Wicked Wager Read online

  Nausea rose up in her throat. She was not in the habit of lying. Lord Peregrine knew nothing further he could add to the mystery.

  ‘I told him Harry was my lover,’ she whispered, shrinking from Raphael’s uncertain reaction; but this lie, based on Lord Peregrine’s initial suspicions of her, was her only inspiration. Quickly she went on in the silence, ‘I made clear my interest in Lord Peregrine but said that naturally I was concerned, in view of my past association with Harry, that he was safe.’ She clasped her hands together to stay their trembling as she went on, ‘I suggested to Lord Peregrine that he might be induced to tell me what information he’d hinted to me he had pertaining to Harry’s whereabouts.’

  To her astonishment, Raphael let out a roar of laughter. Sobering, he raked her with the critical gaze she was so used to and never failed to make her feel like a piece of meat or a partridge on a hook, curing in the larder. ‘Why, my dear Celeste, I truly did not believe you capable of such subterfuge. You told him you were Harry’s lover? Well, that’s what Lord Peregrine has believed of you from the start, I daresay. But why did you suspect Lord Peregrine had knowledge or involvement in Harry’s disappearance, might I ask?’

  Celeste couldn’t meet his eye. Staring into the fire, she whispered, ‘It was a chance remark he made …’ What, oh what, could she say? Then she remembered Lord Cowdril’s comment at the dinner table and on a wave of inspiration she added, ‘Harry owes him a lot of money. I believe Harry owes a lot of people a lot of money, and something you said earlier and something else Lord Peregrine said hinted that someone may be holding Harry either as revenge or until he recouped what he was owed.’

  This certainly got Raphael’s attention. ‘But Lord Peregrine gave you the locket, Celeste. Why? The locket was his means of recouping what he was owed, yet he clearly didn’t know it.’

  ‘What do you mean, Raphael?’ She cocked her head. ‘I am confused. You’ve said this locket is meaningful, but you’ve not said exactly how its value extends beyond its value in gold, or indeed, its sentimental value.’

  Raphael grinned. ‘There are six numbers engraved on the inside, behind Miss Paige’s picture.’ He sounded smug. ‘These are the numbers to a security box containing Harry’s aunt’s fortune. That is why Harry sent the locket to me and why he needs it so much.’ He chuckled. ‘But now you have it. Oh my dear, that was masterful. If Lord Peregrine wishes to receive what is owed him he need have looked no further. Clearly when Harry entrusted the locket to a message boy, he believed at the time he could escape or that he’d not be killed rather than be forced to give up his fortune, but I would do anything to secure Harry’s release. Now it is up to you, Celeste, to determine the terms of his ransom.’

  Celeste shook her head slowly. ‘It’s true, I traded a kiss for the locket, but I denied Lord Peregrine what he most wanted.’ If honesty had worked so well for her last time, it stood to reason it should be the basis of her next lie. ‘He therefore refused to tell me further details, though he has promised to reveal all if I agree to meet with him again.’

  ‘The arrogance!’ Raphael pulled out his snuffbox and took a pinch. ‘London’s most celebrated libertine truly believes that on such bare acquaintance you’ll happily divest yourself of your honour—and your virtue—in return for the information he chooses to give you.’

  ‘It’s what you’ve all but asked me to do, Raphael.’ Celeste tried to keep the spleen from her tone, just as she was careful to hide her indignation at the object of her obsession—no, her love—being painted in such terms.

  Nevertheless, she’d say and do what she had to. All she needed was another couple of days, quietly left to her own devices, before she could respond to Lord Peregrine’s instructions and slip into the night with a few possessions ready to begin her new life … as the handsome viscount’s wife.

  The thought galvanised her with renewed hope and energy and she straightened in the face of Raphael’s taunts. ‘I shall not meet with him, of course. As your future wife, I know the importance of ensuring no hint of scandal attaches—’

  ‘Oh, you will meet him, Celeste.’

  She glanced up at his gritty tone. Raphael was not laughing now. No, his face was a mask of determination. As it would be, Celeste supposed, for he was as close as he’d managed to get to finding Harry since his friend had disappeared and there was absolutely no way he was going to squander his best opportunity.

  He certainly didn’t care about squandering Celeste’s virtue, if that was the price that had to be paid, though no doubt Raphael had a plan in place. He would not want to be saddled with an impure wife, or one to whom scandal was attached.

  ‘You will extract everything Lord Peregrine knows. I don’t need to tell you to be careful. He might be Lady Busselton’s lover but such loyalties won’t stop such a man from taking advantage of you, my sweet innocent.’

  The world stilled. Raphael continued talking.

  Celeste was no longer attending.

  Lady Busselton was Lord Peregrine’s lover? She clenched her fists in her lap and prayed Raphael would not observe her trembling as she digested this bombshell. She’d heard they were old friends at Lady Cowdril’s dinner table … but lovers?

  Feverishly Celeste tried to remember if she’d been aware of anything to suggest this was so, and could not. Lady Busselton was handsome to be sure, but she was a good ten years older than Celeste, and the widow of two husbands. There was an air of world-weary boredom about her that Celeste supposed some might find intriguing, but which Celeste found cloying and repugnant.

  Devastation lodged in her breast. How could Lord Peregrine find such a jaded creature attractive?

  No, she reminded herself, he did not; else he’d not be marrying Celeste in three days. He’d made her a proper offer. He was not toying with her as he’d done in the beginning. True love had blossomed between them. She might be an innocent but she knew reciprocated love and passion when she stumbled upon it.

  Raphael had made that comment in an attempt to ensure Celeste was even more on her guard with him.

  Surely that was how it was?

  Though discomposed, she nevertheless adopted a mask of mild interest while Raphael went on, ‘Clearly his lordship knows more than he has told you, meaning you must spend whatever time you need with him to learn exactly what has happened to Harry. You must discover the truth, Celeste. I truly believe you can, though of course you must be on your guard. He will do his best to seduce you, I can assure you.’

  Doubt flooded her. Was she no more than an innocent little fool the viscount found a pleasant diversion? She had, after all, advertised her availability with all the discretion of a Union Jack atop a flagpole in a strong wind.

  But that aside, Lord Peregrine had asked her to marry him. This very moment, in fact, he was arranging matters in order for them to spend the rest of their days together.

  This was not a cruel hoax. He was sincere. She was certain of it.

  ***

  So certain that when Lord Peregrine’s hastily scrawled missive with instructions to meet her at a respectable Cadogan Square address the very next day was delivered to the faithful Mary in the street by a breathless street urchin, and then into Celeste’s trembling hand, Celeste nearly burst into tears for joy.

  Lord Peregrine was sincere, and clearly so eager to be with her, he’d managed to organise matters in an even shorter time than the three days he’d estimated it would take him.

  Carefully burning every last scrap of the note in the fire, after giving the boy a coin and a monogrammed handkerchief as proof she’d received his lordship’s message, Celeste immediately set about rearranging her day and, with pounding heart, preparing herself for the most daring act she’d ever embarked upon.

  Her elopement with her wicked, wonderful, reformed rake, Lord Peregrine.

  The risks of discovery were so great that she would not even tell Mary what her plan was just yet, although Mary’s chaperonage was needed for the moment.

  Aunt
Branwell believed Celeste was visiting a friend’s house that afternoon to play cards, with Mary naturally accompanying her. The carriage had been brought round to take her to a very respectable address a short ride across London. There was no incriminating note and no servants entrusted with her secret who could possibly expose her before she had achieved her goal.

  And as she waited on the top step of her aunt’s townhouse for the footman to open the carriage door, her heart was full to bursting with all the possibilities that lay ahead.

  For this would be the last time she issued down these stairs as simply Miss Celeste Rosington.

  Before midnight struck, her world would be tilted on an axis far more disposed towards her happiness and she’d be venturing forth as Viscount Peregrine’s new wife.

  She wondered if it were possible to die of happiness.

  Chapter Nine

  Twilight was casting a golden sheen upon the cobbled streets when Celeste, hidden by a concealing cloak, arrived at the stipulated address. As if by magic, the front door opened the moment she raised her hand to knock. A small, round-faced woman dressed in black, who introduced herself as the housekeeper, welcomed her into the grand hallway, then led her to a small drawing room where she offered Celeste refreshment, while another servant led Mary downstairs to join the staff.

  For a moment Celeste was confused by her reception, wondering if she’d perhaps walked straight into Lord Peregrine’s own townhouse. Then she realised that the décor and general air did not accord with the kind of abode a single gentleman was likely to inhabit when in London. There was a distinctly feminine touch to the furnishings, while several family portraits of a pretty young lady and a well attired, serious-faced gentleman stared at her from the walls. They seemed familiar, and yet Celeste could not place the likeness. As she’d become acquainted with so many new people since she’d arrived in London, though, it was perfectly reasonable she’d not remember them all.

  She smiled her thanks as the parlourmaid brought her some Madeira, excitement and nervousness raging war as she tried to imagine how she could properly order her features once Lord Peregrine appeared.

  For she’d never been more sure of anything when it came to choosing which man offered her the brighter future: Raphael or Lord Peregrine.

  Lord Peregrine might be a libertine but somehow she, innocent, artless Celeste, had found a way to breach the careless, louche barrier he’d erected against overtures to his heart.

  He loved her and she loved him. It was incredible. Astonishing and miraculous and she’d never forget the sense of wonder and excitement she now felt, knowing that her whole life was about to be turned upside down.

  Finishing her Madeira, and with the silence beginning to play on her nerves, she continued to indulge her girlish daydreams. Soon she would be Lady Peregrine, wife to a handsome, humorous, highly intelligent man. There would be sparring matches and there would be passionate trysts.

  There would also be exciting bedroom activities. She was not exactly certain of the details involved, however her bodily responses to the preliminaries of such lovemaking filled her with confidence that she’d thoroughly enjoy the proper act if Lord Peregrine were in charge.

  The thought of sharing a bed with Raphael filled her with shame and disgust; but when she replaced Peregrine in such imaginings, her body flowered with want.

  More time passed. Hiding her impatience, Celeste studied the room. On a stand in the corner a Sevres vase had pride of place. A collection of Royal Doulton china figurines lined the shelf of a walnut-inlaid cabinet against the far wall, while around the Aubusson carpet was ranged a cluster of finely made Chinese-style furniture with latticework and lacquer, bearing the hallmarks of the famous cabinet-maker Thomas Chippendale.

  The draperies were of the finest, imported, Celeste suspected, from the Far East.

  Clearly the home belonged to someone with contacts in far-flung parts of the world; someone possessed of a great deal of money.

  But whose house could it be? As she finished her second glass of Madeira and her mind continued to roam, she wondered why Lord Peregrine was keeping her waiting so long.

  Presently she heard footsteps in the passage and the door opened to another rosy-cheeked woman with neat grey curls, wearing a dark blue floral sack-back gown, who rushed forward, greeting Celeste as if she’d not expected her.

  ‘My dear, how long have you been waiting? Mrs Warner did not tell me you were here. But you are alone?’ She looked about her with a frown, as if unable to believe Celeste had come unaccompanied. Then she blinked rapidly, lowering her voice as she whispered, ‘Ah, but it’s because of Harry that you’re here! You are a friend of Charlotte’s, of course. I’ve only just this moment returned and was not expecting you, but I wonder why my housekeeper did not fetch my nephew down to speak with you?’

  ‘Harry?’ Celeste could only blink stupidly for a strange lethargy was permeating her bones. ‘Harry is here?’ She forced herself to sit up straight, silently chastising herself for having drunk that second glass of wine, which seemed to have gone straight to her head.

  The woman opposite was making no sense.

  She spoke as if she were Harry Carstairs’ aunt and this was her house.

  Why had Lord Peregrine sent her here?

  The answers were too difficult to tease out. She made to lift her hand to her cheek but her limb felt like lead. Horrified, she tried to stand, but her legs would not obey her. Celeste blinked, her neck feeling like a fragile stem unable to support the heaviness of her head, and it was difficult to raise her chin as the parlourmaid entered the room in response to Mrs Carstairs’ urgent summons. The fright in the woman’s voice pierced Celeste’s numbed brain, though everything else happening around her was confused and muted.

  ‘Miss Rosington, what is it? You are unwell!’ cried Mrs Carstairs as, together with the maid, they supported her on her little gilt chair so she’d not fall to the ground.

  Then Mrs Warner, the housekeeper, was rushing into the room, though Celeste noticed she didn’t appear quite as shocked.

  Celeste opened her mouth to speak but her words came out a jumble of slurred nonsense. Her limbs did not obey her woozy exhortation to respond and she was only vaguely conscious of the housekeeper’s demand that the footman be summoned to help convey Celeste to one of the chambers, ‘for Lord knows, we can’t do it alone, the state the poor miss is in.’

  Despite being nearly insensible, Celeste had enough cognisance to be horrified by her situation.

  This really was the Carstairs’ residence? Did Harry live here? It made no sense.

  She tried to object when they lifted her but she had no strength to resist; she suffered herself to be carried up the stairs and deposited on a large four-poster in a lavishly appointed bedroom. A large, stuffed monkey in a glass box grinned from a table in the corner, while the draperies were richly embroidered and clearly not of English design. How strange that her mind seemed unable to cope with the more urgent matter of what possible reason someone would have for wanting her here but, instead, dwelled on irrelevancies.

  ‘Unlace her, Mary, I’ll remove her shoes.’

  What a relief it was to see Mary by her side. She heard the two servants discuss her disrobing as if she were a mere doll, but she was unable to do anything for herself. Strangely, she was not consumed by terror now; merely a mild distress, and a great desire for sleep.

  All would be right, she tried to assure herself. Lord Peregrine would come soon. He would help her, comfort her … and explain.

  He’d bring the Special Licence. She might feel unwell but that wouldn’t stop her from being married.

  When she was laid out in a lawn night-rail, her clothes neatly folded on the kist at the end of the bed, she forced open her eyes one last time as Mary and the housekeeper retreated, closing the door the behind them, their whispered concern overlaid by the high-pitched tones of Mrs Carstairs, whose confusion was clearly as great as Celeste’s own.

  Still L
ord Peregrine did not come. Celeste tried to keep her mind alert and her eyes open for as long as she could. Where was he? What could be keeping him?

  And why was she lying in a bed in the house of Harry Carstairs’ aunt?

  Finally she could cling to consciousness no longer. Her eyes fluttered closed as she drifted gently upon a tide of heavy lethargy, until she was claimed by sleep’s comforting embrace.

  All would be well, she reassured herself. Lord Peregrine would ensure her safety. Beneath the exterior he chose to show the world he was kind and loving.

  And he loved her.

  ***

  An eternity later Celeste awoke to the quiet turning of the doorknob. Opening heavy lids, she blinked at the silhouette of a tall gentleman against the dim light of the corridor. For a moment he stood there, simply looking at her, then quietly he closed the door behind him as he stepped inside the chamber.

  ‘Lord Peregrine?’ Celeste whispered, immediately chastising herself for her lack of discretion with what few wits remained to her, for her limbs were so heavy she could barely move.

  He did not answer, and despite her condition she felt a jolt of alarm.

  If this was not Lord Peregrine, then what gentleman would be admitted to a lady’s private chamber in a respectable house?

  But of course. It must be the doctor.

  The stranger took a few steps towards the bed and lowered himself onto the chair at her side. In the darkness, Celeste heard his heavy breathing while she waited for the inevitable question that would begin the examination.

  She was surprised by the sound of a gentle thud upon the floor, followed by another.

  She forced open her eyes and her mind struggled to assimilate the man’s actions, for what doctor would remove his boots?

  And what gentlemen would then divest himself of his coat, and waistcoat, and cravat, she wondered in growing alarm, as these items of clothing were followed by his pantaloons and stockings. The gentleman loomed over her, his expression utterly indiscernible in the dim light, while his voice conveyed both great reluctance and regret.