Free A Wedding Wager by Jane Feather Page B

congenial.”
    “A plain-speaking gentleman, he seemed to me. Not high in the instep in the least. Drank his ale like a regular fellow. If you like, I’ll invite old Parsons … he’s got some distant relative with a title knocking around in his family. Would that do?” William looked kindly upon his wife. He sympathized with her ambitions for their daughter but found it hard to understand her social anxieties. They were who they were and, in his opinion, as good as anyone. His money was certainly as good as any duke’s.
    “Oh, dear … I don’t know.” Marianne adjusted a pinin her coiffure, shaking her head. “Of course, if Lady Serena is to be one of the party, we’ll have to invite the general.”
    A frown creased her brow. The general had seemed a good prospect for Abigail until the serendipitous encounter with the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan that afternoon. She was such a pretty girl, it would be a shame to waste her on a man so much older. Besides, a mere general could hardly compete with the scion of an earldom when it came to social status.
    She decided against expressing this thought to her husband and continued, “But we need younger people … people Mr. Sullivan can talk to, be comfortable with. But apart from dear Lady Serena, we don’t yet know anyone suitable in London.”
    “Then ask Lady Serena for help,” her husband suggested reasonably. “She will be able to put together a guest list … maybe you could ask her to share the hostess duties with you. Then she could invite her own friends. This Sullivan fellow seems to know her, so what could be more natural?” He beamed, pleased with his inspiration.
    “Oh, that could be the very thing, Mr. Sutton. Oh, William, how clever you are.” Marianne planted a kiss on his cheek and bustled from the room.
    William returned to his perusal of the Gazette with a fond smile.

    Much later that evening, a massive old-fashioned carriage stood outside an impressive double-fronted mansion on the Strand. The coachman in white wig and dark green livery stood by the carriage door, emblazoned with the arms of Viscount Bradley, and glanced impatiently at the firmly closed front door of the mansion. He had been waiting for more than half an hour and wondered if, as on so many other occasions, the steward would come out and tell him that his lordship’s health had taken a turn for the worse and he no longer felt up to going out tonight.
    He seemed to spend most of his life waiting, he reflected, and the horses in his charge got so little exercise they spent their days eating their heads off in the mews. But just as he’d decided he was going to spend all night standing out in the cold, the double doors were flung open, and an elderly gentleman in a powdered wig, resplendent in a full-skirted blue satin coat adorned with gold frogging, black knee breeches, and white stockings emerged on the arm of a bewigged and liveried footman.
    The coachman opened the carriage and bowed as the old man, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled towards the vehicle. He helped his master up into the dark interior, receiving curses for his pains, while the footman arranged a lap rug over the viscount and set a hot brick at his feet. The coachman put up the footstep and closed the door.
    “Where to?” he inquired.
    “Pickering Place … new gambling hell,” the footman said. “He’s in a foul mood, so be careful.”
    “When’s he ever in anything else?” The coachman climbed back onto the box and took up the reins. The carriage lumbered down the Strand.
    Fifteen minutes later, it drew up outside the house on Pickering Place, where light poured forth from every window, and a doorman stood at attention outside the front door. The coach drew up, and the viscount descended on the arm of the coachman. He looked up at the house for a moment. The doorman flung the door wide, said something rapidly to a servant within, then stood bowing with a murmured, “Good evening, my lord.”
    The