Page 13 of War of the Wedding Wagers
And then, in the periphery of her vision, she noticed Sir Frederick’s tall, well-built form as he stepped into the room. So, with renewed energy, she took Miss Playford’s wrist and, perhaps a little too forcefully, yanked her hand so that it lay across the table in front of her.
“What a glittering future beckons,” Amelia began, speaking over the young lady’s tiny yelp of surprised pain. “What an extraordinarily wondrous marriage I see you will make.”
“A wondrous marriage?” Miss Playford repeated with a wondrous expression. “For a young lady who has no dowry? Are you sure, Miss Fairchild?”
Amelia gave a decided nod. “Why, the man you will marry is in this room. Renowned as a man of good taste, high rank, and with a great many friends, he puts charm and beauty before monetary gain.”
Miss Playford gasped. “He’s in this room?” she whispered. “Surely not for I can’t see him.”
Amelia made a study of the assembled guests. Of the gentlemen, many were young, there was a good sprinkling of handsome hopefuls, on the lookout, she presumed, for a wife, but she doubted they would consider penniless Miss Playford who, although well connected, had no dowry.
Like Amelia, though at least Amelia had a small inheritance to look forward to. That is, if she could persuade Sir Frederick to make a young lady like Miss Playford his wife.
Unlike Amelia, however, Miss Playford appeared to have grandiose aspirations.
“Oh, my! But heishere!” Amelia said on a gasp as her gaze encompassed Sir Frederick for but a moment.
“Who is he?” squeaked Miss Playford.
Amelia shook her head, saying, “A fortune-teller cannot reveal what can only be suggested for it is up to the recipientof good news such as I have just imparted to make their own futures live up to what has been prognosticated.”
“But can’t you give me a clue?”
Amelia considered this then nodded. “Very well. The potential future husband of whom I speak has recently returned to England after some years abroad and he is looking, very specifically, for a blonde, petite, and vivacious wife.”
“Like me?” Miss Playford squealed again, just as a stentorian voice cut through the hubbub, summoning the guests to the center of the room for what was promised would be the most extraordinary treasure hunt that ever was to be.
Reluctantly, Amelia followed Miss Playford, who was almost skipping in her excitement, over to where Lady Pendleton stood on the opposite side of a large oak refectory table, flanked by her husband and Lady Townsend.
Lord Pendleton stood a head shorter than his wife, his faintly sweating brow gleaming in the candlelight as he anxiously tugged at his cravat. A small man, he seemed to shrink further whenever Lady Pendleton’s voice rose above a certain pitch, his watery eyes darting between his wife and their guests as if seeking approval from both quarters. His fingers drummed a nervous pattern on the oak table as Lady Pendleton announced the treasure hunt, and he appeared to be perpetually on the verge of interrupting her, though he never quite gathered the courage to do so.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to task you with a complicated puzzle but the winners, I promise, will be well-rewarded,” said Lady Pendleton. In front of her was a long list of names, unintelligible from this distance.
“Each of you will be partnered up in order to follow a series of clues which will lead you to the treasure. After the resolution, the ghostly ball will begin.” Lady Pendleton’s laugh echoed slightly in the high-ceilinged room. “I just hope we have everyone backhere to participate because, as you very well know, Pendleton Castle is haunted by the tragic ghost of my reckless great-great aunt whom some will say got what she deserved but who is ensuring that no one who stays here gets a good night’s sleep.”
Lord Pendleton cleared his throat. “But do not be alarmed,” he stammered, his wife’s sharp glance making him shrink visibly. “Lady Pernilla simply makes a racket. No one has been harmed by a ghost in this house.” He patted his shining pate, a habit that seemed to surface whenever his wife’s attention turned his way. “Now, let us begin the treasure hunt. My dear, would you do the honors?”
The Miss Ps exchanged frightened looks, their elaborate costumes trembling with what might have been genuine fear—or artful anticipation of requiring rescue. Miss Playford’s wings quivered particularly dramatically, Amelia noticed with barely concealed contempt.
When Edward murmured in her ear about making a duo, his Janus mask cast bizarre double shadows on the wall behind them. “Perhaps you and I will discover the treasure—with a value so great that there’ll be no need for any matchmaking on our parts.”
“I hardly think it’ll just fall into our laps,” whispered Amelia. “I’m sure it can’t be anything more than a paste necklace. There is no ghost, and there are no mysterious creatures of the night. This is all just for show—”
But her words died in her throat as Edward’s sharp intake of breath preceded his whisper, “Why, did you hear your name being called, Amelia? You have been paired with Sir Frederick.”
The man in question stood across the room, the firelight catching the angles of his face in a way that made him look almost otherworldly. His slight raising of brows met Amelia’s momentary indignation, and something passed between them.
But it was gone in a second.
Did he even remember the camaraderie they’d shared so briefly before—
“Then of course we must invite Miss Playford into our little group,” Amelia burst out, her bangles jangling with the sudden movement, “and do her the kindness of proving to her that no ghosts exist in this castle, or anywhere else for that matter.”
Miss Playford stood uncertainly nearby, her fairy nymph costume catching the firelight in ways that made her appear to shimmer. She frowned in confusion until Amelia, channeling more drama than her fortune-teller costume required, raised her eyebrows meaningfully while subtly indicating Sir Frederick. Understanding dawned on the young lady’s face like sunrise, and she practically floated to Amelia’s side, her gauzy skirts billowing.
“Ooh, yes, please!” The eagerness in her voice was almost painful to hear.
“Well, well, Miss Fairchild, we are to solve a mystery together, are we?” Sir Frederick’s approach was deliberate, measured, his costume—which Amelia supposed was that of a Byronic hero—lending him an air of dangerous elegance. He cast what seemed an almost perfunctory smile at Miss Playford before fixing Amelia with that quizzical look she remembered so well from years ago.
