The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) Read online

  The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book)

  The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book)

  Midpoint

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The Betting Season

  Copyright © 2012 by Ava Stone, Catherine Gayle, Jerrica Knight-Catania, Jane Charles

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  Writing my novella, BY ANY OTHER NAME, has been both a fun and rewarding experience, which was made all the better as I was able to work on this project with three of my dearest friends.

  So this is for you ~ Jerrica, Jane & Catherine. You ladies inspire me everyday. I love each of you and have enjoyed every minute of our collaborations on this project.

  ~ Ava

  Lord Cleasby bets Mr. Potsdon five hundred pounds that Lord St. Austell will bed Lady Philippa Casemore before the end of the season. ~ April 19, 1813

  Berkswell House, Mayfair - April 1813

  A pounding echoed around Lady Philippa Casemore’s chambers. Or was that her head? Pippa blinked her eyes open and her room spun just a bit. She closed them quickly, in a vain attempt to halt the spinning completely. It didn’t work. In fact, she thought she might cast up her accounts right there.

  Heavens! Why in the world did her head throb so horribly?

  “Pippa!” bellowed a voice from somewhere close by, and the pounding in her head became louder, though she had no idea how that was possible.

  “Is she even in there?” asked another voice. Harry’s perhaps?

  “She damn well better be,” growled the first, which now that she heard it again, Pippa realized the voice must belong to Berks. It was no wonder she didn’t recognize it at first. Her oldest brother very rarely growled.

  Why was he growling? And why were both of her brothers yelling at her? A groan escaped Pippa’s throat when she tried to ask.

  “She’s in there,” Harry said.

  The pounding resumed, more frantically. “Philippa, open this door immediately!”

  Pippa opened her eyes once more. The blasted room spun even faster somehow. “Berks,” she croaked out, barely recognizing her own voice. “Come back later, Berks. I’m not feeling at all the thing.”

  “Open the damned door!” Her door handle jiggled as though her oldest brother’s patience had been pushed past its limit. “Now!”

  Pippa pushed up on her elbows and instantly wished she hadn’t. Bile rose up in her throat and gooseflesh rippled across her skin. “I’m ill,” she called back.

  “You’re not ill. You’re apparently foxed,” Berks returned, his voice more impatient than she could ever remember it being before.

  “You don’t think she’s still foxed do you?” Harry asked. “Probably just suffering a headache, maybe a little nausea.”

  That was it exactly! How did Harry know?

  “If you’re not going to be of any help, you can be on your way,” Berks grumbled.

  “But I am helping,” Harry protested. “You wouldn’t even know about the bet if it wasn’t for me.”

  “And how I wish I didn’t,” Berks said. The pounding at the door resumed. “Open this door at once, Pippa, or I’ll break it down!”

  Experiencing Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell in a temper was a rarity. What in the world had happened to make him so cross?

  Pippa slid to the edge of her four-poster and somehow managed to touch her feet to the rug. Her slippered feet. She’d gone to bed in her slippers? Pippa glanced down at herself, only to discover she was also adorned in her new periwinkle gown. Good heavens!

  “Pippa!” Berks barked.

  “Must you yell?” she complained. “I’m moving as fast as I can.” Why was she in her periwinkle gown? She’d worn it the night before, hadn’t she? To the Heathfields’ ball? Her mind was so foggy. Why couldn’t she remember? Shouldn’t she remember her very first London ball ever? She’d waited what seemed a lifetime for it.

  Pippa slowly padded across the floor and turned the key in her lock. A second later, Berks tossed her door open. Both of her brothers stood in the corridor, gaping openly at her.

  “What’s wrong?” she grumbled. “Haven’t you ever seen a lady in a ballgown before?”

  “I haven’t ever seen a lady sleep in one before.” Berks crossed her threshold, his dark hair pointing out in all directions as though he’d been tugging at the ends in frustration.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Harry replied as he followed their oldest brother into Pippa’s chamber. “There was that time with Lady Elswick—”

  The glare Berks shot Harry would have halted an approaching army, perhaps even killed the entire front line. “Kindly shut your mouth.”

  A slight blush crept up Harry’s face. “Apologies,” he mumbled.

  Berks tilted his head back towards the corridor. “I can handle this on my own, Harry.”

  “I’m certain you can.” Harry shook his head. “But I’ll stay, just the same. Pippa might need me.”

  What Pippa needed was to sit down as the room had started to spin once again. “What is going on?” she asked and would have tumbled to the floor if Harry hadn’t caught her arm.

  “Really, Pip,” Harry whispered. “Albie Potsdon? What were you thinking?”

  Albie Potsdon? Harry’s school chum? Pippa hadn’t seen him in well over a year. At least she didn’t think she had. “Albie?”

  “Potsdon be damned,” Berks growled. “What I want to know, Pippa, is what you were doing with Lord St. Austell last night.”

  “St. Austell?” The name didn’t ring a bell at all. Pippa blinked at her oldest brother. “I don’t think I’m acquainted with Lord St. Austell.”

  Berks’s lips thinned to an angry white line. “Indeed? Well, you were spotted dancing with the reprobate.”

  “Waltzing,” Harry corrected.

  Berks glared at their brother then redirected his dark gaze on Pippa. “You haven’t even gotten permission to do so yet.”

  She’d waltzed? Pippa closed her eyes and tried to recall the previous evening, but her mind was all a jumble. “I don’t remember doing any such thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you remember it or not. Half the ton saw you do so.”

  “And then there’s White’s,” Harry added.

  Her brothers’ club? No matter what she remembered or didn’t remember, she knew she hadn’t stepped foot inside a gentleman’s club. “White’s?”

  Berks face reddened. “I wasn’t going to mention that bit.”

  “Why not?” Harry asked. “She’ll find out soon enough. Better to know now than have someone else tell her.”

  Why must they speak in riddles? “Tell me what?”

  Berks continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Better just to send Aunt Eugenia home and have us guard Pippa from St. Austell instead.”

  “I don’t know why you thought the old loon would make a decent chaperone in the first place.”

  “So now this is my fault?” Berks’s voice raised an octave.

  Pippa had endured all the bellowing and arguing she could handle in her present state. She cleared her throat and said loudly, “Will you two please tell me what you are going on about? I think my head is about to split into two.”

 
Harry heaved a sigh and glanced at Berks as though to make sure their older brother wasn’t about to stop him. Then he said, “Your name is in the betting book at White’s.”

  That didn’t make any sense. Pippa blinked. “My name?”

  “Alongside the Earl of St. Austell’s,” Harry continued.

  “I don’t even know Lord St. Austell.”

  “Well, you apparently caught his notice last night,” Berks complained.

  “St. Austell was overheard remarking he could bed you before the season is up. And that wastrel Cleasby wrote it up in the betting book.”

  Pippa staggered backward. Bed her? What an awful thing to say. What an awful thing to write down! “Who is this man?”

  “The worst scoundrel in all of London,” Berks muttered. “What were you thinking last night, Pippa?”

  She wished she knew. Pippa shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t remember a thing.” Not one blasted thing.

  Jason York, the Earl of St. Austell, glanced at his empty coffee cup and frowned. Maintaining a decent staff was bloody difficult to do these days. Partly, he conceded, he was to blame. Not entirely, but partly, at least if his sister was to be believed. If Jason’s reputation wasn’t quite so tarnished, respectable servants would willingly work for him and he would currently have a full cup of coffee this morning. That was his sister’s theory, in any event.

  From the corridor, someone screamed. His butler, if Jason wasn’t mistaken. And the man sounded like a frightened schoolgirl. What the devil?

  He pushed away from the breakfast table and started towards the corridor when the door burst open and an enraged gentleman stalked over the threshold into the breakfast room. The Marquess of Berkswell? Jason frowned. He hadn’t cuckolded the man, had he? No, he didn’t think so. In fact, he didn’t think Berkswell was even married.

  “Looking for me?” Jason drawled as he assumed a carefree stance. Whatever madness propelled Berkswell to his door, Jason wasn’t about to let the marquess think him flustered.

  Berkswell’s dark eyes flashed and he lunged for Jason, his hands outstretched like a bedlamite bent on murder.

  Jason side-stepped the mad marquess and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t imagine what has brought you to my door, but kindly remove yourself.” God knew Jason couldn’t depend on his staff to toss Berkswell out. The cowards he employed hadn’t even poked their heads in the breakfast room to see what the commotion was about.

  Berkswell stumbled forwards but righted himself. “You!” he growled.

  “Yes, me,” Jason agreed. “I’m not quite sure what has you in a rage, Berkswell, but why don’t you return when you can string more than one syllable together. We’ll discuss whatever it is like gentlemen.”

  “Gentlemen?” The marquess’s nose flared like that of a pent-up bull. Then he leapt forwards again and somehow managed to catch a handful of Jason’s jacket in the process. Berkswell’s fist connected with Jason’s nose a half-second later. “A gentleman wouldn’t get my sister’s name in that book,” the marquess spat. “I’ll put your name on a gravestone.”

  “Do you mind?” Jason tore himself out of the man’s grasp and frowned when he noticed droplets of blood now stained his previously snowy cravat. Blast and damn! Who even knew if he had another clean one?

  “Oh, I mind,” Berkswell growled.

  Jason lifted a handkerchief to his nose and glared at his uninvited guest. “Honestly, I have no idea what has you in such a state. So either tell me my offense or go destroy someone else’s morning.”

  “My sister!” Berkswell bellowed, which there was no reason to do. Jason could hear him just fine. The man just didn’t make any sense.

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “You got her name in the betting book at White’s.”

  Jason was fairly certain he’d remember doing something like that. He shook his head, careful to keep his handkerchief in place and his loss of blood to a minimum. “I think you’ve got the wrong cad. I don’t even know your sister.” At least he didn’t think he did. He mentally went down the list of widows he’d recently entertained. Lady Teynham wasn’t Berkswell’s sister, was she?

  “Lady Philippa Casemore,” the marquess ground out. “I have it on the highest authority you waltzed with her last night at the Heathfields’.”

  Philippa Casemore? The foxed schoolgirl? The one Potsdon had liberally supplied with brandy until she could barely stand, let alone waltz? Jason hadn’t even asked her to stand up with him. She’d pulled him into the middle of the dance floor and insisted he call her…

  “Pippa?” he said softly, which was the wrong thing to do if the growl emanating from Berkswell was any indication. Jason took a step backwards and lifted up one hand to halt Berkswell mid-step. “I only danced with her.”

  “And ruined her name with that bloody bet.”

  Again with this bet? The man made less sense the more he talked. “I honestly have no idea what you’re going on about. And virginal schoolgirls are hardly my sort. So if that’s all you came to say, you can take your leave.”

  “Stay away from my sister.”

  Jason had no intention of going near the chit. “You might want to visit Albert Potsdon on your way back home. The man gave her his flask sometime during the night. Got the poor girl so deep in her cups, I’d be surprised if she even remembers her own name this morning.”

  “Consider yourself warned. If you so much as approach my sister, I’ll call you out and put a bullet in the middle of that miserable heart of yours.”

  “Berkswell?” Viscount Heathfield chuckled as he and Jason entered the throng along Rotten Row. “Mild mannered Berkswell?”

  Jason touched a hand to his nose and winced as he jiggled it back and forth. “I think he might have broken it.”

  Heath chuckled again. “I’m certain you didn’t deserve it in the least.”

  Jason glared at his friend. “You know very well I didn’t. The chit was more than foxed and I didn’t even touch her.”

  “You waltzed with her.”

  If one could call it that. She nearly fell into him at every turn. “Yes, well, last night will be the last time I attend some function hosted at your house, you can bloody well depend on that.”

  “You’re simply not accustomed to socializing with polite society,” Heath replied. “Even so, Emma was quite delighted to make your acquaintance last night. She wanted me to pass on her appreciation to you for making her ball the most talked about affair of the season.”

  “The season just began.”

  “And now everyone else will be trying to reach the bar Emma’s ball set.”

  “My broken nose and I are pleased to have helped,” Jason grumbled. Heath wasn’t the same fellow he’d once been, not since he’d taken a wife over Christmas. The last thing Heath would have discussed this time last year was which societal event was the talk of the season. Jason sent a sidelong glance at his old friend. “Do pass on my congratulations to Lady Heathfield. She seems to have reformed you rather well in a very short period of time.”

  Heath only grinned, which proved Jason’s point perfectly.

  “And they say rakes can’t be reformed.”

  Heath laughed. “No. I think they say you can’t be reformed.”

  Finally Jason smiled in return. “Touché. I do believe that is what they say.”

  “What is with Cleasby, anyway? Why would he put that bet in the book?”

  Jason’s smile vanished. “Damned drunkard. Someone must have overheard me last night and put him up to it.”

  “Overheard something about your ability to bed the lady in question?”

  Jason heaved a sigh. “Do you know how many times I’ve said something similar over the years?”

  “Roughly.”

  “I’ve never imagined I’d see it in print for all the world to discuss, however.”

  “Well.” Heath gestured towards the other side of the lane with a cock of his head. “There’s your L
ady Philippa now. Do watch yourself. I understand Harrison Casemore’s left is far more fearsome than Berkswell’s.”

  Jason’s gaze shot across Rotten Row, landing on the chit in question. Pippa Casemore’s light brown curls swayed gently in the breeze, her head tilted towards some other girl in obvious deep discussion. She barely resembled the inebriated chit from the night before. Still pretty, of course, and the sun made her hair reflect a bit of gold; but she seemed more innocent in the light of day, more… respectable. What a pity.

  “I’d bet money they’re talking about you.” Heath said, humor lacing his words.

  Bet? Jason stopped in his tracks, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at his friend. “You didn’t have Cleasby put that bet in the book, did you?”

  Heath snorted. “Me?”

  No, Jason supposed not. A friend would never do such a thing to him. “Somebody did. And whoever he is, he’s got a punch to the nose waiting for him.”

  “Tit for tat?”

  “An eye for an eye.” Jason touched his tender nose again. “…Or nose, as the case may be.”

  “Ah, and the lady disappears,” Heath said.

  Jason looked back to where Lady Philippa had just been only to find her dark-haired friend all alone on the path. “Did you see where she went?”

  Heath gestured to a copse of trees not far off. “Planned assignation, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” Jason agreed. But the idea of Pippa Casemore meeting some fellow in the trees brought a scowl to his face. “Someone ought to warn the fellow off.”

  “Someone?” Heath chuckled.

  “Oh, bugger off,” Jason grumbled as she started in the direction of Lady Philippa’s copse.

  Pippa’s heart pounded so loudly, she could barely breathe. Those walking along Rotten Row must be able to hear it. How had she gotten herself into such a predicament? She pressed herself against a tree and closed her eyes, willing her pulse and breath to return to their normal paces after she’d bolted away from Lady Moira Kirkwood.