Page 1 of The Husband Gamble
CHAPTERONE
In the village of Pluffington-on-Memmerbeck, Amaryllis Fernhill’s wedding is one of the high points of the past fifty years—a wonderful spectacle, and one in which the villagers’ betters were bested. Even better than the time the great-grandfather of the current earl set his horse cavorting in front of the blacksmith’s daughter and was bucked off into the duck pond.
The little ones, who were not present for the wedding, beg for the story when night draws in and the fire sinks low and bedtime beckons. “Please, Granny (or Gaffer, as the case may be), tell us the story of the stolen bride?”
[“The Abduction of Amaryllis Fernhill”, inCollected Tales from the Villages of England, by a Gentleman]
* * *
The first hurdle was over. Lady Octavia Sewell had agreed to receive them despite the black mark hanging over Amaryllis Fernhill’s reputation. Rilla pasted on an expression of confidence, took Cousin Felicia’s arm, and followed the butler up the stairs.
Rilla had underestimated the challenges she would face in meeting the terms of her father’s will. She was no beauty, and her reputation had been shredded three years ago. On the other hand, in those three years she had learned to dress to enhance the assets she did have. She couldn’t do much about her reputation, but the worst of the allegations were untrue and, after all, a five-thousand-pound dowry was not to be sneered at.
Apparently, the dowry was not enough to attract the kind of suitor she was willing to consider. Not when she was the famous Amaryllis Fernhill, the woman who had been abducted from the altar three years ago, and who had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth until part way through this year’s London Season. Suddenly, there she was, her companion an elderly and distant cousin, ready to enter the marriage mart.
The Season had been a disaster. The summer and autumn at different spa towns, and the succession of events to which Cousin Felicia managed to garner an invitation, a complete waste of time. She collected plenty of the wrong kind of suitor as well as snubs from those who thought they knew precisely what she had been up to for the last few years. But not one respectable gentleman she trusted enough to grant him her future.
Rilla had no intention of being left worse off after marriage than before.
They had arrived. The butler opened the door and announced them. “Miss Amaryllis Fernhill. Lady Felicia Barker.”
Amaryllis could not help another sigh of relief when Lady Sewell rose to greet Cousin Felicia with enthusiasm. “My dear Lady Barker! I am delighted to see you! I had no idea you were in the area.”
“We travelled here to see you, Lady Sewell.” Cousin Felicia’s straightforward approach was a great delight to Rilla, not least because of the poisonous subtlety employed by the haut ton. She only hoped it would serve her now. “Allow me to present my cousin, Miss Amaryllis Fernhill. I believe you may be in a position to help her.”
Lady Sewell turned to Rilla, and Rilla curtseyed. “Good day, Miss Fernhill.”
“My lady.”
Lady Sewell waved to a pair of chairs close to the sofa where she had been lounging. “Please, be seated. I have ordered refreshments.” She waited until Rilla and Cousin Felicia were seated before commenting, “So you are the girl who was taken away by the fairies. And now you are back from wherever you really went and you want a husband.”
Rilla decided to meet bluntness with bluntness. “If rumour is correct, my lady, I am just what you are looking for. A lady for whom your cousin Lady Osbourne will find it impossible to make a match, thus winning the wager between you. I am just desperate enough to gamble she will surprise us both, for I have tried for months, and am certainly not going to find a husband on my own.”
Lady Sewell narrowed her eyes. “Are you pregnant, girl?”
Rilla supposed she had invited the question, and she managed to keep the resentment from her voice when she answered. “No, my lady. It is not possible. I am still a maiden.”
“Hmm.” Lady Sewell did not look pleased, but then she brightened. “But there is no way Pansy can introduce that topic into the conversation, and nor can she provide evidence if she did. It will do. It will do very well.”
She smiled. “Very well, Miss Fernhill. You shall go to one of my cousin’s house parties, and I shall challenge her to find you an appealing match. Let us have a cup of tea, and talk about what you are looking for in a husband.”
* * *
The Earl of Hythe was already regretting his agreement to attend the party. The room he had been given was perfectly adequate. His valet Pritchard, who had been with him for years, had been busy arranging the suite of rooms while Hythe was in his bath.
Pritchard knew exactly how Hythe liked things. He had organised the dressing room and the bedside table, and had moved the chairs in the seating area so they were precisely aligned with the edge of the hearth, with the little table equidistant between the two and on the same ruler-straight line. In a dozen ways, he had removed the tiny imperfections that left Hythe unsettled.
After he was dressed again, Hythe set his travelling desk on the desk provided, and checked the desk drawers. Lady Osbourne had provided quality paper and ink. The stack of paper needed to be straightened, as did the rest of the drawer contents. That task finished, Hythe had no further excuse for lingering in his room, getting in Pritchard’s way. Like it or not, he needed to go below and meet the other guests.
He blamed his sister Sophia, entirely. On second thoughts, he had opened himself to the attack. If he had never grumbled to her about the difficulty of finding a wife one could respect and even, perhaps, befriend, she would never have suggested he put himself in the hands of the acclaimed matchmaker. One who had found matches, furthermore, for people whom Society had judged unmarriageable.
Even so, Hythe would never have agreed if the marriage of his sister Felicity had not left his townhouse appallingly empty. Felicity had followed him from one diplomatic post into another, keeping house for him. His servants were perfectly competent, but they would be horrified to be asked to sit down for a chat over breakfast or of an evening.
Even Pritchard. Especially Pritchard, who was more proper than Hythe could ever be.
In addition, of course, no servant could be his hostess or be at his side during the social occasions that were so much part of his work.
“Excuse me, my lord,” Pritchard said.
