The Wagered Widow by Patricia Veryan Page B

Ward Marching.”
    Snowden set his nephew down and took the card Rebecca handed him. “Hmmnn,” he said dubiously. “Don’t know about this.” He gave the card to Fortescue. “What d’you think, Forty?”
    His lordship scrutinized the invitation critically. “Not too bad. A touch plain, perhaps. Ward never was much of a one for frills, and—”
    â€œNot the card! ” Snowden exploded. “The message, you slowtop! Is it proper for my sister Parrish to jaunter off to Bedfordshire with Ward?”
    â€œOh,” said his lordship, grinning. “Well—why not? You will be going as well, so—”
    Boothe threw him an irked scowl. “No, I shall not! No more shall you!”
    â€œWhat? But I am invited, and—” His lordship encountered the full force of Boothe’s meaningful grimace, and his indignant protest faltered to a halt. He said lamely, “Forgot. Sorry. No, we cannot go, of course.”
    â€œDo you say I cannot either?” wailed Rebecca, who had waited out this odd discussion with much anxiety.
    Snowden looked from her dismayed countenance to his friend. “Well, you’re the expert in all things having to do with dress and manners. What d’you say?”
    His lordship reread the invitation painfully. Watching him, Anthony’s face was one big grin. He opened his mouth to comment, caught his mother’s eye, assumed the mien of a martyred saint, and was silent.
    â€œDon’t see why she should not go,” Fortescue opined at length. “Not a green girl, after all. Y’r pardon, ma’am, but ’tis truth. Says here a small party go. Ward’s a perfect gentleman. Besides, aunt will be with her. What?”
    Snowden pursed his lips. “Trouble is, Ward cries friends with de Villars, and if he’s to go…”
    Rebecca said innocently, “But I thought you said you had misjudged Mr. de Villars, Snow?”
    â€œMight have,” he admitted with a brooding look. “But it’s one thing for me to enjoy his company, and quite another for you to be seen with him!”
    â€œShouldn’t worry about de Villars,” offered his lordship. “Gone into the hinterlands to see his great-uncle Boudreaux.” Evidently fearing this information would be suspect, he tapped the end of his snub nose and added owlishly, “Told me so. Personally. Didn’t ask him, mind. Not polite. We was talking of something else at the time. I collect he thought I might like to know it.”
    Staring at him, Boothe asked, “Why?”
    His lordship, misunderstanding the question, considered it, and shrugged. “Probably he’s going to try and turn the old fella up sweet. Always going down there. Except,” he appended with shrewd perspicacity, “when Boudreaux is here in Town. Then he goes to Grosvenor Square, instead.”
    â€œGood gracious,” Mrs. Boothe fluttered. “I’d no idea Lord Boudreaux was related to de Villars.”
    â€œHead of his house.” Fortescue took out his snuff box and tapped it meditatively. “Old boy’s a bit of a martinet. Disappointed in de Villars. Cut him off without a penny when he run off with poor little Miss Rogers in ’30—or was it ’32? Lord, what a bumble broth that was!”
    â€œYes, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Boothe. “A very dreadful scandal. Poor girl. But she married Dutton the following summer, as I recall. I remember wondering at the time whatever could have induced a clever boy like Trevelyan de Villars to ruin himself by compromising a widgeon like Constance Rogers.”
    â€œShe was a lovely widgeon, probably,” said Rebecca dryly. “She must have been, if she achieved an eligible connection within a year of her disgrace.”
    â€œI still do not see, Forty,” Snowden persisted single-mindedly, “why de Villars should think you interested in the fact he visits