The Wallflower's Wild Wager

Gloucester Street, London

 8 December 1818

I’m late. Again.

Without waiting for the aging driver to
climb down, lower the step, and wrench open the outdated coach’s door,
Aubriella Penford agilely hopped from the conveyance just as it rolled
to a stop before the Danforths’ unobtrusive townhome in the
quasi-fashionable London neighborhood.

The hot coals inside the foot warmer
had done little to alleviate the vehicle’s chill, yet the frigid air
slapping her cheeks upon her descent onto the pavement caused her to
inhale sharply. Huddled into her new raspberry-red and black
redingote—how Aubriella adored the vibrant shade—she shivered as she
waved Mosely back to his seat.

“No need to come down, Mosely.”

The sooner she was inside, the sooner
he could find himself a cozy table in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub and
enjoy a pint or two while flirting with Widow Waddell.

Aubriella darted a swift glance toward
the house, unsurprised to see a yellowed lace curtain pushed aside and
Roxina Danforth peering at the lane. A wry smile curving her mouth, she
fluttered her fingers at Aubriella before permitting the panel to fall
into place once more. Likely so that she could tell the others that
Aubriella had finally arrived.

Against her will, her attention slid to
the equally unremarkable but tidy brick townhouse next door before she
jerked it away. The Matherfield brothers lived there. Jackson
Matherfield, the eldest and a close friend of her brother’s, had been a
sharp, irritating pebble in her shoe for the better part of fifteen
years.

Aubriella tightened her jaw, vexed at her lack of self-control as much as her continual lack of punctuality.

She loathed making her friends wait,
but escaping the house wasn’t easy. Mama must be informed and approve of
Aubriella’s use of the coach. Jessamine, her seventeen-year-old sister,
often begged to come along, which simply would not do for the weekly
meetings with the Ladies of Opportunity, as they jokingly referred to themselves.

The group, a secret society, kept a
betting book much like White’s, but which was reserved exclusively for
female patrons. That criteria prevented women from becoming indebted to
male creditors, which might risk their virtue.

Imagine the haut ton’s shock should the client list or the nature of the numerous wagers ever be revealed. That must never
happen. Women who supplemented their income via secret gambling stakes
could expect tarnished reputations or ruin should they be found out.

Believable excuses must be contrived to
dissuade Aubriella’s social butterfly of a sister from accompanying
her, and one could not easily deter Minnie. In all fairness to her
mother and sister, Aubriella often lost track of time while researching
and studying, which, more than anything, accounted for her perpetual
tardiness.

Shutting the door, she cast a pensive glance at the ominous pewter sky as she approached the coach’s front.

It looks like it may snow.

She gave a joyous internal whoop.

Please. Please. Please snow.

Winter had finally arrived, bringing bitter cold and the possibility of a much-desired snowstorm.

None too soon, either.

Now, if only a foot or two of freezing
white fluff would fall and remain on the ground, preventing her family
from attending the Templetons’ annual Christmastide house party in
Westerham. A fortnight of holiday revelry, tedious parlor games,
gambling, impromptu recitals, awful skits, and dancing, of course.

All of which Aubriella was wholly inept at, except the wagering.

That particular vice she had become very adept at, indeed.

Her sisters had inherited Mama’s fair
coloring, curves, beauty, gracefulness, and adoration of all things
social. Aubriella took after their father: dark, freckled, thin, and, as
Papa was wont to say, “amiably awkward.”

Kind but clumsy.

Genial but gauche.

His good-natured maladroitness was endearing.

Hers?

Nothing short of humiliating.

What was worse, the Templetons believed in the adage, the more the merrier,
and packed the house to the rafters with revelers. That, along with too
much mulled wine, hot toddies, abundant champagne, and the gentlemen
imbibing in stronger spirits, provided the perfect opportunity for
illicit liaisons.

Last year, trying to find a quiet spot
to read, she’d stumbled upon no fewer than three amorous couples. That
included Jackson Matherfield in the conservatory wrapped in a scandalous
embrace with that fast, immoral wanton Francine Willoughby.

Even now, the memory caused Aubriella’s
cheeks to flame with chagrin, and it was freezing outside. She’d pelted
back to her shared bedchamber and pleaded a sick headache for the next
four and twenty hours.

Never mind that Aubriella didn’t ever suffer from headaches.

But what she’d accidentally witnessed
made her head throb with the vengeance of a Highlander’s battle drums
and proved beyond a doubt that Jackson Matherfield was every bit the
rapscallion and rakehell she’d always believed him to be.

Mindful that her friends awaited her,
Aubriella slung her satchel strap over her head and adjusted the bag to
hang near her waist. The smooth, dark-brown leather concealed so many
secrets. Confidences she and the others she was about to meet with had
sworn never to reveal.

 Keeping one hand firmly against the sealed bag, she peered up at Mosely.

“Pick me up in three hours.” Would that give her enough time to ready herself for dinner? “No, you had better make it two.”

Mama had invited guests to supper for
Emmet’s birthday, although for the life of her, Aubriella couldn’t
remember precisely who would attend and celebrate.

Had Mama told her?

Probably.

Trying to recall, Aubriella pursed her
lips. Absorbed with the drawings she’d received from Italy last week,
not much else had kept her attention these past few days.

Such magnificent, wondrous, intriguing renderings.

The copies of Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical drawings lay hidden beneath her mattress.

Just thinking about the intricate and detailed works caused her tummy to tumble with giddiness. She might’ve
led her parents to believe the sketches were da Vinci’s architectural
renderings. Architecture wasn’t exactly appropriate for a young lady of
quality, but it was certainly not as scandalous as the artist’s
depictions of human dissections.

Aubriella felt little remorse for deceiving her parents.

If women could study medicine, she
wouldn’t have had to resort to subterfuge. However, until that day
came—and she was confident it must—she would unapologetically use
whatever means necessary to expand her knowledge of the human body.

Regardless, a formal supper meant
Aubriella must dress appropriately. Her usual attire of whatever she
wore while studying her specimens would not do, sans her stained
laboratory apron, of course.

No, tonight would require a fashionable
gown, stays, intricately coiffured hair, jewelry, and perfume. And, of
course, her best manners, decorum, and hours of insipid small talk. She would struggle to not roll her eyes, yawn, or make a less-than-charitable remark.

So help her God, if anyone mentioned
the weather, fashion, or shared a snippet of gossip, she would eschew
propriety and suggest a dark, unmentionable cavern where they might
shove said exchange.

Since at four and twenty, she was too
old to banish to her room, and restricting her social interactions
merely brought her relief, her parents had no notion what to do with
their middle daughter when she blurted something blush-worthy or
indecorous. Which, truth be told, occurred more often than Aubriella
cared to admit.

Nevertheless, the skills that came
easily to her sisters seemed to have skipped her altogether, along with
the ability to dance gracefully, sing in tune, and wield a needle with
any skill. Although she’d bet her pin money if women could become
surgeons, she’d have managed a needle with considerable aptitude.

Yes, tonight would be another painful
reminder of everything Aubriella was and was not. She was plain, solidly
on the shelf, and had nothing to look forward to except caring for her
parents in their dotage.

And…sneaking around, trying to learn as much about anatomy as possible.

A sparrow amongst doves.

For certain, tonight she would say
something stupid, knock over her wineglass, clink her fork or spoon
against her plate, or any number of other miniature calamities.

One could wager on it.

Her stomach cramped at the thought, but she forced a smile to her suddenly stiff lips.

“Please tell Widow Waddell hello for me, Mosely.”

For the past year, since entering into the clandestine business venture, she’d visited Roxina almost weekly. Mosely and the widow had grown quite cozy, and Aubriella hoped he’d propose soon.

“Yes, Miss Penford. I shall.” He
nodded, giving her a grateful smile, fondness creasing the corners of
his kind, nut-brown eyes and wrinkling his weathered face. “I’ll just
watch until you’ve entered the house.”

He took his duties to deliver Aubriella
home unharmed seriously. That meant he was on duty until the door
closed behind her. Bracing against the wintry wind buffeting her, she
bent her head as she turned and plowed straight into a tall, hard,
masculine form.

“Careful there, Miss Penford.”