The Wagered Widow Read Free

Becky, you ain’t altogether in the basket, are you? You told me—”
    â€œYes, I know. Only—” She bit her lip. “There are so many bills. And if—”
    He laughed. “Is that all? Burn ’em, m’dear. Only sensible thing.”
    â€œBut—I cannot. The people I owe must be paid, ’tis only honest.”
    â€œOho! Do you mean to be honest, Becky, you’ll find yourself at Point Non Plus quicker’n you can skin a winkle.”
    â€œBut, surely, the servants—”
    â€œWill wait. They’re all devoted to you. Won’t mind a bit.”
    Rebecca sighed and her eyes fell.
    â€œTrouble with you,” he grumbled, “is you worry too much. Mustn’t do that, Becky. It’ll make you Friday-faced on Tuesday! Don’t do a damned bit of good, neither. Tried it.”
    She forced a smile. “I expect you are perfectly right, as usual.”
    Mrs. Boothe, who had remained silent during this interchange, now put in a mild, “Rebecca does not worry for herself, Snowden. But there is little Anthony to consider, you see.”
    Boothe frowned. He was an improvident, happy-go-lucky young gentleman, a fine sportsman cast in much the same mold as his late brother-in-law, and following a path that his much harassed father had been wont to prophesy would very soon bring him to ruin. There was no wager too preposterous for him to cover, no dare too foolhardy for him to take, no escapade from which he would back away. His temper was quick to flare and as quick to fade, but his pride was high, so that already he had been involved in two duels, both concluded satisfactorily, since he was a good swordsman. Full of energy, and chafing against the constraints of London’s Society, he had toyed with the notion of joining the Jacobite Cause when the Uprising had again exploded the previous September, and only a stern letter from his elder brother, reminding him that he was the temporary head of his house, had dissuaded him. His wildness, however, had seemed to increase of late. Rebecca suspected he had already run through the small inheritance left him when his sire had succumbed to influenza some four years earlier, but he showed no signs of being in desperate straits, his brow as unclouded, his eyes as full of laughter as ever. His friends were legion, for besides being endowed with an unquenchable optimism he was generous to a fault, and his kindness and loyalty were legendary. It was this very kindness that now caused him to say slowly, “Yes. Of course. I should have thought of the boy. I collect you’re wishful to send him away to school.”
    â€œYes. But you are not to worry, Snow. You’ve enough to do not to outrun the constable, I do not doubt, without having to—”
    â€œPooh! Nonsense!” He waited out two more hops and a dance, then said with the air of one who has solved the unsolvable, “Tell you what, Becky. I’m promised to a party of friends at Brooks’ tonight. Three of ’em owe me a—er, good deal. I’ll demand they fork over the dibs, and you shall have it. ’Twill be a start, at least. By the time Anthony’s old enough to go away to school, there should be sufficient for the first year, at all events.”
    Touched, Rebecca said, “How very good you are!” But as she reached out to him gratefully, her loving gaze shifted.
    A gentleman had sauntered from the carriage and now stood at a safe distance from Pax, idly twirling an amber cane, and certainly able to have heard the last sentence or two. He was a tall, lean man of about thirty, clad in a caped cloak of dark red silk, flung carelessly back to reveal a white velvet jacket with enormous cuffs exquisitely embroidered in shades of pink and red, a waistcoat of red-and-gold brocade, and white knee breeches. His powdered hair was tied back with a riband of deep red velvet. A great ruby gleamed in the Mechlin lace