she was about to give a show of the spirit that had led to at least one of her relatives declaring that the girl was far too hot headed. At the moment, however, her eyes were somewhat pensive, her soft mouth drooping, as she wondered what had happened to the rest of her family.
    On enquiring of the butler after her cousin, Lady Elizabeth, Lavinia was informed rather gravely by that gentleman that it was not Lady Elizabeth’s habit to rise from her bed until the hour was well past noon. With the clock showing that the hour still wanted five minutes to ten, and newness to London precluding her from taking the pleasant stroll she had been used to enjoying in Italy, Lavinia, never one to repine unduly, seated herself at the table.
    She had just finished her bread and butter and was about to pour herself a fresh cup of coffee, when the butler entered once more, this time bearing a letter which he handed to Lavinia. Puzzled she looked at it. She could think of no-one, apart from a few friends in Italy, who would be writing to her here, and indeed the writing was not familiar. Slowly she turned it over, her frown deepening as she broke the seal and perused its contents. She was just about to read it again when the door opened to admit a bleary-eyed and exceedingly ill at ease Richard.
    Lavinia eyed him with sisterly concern, putting down her letter, “Why, Richard, whatever is the matter?”
    Richard, Lord Arnedale, turned to face his sister, his boyish features haggard, his exhausted drawn pallor telling its own story. Huge dark circles rimmed his eyes. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.
    Lavinia’s life with her grandmother had not brought her into much contact with very young gentlemen, but she was a sensible girl and one look was sufficient to assure her that this was no mere boyish prank. Seriously alarmed, she dismissed the hovering footman, and hurried to her brother’s side. “Richard, come and tell me, my love, what ails you?”
    He started nervously, biting his lip in distress, “Oh, Lavinia, I have been such a fool. Charles warned me, but I would not heed him. I thought I was so clever,” he added bitterly. “I wanted to do so much for you, to make up for our father’s neglect …”
    He flushed at the speaking glance she threw him from clear, grey eyes.
    “Don’t look at me so, I beg you.” Richard’s voice betrayed his self-disgust. “You see before you the most wretched of creatures. Yesterday I was the owner of our father’s estates. You would think I would be satisfied, but no.” He dropped his head into his hands, his voice muffled. “Today, I shall be lucky to retain the smallest farm on that estate. What think you of that, sister? I promised you a fine London season, and what do I give you-a cottage fit only for the meanest labourer.”
    Lavinia placed a consoling hand on his arm. “Richard, tell me all,” she coaxed.
    Hardly trusting himself to speak, haltingly at first, and then more easily, he related the night’s events. She was more dismayed than she allowed him to see. But the full force of her fury was not directed at her brother, but at the man who had so callously stripped him of all he possessed. There was a glint of anger in the spirited eyes and a decided set to the full lips. “This man, Richard, what