The Marriage Wager Read online

  “Yes, mistress?” he said in his deep voice a few minutes later. Entering the room, and immediately making it seem much smaller, he stood like a great bronze statue beside the open door.

  “Ferik, I am going to be married,” said Emma.

  He took this in without reaction.

  “To the gentleman who was here this morning,” she added.

  “The English milord with the wonderful eyes?” he inquired.

  “Er… well, yes.” Emma gazed up at him in amazement. “What do you know of his eyes, Ferik?”

  “Ellen says it,” he informed her.

  “Ah.” Ellen was one of the housemaids.

  “He is rich?” asked the giant.

  Emma allowed that he was.

  “And an important bey?”

  “Well, he is a nobleman,” agreed Emma, not certain about Turkish equivalents.

  Ferik nodded, looking satisfied. “That is good. You should be married to a great man, who can give you many jewels and a fine house. He has no other wife?”

  “Other…?” Emma recalled that in Ferik’s home country, men were allowed more than one. She had found the idea quite shocking when she first heard of it. “No,” she said firmly. “No other wife.”

  “Then you will be chief wife,” he replied complacently. “That is very good. I will head your household.”

  “Men have only one wife in England,” Emma felt obliged to tell him. “And the household is all the same. You will remain my servant, of course, but Baron St. Mawr has a staff already, and you will have to get along with them.” This last came out somewhat sternly. There had been incidents with Arabella’s servants.

  “One wife!” exclaimed Ferik. “But you said he was rich.”

  “He is.”

  “So, then, he could provide for more than one wife, mistress?”

  “I… I suppose he could,” said Emma. “If he wished to.”

  “All men wish to,” Ferik assured her. “But of course not all can afford more than one.” He scowled. “Perhaps this man is not as rich as he tells you,” he added suspiciously.

  “He is quite wealthy, Ferik, but—”

  “Then he will wish for another wife.” Ferik nodded. “Not now. And none will ever be as noble and lovely as you, mistress, but someday he will.”

  “Men can have only one wife in England, Ferik,” Emma repeated loudly.

  He frowned at her.

  “One,” she insisted.

  “No matter how rich they are?” inquired Ferik.

  “No matter.”

  “Even if they could buy a dozen houses and a thousand slaves?”

  She was not going to get into the issue of slaves, Emma thought. “That’s right,” she responded firmly.

  Ferik looked bewildered. His huge hands were open and raised to the ceiling in helpless amazement. “But, mistress, that isn’t fair.”

  “It is the way things are,” declared Emma. “Now, we are going—”

  “It isn’t right to cheat a man of the rewards of his wealth.” The giant spoke with sweet reasonableness, as if he had only to point out this truth to have her see the light.

  Emma had no wish to argue moral principles. “It is against the law,” she said with finality.

  “The law?” He looked astonished. “What law?”

  “The law of England. Ferik, I have told you many times that England is very different from your country,” she pointed out in her own defense.

  “Yes, but if a man can afford to keep more than one…”

  “It is not allowed, Ferik.” Emma moved toward the door, hoping to signal a definite end to this subject. “Now, we are going out. You will accompany us.”

  This diverted him. “But it is raining again, mistress,” he protested. “You will get wet.”

  Emma hid a smile, knowing that he meant he would get wet. “We will take a covered hack, Ferik. Get your hat.”

  His massive shoulders sagging slightly, her giant servant turned away. As he left the room, Emma heard him mutter. “Rain, soft white food, one wife. It is a barbarous country.”

  ***

  A short while later the three of them were prowling the crowded aisles of the Pantheon Bazaar. Arabella was exclaiming at the cheapness of the goods while the other shoppers eyed Ferik with openmouthed uneasiness. “Look at this velvet,” said Arabella. “This is less than half what I paid three years ago for the same stuff! And the blue satin; it’s dirt cheap. If I had known about this place before, I might have twice as many gowns as I do.”

  Eyeing the almost painful brightness of the satin, Emma said nothing. She went back to looking through a pile of sprigged muslins, picking out the finest.

  “Gloves ninepence the pair,” cried Arabella. “Ribbon, braid, bugling. Everything you could want is here.” She wandered off through the aisles, picking up items at random and exclaiming aloud at their value.

  Emma did not allow herself to be distracted by branches of artificial flowers or a special price on ribbon of a particularly virulent yellow. She knew precisely what she wanted, and she went about the aisles filling a mental list that she had spent some time compiling. As the neatly wrapped parcels accumulated in Ferik’s stout arms, she began to feel a certain excitement. It had been a long time since she had spent so much on things for herself. The thought of appearing before Colin in the gowns she had envisioned was pleasant, as was the idea of going out in public without worrying about winning enough money to pay the next month’s expenses. A hint of the enjoyment she had once found in society returned to her, like an animal struggling to life after a long hibernation.

  “Now I must find a dressmaker who is very good and very reasonable about her fees,” Emma said as they rode home together in a hansom cab.

  “I have just the person for you,” replied Arabella. “She is a friend of mine, and, like me, in, uh, difficult circumstances since the death of her husband last year.”

  Emma frowned. “I would like to help your friend, Aunt,” she said. “But I must have a truly fine seamstress who can create as well as sew. If it were not so important…”

  “No, no. You don’t understand. Sophie is a Frenchwoman, an émigré. She has the most exquisite taste. She is starting up her own dressmaking business, and she already has a number of customers, but she is not well known as yet. I’m sure she would be happy to make your gowns for next to nothing if you would mention her name when you are a baroness.” Arabella rubbed her hands together. This was just the sort of transaction she enjoyed. Sophie would owe her a few gowns for making this connection.

  “Well…” This sounded promising, but Emma did not want to be put in the position of rejecting a friend of Arabella’s.

  “Why not meet her and talk with her?” suggested the older woman. “If you don’t think she will do, that will be the end of it.”

  After all, thought Emma, she had no other candidates. “Very well.”

  “Splendid.” Arabella clapped her hands. “Isn’t this fun? It is all just like a fairy tale.”

  “We haven’t yet met the dragon,” answered Emma dryly.

  ***

  The moment Sophie Fisher walked into Arabella’s drawing room, Emma knew she was the right choice. She wore a gown of thin muslin in a rich amber shade that perfectly complimented her dark coloring. With its scooped neck, high waist, and wide ruffle along the hem, the dress looked as if it had come straight from Paris. It had tiny tucks in the bodice and puffed sleeves executed with exquisite skill, and was stylishly trimmed with knots of gold ribbon. The combination of taste and workmanship was exactly what she wanted. After a brief greeting, Emma simply got out her lists and the models she had found in various fashion periodicals and began to show them to Sophie. Within five minutes they were seated side by side on the sofa poring over these, and Sophie was offering such good advice that Emma resolved to
put herself entirely in her hands. She foresaw only one problem. “I must have these very quickly,” she pointed out.

  Sophie, who had been thoroughly drilled by Arabella on the situation, waved an airy hand. “I have three ladies who sew for me, and I can add two more. We will have your trousseau for you like this.” She snapped her fingers. “I will send someone for the cloth today, and we will begin to cut. Tomorrow afternoon, a fitting. It will go like a flash, you will see.”

  “Splendid,” said Emma.

  Sophie gave her a shrewd glance. There was no need to mention the fact that she was doing herself a service also, she decided. This was a very intelligent young woman. She would not forget her part of the bargain. For a moment, Sophie Fisher lost herself in an agreeable vision of the future—an exclusive shop on Bond Street, duchesses clamoring for her designs, a fat bank account, respect and independence. With only a very little help, she would make a great success. She was certain of it. Then her bone-deep practicality reasserted itself. There was much to do before that time. Best get to work at once. She stood. “I will go then,” she told Emma. “My boy will come for the cloth very soon.”

  “It is ready.”

  Sophie bowed her head. She was turning to go when she hesitated. “Perhaps I will just take the satin now,” she decided.

  “Certainly. I’ll fetch it for you.”

  In a few moments, the package was in Sophie’s hands. “Good,” she pronounced. “You will be ravissante in this,” she promised as she departed. “And in everything I make for you. Be assured.”

  Emma was.

  She closed the door behind Sophie in great good spirits, and when a knock sounded on the panels a few minutes later, she answered it smilingly herself. “Did you forget…” she began. But the words died on her lips. It was not Sophie who stood there, but someone quite different, someone she had never thought to see again in her life.

  The worst man in the world walked nonchalantly over the threshold. As if he owned the house. As if he had no doubt at all of an enthusiastic reception. He smiled at her warmly, intimately, as if they knew each other very well indeed.

  Emma swallowed a bad taste in her mouth. She had not encountered Count Julio Orsino in nearly a year, and she certainly had not thought of him. She never thought of men like him unless she had to. He represented everything she hated most in the world. And yet here he was, standing before her with his hand held out in greeting as if they were on the best of terms.

  “My dear Lady Tarrant,” he said. “I so hoped to find you here.”

  “Really?” replied Emma coldly. “Why?”

  He looked hurt. “Why, for the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance,” he declared.

  Orsino hadn’t changed at all, Emma noted. His black hair was still flat and smooth as leather on his round head; his dark eyes were liquidly expressive. His face remained blandly pleasant, effectively masking a host of evils. His exquisite mode of dress made the best of a short, stocky frame. All in all, his appearance gave no clue to his true nature. Emma felt her fingers curl into claws and made an effort to relax them.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall behind them. “Was that the door?” wondered Arabella’s high-pitched voice. “Oh,” she added, seeing the caller.

  Orsino was not the sort of person anyone should know, Emma thought. She wished she didn’t know him herself. But she didn’t see how she could avoid introductions. “Mrs. Arabella Tarrant,” she said tersely.

  Orsino stepped forward and executed a sweeping bow. “I am Count Julio Orsino,” he said. “From Italy. Enchanted.” He grasped Arabella’s limp hand and kissed it.

  “Oh my,” she fluttered. She looked at Emma, silently requesting more information.

  “We were acquainted with the count in Europe,” Emma said tonelessly.

  “Acquainted?” he protested. “Surely more than that? I was a close friend of poor Edward,” he informed Arabella. “Your nephew, I believe?”

  “Friend,” repeated Emma with contempt. “You encouraged his excesses, applauded his worst behavior. You led him into ruin and profited from every step. If he had listened to me, he would have severed the connection with you years ago.”

  “You are very hard,” he commented, without seeming offended.

  “Indeed, Emma, you are being horribly rude to the count,” put in Arabella, who had clearly been impressed by his manner. “Come in, sir. May we offer you a glass of Madeira?”

  “Thank you.” With urbane effrontery, he followed the older woman into the drawing room.

  What did he want? Emma wondered. For it was certain he wanted something. Orsino did nothing except for his own advantage. Then she remembered the newspaper announcement. No doubt he had seen it. And now he expected to profit somehow from her connection to St. Mawr. Her expression hardened. He’d find he’d misjudged things this time, she thought.

  “Yes, London is a fine city,” Orsino was saying when she came into the room. “Although it cannot compare with, say, Vienna, can it, Lady Tarrant?” He gave her a meaningful look, as if he were referring to some deeply significant shared experience.

  Emma fumed. She was certain he knew that she despised him. “I fear you have caught me at an awkward moment,” she said crisply. “I have another engagement in a short time.”

  “What engagement?” asked Arabella tactlessly.

  The count sat in an armchair and said nothing, merely keeping his gaze on Emma with a half smile.

  “Some errands I must do,” replied Emma through gritted teeth.

  His smile grew even broader. “You do not make me feel entirely welcome.”

  “What do you want?” she answered.

  “Emma!” exclaimed Arabella.

  “Won’t you sit?” Orsino asked, gesturing toward the sofa.

  “No.”

  “Ah.”

  He seemed much amused by her annoyance, Emma thought. “What do you want?” she repeated.

  He spread his hands and looked blandly innocent. “This is merely a courtesy call,” he claimed. “I wished to offer my felicitations on your forthcoming marriage.”

  Arabella threw Emma a reproachful look. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she said. “Such a splendid match.”

  “If you have come here looking for money, you have made a mistake,” said Emma.

  “Emma!” exclaimed Arabella again.

  “No, no, I want no money,” he replied, surprising her. “I thought only to see an old friend. Friendship is so important, don’t you think?”

  Now it comes, thought Emma, bracing herself.

  “One can get so lonely, in a foreign country, knowing no one. You have felt this yourself.”

  Emma simply waited.

  “But you have done so well here in London. Perhaps you would take pity on a poor stranger and introduce me to some of your acquaintances.”

  “Ah,” said Emma. “You want me to bring you into society, so that you may cheat people out of their money at the gaming tables.”

  Arabella made a scandalized sound.

  “Cheat?” echoed Orsino, as if shocked.

  “Everyone knows you cheat,” declared Emma.

  “If you were a man, I might call you out for such an accusation,” threatened the count silkily.

  “If I were a man, I’d happily put a bullet through you,” said Emma. “I will not present you to anyone. You may as well go back where you came from.”

  “That is not… possible,” he said. “I plan a stay of some duration in England.”

  “Are the authorities after you? I’m not surprised. You may as well leave. I have said I won’t—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. His expression was so malicious that Emma hesitated. It was not wise to take Orsino lightly. Behind his bland exterior, he was ruthless. She could call to mind numerous examples of men and women he had destroyed.


  The count seemed to consider. The mantel clock ticked into the silence for a long moment. Then, Orsino appeared to make a decision. He rose. “We will talk again, when you are in better spirits,” he said.

  He thought he had some lever to use against her, Emma saw, and he was saving it. But it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted. “My spirits have nothing to do with it,” she told him. “I will never change my mind.”

  The count smiled unpleasantly. “Never is a very long time,” he replied as he went out.

  As Arabella began to upbraid her for her impolite behavior, Emma gazed at the empty doorway. Unsavory characters from her past had been no part of the bargain Colin Wareham made, she thought uneasily. And she knew she had by no means seen the last of Count Julio Orsino.

  Five

  Emma put the finishing touches on her ensemble and stood back to look in Arabella’s ancient full-length mirror. The ball gown was even better than she had imagined. The underdress, of midnight-blue satin, reflected back the blue of her eyes. The skirt that fell from the high waist was overlaid with silver net, which matched the gleam of her silver-gilt hair, caught up now at the back of her head and allowed to fall in a cascade of ringlets. The miraculous Sophie had found a thin silver braid to trim the neckline and the tiny puffed sleeves. The dress was exactly what Emma had wanted—elegant, sophisticated. It was also the most beautiful dress she had had for a long, long time.

  Arabella peeked around the half-open door. “He’s here,” she said. She was as excited as if she, and not Emma, were the one being presented to the Wareham family and the ton tonight. In fact, Emma wished she could restrain her excitement a bit; she was making her nervous.

  “Oh, you look perfect!” the older woman exclaimed. “I told you Sophie is a genius with cloth.”

  “So she is,” answered Emma. Picking up a gauzy silver scarf, she settled it around her shoulders, then took one last look in the mirror. Colin’s family would not be able to find fault with her appearance, she thought. Which was fortunate, because they were more than likely to find fault with everything else.

  “St. Mawr looks terribly handsome,” Arabella confided, following Emma from the room. “You will be the envy of every girl at the ball tonight, my dear. How I wish I could see it!”