To Wager with Love (Girls Who Dare Book 5) Read online

  Harriet cursed; she had no choice but to make a run for it. She jumped down, and her feet were immediately soaked. The ground was saturated and the rain still fell heavily. Skirts in hand, she ran pell-mell for the door but, by the time she reached it, she was drenched to her shift for the second time that day. Shivering, she hurried inside and asked for Mr de Beauvoir.

  The inn was so overrun with unexpected guests driven in by the terrible weather that it was a while before anyone found the man in question. When he appeared, he looked at Harriet in dismay.

  “Miss Stanhope,” he exclaimed, looking her over. “My word, you’re wet through. Come into the parlour before you catch your death.”

  Harriet did as he asked, grateful to stand and warm her hands by the fire; they were blue with cold and she felt quite unwell now. “I’m s-sorry to arrive unannounced like this,” she stammered through chattering teeth, “but I had to speak with you.”

  “Well, it must be urgent to bring you out on a night like this,” he said, shaking his head.

  “It is,” Harriet agreed. “I felt I must tell you at once that… that I intend to marry Lord St Clair.”

  “Ah.”

  Harriet let out a sigh as he smiled at her. Thank goodness he wasn’t angry.

  “Well, then let me be the first to congratulate you.”

  “You’re not upset?” she asked, relief washing through her.

  “Well, I am disappointed, naturally. But we are friends I hope, Miss Stanhope, and I see no reason for that to change?”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Harriet said, pushing her wet hair from her forehead. “I just… I felt I must tell you at once. It seemed wrong otherwise.”

  “I quite understand. He’s a very handsome and charming man, not to mention titled and rich. Any woman would be tempted, I’m sure.”

  Harriet stared at him, suddenly rather angry, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. Jasper was all those things, but that wasn’t why she loved him. In some ways she loved him despite those things, as his beauty and charm terrified her the most, and made her fear she would lose him in the end.

  “That’s not….” she began, shaking her head as her brain seemed suddenly full of fog. “That’s not why,” she said, determined to get her point across. “I love him. I always have. Ever since we were children. He says it’s the same for him, too.” She smiled at Inigo’s bemused expression and her anger faded as she realised he didn’t understand. “I think you are without a doubt the most brilliant man I have ever known. However, even brilliant men make mistakes. You are wrong about love, Inigo. There is far more to it than you suppose. I hope you discover that for yourself one day.”

  His bemusement turned to a frown, and he shook his head, the movement curt and decisive. “I have no time for such fancies. My love—if there is such a thing—is for my work alone. You understood that which was why our arrangement suited me. There is no space in my life for a romantic attachment, certainly not for love, even if I acknowledged such a sentiment. I could certainly never love a woman who was not my intellectual equal. What a pitiful excuse for a husband I would make if I even tried, which I have no desire to do. It would be a cruel thing to marry a woman who had no interest in my work and was destined to be ignored, as she would always come second to it. No. If you have any kindness for me at all, you would do well to wish me to find a likeminded lady, whose passions are reserved for science, or to remain a bachelor, content with his lot.”

  “As you like, Inigo,” Harriet said with a smile. She was feeling a little dazed now and not altogether as though she could remain standing much longer. “I’d best leave you now, before I’m missed.”

  “Yes, you must get home and get warm, Miss Stanhope. Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, I cannot help but feel you would have done better not to have come. You don’t look terribly well.”

  Harriet nodded and mumbled something, she wasn’t entirely sure what, and then waited while Inigo searched for an umbrella so she didn’t get even wetter on her return to the carriage. Once inside, Harriet put her head back against the squabs. She felt distinctly odd, exhausted and cold to the bone, her body wracked with shivers. Succumbing to the desire to sleep, she slid down so she could lie across the seat and closed her eyes.

  ***

  Jasper took out his pocket watch and frowned at it. He’d had supper sent to Harriet’s room, but he’d imagined she’d be finished by now. Deciding there was very little point in bothering with propriety after this afternoon’s little escapade—especially given he could trust all the remaining guests—he went directly to her room.

  He’d just raised his hand to knock when a commotion in the hallway downstairs drew his attention and he moved back along the corridor until he could look over the bannister. There were shouts and exclamations and Jasper frowned, moving towards the stairs and hurrying down in case he was needed.

  “What is it, Temple?” Jasper called, and then stopped in his tracks as a footman carried something into the house. No, not something, someone. A woman.

  Oh, God.

  Jasper raced down the stairs, staring at Harriet. She was flushed, feverish, and wet through once again. What the bloody hell had she been doing?

  “Harriet!” he exclaimed, putting his hand to her face and finding it hot beneath his touch. “Give her here,” he said, taking her from the footman. Harriet mumbled something and turned her face into his neck. “Temple, fetch my mother, and send for Doctor Haysom at once.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Temple replied, barking instructions and sending the staff running.

  Jasper carried Harriet back up the stairs. “What have you been playing at, you little fool?” he asked, wanting to shake her. “You were supposed to be having a bath and getting warm, not going out in the rain again.”

  He kicked at her bedroom door, bringing her maid running to open it. The girl exclaimed with alarm as Jasper barged through, carrying Harriet in his arms. He deposited her on the bed.

  “She needs these wet things taken off at once,” he instructed, taking off Harriet’s shoes and tossing them to the floor while the maid gaped at him in horror.

  “Don’t just stand there!” he shouted. “Get her clothes off.”

  “B-But, my lord,” she stammered, staring at him with wide eyes.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, girl!” Jasper snarled, too impatient to deal with such inanity. “We’re to be married, assuming she doesn’t catch her death whilst you’re dithering.”

  “Jasper! The girl is quite right. Out with you.”

  Jasper turned, at once relieved and incensed to see his mother arrive and take over.

  “But….” he began, but his mother took his arm and gave him a warm smile, reaching up to pat his cheek.

  “Just think how mortified Harriet will be when the gossip goes around the servants. Now, you leave her to me, and you can come in once she’s comfortable. Away with you, now.”

  Jasper cursed, but the only important thing was that Harriet be cared for at once, so he waited outside. He paced up and down, wondering what had been so terribly important that Harriet had gone out again in such weather. What had been so urgent that she’d had to deal with it immediately, and risk making herself ill?

  “Temple!” he shouted over the bannister. “Temple!”

  He ran down the stairs to find his butler hurrying towards him. “My lord?”

  “Where did Miss Stanhope go this evening?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say, my lord. Would you like me to ask the driver?”

  Jasper nodded, frowning, before dismissing his butler and heading back up the stairs.

  Chapter 15

  Mr de Beauvoir,

  It was so lovely to see you today, despite the odious Mrs Tate. I haven’t yet begun reading the book we spoke of, but I intend to start after dinner this evening… providing I can stop daydreaming about your eyes, and the piercing way you have of looking at me. How I wish you might remember me this time, perhaps even think about me, as I am thinking o
f you….

  ― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler, consigned to the fire.

  2nd September 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

  Matilda hurried along the corridor towards Lord St Clair, who had just exited Harriet’s bedroom.

  “My lord,” she called after him, noting the fact he was wearing the same clothes he’d been in last night, and that he’d not yet shaved.

  He looked tired and dispirited and, on seeing her, he stiffened, his expression wary.

  “I can assure you there is no impropriety,” he said, the words brittle. “Her maid is with her and my mother has been coming and going since daybreak.”

  “Oh, Lord St Clair, as if I give a hoot about such things,” she said, shaking her head at him. “Me, of all people? I only wanted to enquire how she was. Is there anything I can do, anything at all?”

  He sighed, rubbed a weary hand over his face, and shook his head. “Forgive me, Miss Hunt. I’m tired and… and scared to death, if you want the truth. She’s burning up and….” He swallowed. “My father died of pneumonia.”

  “Oh, my lord,” Matilda said, her heart clenching at the fear glittering in his eyes. “But surely Harriet is not at risk of…?” She stopped, unable to put it into words.

  She watched St Clair swallow. “No,” he said, his tone decisive. As though it would be because he decreed it, and that was that. “No, she is not. She is dreadfully unwell, but it is not yet pneumonia, and she has the best care, and… and I won’t let her, damn it. Not now.”

  Matilda reached out and put her hand on his arm. “I thought Harriet looked happy yesterday, on the way back home. The way she smiled at you, I hoped—”

  “So did I,” he replied, the words edged with desperation. “But last night, instead of getting herself warm and dry, she went out again, into that bloody deluge. She went to visit Mr de Beauvoir, Miss Hunt. Now tell me, why would she do that?”

  “I….” Matilda began, halted by the look of devastation in St Clair’s eyes. “I’m perfectly sure there is a very good explanation,” she said firmly. She stared at him, willing him to believe her, for she knew Harriet would not play either him or Mr de Beauvoir false. She was too inherently honest, to her own detriment sometimes. “Harriet is the most decent and loyal person I have ever known, and she would never treat you so shabbily. Surely you know that?”

  St Clair swallowed hard and then gave a taut nod. “Yes. I do. I keep telling myself that and most of the time I believe it. Only…” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid I can’t think very clearly at the moment. If you’d excuse me, Miss Hunt. My mother has refused to let me back in the room until I’ve bathed and changed.”

  “Of course,” Matilda said, her heart full of sympathy for the poor man as he strode away from her.

  ***

  Jasper looked up as he heard the bedroom door open, and sighed as he saw the maid tiptoe out for a moment. Not that he’d be left alone with Harriet for more than a few minutes; her bloody maid guarded her like a dog with a bone. The poor girl would probably die of outrage if she knew what they’d done in the park yesterday, in the rain….

  God damn him for a bloody fool.

  Guilt ripped through him. Harriet had been chilled to the bone then, and he’d known it, but he’d been too bloody consumed with his own needs to consider anything else. What the hell had he been thinking? Taking her up against a tree like a common strumpet, and in the pouring rain, too. He was a bloody filthy satyr, and if anything happened to her….

  Anguish closed his throat, and he shied away from the idea, unable to finish the thought.

  He would not watch Harriet slip from his grasp as his father had. It was just a fever, nothing more. It wasn’t pneumonia, the doctor had said so. Yet, her hand was hot and dry when he reached for it and he lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her fingers.

  He looked up as the door opened and his mother appeared. Jasper blinked hard and looked away. He heard the rustle of expensive fabric as Lady St Clair moved to stand beside him.

  She laid her hands on his shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Stop fretting so, dearest. She’s a strong young woman, and she has a great deal to do. Not to mention, she’s one of the stubbornest creatures that was ever born. She’s not going anywhere, I promise you, and Dr Haysom agreed there was no undue cause for alarm, did he not?”

  Jasper looked up into his mother’s beautiful face, filled with the childish desire to believe her without question. Her expression was serene; she clearly believed it, and the doctor had said as much…. Something in his chest unwound just a little, and he took her hand and held it to his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, my darling boy. Now, I am going to sit with my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, and you will have something to eat. Merrick tattled on you, I’m afraid, so don’t tell me you had a hearty breakfast, for I know you did not. There’s not a bit of use trying to convince me that half a slice of toast is sufficient for a man of your size, so… run along now.”

  She made a shooing motion and Jasper knew better than to argue. With a long-suffering sigh, he cast one last look at Harriet and got to his feet.

  “You’ll call me, if….”

  Lady St Clair gave him a look that told him he was an idiot.

  “Yes, of course you will. Thank you, Mother.”

  She inclined her head graciously and seated herself in the chair he’d just vacated, so Jasper had no choice but to leave her to it. Once outside, he realised he really was famished, and he was halfway down the stairs when Temple showed a visitor into the grand entrance hall.

  “You!” Jasper growled.

  Whether it was a sleepless night sitting by Harriet’s bedside whilst she sweated out a fever, or simply the fact he’d been longing to knock the fellow’s block off since the first moment he’d seen him, Jasper wasn’t entirely sure. He certainly didn’t care. All he knew was that he was simmering with too much pent-up emotion and the safety valve had failed. He exploded across the hallway, grasped Mr de Beauvoir by his none too tidy cravat, and hit him.

  ***

  Minerva frowned down at the book in her hand.

  Much to her astonishment, she discovered she had been entirely absorbed in it for over two hours. Two hours! Not only that, but it had been written in such a way that she didn’t feel like a brainless ninny. In fact, the book was laid out in the manner of a conversation between three women, Caroline and Emily—who began with every bit as much trepidation on the subject of chemistry as Minerva had herself—and Mrs B, their instructress. The first conversation—that on the difference between decomposing a body and merely chopping it into bits—had shocked Minerva to her bones in the most delightful manner, and now she was riveted. She had already learned that ‘we decompose a body into its constituent parts; and divide it into its integrant parts’ and was feeling very pleased with herself.

  Now, however, her stomach was growling, and she began to wonder what time it was as she uncurled herself from the delightfully comfy chair she’d been glued to in the library. Setting her book to one side, she stretched and sighed, then got to her feet and retrieved her shoes from where she’d kicked them off. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard the crash.

  It was followed swiftly by raised voices, and Minerva flung open the door to see… good heavens! St Clair and Mr de Beauvoir on the floor… fighting.

  For a moment, St Clair seemed to have the upper hand as de Beauvoir’s nose was bloodied, and it looked as if the earl was about to get in another blow when his opponent raised his knee in a sharp movement than even made Minerva wince.

  St Clair doubled up, groaning, allowing de Beauvoir enough time to get to his feet, though his relief was short-lived. Lord St Clair scrambled up and would have lunged for de Beauvoir again, except….

  Minerva gasped, staring up at St Clair’s wild turquoise eyes as she put herself between the two brawling men.

  “M-My lord,” she stammered. “S-Surely there is
some misunderstanding?”

  “Is there?” St Clair growled, chest heaving. “Then why was Harriet with him last night? Why did she go out in the bloody rain for a second time? Why is she in her room burning up with fever, tell me that!”

  “Oh, for the love of…!” de Beauvoir exclaimed, accepting the handkerchief Minerva handed him to stem the flow of blood. “She came to tell me she was in love with you, you blithering imbecile,” he said, the words slightly muffled. “Not,” he added with fury, “that I can think of a single reason why such an intelligent woman would do something to patently idiotic. However, she seemed to think you were worthy of her and had decided to marry you instead of me. Being a scrupulously honest sort, she felt the need to tell me at once that she’d made her decision and you were her choice. You must forgive me, my lord,” he sneered, “if I suspect she’s made a grave error in judgement.”

  Minerva stood between the two men, feeling a little like a defenceless bunny keeping two wolves apart, until the prickling tension between them dissipated.

  “Oh,” Jasper said, clearly at a loss for anything more eloquent.

  “Oh,” de Beauvoir mimicked, which Minerva had to admit wasn’t terribly helpful.

  She might have tried harder to make peace between them, but she was still reeling from the idea that de Beauvoir had been engaged to Harriet and she’d not known. Good heavens, she’d been dreaming of her friend’s fiancé! The idea made her feel nauseous until she reminded herself that they were no longer engaged, and that de Beauvoir didn’t seem terribly distraught about it. Then she compared herself to Harriet, and the nauseous sensation returned with a vengeance.

  “De Beauvoir, I… I owe you an apology,” St Clair said, running a not entirely steady hand through his hair. “The truth is Harriet arrived last night, soaking wet and out of her head with fever, and… and I’ve been up all night worrying and I think perhaps I lost my mind.”

  Minerva watched as de Beauvoir’s face tensed with anxiety. “How sick is she?”