A Michaelmas Wager Read online

  A Michaelmas Wager

  By Emily Murdoch

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2017 Emily Murdoch

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. All pictures are held by commercial license and may not be duplicated by anyone without express permission.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To all the people who I have tried to have married by Michaelmas.

  To Granny, who was much in my thoughts as I wrote this book.

  To Joshua, the man who took a wager on me.

  To my readers.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  A Christmas Surprise

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “But the vicar said that’s not my wife – that’s my daughter!”

  Guffaws rang out as Rufus Lovell, face flushed from wine, grinned round at his friends, his joke finally finished. A hand slapped him on the back as one of his companions brushed away a tear from his eye, and the chuckles did not recede for a good full minute.

  “Rufus you dog!” Percival Quinn said beaming. “Who knew that you had such a joke in you? Not even my brother Isaac is that quick witted!”

  Heads turned, and tongues tutted as the crowds gathered in Hyde Park stared to look at the group of young gentlemen making such a ruckus, and some parasols turned elegantly to block them from view. Rufus could see that their laughter was disturbing the May Day celebration held by Percival’s father, the Duke of Daventry, but he didn’t care. Drunk on friendship, if not a little wine, he felt as though he could take on the world.

  “You must tell us another.” Anthony Griffiths shoved another glass of what looked like champagne into Rufus’ hand. “Rufus my boy you seem to know them all!”

  Rufus grinned, his balance slightly shaken by the rough gesture and his cravat inelegantly twisted in the heat of the day. Whose idea had it been to have this year’s Daventry May Day party outside, anyway? He was sweltering under his linen shirt and silk waistcoat, and that was after he had managed to lose his jacket. Some of the ladies in their corsets must be near collapse.

  “Come on now, Rufus, another joke!”

  The statement from Nicholas Wingrave brought Rufus back to his party of friends: the four of them, his three best friends. He says best, of course: but four months ago he did not even know them. He glorified in their attentions like a sunflower glorifies in the sun.

  “Another joke?” Rufus tried to steady his feet as he attempted to steady the conversation. “Surely you have heard them all!”

  “You mean there are not more?” Nicholas looked genuinely shocked, and grabbed rudely at a glass from a silver platter that was being carried past them by a servant. “Dear boy, you disappoint me. Didn’t your brother teach you any more skits?”

  Rufus winced though he tried to hide it from his friends, the most fashionable and talked about men in the tonne. He did not speak of his brother Hubert.

  Anthony nodded, champagne dripping from the corners of his mouth and dribbling into his cravat, staining the white linen yellow. “Yes, surely a few years in prison would have taught your brother a fine caper or two!”

  An elderly couple who had been standing close to the men now took definite strides away, and Rufus flushed.

  Five months ago, he had not known them, except Percival Quinn to look at. Everyone knew the Daventry family, their five sons – Isaac and Percival especially, the two most likely to break a girl’s heart – but Rufus Lovell was just a second son of a tradesman who saw such people at the Assemblies and never even got within hearing distance.

  That had all changed five months ago.

  “What did your brother do, anyway?” asked Anthony lazily, staring indolently at a trio of young ladies, unchaperoned save for each other, strolling with flirtatiously lowered lashes – lashes that flashed upwards to gaze quickly at the group of young men as they went on their way to the punch bowl that stood in the middle of the party. “Arson? Treason?”

  “I do know another joke,” said Rufus hastily, pushing back his dark hair from his eyes as the heat of the sun really started to play down on him. He would give anything to be able to remove his hat. “There were three men, an Englishman – ”

  “No, we want to hear about Huey!” Nicholas was now slurring, and it was becoming more and more difficult to ascertain exactly what he was saying. “I can’t believe he rotted there for five years before he died of barrel fever!”

  Rufus winced again. Drinking himself to death – the barrel fever – was not the way that he had expected his older brother to die, and certainly not before he had reached his thirtieth year. But then Hubert had not taken the course expected of him by his family, and after joining a rather illicit group he quickly became the scapegoat for their crimes. Estrangement from his family had taught him nothing, gossip and slander had not brought him to his knees, and even a prison sentence had not darkened the perpetual smile that seemed to rest on Hubert Lovell’s face.

  After going missing for so long it had come as quite a shock to the Lovell family to find their first born up before a judge. He had been lucky to escape the ships to Australia, but it had not helped him in the end. And so the Lovell fortune, built in trade and covertly spent in London in fashion, now belonged to Rufus.

  And what a life he now had. New friends, new clothes, new parties now open to him. He could not have dreamed of this: but with new found money came new found expectations.

  “Let us leave off jokes,” Rufus said in a bored tone, “I weary of them faster than I weary of this gathering – apologies to the host!”

  Percival shrugged. “No offence to be lodged with me, Rufus, it’s not my party. It’s hardly a crush, is it? I see hardly one pretty face amongst these girls, and I know that Father had a good deal of trouble with people being out of Town at this time in the season.”

  “Oh tosh Percival, what nonsense you do talk!” Anthony scoffed, his eyes still watching the trio of ladies who had been so alluring five minutes before. A gaggle of ladies now stood around the punch bowl, gossiping and sharing news. The tinkle of their laughter caught on the breeze. “I could number two that I would not be averse to taking home with me.”

  The men laughed, and Nicholas slapped Anthony on the back. “Only two?”

  “At least two!” Anthony repeated, a sly grin creeping over his face. “And I’m sure that old Father Quinn is just keeping some of the best in reserve so as to tempt us to stay longer – just like he does with his wine!”

  Percival punched Anthony jovially on the arm. “The less said about my Father’s hosting skills the better, I thank you sir! Anyway, I’m up for a w
ager if one of you are. How about it, Nick?”

  Nicholas, Rufus quickly saw, was a little worse for wear. Unlike the others, he was unable to hold his drink – and unwilling to pass it up when offered – and so was gazing a little off focus when he heard his name called, and turned to face his friends.

  “Me?” He said blankly. “What do you want with me?”

  “A wager,” said Percival smoothly. Rufus stared at him in admiration; there really was no situation that the Quinn family could not find themselves in that they could not master immediately. He had met Isaac, one of the younger Quinn sons at a card table a few days previously, and he was exactly the same – perhaps even better able to merge seamlessly into any background you placed him in.

  Nicholas nodded, his face slightly blotchy thanks to the medley of heat and wine. “A wager it is! I accept your bargain.”

  The friends laughed as Rufus tried to explain to the inebriated gentleman. “No, Nick, there has been no wager set yet – do you not wish to know what it is that you have agreed to?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Nicholas calmly, as he hiccoughed. “Bound to lose anyway, Percival Quinn always wins.”

  Their laughter drew even more attention, and this time Rufus could see that two of the ladies who were standing near the punch bowl threw startling looks: daggers of disdain thrown in their direction.

  “Now, let’s try to keep it down, lads.” Rufus said quietly. “I think we’re starting to draw a crowd.”

  “Oh nonsense Rufus, you do worry so.” There was no hint of concern in Anthony’s voice, and it was matched by Percival’s face. “We’re the toast of the tonne! We’re the most eligible bachelors in London, perhaps the whole of England, and a few glasses of champagne – ”

  “Eleleven.” Nicolas interrupted, barely able to get his tongue around the two syllables. “I am almost sure you know that it was eleven.”

  “A few glasses of champagne,” Anthony continued, clasping Nicholas to him in a bear hug, “will do us no harm. Except Nicholas. He’s smashed.”

  Rufus could not help but laugh with them – with his friends. Was this not what being young was about? Was this not what it meant to feel alive?

  “And being smashed does not preclude you from our wager!” Percival interrupted smoothly. “Nicholas Wingrave: I wager you a guinea that you will not ask for that lady’s name in the next . . . oh, I don’t know. Five minutes?”

  Rufus could not help but laugh. The lady in question, indicated by a pointed finger of Percival Quinn’s, looked old enough to be any of their grandmothers. She was dressed in the fashions of the 1790s, at least twenty years out of date, and was looking sternly at them with an expression of deep disgust.

  This, however, did not appear to dampened Nicholas’ spirits. “You had better be good for the money, Percival, for you are about to become poorer.”

  Rufus watched his friend, slightly in horror, slightly impressed, as he wandered over to the lady in question. True, his walking was a little wobbly, and it took him two attempts to find her as he started to drift off to the left slightly, but eventually he found himself before her.

  They were just too far away to be able to hear the words that he used exactly, but they could all see the slap in the face that Nicholas received for his troubles. The woops of celebration and mirth rang out across the whole of Hyde Park, and several heads turned to see what the rumpus was all about.

  Rufus cheered along with his friends as Nicholas tottered back to the group.

  “And that,” he said proudly, “is how it is done.”

  Chuckling, Rufus shook his head wonderingly and placed an arm on his friend’s shoulder. “Nicholas, how can you consider that a victory – we all saw you, the whole party saw you – receive a resounding response!”

  “Aha!” And now Nicholas straightened up, his eyes finding their focus suddenly, his voice sounding stronger, and his smile becoming sharper. “Because the wager that my friend here made with a man whom he assumed was a drunkard was merely to ask for the name of the lady in question – not to receive it.”

  Percival stared in shock as he realised that he had been duped, and Anthony roared with laughter.

  “You mean you’ve played at drunkard?” Rufus stared at him in amazement, unable to take the veneration from his words. “Nicholas Wingrave, you old dog!”

  “An old dog who taught this pup a lesson,” said Nicholas grinning, holding out his hand to Percival who placed his own in his waistcoat for his pocket book in very bad grace. “Do not feel bad, Percival old thing, I’m at least two years older than you with two years more experience. You’ll get me next time.”

  Percival shook his head wryly. “You know, I’m not sure if I will. Well done, Nicholas, you deserve this guinea.”

  “Does your face hurt much?” Anthony asked with a chuckle, still staring at the two of them and finding the situation hilarious.

  Nicholas replied coolly, “Not as much as Percival’s pride.”

  Rufus could not help but laugh, and the two ladies who had glared at him before repeated the gesture.

  Percival Quinn however did not laugh. “You think it’s funny, Rufus? Well then, it looks like it’s your turn to receive a wager! Nicholas, as our reigning champion, would you like to do the honours?”

  “You know, I would.” Nicholas mimicked the mock seriousness of Percival’s tone, and turned with an expressive face towards Rufus. “Now, what to bet with young Rufus here, what shall we do?”

  “You could always ask him to pocket some silver,” suggested Anthony as another servant went by carrying a platter of what looked like delicious fruit tartlets. “Unless Percival here isn’t using the real thing with his cutlery?”

  Rufus shook his head with a lazy grin. “No actual crimes, thank you gentlemen.”

  “Yes,” giggled Nicholas, “The Lovell name has plenty of that already!”

  A flush threatened at his cravat but Rufus managed to keep himself steady. Thankfully the men seemed far more interested in exactly what Nicholas was going to gamble on. What wager was about to be made?

  Another tinkle of feminine laughter drifted across the air, and the men turned instinctively towards the punch bowl, and the gaggle of ladies that had accumulated there. So much beauty in such a small place, it seemed almost impossible and yet there they were, ready to be watched. Rufus could see that the pair who had been so disapproving earlier were still unhappy with them. One of them, dressed in a white gown, seemed far more interested in them however, despite her disapprobation. Her friend, attired in a cream gown that showed off the delicate white of her skin, spoke and claimed her attention.

  “I have it.” Nicholas spoke with great finality, but with a hint of cheek in his voice. “Are you ready for your wager?”

  “I do not think I have ever been more ready,” Rufus shot back excitedly. What was he to do then, what could possibly have caught Nicholas’ eye? Overturn the punch bowl, perhaps? Introduce himself as a Viscount to some chit? Perhaps strip off and dash through the party without his clothes, as he had once seen Anthony do at a similar gathering in March?

  Nicholas’ eyes twinkled, and Rufus felt a flurry of anticipation. “Rufus Lovell: I wager you twenty guineas that you will not marry the next lady who takes a drink from the punch bowl – by Michaelmas.”

  Rufus’ mouth fell open, but he moved with the others to stare at the punch bowl. Once, twice it seemed as though someone was about to pick up the ladle, and once, twice they were either distracted or seemed to think better of it. And then a delicate hand, the one attached to the young lady in white who seemed so unimpressed with Rufus and his lot, reached down and poured a small glass of May Day punch.

  “Michaelmas . . . that’s the 29th of September . . .” Breathed Rufus, almost in shock.

  Percival Quinn clapped him on the back. “A Michaelmas wager,” he said with a grin.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “But the vicar said that’s not my wife – that’s my daughter!”
br />   Guffaws rang out as Rufus Lovell, face flushed from wine, grinned round at his friends, his joke finally finished. A hand slapped him on the back as one of his companions brushed away a tear from his eye, and the chuckles did not recede for a good full minute.

  “Rufus you dog!” Percival Quinn said beaming. “Who knew that you had such a joke in you? Not even my brother Isaac is that quick witted!”

  Heads turned, and tongues tutted as the crowds gathered in Hyde Park stared to look at the group of young gentlemen making such a ruckus, and some parasols turned elegantly to block them from view. Rufus could see that their laughter was disturbing the May Day celebration held by Percival’s father, the Duke of Daventry, but he didn’t care. Drunk on friendship, if not a little wine, he felt as though he could take on the world.

  “You must tell us another.” Anthony Griffiths shoved another glass of what looked like champagne into Rufus’ hand. “Rufus my boy you seem to know them all!”

  Rufus grinned, his balance slightly shaken by the rough gesture and his cravat inelegantly twisted in the heat of the day. Whose idea had it been to have this year’s Daventry May Day party outside, anyway? He was sweltering under his linen shirt and silk waistcoat, and that was after he had managed to lose his jacket. Some of the ladies in their corsets must be near collapse.

  “Come on now, Rufus, another joke!”

  The statement from Nicholas Wingrave brought Rufus back to his party of friends: the four of them, his three best friends. He says best, of course: but four months ago he did not even know them. He glorified in their attentions like a sunflower glorifies in the sun.

  “Another joke?” Rufus tried to steady his feet as he attempted to steady the conversation. “Surely you have heard them all!”