Page 89 of The Widow's Wager
Her sister. Damien had no ability to assess the age of young woman but he guessed this one to be perhaps twelve years of age. She would have been an infant, then, at the beginning of the war, too young perhaps for the journey to England or any uncertainty in Miss Ballantyne’s future.
So she had entrusted the babe to the care of these sisters.
The older woman kissed the girl’s cheeks, then stepped back, her steady gaze expectant. “Bon voyage, monsieur.”
The girl’s throat worked, her tears welling, but she stepped toward Damien with a surety and trust that humbled him. She straightened then offered her hand. He heart the tremor in her voice. “If you know my sister, I am glad to accompany you to her side.”
“It will be my honor to escort you there. I give you my solemn vow and my word of honor that you will come to no harm in my company,” he said to her in French. “I will do all in my power to reunite you safely with Miss—”
The nun caught her breath. “We do not say that name, monsieur!” she chided.
“Forgive me. With your sister,” he concluded and the girl nodded. “You do realize that I ride for England?”
The nun nodded once as did the girl. She gripped a very small bag, her chin lifted proudly, and if this was the sum of her possessions, she had lived a simple life indeed. Damien opened his purse and offered a donation to the nun. She hesitated only a moment before accepting it, then he gestured to the girl and headed for the door.
They would cross at LeHavre. The crossing would be longer, but the port was closer, and he felt an imperative to reach England’s shores as soon as possible.
The Duke of Haynesdale’s concern was justified, for unbeknownst to him, he had been followed from Paris by the very man he had sought there. As they left the convent, Damien and his companion were watched from the shadow of the forest, and another coach followed shortly afterward.
In distant Venice, the rain was falling in sheets. It glistened on the stone walls and rippled the surface of the canal, turning all the world to shimmering grey. It gathered in puddles in the square outside the accommodation rented by Lady Beckham, ensuring that the dampness could not be readily dispelled.
Arthur Beckham, blessed with a headache after his revels of the night before, paced through the lavish rooms, impatient with his situation. It was early in the morning, and it seemed only he and the resident cats were awake—the pair followed him down a hallway hung with silk brocade to the reception room his mother favored. It was empty, though he could hear his younger sister at her lessons. She was conjugating verbs in French aloud, periodically being corrected by her tutor.
Arthur yawned and rummaged through the books borrowed and bought from Carruthers & Carruthers. He wished for London, a hot cup of cocoa, familiar friends, and an entertaining read.
Childe Harold. There was a poem Arthur had been advised to read many a time. A curious choice on his mother’s part. Perhaps she was trying to improve him.
Arthur smiled at the very notion, for he was already excelled in all pursuits of import, to his own thinking. Like any competent rakehell, he was a master at racing, gambling and womanizing, plus it was said he could charm the very birds from the trees. What other skills remained?
His mother, however, had never been a lady quick to admit defeat.
He flung himself into a chair near the window, ignored the view of all that rain, and chuckled as the cats followed him. One—a long-haired silver beast, with knowing eyes of green—settled on the window sill to watch him with what Arthur had realized was characteristic suspicion. The other—the short-haired black one with yellow eyes and one white paw—curled in his lap. Arthur stroked the creature absently, enjoying the low thrum of its contented purr, and opened the book.
He was so startled by its contents that he nearly dislodged the cat.
Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies. What was this?
He had heard of the volume, but never had the opportunity to read a copy. He seized the moment and did just that, reading it avidly from one cover to the other. Arthur only wondered how this volume had come to be in his mother’s possessions after he was done.
He thought of the young lady who often worked at Carruthers & Carruthers, the one he liked to tease. Had there ever been a woman who blushed as crimson as Carruther’s daughter? Arthur did not think so.
The youngest sister, Miss Carruthers, always packed his mother’s orders. He eyed the book again. She had two older sisters, as well, the oldest recently married to Rhys Bettencourt, Baron Trevelaine. He had always thought all three to be a most serious young women.
This book, however, hinted at a mischievous disposition, if not a daring one.
Arthur, it must be noted, had a fascination with audacious young women—thus his interest in the volume he held now.
If this unexpected revelation was not sufficient to make him yearn for their return to London and an encounter with the lady in question, he could not imagine what was.
