Chapter 31 #2
Sam took her usual seat on the long, high-backed couch she normally shared with Jude and Payton. But she did not drop her gaze to her lap in preparation for a scolding. No, she kept her chin high, her shoulders straight, and her eyes level.
“Tell her!” Garrett said before burrowing his face deeper into the lounge. “I cannot.”
Marce’s eyes squinted shut and she held the bridge of her nose, forgoing massaging her forehead.
“What is going on?” Sam looked from Marce to Garrett and back again.
“Did you agree to be that scoundrel’s mistress?” he asked, his voice muffled because his face was still pressed to the plush cushions of the lounge.
“Of course, not,” she denied. “He propositioned me in a dark hall at Simon and Jude’s introduction ball, but I soundly kicked him in the shin. The rascal took my meaning and hasn’t approached me since.”
“You just admitted he escorted you Lord Ashford’s gambling party!”
“No.” Sam shot to her feet. “I said, Lord Ridgefeld escorted me to the party, not Lord Proctor.”
“Who is Lord Proctor?” Marce sighed.
“Another man from the betting book,” Garrett seethed.
“I am utterly confused!”
“That makes two of us,” Sam agreed. “What betting book?”
Garrett pushed to a seated position, his feet planted on the floor, his Hessian boots gleaming in the candlelight. “The blasted betting book at White’s. Men record bets of all sorts, and wager everything from money to landholdings to farm animals.”
“And my name is mentioned in this book?” she stammered. “Why would it be there?”
“It seems…” Marce’s mouth pulled into a severe frown. “That men are wagering large amounts of coin on who will take you as their mistress first.”
“Were,” Garrett corrected.
“That is preposterous!” Sam laughed, garnering a stern look from both Marce and Garrett. “I have no intention of being any man’s mistress, I assure you both.”
“So Lord Ridgefeld has not made any inappropriate advances?” he prodded.
It would not do to speak of their arrangement, their evening in Lord Cummings’ study, their outing to Gentleman Jackson’s, or their phaeton race; however, their time in Hyde Park or their evening at Covent Garden was innocent enough so long as she did not speak of their moonlit stroll along the darkened paths.
Based on Garrett’s reddened face, twitching eye, and flaring nostrils, it would be wise to admit nothing. “He most certainly has not. And what do you mean were?”
“Ridgefeld tore the page straight out of the betting book and stuffed it in his pocket.”
“Then all record of the silly wager is gone?” she asked.
“I certainly hope so,” Marce commented. “For your sake, of course. But why would Lord Ridgefeld take the wager page?”
“It was obvious he wasn’t the one to start the bet. It was his first time at White’s.”
“Who else besides Lord Proctor and Ridgefeld were listed?”
“There were more?” Sam squeaked. “I cannot imagine—“
“Lord Gunther, Mr. Tobias Shillings, and Lord Meyton, though I have never made the acquaintance of the last two.” Garrett stood and continued his pacing. “You swear on your place in this household that you have not become some man’s mistress?”
Sam should be offended by the question. Outraged her brother would even think she’d stoop to such a level.
But, truly, their mother had been little more than a high-priced courtesan, and many thought Marce had also taken up the family business after their mother’s death.
How else could a young, impoverished female take care of four siblings and a large house?
She and Jude had even begun to think their sister was bargaining her body as a means to keep food in their pantry and a roof over their heads.
Never had Garrett so much as lifted a finger to help support their family financially.
“Of course, Samantha would never jeopardize her future by accepting such an unsavory offer,” Marce said, coming to Sam’s defense, but not surprisingly, her words lacked a bit of conviction as she eyed her sibling, searching for any indication she had, indeed, become what Marce had worked so hard to avoid for her family.
When she didn’t see what she feared in Sam’s expression, Marce continued, “Now, I think it best we all find our beds. The night is growing late. I will have the housekeeper prepare your old room, Garrett.”
Her brother moved toward the door. “Do not bother, I will return to my lodgings.”
“It is late, and you are in no condition to travel.” Marce spoke softly, attempting not to mention the stench of liquor on their brother. “At least allow Mr. Curtis to see you home in the carriage.”
Garrett paused, his hand on the doorknob. “That is kind of you, dear sister, but I can see myself home.”
“Very well.” Marce collected her candle. “I will see you to the door. Sam, I shall see you in the morning. Do not sleep through breakfast.”
Though the words were said softly, it was a demand. Sam nodded.
“Sleep well, Samantha.” Garrett pulled the door open and thundered down the hall, Marce quick on his heels, shushing him the entire way.
There was nothing left to do but for Sam to find her own room. Slipping from the office, she used the servants’ stairwell to avoid seeing Marce as her sister saw Garrett to the door and then climbed the main staircase.
Neither had noticed her distress or reddened face from her tears.
Normally, she’d seek to hide her turmoil.
This night, she’d longed for guidance, someone to notice her unusually despondent demeanor.
Instruct her on what to do, how to fix the mess she’d made.
She’d spent so many years keeping things to herself—rarely so much as allowing Jude into her inner workings—that she was unsure how to ask for what she needed.
Maybe a good night’s rest and a bright morning would bring her answers, or at least the means for finding some semblance of closure with Elijah.