The Wagered Widow by Patricia Veryan Page A

convey the man to a doctor, and then paid for the chair (which she could ill afford!). She had insisted the victim was not intoxicated, and admittedly one could not smell wine upon his breath, but the entire unhappy fiasco was so typical of her headstrong nature. And then there had been the instance of those wicked boys and the little brown cat, and Becky running from the house to lay about her with Snowden’s amber cane, and getting properly clawed for her trouble when she had untied the creature’s tail from the back of the carriage! Mrs. Boothe sighed. The cat had remained with them. He not only ate like a horse, but was grown so fat and lazy he could likely never chase a rat, much less catch one! Whisky’s affectionate nature was undeniable, but— Mrs. Boothe sighed again and cast an oblique glance to her niece. The big dark eyes were faintly smiling. She was undoubtedly indulging a dream in which she accompanied Sir Peter’s radiantly transformed cousin to her triumphant come-out ball.…
    At this point, Mrs. Boothe became aware that the air rang with laughter and that the rhythm of the music had become erratic. She turned to the bandstand, and cried, “Becky! Look!”
    Rebecca was jerked from a rosy dream that had progressed much further than her aunt guessed. She looked, and said laughingly, “Oh, that scamp!”
    Anthony had beguiled his way onto the bandstand, and a grinning bandmaster watched as the boy wielded his baton to the amusement of the musicians and the delight of the crowd. The selection lurched to a stop, the crowd applauded, and the maestro pro tem bowed low.
    â€œWhat a way he has, dear child,” said Mrs. Boothe, clapping heartily. “He will go far, mark my words.”
    Whatever his future prospects, Anthony was not going far at the moment. Rebecca watched curiously as a man wearing green livery spoke with her son at some length. She was about to go and join them when Anthony nodded, seized the man’s hand, and led him towards her.
    â€œThis is Hale, Mama,” he announced cheerfully. “Hale, this is my aunt, Mrs. Boothe, and my mama, Mrs. Forbes Parrish. My papa is dead, you know, but I remember him very well.”
    Hale expressed polite regrets and ventured an understanding smile to the ladies. He handed an engraved card to Rebecca, remarking that he had been charged to deliver it into her hands at once, then bowed and left them.
    Rebecca read the brief message and gave a squeal of triumph. “Aunt Alby!” she cried joyously. “It is from Sir Peter. He begs that we join his party for the weekend at his country seat in Bedfordshire.”
    â€œHow splendid!” exclaimed Mrs. Boothe. “Becky, you clever minx!”
    â€œUncle Snow!” shrieked Anthony, hurling himself at the gentleman who strolled towards them on the arm of a friend. “Oh, you do look funny!”
    Snowden, awesome in a high French wig and puce satin, snatched up his nephew and rounded on his companion in high dudgeon. “There! Now blast you, Forty! Did I not say it?”
    Choking on a laugh, Rebecca said, “Oh, dearest! You never cut off all your pretty curls?”
    â€œâ€™Tis the fashion, Mrs. Rebecca,” pointed out Fortescue, striking in yellow brocade. “You must own that Snowden looks much more the thing in his wig.”
    â€œMay I try it on, Uncle Snow?” begged Anthony, tugging at one glossy ringlet.
    Snowden all but cringed. “Do not touch the curst contraption! Already, I scarce dare turn my head for fear it will fall off and reveal my nakedness!”
    Mrs. Boothe gasped and blushed fierily.
    â€œReally, Snow!” Rebecca scolded. “Anthony, leave your uncle’s wig alone.” She smiled at Graham Fortescue, causing that shy young Buck to blush almost as deeply as Mrs. Boothe. “Sir Peter Ward,” she told her brother, “has been so good as to invite us to join a weekend party at