Page 8 of A Lady's Wager
Corah smiled in spite of herself. Of course he’d spied what she was reading. Before he could quit the room, she hurriedly asked, “Is Melinda coming?”
Grandfather paused, and Corah’s heart sank. “She will have her opportunity another year when she has matured. This Season will be all for you. We cannot have Mary distracted with keeping her out of trouble.”
It wasn’t as if she’d be alone in London, but somehow going without Melinda felt wrong. They’d hardly been apart since theycame to live in Bristol. Aunt Mary couldn’t play the part of her daughter, with the late-night giggles and matchless support.
He rested a hand on the door. “You and Melinda are off to the Whitings’ this morning, are you not?”
“Yes.” She hadn’t managed to convince Melinda to give up.
“I’ll accompany you. I have a few things to seek out in town. Perhaps we can stop by the bookshop.” He’d taken her there often just after Papa died and they were forced to sell the house. The bookshops of Bristol became their special outing whenever Grandfather could see her spirits were low. She nodded, forcing a smile.
When he’d gone, Corah returned to staring at the fire. Its warmth seemed far away, too far to reach. What she wouldn’t give for someone to lean into just then, to tell her everything would work out for the best. She couldn’t go to Melinda. Her cousin would dissolve into tears at the announcement of their impending separation. Aunt Mary was in town. Her sister, Helen, and youngest brother, James, were too young to understand. Her oldest brother, John, was away at school. Richard was at sea. No one left to confide in.
Corah finally pulled her novel out again and ran her finger over the decoration on the cover. What she wouldn’t give to lean on the strong shoulder of Lieutenant Owens again, his fine wool coat warming her and musky cologne calming her nerves.
Her finger halted. She gulped. Why would she want that? She hardly knew the man. She shook the thoughts from her mind. Ridiculous. The fear of London had clearly muddled her thoughts.
Derrick settled into the offered chair at The Ship and glanced out the coffeehouse’s window. The St. Mary Redcliffe church loomedacross the street, a grey Gothic structure with half a spire. A single bell peeled as the clock struck nine.
The small coffeehouse buzzed with the morning chatter of merchants on their way to offices and gentlemen escaping tedious breakfast conversation at home. Derrick reached for a newspaper that had been left on his table. TheLondon Packet, dated the twenty-third of January. Yesterday. Perhaps a paper named after a ship would have some navy news. Anything that would get him off half pay and back in full service instead of wandering around the country paying visits to friends.
He drummed his fingers on the table. This venture to Bristol hadn’t been entirely dull. In the two weeks he’d been there, he’d already avoided a duel and enjoyed a private performance by a rather fetching young lady in the middle of a park. Mrs. Stewart hoped he’d stay for many weeks, no doubt to try to match him with all the girls she kept inviting to her home.
Why was it older women enjoyed trying to make matches? It wasn’t as though he were a catch. A lieutenant of a little means all sitting in London banks, but no home and no living family to speak of. Raised by a well-connected grandmother who had died a few years previous while he was at sea, he was not the sort of young man gentry families clamored to secure for their daughters.
“Owens, isn’t it?” A young light-haired gentleman stopped beside his table and nodded a greeting. “We met at the assembly. Do you mind if I share your table?”
Derrick rose. So much for a quiet morning at the coffeehouse. “Good morning, Mr. Whiting. But of course. Please sit.” They shook hands and Derrick found his chair again.
“I could hardly stand to be at home this morning,” Whiting said. “My sister is up to her wagers again, and all the young ladies in Bristol are descending.”
“Wagers?” Derrick glanced back at the paper. Perhaps if he had something to say about Miss Bradford, but news of any other young lady was of no interest.
“Stupid games,” Whiting grumbled. “She assigns them the name of a man they’ve never met, and they have to be introduced and get him to engage them for the supper dance. If they manage it, our family has the misfortune of carting them to the next assembly. If they don’t, public humiliation for the poor girls.”
Miss Bradford’s sunrise singing and Miss Lee’s wailing about potential ostracizing flashed through Derrick’s mind. “How ridiculous,” he said. Miss Bradford participated in these? She seemed a wise sort of lady, not one that would take part in activities with more risk than gain.
A serving maid brought them both cups of coffee, and Derrick thanked her. What was this downturn in his mood? Disappointment that Miss Bradford hadn’t quite been who he assumed? He glanced back at the newssheet, now partly covered by their cups. A line of blackletter text caught his eye: Death of the French king.
He sat forward. They’d killed him? He scanned the lengthy article detailing the gruesome event, which was filled with English and monarchist rhetoric he didn’t think the French would agree with. They’d killed him. He hadn’t thought they’d reach that point.
Whiting continued to grumble about his sister’s games as Derrick searched. There had to be something about the navy in here. An event of such worldwide importance wouldn’t go unanswered by King George, and depending on the severity of the response, that meant a chance of a lieutenant of little means getting called up to service.
“You should beware,” Whiting said. “I think your name was in the mix for next week’s assembly.”
Derrick blinked, lifting his gaze. His brain had fuzzed in his pursuit of news. “My name?”
“Your hostess told my mother and sister you planned to attend. Someone will have their cap set at you at the assembly.”
This hardly mattered right now. Not with kingdoms at stake. “Mrs. Stewart said I’d be there?” Of course he’d planned to go, mostly to catch another few minutes with Miss Bradford. Now he wasn’t so certain he wanted to risk that, if he’d be avoiding another young lady the whole night. Perhaps he’d just served in the navy too long, but being someone else’s prize did not suit his fancy.
“Even if she hadn’t, Alexandra would have found you out. She likes finding the gentlemen no one knows for her games.”
“How interesting.” A game of cat and mouse could be amusing. In other circumstances. Would he be called up soon enough to evade the sport? He could only hope. “I’ll be on my guard.”
While Whiting complained about his sister, Derrick pulled the newspaper until it slipped out from under the other man’s coffee cup. The article took up the entire sheet. He ran a finger over the lines of print.
Finally he spotted it. Whitehall—the Admiralty’s headquarters. There had been a council at Lord Grenville’s office. And a meeting of the Admiralty. The third-rate HMSIllustrioushad been commissioned, along with two frigates. Derrick stood, his chair’s legs grating against the floor. This was it! What he’d waited for. They were outfitting ships and sending them off.
