Wicked Wager

  Wicked Wager

  Beverley Eikli

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Wicked Wager

  Beverley Eikli

  A dissolute rake, a virtuous lady, a ruthless society beauty and a missing plantation owner with secrets—just another day in Georgian England…

  1780

  Wealthy Jamaican plantation owner Harry Carstairs has disappeared—and everyone wants to know where he is…

  Celeste Rosington knows her place in society, and while she may not be overjoyed at her upcoming wedding to her detached cousin Raphael, she nonetheless hopes the marriage will be successful. When Raphael asks her for her help to save Harry, she agrees. But her decision costs her more than she knows…

  Celeste’s clandestine visit to Harry’s home is witnessed, and her connection to Harry misconstrued. Harry’s secrets put Celeste into more danger than even Raphael understands, and throws her into the path of the ruthless, cunning, beautiful Lady Busselton and the dissolute, dangerous Lord Peregrine.

  Raphael is invested in keeping Harry alive. Lady Busselton is invested in keeping him quiet. Lord Peregrine is invested in anything that staves off boredom. And Celeste is becoming increasingly invested in Lord Peregrine. After all, what resistance does an innocent young woman have against something so deliciously wicked?

  About the Author

  Historical Romance Author Beverley Eikli took her passion for handsome rogues and worthy heroines to new heights as she plotted her tales of adventure while operating the computer equipment in the back of low flying survey aircraft during three-month contracts away from home.

  Her imaginative forays into the ballrooms of Georgian and Regency high society were often a panacea to long and often turbulent survey lines over Greenland and French Guyana, Namibia and other remote locations.

  Beverley’s love of the gypsy lifestyle and appreciation of life’s varied heroes was honed during years of working in the male-dominated safari and airborne survey industries. In contrast to her own life of adventure and independence, she writes stories of women whose struggle for happiness and fulfilment during a time in history when they were completely dependent on their closest male relative often came at great cost.

  Now living with her family in Melbourne, Australia, twenty years after hitching her star to the Cessna Caravan (now a Boeing 777) of the handsome Norwegian bush pilot she met around a campfire in Botswana’s beautiful Okavango Delta where she ran a safari lodge at the time, Beverley teaches creative writing, makes historical costumes and works as a Disaster Events Researcher.

  Acknowledgements

  My job as a disaster events researcher has unearthed many wonderful stories. And they’re all true. Unravelling the facts behind more than five hundred historic shipwrecks, using the newspapers of the day to present a concise but detailed account of the bare facts led to my conceiving the initial idea for Wicked Wager.

  Throw in a background of deceit and high stakes with characters who might have rubbed shoulders with those from Dangerous Liaisons, together with a good dose of imagination, and you have Wicked Wager.

  I’d also like to acknowledge the good humour and unwavering support of my husband.

  To Eivind

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter One

  Lord Peregrine liked a wager. The cards, the horses, occasionally a pair of spiders, could whip up his blood and tip him out of the lethargy and ennui which characterised his usual state of being.

  This wager, though, was different. He could feel it in the sudden stillness into which he’d been plunged; the colour, vibrancy and chatter that had washed about him from the moment he and Xenia had stepped into their box at the theatre, sucked into the void.

  Xenia’s seductive purr as she put her head close to his was as sweet as a feather skimming his heated, naked flesh.

  And as dangerous as a black widow’s bite.

  ‘Come, Perry, it’s not like you to have scruples.’

  He blinked to clear his mind and as his gaze raked the breathtaking contours of London’s most beautiful widow—and probably its most immoral—he wasn’t sure if the thrumming of blood to his extremities was due to outrage or titillation.

  Slowly he exhaled, acknowledging almost sadly that it was the latter, which would of course confirm society’s opinion of him as a bored and dissolute libertine who’d done nothing but wallow in his father’s wealth, living a life of scandal. A man totally without redemption. Indeed, he would deserve every uncomplimentary epithet hurled at him if he accepted darling Xenia’s outrageous wager.

  He surprised himself with his hesitation. A sudden flowering of moral fibre? Or fear? Clearly Xenia was surprised by his lack of enthusiasm, for she glanced at him askance, before her lips curved into that devastating smile that never failed to render him no better than her unruly, slavering hounds of whom she was so fond, who rutted with anything that crossed their paths.

  And there was the rub. Yes, he was immoral, he was dissolute, but at thirty-three he couldn’t believe he was totally beyond redemption.

  Lord Peregrine sighed, abandoning the daydream he was better than he was—for that’s all it was—and met Xenia’s ice blue gaze while he schooled his features to betray no emotion. A lifetime’s practice under the brutal tutelage of his uncle had made this easy. He could appear unmoved when it was true to say that he still was capable of some feeling. Whether that was a good thing or not was a matter he’d not yet decided.

  And then he took another sip of his champagne. Around him the theatre once again pulsed with the energy he’d been conscious of before Xenia’s carefully calculated whisper.

  Oh, she was good. She knew exactly how to stir his blood.

  Xenia gave a soft, throaty laugh. ‘She’s over there, if you want to look.’

  He followed the direction indicated by her elegant finger, towards the stalls where two society beauties, with painted faces and elaborate pomaded coiffures two-feet high, were making eyes at the gentlemen over the top of ivory pointed fans.

  ‘No, not there!’

  Peregrine smiled. He enjoyed teasing her. Xenia was quick to irritation. Quick to anger, and quick to passion, too.

  The high-pitched inducements of the girls selling oranges in the pits almost drowned out the wavering top notes that concluded the opera singer’s aria; and as Peregrine searched for the object under discussion, his thoughts revolved around the usual litany of: ‘Diversion, diversion; anything for diversion’.

  No, certainly these were not the thoughts of a gentleman; more like a wolf wearing the trappings of one.

  ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’

  He was aware Xenia was watching him carefully, but again Peregrine schooled his features into a mask of indifference, even before he’d assimilated the scene before him.

  And then the blurred images coalesced into one and as he regarded the handsome couple seated across the gallery, something in the graceful movements of the young woman stirred his senses, triggering an emotion not dissimilar to the energy that surged through him as he followed the hunt, charging
with the rest of them after the wily fox.

  By God, it was good to feel something that wasn’t boredom.

  Xenia, or rather Lady Busselton, as she’d become, lowered her opera glasses, her arched eyebrows and pursed lips showing how much she was enjoying Peregrine’s reaction to her suggestion.

  Her wicked wager.

  He hooked one elegantly shod foot over his black satin pantaloons, regarding her over steepled fingers as he considered his response. The heat and smell from hundreds of bodies pressed close to enjoy tonight’s production was making his head pound.

  Or was it excitement? Revenge wasn’t usually a game he played. Well, not with a woman as the spoils.

  ‘You, of all people, Perry, know that the incomparable Miss Celeste Rosington is as far removed as is possible from the celestial virgin she is painted.’

  Xenia raised her shoulder slightly in the direction of the couple across from them who, heads bent together, hands almost touching, represented the epitome of lovebirds on the eve of their nuptials.

  ‘Your poor sister knows it, to her eternal cost.’ She gave a husky laugh; the same laugh that for ten years had never failed to make Peregrine harden with instant desire. ‘Come, my dearest Perry, it’s not like you to allow your scruples to get in the way. After all, she has none.’

  She was prodding, and would continue, until she got her reaction. Xenia, the tearaway cosseted only daughter of a ruthless and successful sea captain who had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure she got her heart’s desire, including two husbands with fortune and title, had changed little since Perry had become acquainted with her in her first season out. Back then she’d put financial and social considerations above their mutual attraction, accepting an earl that trumped a lowly viscount. He suspected—hoped—she’d rued the day.

  ‘Scruples? I hope I have some at least, Xenia. And no, it’s not scruples that give me pause. It’s whether I have the stomach to further an acquaintance with a jezebel like Miss Rosington, even if I have every reason to see her revealed for what she is.’ There. He’d just proved himself a gentleman before any unflattering epithet could be added. ‘For a start, what do you suppose my sister would say if she heard I was sniffing after the woman who … well, destroyed her life, to use Charlotte’s own words?’

  Xenia pursed her mouth and raised one thin, charcoaled eyebrow. Though no longer in her first flush of youth, she continued to exude the most potent sexual allure of any woman Peregrine had met. With or without powder and rouge she was still a beauty, with the delicate bone structure of her long-dead mother, an impoverished aristocrat who’d married the coarse, bluff ship’s captain after he’d amassed a fortune with his growing fleet plying a lucrative trade with the Far East in spices, slaves and silks.

  Not that her heritage was something Xenia discussed. Though she eschewed her links with trade, she was quick to utilise the benefits of a seemingly endless supply of funds, even when husbands were not so forthcoming; and to prod the captain’s more ruthless streak when it might be of any benefit.

  She continued to fix Peregrine with her calculating blue stare. ‘Your sister is no fool. Why, Charlotte would understand perfectly well that the only reason you could possibly show an interest in Miss Rosington was because you were avenging her; doing what any loyal brother would for his unjustly treated dear sister.’

  For some reason Xenia’s little wager seemed to have fired her blood. She patted Perry’s shoulder, her expression a mask of false sympathy. ‘Poor Charlotte has been made to look a fool. Surely you, Perry, wish to know why Miss Rosington was discovered, half undressed, by your sister in Mr Carstairs’ saloon before the two of them rushed guiltily into the night? Surely you, Perry, know that the only way you’re going to help Charlotte is to get close to that designing Miss Rosington,’ she jabbed a finger at the unaware couple, ‘who’s looking moon-eyes at her betrothed—and find out for yourself. Why did she do it? Boredom? A wager? The fact is, your sister is heartbroken, her reputation tarnished … while Miss Celeste remains society’s darling, soon to wed her cousin in the match of the season.’

  She breathed deeply, a provocative motion since it brought into greater evidence her full, lush breasts, revealed to ample advantage in her low-cut confection of gold embroidered silk and lace.

  Her eyes slid over Perry’s elegantly turned-out form and settled on his face, her lips pursed in a suggestive moué. ‘If you wish to sample what you’ve always wanted, Perry darling,’ the unexpected insinuation of her body as reward made him harden even more, ‘and discover for yourself what has enthralled my long list of lovers, then call it amusement, but also atonement, that I attach this condition.’ She sat back, fanning herself languidly while her bosom strained against her bodice. Another glance at her face revealed her suppressed excitement: eyes bright, her neat, curvaceous body quivering. ‘Reveal to the world the truth of what Miss Celeste really is. Let the public understand it so that they might revile her for the woman who stole your sister’s happiness. And at the same time, you can find out where Harry Carstairs is. After that, I will make you very happy.’ The candlelight reflected off her pretty, pearl-like teeth, her look a mixture of lustful intent and daring. As she leaned back, eyes brimming with promise over the tips of her fan, her final words sealed the deal. ‘After so many years’ friendship, Perry darling, I think it’s time to raise the stakes—don’t you?’

  ***

  The shrill enticements from the orange sellers to buy their wares faded as Celeste put her head close to her cousin’s to murmur in his ear, a dull sense of dread permeating her soul. Never had she known anyone as determined as her cousin, Raphael, but now he was custodian of her happiness and she didn’t fancy her chances that he would relent. Since they’d been children Raphael had to prove himself the best, the one in charge, and his honeyed tongue and sharp wits always won the day.

  ‘Please, Raphael, it’s not fair to hold me to this marriage if you cannot love me as a wife would wish to be … at least revered,’ she whispered, the familiar grief clawing its way up her gullet.

  Since Celeste could remember, they’d been destined to marry. As a child, this knowledge sat comfortably with her. Raphael was handsome and accomplished. She knew she had to marry someone with the wealth and lineage to satisfy her parents, so it might as well be the cousin who was generous and handsome in a careless sort of way. He’d always taken a general interest in her wellbeing and defended her on occasion during their childhood games. The marriage made sense for so many reasons, not just dynastic, and Celeste had had no objections.

  That is, until Raphael’s tinderbox revelation three weeks ago.

  With a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that her elderly chaperone was still gently snoring away in her seat in Raphael’s opera box, Celeste returned to the topic that had been at the forefront of her mind every waking moment since Raphael had told her that his heart belonged to another.

  ‘For the hundredth time, I’m begging you to release me. Let me find someone who will place me first in his heart.’ As the words spilled out, she realised how pathetic she must sound. Her arguments had no basis in the decision agreed upon by Raphael and Celeste’s uncle, her guardian since her father’s death five years before. But she had to try, to say what was in her heart. ‘Don’t tell me I seek a fairytale that doesn’t exist. I know I’m surrounded by men and women bound together in marriages that are hateful to them, but I would want to begin mine with hope.’

  He was restless as usual, his dark, moody eyes scouring her face as if searching for her chink, her weakness; confident, ultimately, that the force of his will would mean her ultimate acquiescence, in words at least.

  His thin lips pursed and his glance made no secret of his contempt. ‘How many women would dream to be in your position,’ he muttered. ‘I am offering you the chance to take any lover you choose. All you have to do is what our parents, custodians—and I—wish. Marry me. Once you have done your duty, you can follow your heart, indulge
your passions, explore a world of sensuality you have no idea even exists.’

  ‘As you have?’

  ‘I know what I want, I’ve explored it and I like it. Do you not see? Marriage to each other is more than just expedient, it offers us everything we want: companionship and respect for each other, and ultimately the freedom to pursue our every desire beyond the domestic arena.’

  ‘My desire is to be loved by my husband.’ She spoke woodenly, despite knowing it would inflame him. Fortunately, he was more on show here. He had to temper his responses.

  Still, it was clear he was irritated. Only the fall of lace at his sleeve softened the severity of his expression as he raked his fingers through his hair, though he was careful not to disturb his well-groomed queue. ‘Celeste, it is all very well to ask me to release you, but do you suppose your uncle and your Aunt Branwell would countenance your absurdities? Why can you not simply go through with what’s expected of us, provide the necessary heir, and then you’re free to do whatever you wish—within reason?’

  Tears stung her eyes and her throat thickened, making it hard not to choke on the sob she must hold at bay. In a low voice she muttered, ‘Three weeks ago, I proved my love, Raphael—’

  She was not expecting the vituperative response. Raphael’s eyes blazed with a different intensity now, though his voice was a controlled hiss. ‘Yes, but where is Harry Carstairs now, my love?’

  She’d heard it before. Unable to bear his reproach, she squeezed shut her eyes and clenched her fists. ‘All right,’ she whispered, ‘if it matters neither way to you, and it’s my uncle whose absolution is required, would you agree if I found a match that would exceed even a match with you?’ Somehow she had to hear him give ground. Ignoring his barb, his reproach that she’d failed in the mission he’d sent her on three weeks earlier, she continued to plead her case. ‘What if a contender suddenly emerged with title and estates that eclipsed yours, and I loved him and wished to marry him, what then, Raphael? Would you release me?’