A Wedding Wager Read Online Free PDF Page A

about prevailing fashion, it had been like having an elder sister. They had promised to be in touch as soon as they had returned to London, and Abigail waited every day for the knock that would bring the visiting card that would open this world to her.
    But so far, it had not come. General Heyward knewwhere they were lodging—her father had made a point of giving him the address before they left Brussels—but perhaps the general and his stepdaughter had not yet returned to London. They were still in Brussels when the Suttons had left on a packet bound for Dover. It was an infinitely preferable explanation to the thought that once in London, Lady Serena had forgotten all about her protégée.
    Or perhaps there was something not right about their London address. Perhaps it was an address that no lady of quality would visit. This thought haunted Abigail. What did her father know of the fashionable residential streets of London’s ton? He was a bluff, good-natured merchant from the Midlands, wealthy enough after years of shrewd business practices and careful acquisitions to satisfy his wife’s social aspirations. Aspirations that could not be satisfied among Staffordshire’s County set. To give Marianne her due, as he had often acknowledged, her aspirations were more for her daughter than for herself. And William Sutton was a very proud father, who doted on his golden-haired angel of a child.
    Nothing but the best would do for Abigail, so she had been sent to a school for young ladies, far away in Kent, where she had been wretchedly homesick, but the Midland vowels had been knocked out of her speech, and she had been made to walk with books on her head until her back was ramrod straight and her head beautifully poised on a swanlike neck. A few weeks on the Continent had been intended to round out her education and prepareher for a London debut. Occasionally, Marianne allowed herself to dream of her daughter’s presentation at a Drawing Room, if somehow they could move in circles where a patroness could be found to present Abigail. If such a miracle occurred, then so, too, could vouchers for Almack’s. It was a far-fetched dream, Marianne had to acknowledge, but London Society encompassed more than the Upper Ten Thousand. There were gentlemen aplenty, minor aristocrats, impoverished for the most part, who would exchange their name and breeding for the fortune that would devolve upon William Sutton’s daughter.
    General Sir George Heyward, whose late wife had been the widow of an obscure Scottish earl, could be considered a little old for Abigail, but his credentials were impeccable. He got along famously with William, whom he introduced to the military gentlemen littering the salons and clubs of Brussels, and his stepdaughter, Lady Serena, was clearly out of the top drawer, a perfect example and mentor for Abigail. Marianne swallowed what misgivings she had about the general’s age and concentrated her mind on the delightful prospect of a well-married daughter who had the entrée into social circles that she herself could only dream of.
    “I do hope General Heyward has not misplaced the card your father gave him.” Marianne spoke directly to her daughter’s thoughts, startling her.
    “He did not say when he and Lady Serena would be returning to London, Mama.”
    “No … no, true enough. But it has been three weeksalready.” Marianne’s voice was fretful, and she began to tap her gloved hands on her knee, warmly covered with a woolen lap rug.
    “Perhaps the address on Bruton Street is not one the general would care to visit.” Abigail gave voice to her fear, trying to make her tone light and careless, as if, of course, she were in jest.
    “Nonsense, my dear. Your father had it on the best authority that Bruton Street is a most select address. And you must agree, the house is very elegant and well furnished.”
    Abigail nodded. It was true, but she was less confident of her father’s best authority. She loved him