An Unsuitable Suitor's Wager

Chapter One

In addition to a title and an ancient estate, Julian, Lord Wesley, had inherited a reputation.

The family’s penchant for dissipation and spendthrift ways had finally caught up to them.

However, as Julian was the only member of that family still living, he was the one enduring the consequences.

The Wesley estate was in such dire straits that he’d needed to empty the family home in Sussex of nearly all its furnishings and sell them piece by piece to the highest bidders.

He’d needed to rent the London home for the Season rather than live there himself, it being entailed and, therefore, unable to be sold.

Between those two efforts, he wouldn’t starve, but neither would he be breathing easily anytime soon.

“I’ve never before seen you grow tired of London so quickly.” The observation was made by his best friend as the two of them sat in a quiet corner of their London club. He and Franklin Daubney had known each other since their school days. There was very little they didn’t know about each other.

“I suppose I have lost some of my enthusiasm.” Julian had been nursing a glass of sherry for some time now. Their club was quiet. Most of the members were at gatherings of the ton or at their homes.

“I suspect my father wouldn’t object if we sauntered out to the family seat.

” Franklin’s family wasn’t the collection of ne’er-do-wells Julian’s was, and, as a result, was still in possession of their home.

Despite being a younger son, Franklin had a future to claim, and an income sufficient to live on while he waited to take his place as the vicar of the family’s parish.

“My grandmother would happily occupy all of our time and attention for however long we’re there. ”

“I don’t think I’m as desperate as all that,” Julian said with a laugh.

Far from offended, Franklin returned to his sherry, his ponderous expression growing a bit lopsided the longer they sipped their troubles away. “What we need is a diversion,” he said after a moment.

“What I need is money,” Julian insisted.

Franklin was undeterred. He rose from his chair and walked, almost in a straight line, to where the club’s betting books were.

Julian shook his head. “Gambling is part of the reason I’m in this mess. I’m not going to place any foolhardy wager in an attempt to escape it.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that you place wagers.” Franklin dropped into his chair once more, setting the book on the table. “I thought we might amuse ourselves by seeing what ridiculous things others have wagered.”

It was actually a good idea. There was no danger of making his already difficult circumstances worse.

He might actually feel a little bit better about himself upon seeing how responsible he was when compared with some of the gentlemen of Society.

A number of their wagers were famous for how absurd and reckless they were.

Franklin flipped through pages until he came across one he read aloud. “Lord Parcell predicts that his mare Copper will foal before Mr. Jameson’s mare Honeysuckle does. Wagered amount: ￡50.”

Julian shook his head. “￡50 on the birth of a foal.” It wasn’t as risqué a wager as was often found in the betting book, but it was certainly frivolous.

Franklin flipped more pages over. “Oughtta—” He hiccuped. “Oughtta be one that’ll make us laugh.”

“Shame no one wagered that the respected Mr. Daubney would spend this evening at his club, getting deeper and deeper into his cups.” Julian raised his glass, only a quarter full.

“Nonsense,” Franklin insisted. “I’m not drunk, just tipsy enough to enjoy this more than I probably would otherwise.

” He turned another couple of pages, then read aloud.

“Mr. Preston stakes ￡100 against the same amount pledged by Mr. Harrington that the Duke of York will declare himself a believer in the Cock Lane ghost before year’s end. ”

Julian laughed lightly. A harmless wager, but entertaining just the same. “What else is in there?”

Franklin turned more pages still before stopping, his eyes pulling wide.

Julian leaned a bit closer. “What is it?”

“A wager involving you.”

“Me?” That was ridiculous. Not since his schoolboy days had he involved himself in the placing of wagers.

Franklin read out loud. “A wager, in the amount of ￡1,000.”

Julian swallowed hard. He knew he hadn’t placed any bets, yet there was no reason for his friend to be inventing this wager.

“That Lady Charlotte Duchamps will be married by her twenty-first birthday, else the placer of this bet, whose identity is recorded elsewhere, will pay Lord Wesley the forfeit declared above.”

Julian was too shocked to even begin making sense of it. “Someone will pay me that exorbitant amount if Lady Charlotte doesn’t marry by her twenty-first birthday?”

Franklin nodded.

Lady Charlotte was not unknown to either of them, though they were little more than bowing acquaintances.

Furthermore, it was generally considered ungentlemanly to make a wager involving a lady.

To go so far as to wager on a lady’s matrimonial prospects was a significant breach of etiquette, no doubt the reason the placer of the bet remained anonymous in the public book.

But the bet was recorded there, which made it binding by the gentlemen’s code. Someone whose identity Julian could not even begin to guess was obligated to pay him ￡1,000 if Lady Charlotte remained unwed.

“Do you happen to know how old Lady Charlotte is?” Franklin asked.

Julian shook his head, even as he began to think out loud.

“She is in London for the Season, and I’m reasonably certain this is her fourth.

” It was all he could, with confidence, offer in the solving of the mystery.

After all, he was not well acquainted with her, which made the matter of this wager all the more strange.

“If this is her fourth Season, and this wager is centered on her twenty-first birthday, I suspect that is the very birthday she is about to mark.”

Julian knew he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he would prefer, though he wasn’t so sloshed as to be entirely without good judgment.

“The year of her birth, I find, is of tremendous importance to me. ￡1,000 important to me. Do you suppose there’s a copy of Debrett’s in the library here?

” He motioned with his head in the direction of the club’s extensive collection of volumes.

“One way to find out.”

The two of them made their way toward the library. A quick search revealed the very volume they were searching for. Lady Charlotte was the daughter of the Earl of Tarrant, and his family would most certainly be listed inside.

Franklin read out loud even as Julian himself scanned the words. “Lady Charlotte, born the 6th of June in the year 1749.”

Two gentlemen slowly raised their gazes from the book. Franklin’s eyes were pulled wide. Julian’s were as well.

“She turns twenty-one in a month,” Julian said. “One month, and I do not recall seeing any announcements in the Times of an engagement.”

“Neither do I,” Franklin said.

Julian scratched his hairline, the powder long since dried and settled and making his scalp itch a bit. Hair powdering was not optional when one wished to look clean and put together. The effort helped hide the true state of his financial situation.

“A courtship can prove successful, leading to an engagement and even a wedding within four weeks,” Julian acknowledged.

“Though it would be a bit of a tight timeline, there’s still a chance she could be married before June 6.

It’d be a helpful thing if we knew a little more about how close she might be to an engagement. ”

“I do know Lady Charlotte, though vaguely,” Franklin said. “My family hasn’t the standing of hers or yours. I am not always invited to the same gatherings your ilk are.”

“My ilk.” Julian shook his head, the impact of sherry rendering the movement a bit more clumsy than he would prefer. “People of ‘my ilk’ and of ‘my birth’ are not to be confused. I hope I am a better sort of fella than those whose shoes I’m called on to fill.”

“Can’t entirely make sense of that mix of words,” Franklin said, “but if you’re trying to say you’re a decent fellow, I’ll agree to that.”

Julian blinked a few times, trying to focus his thoughts. “The betting book didn’t say who it was that placed the wager?”

Franklin shook his head slowly. “But the gentleman’s identity is recorded elsewhere.”

That did happen now and then. Someone placing a bet wished for their identity to be anonymous, and that information was kept confidential by those who oversaw such things at the club.

The wagerer would be made to pay should the forfeit be required of him.

And he would be required to pay Julian. Pay him ￡1,000.

Such a sum would perhaps not go as far as it would have during his grandfather and great-grandfather’s day, but to Julian, the Lord Wesley of 1770, it still constituted a much-needed windfall.

“Have you heard this wager talked about amongst the gentlemen?” he asked his friend.

Franklin shook his head and lowered his voice just as Julian had. “Wasn’t made loudly or publicly, it seems. The placer of it must be watching to see if Lady Charlotte’s leading anyone into the parson’s mousetrap.”

“And likely making an effort to see to it that she does,” Julian acknowledged.

“As the person placing it didn’t tell you of the bet, he likely wouldn’t realize you know about it now.”

The unknown wagerer felt, in some ways, like an angel of mercy, offering so enormous a windfall when Julian was so desperate. Except the mystery gambler was an angel who was likely working exceptionally hard to make certain he never had to pay the forfeit.

“It’s a shame we don’t know who the fellow is,” Franklin said. “We could make any of his efforts to win this wager a little bit more difficult.”