To Wed a Wild Lord (32 page)

The words pounded in his brain, warring with the effects of the ale. “Are you finished?” he growled. “Because none of this concerns you. The general and Devonmont have concocted a tidy little plan for her future, and I won’t stand in the way of it.”

“Fine,” Jarret said coolly as he stood. “But I should mention one thing. Does your willingness to give her up to Devonmont mean that I misunderstood what was going on when I burst in on the two of you in the stable? I had assumed that you’d just bedded her.”

Gabe froze.

“But that can’t be possible. Because taking her innocence and then walking away, leaving her to handle the consequences alone, would be ten times worse than anything you ever did to Roger Waverly.”

And with that parting shot, Jarret left.

Gabe shoved the tankard aside with a string of curses. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that. He’d ruined Virginia, and Jarret was right—he couldn’t just leave her to handle it. Devonmont might be as indulgent as Virginia had claimed, but he wouldn’t be indulgent about
that.
No man would.

He’d seduced her twice. That meant he had to marry her.

If
she wanted to marry him. He stared blindly at the tankard. Despite Jarret’s optimistic observations, he wasn’t sure of that. Once she had time to think about his revelations, she might not want anything to do with him.

And who could blame her? He couldn’t even tell her the one thing she wanted to know—what had happened between him and Roger that night. She deserved to know, and he couldn’t tell her.

Or . . . could he?

His mind began to race, clipping through possibilities. For the past seven years he’d avoided trying to learn the truth, afraid of what he might learn. But perhaps he could find out now. Someone must have heard him and Roger talk about that wager. Perhaps someone present that night had witnessed everything, but their tale blended in with the rest of the gossip, so no one recognized it as the truth.

If he could learn what really happened, then Virginia and her grandfather would have the whole truth at last.

Gabe tossed some money down on the table and lurched out of the tavern, then stumbled down the street. He needed to clear his head, needed to think.

Who’d been in the tavern when he, Roger, and Lyons had arrived? There had to have been somebody who’d heard them. God knows he and his chums had never been quiet drinkers. Perhaps if he returned to the place, it might jog his memory.

Gabe spent the next couple of hours wandering the stews. He entered the tavern where they’d been that night. Just being there didn’t resurrect anything from the burial ground of his memory, so he started asking questions. He had no pride left. He wanted only the truth, even if half the world started gossiping about his strange new obsession with the events leading up to Roger’s death.

Unfortunately, the tavern had changed hands a couple of times, so the owner could only guide him to the previous owners. He questioned the regulars and the barmaids, but none of them had any idea what he was talking about.

He headed out to ask questions in one tavern after another. Before long, he was chasing shadows, looking for people who might know someone who knew someone who’d been there that night.

The less foxed he grew, the more he began to realize how futile his search was. No one remembered a pair of drunken fools making a wager in a tavern seven years ago. The one time he came across someone who was there, the man had little to tell him. Clearly people who spent long evening hours in taverns weren’t the best sources of information. The drink had pickled their brains.

After finally hunting down the original owner of the tavern, only to hear the fellow say he had no idea about any wager, Gabe sat down in the man’s new establishment to contemplate his choices.

None of them were good, and they all involved marrying Virginia with the questions of the past hanging between them. They’d have to elope, since her grandfather would never approve a marriage.

He was just about to order some food, having not eaten for hours, when a man dropped into the seat across from him.

Chetwin, damn his eyes. The last person he wanted to see tonight.

“I hear you’ve been asking questions around town about the night you and Roger made your wager,” Chetwin said.

Though he hated to have his search laid bare to an arse like Chetwin, he didn’t let on.

“And I find it very interesting, especially in light of your courtship of Miss Waverly.”

Gabe scowled but didn’t rise to the bait. “Everyone is talking about that, you know. You won the right to court her, so we’re all waiting to see if she’ll marry you.” Chetwin called for a tankard. “I’m guessing that your questions about what happened that night have something to do with Miss Waverly.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Gabe snapped as he rose to his feet.

“You don’t remember it, do you?”

That held Gabe in place. “Don’t be absurd. Why wouldn’t I remember it?”

“Because you were fairly cupshot, from what I hear. And if you did remember,” Chetwin continued, “why would you be looking for someone who might have witnessed it? The only reason you’d need a witness is if you wanted to shore up your memory.”

Stiffening, Gabe stared down at Chetwin. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that you obviously have a sudden need to set the story straight for Miss Waverly. I always assumed that she knew what happened from her grandfather or even Waverly himself, but perhaps she didn’t. So she’d want to know the truth before she married you.” Chetwin cast Gabe a smug smile. “And I happen to know someone who knows.”

Though Gabe’s pulse went into triple-time, he managed a shrug. “Do you? Who might that be?”

“I’ll tell you, but only under one condition. That you race me at Turnham Green again.”

Gabe laughed even as disappointment sliced through him. “I’m not going to fall for your attempt to set a rematch. You don’t know a damned thing, and I’m not going to race you.”

As he turned to walk off, Chetwin said, “I know that Lyons argued with Waverly and left the tavern before the wager was made.”

Gabe froze. That was something only someone who’d been there—or who’d spoken to someone who’d been there—would know.

Slowly he faced Chetwin. “If you’ve known the truth all these years, why haven’t you said anything to anyone?”

“I didn’t say I know the truth. I said I know someone who does.” Chetwin’s face darkened. “One night when I was speculating to some friends about what had provoked the wager, a fellow told me I ought to keep my mouth shut when I didn’t have all the facts. He let slip the bit about Lyons and the quarrel. When I realized that he must know the truth himself, I tried to get him to say more, but he refused. Said that the families deserved not to be gossiped about by the likes of me.”

Gabe racked his brain for who might have defended him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think who it might be. He remembered the argument with Lyons but didn’t remember any friend of his being there when it was going on. It had to have been a stranger—but what man who knew Chetwin wouldn’t know Gabe as well?

Gabe thrust his face down into Chetwin’s. “Tell me who it is, or I’ll throttle you until you do.”

Chetwin just sneered up at him. “Then you’ll never know, will you?”

Gabe straightened, fighting to keep his temper in check. “I could ask every one of your friends—”

“The man is no friend of mine. I thought I made that clear. Just a chap I once talked to in a tavern.” Chetwin leaned back in the chair, smug and insolent as always. “So here’s what I propose. We race at Turnham Green tomorrow at noon for a wager of three hundred pounds. Whoever wins the race wins the money, but no matter who wins, I give you the name. Surely that pot is sweet enough to tempt you.”

Three hundred pounds was a lot of money. If he won, he could go into marriage with Virginia in a far more financially secure position than he was now. But if he lost, he’d be in dire straits. Either way, though, he could give her and her grandfather the truth at last.

Of course, Chetwin might be lying. But it made no difference; he had no other choice.

Besides, he had beaten Chetwin once—he could beat him again.

But this would be the last time Gabe ever ran the course at Turnham Green. Virginia would have his head on a platter if she knew he was planning to run it. She might even balk at marrying him, and that wouldn’t solve anything.

“I have a condition of my own,” Gabe said. “The race has to be kept between the two of us for now. Bring one of your friends to witness it, and I’ll bring Lyons. No one else. Once I’m married to Miss Waverly you can tell whomever you please about the outcome, but not until then. Do you agree?”

Chetwin didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded.

“All right,” Gabe told Chetwin. “Then you’ll have your race.”

Chapter Twenty-one

M
idmorning on Tuesday, Celia slipped across the courtyard, headed for the far field in the northwest corner of the estate. In the distance she could hear the huntsmen—grouse-hunting season had begun Saturday. Now she could practice target shooting without anyone being the wiser. And with the Waverlys here, everyone had forgotten about her, thank goodness. With a house party coming up that was sure to include shooting matches, she wanted to be ready.

She sighed. Poor Miss Waverly. Much as Celia hadn’t wanted Gabe to marry and force her own hand, she also hadn’t wanted to see Miss Waverly suffer. She seemed a decent sort, and that whole business with her brother dying was very sad.

Celia rounded the stable and nearly collided with Gabe, who was leading his phaeton and horses out through the doors along with young Willy, one of the grooms.

“Gabe! What are you doing?” she cried as she thrust her rifle behind her back. “Everyone’s beside themselves with worry. Gran gave Jarret quite the tongue-lashing when he returned from London alone.” Should she tell him that the Waverlys were here? Perhaps not. That might spook him. He already looked like hell. “You need to go in and talk to Gran—”

“Later. If you don’t mind, I’d rather you kept it quiet that you’d seen me. Just for a few hours, that’s all.”

She glanced at his phaeton, then at him, and awareness dawned. “You’re going off to race someone, aren’t you?”

He muttered an oath under his breath. Then his gaze shifted slightly to the left of her, and his eyes narrowed. “And you’re going off to shoot, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?” she squeaked.

“I can see the rifle you’re unsuccessfully hiding behind your back,” he drawled. “I thought Gran forbade you to practice shooting anymore.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She cast him a worried look. “You won’t tell, will you?”

“You keep my secret, I’ll keep yours.” He paused, as if considering something, then said, “In fact . . .” And turning to Willy, he gestured to the lad’s coat pocket.

The groom took out an envelope and handed it to Gabe, who stared down at it. Then he lifted his gaze to Celia. “If something should happen to me, I want you to give this to Miss Waverly. Will you do that?”

A chill chased down her spine. “Where are you racing, Gabe?” she asked.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Where are you shooting?”

She chewed on her lip. Keeping each other’s secrets suddenly seemed very unwise.

He held out the envelope, but when she reached for it, he didn’t release it. “Promise me you won’t look at it. Or pass it on unless something happens to me.”

She hesitated. But if she wanted to find out what was going on, she’d better do as he asked. She crossed her fingers behind her back, just in case. “I promise.”

He let go of the envelope and she tucked it into her apron pocket. Then she watched as he climbed up into his phaeton and sent the horses into a trot.

As soon as he disappeared, she turned to Willy. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“No, miss, he didn’t say.”

She drew out the envelope and stared at it. It wasn’t like Gabe to leave notes for anyone before he raced. He always assumed he would win handily, without any injury. That’s what got him into trouble.

But lately he’d been different, more moody, more snappish. He wasn’t even wearing black anymore. On top of what she’d heard about last night’s revelations, it all seemed to add up to her brother being in serious trouble. Jarret seemed to think that Gabe was at some sort of crossroads, having to do with Miss Waverly. He’d even speculated that Gabe was in love, an opinion Jarret’s wife seemed to share.

Contrary to what the rest of the family thought about Celia, she believed in love. That was precisely why she didn’t want to marry at Gran’s whim.

Out of nowhere rose Mr. Pinter’s words from over a week ago:
I’m merely pointing out that your grandmother has your best interests at heart, something you seem incapable of recognizing.

What did he know about it? That dratted Bow Street runner didn’t have an ounce of passion in him. It was always business with him. He couldn’t understand what it was like to want things routinely denied to females—the security of knowing that no one could ever hurt you unless you allowed it, the delicious thrill of putting a bullet squarely in a target, the intense pleasure of beating a bunch of idiotic, pompous men who thought themselves better than you. She might be able to tolerate Mr. Pinter if the man had any capacity to
feel—

A curse escaped her. It didn’t matter if he could or not. He worked for Gran, that’s all. Nothing to do with her.

She returned her attention to the envelope. She’d been hurt when Gabe had given in to Gran’s demands by courting Miss Waverly. But that didn’t matter if he truly were in
love
with the woman, which the letter seemed to imply.

The envelope and all its implications seared her hand, making her uneasy.
If something should happen to me . . .

She sighed. So much for spending the afternoon shooting.

She turned and headed back into the house.

I
SAAC
P
ACED
the sitting room, wondering if he should wake Virginia. He’d finally persuaded her to go to bed around four a.m. and she was still asleep, thank God. But he wanted to be back at Waverly Farm. This mansion reminded him too much of his childhood at the estate in Hertfordshire that Pierce now owned as heir to the title.