“I did not bet mere money, Yvonne. I told you it was a most unusual wager.”
The glance exchanged by his companions this time was wary.
“What were the stakes, Uncle?” Arthur asked, his uneasiness growing.
The earl looked between them, smiled as if that would make a difference in their reactions, then blurted out the truth. “You.”
“Me?” Lady Beckham demanded, her voice rising in outrage.
“No, no, Yvonne. Arthur here. Does he not need a wife? Is his marriage not past due?” The earl chortled as if he had contrived a merry solution, but no one shared his amusement. “I have done all of us a favor, in fact, by seeing that question resolved!”
When his laughter faded, a deadly silence claimed the drawing room. Lady Beckham set aside her tea, the cup rattling precariously in the saucer as she put it down.
“Reynaud,” Lady Beckham said, a torrent of fury in that single word, then pinched the bridge of her nose. She visibly struggled for mastery of her emotions.
Arthur said something markedly more pithy, a single word which made his uncle’s eyes widen. “Who?” he demanded then, his voice like a bark.
“Miss Felicia Grosvenor.”
This time, Arthur swore with a fluidity that left his uncle visibly astonished. “I do apologize, Mother,” he said tersely, but she waved away the offense.
“I think you are entitled to such a view, frankly. Reynaud should never have acted so rashly.”
Arthur put down his cup and marched to the window to glare at the passing traffic. There was very little of it, but he had to contrive a scheme for his own escape. He would do a great deal for Lady Beckham—he had done a great deal for her, and he had personally benefitted from the arrangement—but this, this was out of the question.
“She is the very ideal of femininity,” Reynaud insisted, a plea in his voice.
The very suggestion of that young lady being considered to have merit, never mind the prospect of her becoming his wife, set Arthur’s teeth on edge.
“According to her father,” he said crisply. “Whose view is not without bias.”
“Who must resort to awagerto find her a spouse,” Lady Beckham said with a click of her tongue. “What does that tell you of her eligibility, Reynaud?”
“You are harsh, Yvonne…”
“You should wed her yourself then,” Arthur retorted but his uncle only laughed.
“Me? I will wed a lady of lineage or no other.”
“Who are these people?” Lady Beckham snapped, putting out a hand. “Bring me the Burke’s, Arthur.”
Arthur shook his head and did not move. “You will not find them there.” He felt his mother’s horror.
“Thomas Grosvenor,” the earl said, the surname making Arthur turn to face him. “And his daughter, Felicia.”
“Is he in trade?” Lady Beckham’s perspective was unmistakable.
“Worse, Mother. The lady in question is ambitious, grasping, conniving, untrustworthy, unattractive and gauche,” Arthur supplied. “She could not possibly be rich enough to induce me to take her hand, and I gather my view is shared by the vast majority of eligible men in London, perhaps in all of England.” He took a sandwich that he did not want and bit it in half savagely, taking the opportunity to glare at his uncle. “I would not have put it past her to have contrived this scheme with her father, or her father—for she must have come by her dishonest nature honestly—to have fixed the cards andcheatedto ensure his victory.”
“Oh!” Lady Beckham gasped.
“But my honor…” the earl protested.
“Your honor is of no relevance to me, sir.” Arthur spoke with a vehemence that he knew surprised his companions. “I could never wed Miss Grosvenor, for I would be driven to madness in less than five minutes in her company.”
He met Lady Beckham’s horrified gaze, and knew their thoughts were as one.
“Oh,thatgirl,” she said softly. “I remember her now.”
