A Bold Wager

A BOLD WAGER

A Regency Mystery-Romance

by Barbara Dan

Published by Barbara G. Dan

barbgdan@yahoo.com

www.barbaradan.com

© 2011 Barbara Griffin Dan

Smashwords Edition

Registered with the Library of Congress

1. Regency Period in England — fiction.

2. Romantic Suspense — fiction.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A Bold Wager

by Barbara Dan

"To bet against oneself

is to invite disaster."

CHAPTER 1

So much for gambling, Persia Montello thought, slowly ripping her wager ticket into tiny pieces. Her green eyes glittering with disbelief, she scattered the remnants on the wind. Almost weak at the knees over the race’s outcome, she stared through the steady drizzle toward the finish line and the crowd of well-wishers surging onto the track to congratulate the new owner of the winning horse. A horse she had every reason to believe she could safely bet on to lose, because until very recently the stallion had belonged to her!

She had no idea how her calculations could have gone so wrong, but it was a stunning upset. Her late father’s absolute worst fidgety hay burner, Thunderous Applause, despite an abysmal track record, had torn up the muddy track, winning handily by five lengths.

Who would have believed it? Especially on a day like this. The Ascot race track was in deplorable condition; the worst it had been all season, yet somehow the most high-spirited prima donna in her dead father’s stable had overcome all odds and walked away with the largest purse of the day.

Such an upset would almost surely make her father sit up in his grave and cheer.

And it most certainly would send her to the poorhouse!

Preferring not to reveal her true feelings on the subject, Persia spun on her heel and took off, hoping to escape the stadium and her tight circle of male friends—admirers all, and fierce competitors for her hand. Or rather, they were — past tense.

For to a man, they had perversely bet against her, just for the sport of it.

Today, unlike all previous races, she had lost. And so far as she could tell, they had won. It was a blow beyond her comprehension.

I say, does this mean Persia—? Sir Gerald Marchant, a very young member of the ton, but already an inveterate gambler, cocked an eyebrow at his companions and grinned.

Thomas Bingham, the slender and slightly effete third Earl-apparent of Walpone, gave a nod. I fear our Persia has rather come a cropper. He took a pinch of snuff, his gesture a study in spoiled indolence.

How fortunate that they don’t yet realize just how bad a tumble I’ve taken, Persia thought. She never dreamed she would lose! How ironic. Two months ago, when she instructed Mr. Compton, her business manager, to sell off the last of her father’s stable, she had actually felt guilty when she heard the huge sum that the unsuspecting new owner, Lord Wildemere, had paid for Thunderous Applause!

Nobody knew the stallion’s history better than she. The horse had been a blight on the family fortune for three years! Indeed, were it not for his poor track record and her father’s penchant for the ponies, she might not find herself facing such dire financial straits.

The wind whipped a strand of flaxen hair across her cheek, which was suspiciously moist with a combination of rain and tears. Brushing her hair aside impatiently, Persia kept on walking. It was sheer folly, to hope she might thus reverse her financial situation. What had she been thinking?! Yet here she was, following in her late father, Baron Summerlin’s footsteps. She was living proof that bloodlines run true to form, in humans as often as in thoroughbreds.

If only the same had held true during her father’s lifetime! Thunderous Applause, named for his impressive physique and her father’s impossible optimism, sported the finest bloodlines in England. But appearances had proven deceiving. Coddled and curried, Thunder had sucked dry the Montellos’ dwindling coffers, matching pace, as it were, with her father’s increasingly rapid consumption of the family’s impressive wine cellar following her mother’s untimely death.

Now, thanks to her father and his horse—both handsome, temperamental brutes—Persia didn’t have a single vintage bottle of French brandy or parade saddle she could call her own.

Not even a bloody title to salve her wounded vanity!

Summed up, her assets amounted to a sumptuous wardrobe of fashionable gowns, mostly unpaid for, a few family jewels, and a reputation for doing and saying outrageous things.

Other than that, she possessed precious little that could be considered of marketable value, other than a face and figure which she could say, without undue immodesty, more than came up to scratch.

Even her dreary little townhouse was leased, and she could only wonder how long it would be before she got tossed out on her ear, now that she’d staked everything in one grandiose wager—against her own horse!

Just this once, why couldn’t Thunder have run true to form?

At least, she tried to comfort herself, she never lacked for male friends to chum around with, though the probability of that continuing seemed somewhat doubtful. The minute they got wind of her situation, they would be on to fairer game that was plumper in the pocket. And she would probably have to settle for the youngest son of some impoverished vicar from the hinterlands! Persia shivered even to think it.

Persia, wait up! called Marchant, his plump pink cheeks puffing after a short burst of speed to catch up.

Condolences, my dear. Bingham, flamboyantly garbed in puce, fanned a fistful of pound notes ostentatiously, then tucked his winnings into his vest pocket with an unnecessary flourish. Rotten luck, old girl, he smirked.

More than rotten, Persia agreed with a lagging step.

How now, fair lady? chimed in Phillip Overmught, joining the pack of admirers who invariably traveled in her wake. A shock of dishwater blond hair drooped attractively across his long forehead, as he leaned down to chuck her under the chin. Why so downcast?

Knowing my ability to judge horseflesh, I am surprised any of you dare ask, she snapped, definitely off her usual sunny disposition.

If it’s any consolation, Philip said, his brown spaniel’s eyes reflecting her misfortune. I, too, ventured all and lost.

Her stride broke, and she gazed up at her friend in sympathy. "Oh, I am sorry, Philip!"

He gave her a wistful smile. Aren’t we both?

Nobody’s infallible, Marchant reminded everyone, smugly recounting his winnings.

Persia stamped her foot, wishing she could give each one of them a kick for rubbing such a resounding personal defeat in her face. I have never been wrong before, she reminded them, her pride sorely pricked. I always watch the horses work out. I know what they eat. I talk to their trainers. In short, I know every horse, top to bottom, before I wager a single pound.

Bingham led the chorus of masculine laughter. Do you now? he hooted, his hazel eyes twinkling merrily. "Even old Thunder?

Persia ducked her head to hide the sudden humiliating mist in her eyes. I knew him better than all the other entries, or so I thought. He never did better than place fourth, so naturally I—

A clap of thunder and the deluge they had been dreading all day sent spectators in the winner’s circle scurrying back into the grandstand for shelter. The sky, a racy rebellious gray, opened up, scrapping the rest of the day’s events. Persia, grateful for the diversion, lifted her skirts and ran across the field. When Philip Overmught, loping along beside her, opened his umbrella to protect her forest green bonnet of crushed velvet, tied in a large taffeta bow beneath her chin, she allowed him the liberty of placing a steadying hand around her slender waist as they dashed for cover.

Persia Montello, the newly bankrupted daughter of the Baron Summerlin, caught a glimpse of Lord Wildemere, standing head and shoulders above the jostling crowd as he jubilantly led Thunderous Applause through the downpour toward the stables.

Huddled in misery beneath Philip’s umbrella, she regarded Wildemere from afar. His billowing cape and ruffled black hair, as he boldly strode along, bare-headed despite the foul weather, only heightened Persia’s sense of pique. His reputation as a horseman was top of the trees—so good, it seemed, that he had somehow cured the stallion’s flighty temperament, which had always made him such a colossal loser at the track.

Well, it was too late now to reverse the damage to her pocketbook. Even so, she now most fervently regretted ever suggesting that her manager approach the man about purchasing Thunderous Applause. Instead of opening the lines of dialogue between them, as she had hoped, Wildemere had declined her offer of expert advice—communicated through Mr. Compton, of course, since no gently reared lady would ever be so bold as to approach a gentleman without a proper introduction.

Well! She never got the introduction she wanted, and she most decidedly wasn’t happy about the improvement in Thunderous Applause’s performance!

Nothing had gone the way she had planned.

She must be jinxed.

And now Wildemere was even richer than Croesus, while she had lost nearly all the money realized in the sale of the horse in a last ditch effort to save herself from financial ruin. Before long her creditors were lined up around the block in front of her townhouse!

Perhaps she could wangle an invitation or two to a few country parties before the gossip mongers made a complete hash of her reputation among her London contacts. Biting her lip in vexation, Persia left the stadium, still allowing Philip Overmucht and his umbrella to shield her from the storm.

Seconds later, Bingham and a crowd of gay blades rolled up in his carriage, muddy wheels spraying puddles of rain water helter-skelter. Amidst a profusion of apologies and after a little coaxing, she accepted a ride back to town. While her roisterous, newly bankrolled companions discussed the merits of a new gambling hell in the West End, she busily calculated in her head whether her mother’s diamond brooch or her flawless pearl necklace would bring more at the pawnbroker’s shop.

Honor required that she settle up with her three servants who had stood by her these past several months. Then, because eviction was too humiliating a process to contemplate, she would quietly close up the townhouse.

By week’s end, she must come up with a workable plan, she realized, nibbling on her finger and pondering her future. Otherwise her life might well prove a bigger washout than the muddy road beneath the carriage wheels that even now conveyed her at breakneck speed toward the unknown.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, while she drooped in exhaustion over her teacup, bundled in a woolen shawl and her feet in a pan of hot water, Persia stared glumly into the fire on the grate.

Following her trip to the miserly Mr. Mordecaim’s shop to pawn her jewels, she had dismissed her two servants in the house, Annie Binton and Chesley the butler. Of course, she had given them each a glowing letter of recommendation and two week’s wages. Annie had family and left with high hopes of finding another position down the street, but Chesley seemed to have taken it as a personal affront that he was being turned off after serving Baron Summerlin for two decades

Her housekeeper and longtime family retainer, Mrs. Simmons, while accepting her wages, had insisted upon staying, saying, Miss Persia, I saw you into this world, and I’m not aboot t’ desert you now, sinkin’ ship or no.

Another clap of thunder shook the whole house, making Persia jump. The tempest outside slashed against the diamond-shaped windowpanes of her bedroom. In the corner, a metal pail pinged, as water dripped with the unrelenting regularity of a death knell.

What a sorry state of affairs, Persia thought, blowing her nose on a delicate lace handkerchief. What am I to do? she asked, lifting sad eyes to her housekeeper and good friend, Mrs. Alice Simmons.

Well, first off, dearie, you can stop feelin’ sorry for yourself. Mrs. Simmons removed the bed-warmer that had toasted the sheets for the past half-hour and clucked her tongue. Now then, lassie, into bed with you.

Despite her dark prospects, Persia had to smile. For all her gruffness, the dour Scotswoman didn’t fool her, not one bit. Beneath her prim exterior, Mrs. Simmons had a heart as soft and generous as a full-blown rose.

Hastily drying her feet, Persia donned a pair of thick woolen socks, and obediently slipped beneath the covers.

I’ll return in an hour to get you prettied up for tonight’s party, Mrs. Simmons promised.

Persia thumped her fists in angry protest against the richly embroidered coverlet on her bed. But she had not forgotten that not even a member of the aristocracy dared give her Scottish nanny any back-talk, especially when Alice Simmons got that fierce look in her blue-gray eyes.

Besides, Alice was better heeled than she. ‘Twas best to stay on her good side, she decided.

Slowly she sank back on her pillow and switched to a safer but proven method of getting around the woman. For, after her disgraceful loss at the track, she simply abhorred the thought of subjecting herself to an evening of false sympathy and snide speculation about her future.

Party? she sniffed, making a great to-do by coughing pathetically into her handkerchief. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched for any sign that the older woman might be weakening. Oh, very well, I shall attend, but only to keep up appearances, mind you. Though after getting caught in the rain, I hope I don’t come down with something.

Mrs. Simmons planted her fists on her sturdy hips and glowered. You’re goin’, lass. Even if I have to tuck a brick inside your ruffled bloomers to keep you from catchin’ your death o’ cold.

Oh, do have a heart! Persia cried, outraged at being treated like a child. After all, she was twenty!

You cannot run from trouble, Mrs. Simmons lectured, tucking the covers snugly around her charge. Persia felt like a patient in restraints headed straight for the asylum. Keep a sharp eye out, lass, for I’ve no doubt some gentleman will soon snap you up, an’ then we’ll both be sittin’ pretty once again.

Bah! Persia argued. If you think that, you may as well follow Chesley and Annie right out the door. Nobody marries an orphan with no lands and no dowry.

Aye, but for a pretty face and a clever mind many a man has risked a king’s fortune.

Persia wrinkled her nose in defiance. My nose is red—

Powder will take care of that.

And with all Father’s gambling debts hanging over my head—

Aye, that’s true enough, lass, but—

But nothing! Instead of worrying about fancy balls and laying a trap for some wastrel, you had best be inquiring after work for the two of us, Persia said hotly.

Alice Simmons bestowed a crooked-toothed smile on her young mistress. Aye, tomorrow I may just do that, young miss. But right now I’m going downstairs for some o’ me tonic. An’ if you’re not well enough to get up out o’ that bed in one hour— She shook an arthritic finger at her darling pet.

Persia threw up her hands. Enough threats, Mrs. Simmons. By half-past six I promise I’ll be ready to face anything—except your tonic, she amended with a weak laugh.

CHAPTER 2

It took more backbone to make the rounds at the Sheratons’ soiree that evening than Persia had expected. Even before she made her entrance in her favorite gown of shimmering pale green silk, she knew she faced a formidable challenge. As a consequence, she had paid particular attention to her appearance, and took some comfort in knowing that she outshone most of the other debutantes in attendance. Her blonde hair, artlessly arranged on top of her head with orange blossoms, made heads turn as she went through the receiving line. So at least she retained her reputation as a trend-setter among her peers. What she couldn’t overcome, deep down inside—behind her over-bright eyes, animated smiles and easy manners—was the feeling that she was about to die a slow death socially.

From behind their swishing fans, several young debs gave her condescending looks. Many who had once competed to be included in her circle now avoided her altogether. She sensed their fear of associating with a loser, and the possible deleterious effects upon their own chances of making a good match, if they were too free with their friendship. Nobody, it seemed, loved a pauper.

Trying to conceal her growing restlessness, Persia kept moving from one group to another, hoping to find an ally. She expected and found a better reception among the males in attendance. At least they didn’t openly shun her. But she sensed subtle (and some not so subtle) differences in attitude. A few formerly rejected suitors made cryptic remarks, warning her about living beyond one’s means. By this, she assumed that they were relieved to have discovered her spendthrift ways in time. As a consequence, she made light of her day at the track, passing her bet off as a monumental lark.

But when the debonair charmer, George Matthieson, and his cousin, Ernest Chalmers, one of London’s worst womanizers, tried to corner her at the punch bowl and invited her into the library with a wink, she knew she had a problem on her hands that she had never encountered before. Men whom she had rejected in the past now assumed she was open to all sorts of proposals, and none of them particularly honorable.

Very few actually cut her dead—oh, no, they were too civilized for that. But as lifelong friends and acquaintances began to show their true colors, Persia began to believe it would be more bearable if they said straight out what they were thinking.

Out of deference to her dead parents’ memory, she tried to put on a bold front by acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She laughed, drank champagne and circulated, slowly making her way toward a group of horse lovers. She felt more comfortable with serious horse people anyway. She always did admire their down to earth candor and keen sense of humor, not to mention their ability to take a tumble, brush off life’s little disasters, and climb back on top of things!

She didn’t know how she would have survived the night without their good cheer.

As for Philip Overmught, he turned out to be a surprisingly sensitive friend. Sticking by her, he provided a verbal shield, parrying snide comments with aplomb. She felt ashamed of herself for not recognizing sooner what a gem he truly was.

Nor could anyone have accused Philip of having ulterior motives. He had dropped out of the competition for her hand in marriage nearly a year ago, right after her coming out party. Talk was, he and Miss Melanie Templeton planned to marry in October.

Now, during their second dance together, she felt his lips graze the curls next to her ear. Don’t look now, he whispered, but the new owner of Thunderous Applause just walked in.

Persia’s head whipped around to stare at their incomparable hostess, Lady Sheraton, covered with jewels and a tiara loaded with blood-red rubies, as she cordially greeted the latest arrival on the grand staircase. She had heard Lord Wildemere’s name on the lips of many guests tonight, so it came as no surprise to learn that such a celebrity should be in attendance. Indeed, she