The Wagered Widow Read Online Free

him!”
    â€œFor mercy’s sake! I was speaking of Sir Peter! Not that nasty de Villars!”
    Her aunt’s brows went up. “Ward? You aim high, love.”
    â€œPerhaps, but—how could you have thought I meant de Villars? Had I been a man I should have knocked him down, if only for the ways his eyes prowled over me! At one point I feared I had forgot to put on my overdress!”
    Mrs. Boothe smiled. “He could not take his eyes from you, I’ll admit, and never has cared who he antagonized. Have a care, child. Snowden don’t like him above half, and from what I hear of de Villars, a duel with him does not end with a polite sword thrust in the arm.”
    â€œI knew it!” Startled, Rebecca lowered the blue satin she had taken up. “He has a reputation, then?”
    â€œWith swords and women. Dreadful!”
    â€œThen thank heaven I want none of him! What about this blue?” But before her aunt could respond, she asked hopefully, “Do you know aught of Sir Peter?”
    â€œVery little, dear. I have not heard of a wife, however.”
    They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Striving to be sensible, Rebecca said, “Still, there might be one. In the country, perhaps. Oh, I do wish Snow had not gone off to his club! I can scarce wait to ask him a hundred questions.”
    As it transpired it was late the following afternoon before Snowden Boothe put in an appearance in John Street. He wore evening dress, and his aunt and sister exclaimed proudly over the whaleboned coat of blue satin embellished with silver braid on cuffs and pocket flaps, the silver lace of the cravat, and the white satin small clothes. “And blue clocks on your stockings, love,” smiled Rebecca. “La, but you put me to shame!”
    He grinned, sat in the chair to which they ushered him, took the glass of Madeira that was offered, gazed into it, then set it down on the drum table beside him. “I’d best tell you now,” he sighed. “I couldn’t raise the wind, Becky.”
    She was well acquainted with cant, having grown up with two brothers, and although she had not really expected him to rescue her from her financial embarrassments she hid a little pang of disappointment as she patted his hand and told him not to fret. “I’ve a plan or two of my own,” she said, with more confidence than she felt.
    He eyed her uneasily. “Now see here, my girl, I’ll have nothing smoky! Lord, but Jonathan would never let me hear the end of it did you open a gaming house, or some such—”
    He was interrupted by a faint scream from his aunt, who lay back on the sofa, fanning herself.
    â€œThe very thought of it,” she moaned. “My poor heart! I shall be in my grave before Christmas! I know it!”
    â€œFustian!” scoffed her unfeeling nephew. “You’re strong as any carthorse, Aunt Alby. Do not try to flimflam us! Come now, Rebecca. What is this mysterious plan of yours?”
    Rebecca’s plan was quite daring and, uneasily aware that Jonathan would not approve and that even the more flamboyant Snowden might forbid it, she wished she had kept silent in the matter. “Oh, nothing definite,” she said airily. “I shall tell you when I have all the details clear in my head. But, meanwhile, Snow, tell us of Sir Peter. What do you know of him? Aunt thinks he is quite a Non Pareil.”
    Half Boothe’s mind was still worrying at her obvious evasions. He stared at her blankly. “Sir Peter—who?”
    â€œOdious boy! Ward, of course! The gentleman we met yesterday.”
    â€œOh.” He took up his glass and sampled the wine. “Haven’t seen him for years. Been rusticating, I understand. He has a beautiful place in—er, Bedfordshire, I think. Spends most of his time up there.”
    â€œHe must have a very amiable wife,” said Mrs. Boothe, all innocence. “Most ladies would wish to spend