The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  The coach halted, and Deirdre drew on a black velvet demi-mask, an article that was de rigueur for the patrons of Winslow’s establishment. She fluffed out the folds of the new gown she had chosen with particular care, indulging a whim she had long cherished. It was a diaphanous slip of scarlet satin and admirably suited the harlot’s part that she was forced to play. But she took no pleasure in having proved to herself that in scarlet satin she looked as common and cheap as a tart on the London docks.

  Armand offered his hand and Deirdre’s fingers held on tightly as she alighted from the coach, her eyes sweeping over the magnificent columned entrance of Lord Winslow’s Georgian mansion. Beyond the uncurtained, small-paned windows of the house, she could see other masked ladies and gentlemen moving about under the brilliant chandeliers. No lady coming to this elegant den of vice, so it seemed, far from the madding crowds of town, had the least inclination to make her identity known, a circumstance which suited Deirdre perfectly.

  She wandered with Armand through the various apartments, ignoring the intent crowds at the faro banks and rouleaux tables which she dismissed as mere games of chance, and finally found what she wanted. The picquet tables were set up in a comfortable saloon at the back of the house overlooking the river, and Deirdre’s steps slowed. She moved from group to group as if in idle curiosity, discreetly observing play at first one table and then another. Only Armand, a constant shadow at her side, was aware of her true intent. Having summed up the caliber of the opposition, Deirdre was impatient to get down to business. She felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Not for the first time, she reflected that if Reverend Standing could be persuaded to give up his calling and pursue the less exalted profession of gamester, he would make a fortune. She could not know that the heavenly minded man of cloth whom she revered had learned his arts as a young rakehell bent on mischief in just such dens of iniquity, and had forsworn it all without regret when he had tumbled into love with the beautiful daughter of an itinerant preacher.

  The bold, assessing stares of many of the gentlemen present she ignored with a cool, dampening detachment, having been warned in no uncertain terms by Armand that although gaming was the primary purpose of Lord Winslow’s house which became a gaming establishment on Wednesday evenings, many of the gentlemen expected to go home with more than their uncertain winnings from the gaming tables. If the tonnish Almack’s Assembly Rooms, which met on the same evening of the week, were aptly named “The Marriage Mart,” Winslow House had no less deservedly earned the sobriquet “Courtesans’ Court.” Still, she was unprepared for the openly lascivious caressing that many of the couples engaged in, and she was careful to smile often at Armand to ensure that the watching world knew that her “protector” was close at hand.

  Her chance came when a gentleman with a smile lurking in his eyes gestured an invitation after his opponent, obviously a sore loser, threw down his cards and made for the faro bank. Deirdre had been aware of the stranger’s friendly interest since she had first entered the picquet room. His glances had lacked that ravening, hungry look that were brazenly bent on her by some of the other gentlemen, even supposing Armand stuck to her like glue. His interest bordered on the avuncular, in Deirdre’s opinion, although he was an extremely handsome man with blond hair shot with silver at the temples. Behind the mask, the kindest blue eyes that she had ever encountered gazed at her with a roguish twinkle. There was something vaguely familiar about the gentleman, but since his approach lacked nothing of civility, Deirdre had no hesitation in accepting the place his late opponent had vacated.

  “I’m keeping this spot warm for a friend,” he offered by way of explanation. “I expect him directly. If you don’t mind changing partners in the middle of play, I’d be happy to stand in for him till he returns.”

  Deirdre indicated politely that she had no objection to this arrangement.

  At first she played cautiously, undismayed by the outrageous stakes since Armand had already warned her how high they might reach. Her prodigious memory served her well, for she never forgot an opponent’s discard and played her own hand with unerring calculation. The gentleman said so and Deirdre thanked him. Within half an hour, her winnings amounted to a cool one thousand pounds. Deirdre was almost ecstatic, and she shuffled the cards demurely, bestowing a smile on her kind adversary that came close to being an apology. His blue eyes twinkled merrily back at her, and Deirdre, feeling a twinge of guilt for relieving him of such a considerable sum, prayed silently and fervently that the gentleman was well breeched.

  That soft and confiding smile was remarked by a broad-shouldered gentleman in black form-fitting evening coat and white satin breeches, arms negligently folded across an expansive chest, who reclined with careless grace against an Ionic marble column at the entrance to the card room. He was joined by a diminutive, dark-haired lady, but he seemed not to notice. His lazy, tawny glance had become riveted to a green-eyed lovely in a diaphanous slip of scarlet, the badge of a lightskirt, that was frankly suggestive. A frown gathered with ominous portent on Lord Rathbourne’s broad brow.

  His eyes narrowed to the soft mounds of Deirdre’s white breasts bared almost to the nipple. A patch placed strategically on one swelling contour drew the steel in his eyes like a compass to a magnet. He flexed his strong fingers as if contemplating the pleasure he would experience should he be so fortunate as to lay his hands on the slender column of her throat, which rose, swanlike, to support a mass of dark tresses embellished with one scarlet ostrich feather. His eyes slowly traversed its provocative curl as it came to rest against one dewy cheek, drawing attention to the perfect oval face which was barely recognizable with its concealing demi-mask and layers of powder, rouge, and paint. That the lady was in no wise distinguishable from the motley crew of fair Cyprians who graced Lord Winslow’s noble, albeit notorious, establishment, dampened the heat of his simmering anger not one jot.

  An Exquisite with quizzing glass dangling by a black velvet ribbon from one limp finger was seen to approach the tall forbidding figure of the Earl. Rathbourne’s eyes shifted to take in the extravagantly costumed person of Sir Geoffrey Balnaves, and a faint smile of derision briefly touched his lips. Balnaves’s coat was of claret velvet and heavily embroidered with gold thread. Silver buckles adorned his high-heeled shoes in which he was obliged to walk with small, mincing steps. His neck he kept very erect, a necessary inconvenience, since the starched points of his collar brushed the diamonds at his ears. The intricate folds of the fine linen neckcloth at his throat were a wonder to behold and gave the impression of a small, stuffed cushion on which Sir Geoffrey might rest his weary chin.

  He made an elegant leg to the lady who stood restively at his lordship’s side. Mrs. Dewinters smiled and gave the gentleman her hand, which he kissed with a flourish. It was evident that the fop and the actress were well known to each other and on the best of terms.

  Balnaves made a turn around the column against which Rathbourne inclined and came to stand at the Earl’s elbow, slightly to one side.

  “Tempting morsel, ain’t she?” he lisped in a languid undertone. His quizzing glass was trained on Deirdre. “Gad, if Uxbridge ain’t an insatiable fellow. ’Twas to be expected, I suppose, with Lady Char at Beaudesert.”

  The Earl seemed not to like the tone of the baronet’s remarks. He pushed himself to an upright position and said in a voice like flint, “The lady has an escort.”

  Balnaves’s quizzing glass shifted to take in Armand. “What? That young whelp standing at her elbow? He don’t signify. Russell has his eye on her. Thought you ought to know.”

  His eyes met the Earl’s in perfect comprehension. He inclined his head gravely and strolled away. After a considering moment, Rathbourne offered his arm to Mrs. Dewinters and they advanced upon the picquet table where Uxbridge and Deirdre were engaged in play.

  An unsuspecting Deirdre glanced up when a handsome couple came into her line of vision. Her fingers froze, and the cards she had been in the process of shuffling sp
illed on the table in front of her. In spite of the black demi-masks, there could be no mistaking the Earl of Rathbourne and his beautiful companion, Mrs. Maria Dewinters. Deirdre felt Armand’s steadying hand at her shoulder and she mumbled an incoherent apology to her companion, who had already risen to his feet to greet the newcomers.

  He said a few quiet words in Rathbourne’s ear which Deirdre could not catch, then very politely and firmly took his leave of Deirdre with a grave bow. My Lord Rathbourne took his place and Deirdre rigidly controlled the shudder of unease that rippled through her. She retrieved the spilled cards, shuffled them rather ineptly in the manner of a female, and slowly and deliberately dealt a hand to each of them.

  For a moment she was persuaded that if she kept a cool head she might carry off the deception, that the Earl might not recognize the lady under the harlot’s guise. One glance at those cat’s eyes soon put that misguided notion to rest. There was steel there and a blaze of anger that was almost frightening in its intensity. Deirdre carefully lowered her lashes to cover her shock, her mind furiously grappling with what his presence might portend. He knew! He had come here on purpose, had lured her to this very table to accept a challenge from an accomplice, knowing that if she had once caught a glimpse of him, she would have taken to her heels. The manner of his bringing about such a dastardly plot troubled her only slightly. But his purpose in singling her out, that was more than a little frightening, and eluded her completely.

  There was no retreat. Already he had picked up the cards she had dealt him and was looking at them intently. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. She glanced at the array of cards in her hand but found it hard to concentrate. Her eyes kept wandering to the actress who hovered behind the Earl. Mrs. Dewinters’s gown was a modest but beautiful creation of blue sarcenet with white underdress and white satin ribbons adorning the bodice and puff sleeves. She looked every inch the lady, and Deirdre, highly conscious of the picture she herself presented, squirmed uncomfortably in her place.

  Deirdre was at a loss to say why, but she was almost certain that Mrs. Dewinters, unlike the Earl, had not penetrated her disguise. She watched in fascinated interest as the actress batted her long, silky eyelashes behind Rathbourne’s back and threw out lures to Armand. What was she up to? There was no time to reflect further, for the Earl had commenced play.

  For the first rubber, she played very cautiously, more as a reconnoitering measure. When she won it quite handsomely, some of her confidence returned. It was obvious to her that the Earl’s play had changed little since she had first trounced him at picquet almost five years before. Since Wellington’s officers were known for displaying a fine leg on the ballroom floor rather than for their sleight of hand at the card table, she became bolder. Her eyes sliced to Rathbourne, and she relaxed even more. The Earl was seething, if she was any judge of character.

  His eyes locked with hers. “I propose we raise the stakes, if you have no objection, miss?”

  “Madame X,” supplied Deirdre unhelpfully, giving him back stare for stare. “What is your wish, sir?”

  A negligent shrug of the shoulders was her answer.

  “Five hundred pounds a rubber?” she threw at him daringly.

  “Make it a thousand and I might be interested,” was the cool rejoinder.

  Deirdre tried to cover her dismay. She sought Armand’s guidance. Not finding him behind her chair, she scanned the room quickly and saw him disappearing through a pair of French doors with Mrs. Dewinters on his arm. Deirdre’s first presentiment of disaster was strengthened and a flutter of panic shimmied along every nerve ending. Rathbourne was toying with her! Her eyes narrowed and she brought the pack of cards in her hands together like the crack of a whiplash.

  “Deal!” she fairly snapped at him.

  She paid dearly for that piece of recklessness. Two rubbers down and she had reluctantly formed the conclusion that the aristocratic Earl of Rathbourne, for all his fine posturing, was an out-and-out cheat! There was no other explanation. How it was done, she had no way of knowing. Cheating at cards had never been any part of Reverend Standing’s instruction. But it was perfectly obvious to her that the cards were marked.

  “Double or nothing?” she heard Rathbourne’s smooth question as if from a distance.

  An interested crowd had gathered around the table to watch the play of the two grim-faced antagonists, but Armand was not among them. If she meant to withdraw, now was the time to do it.

  “A glass of wine in the interim?” Rathbourne suggested with insulting negligence, and before Deirdre could frame a blistering refusal, he raised one hand to attract the notice of one of the many footmen who dispensed champagne in crystal glasses from silver trays.

  Deirdre accepted with a show of indifference and quietly took stock of her situation as she slowly sipped the fizzy beverage. She was more than badly dipped. She was cleaned out, and she was certain that the Earl knew it. But if she won the next rubber, and she was sure she could do it if she could put a halt to Rathbourne’s cheating, she would walk away from the table with a very handsome profit.

  “Why not?” she flung at him brightly. Then with a challenging look at her contemptible opponent, “A fresh pack, I think, and my turn to deal?”

  It was the closest she could come in company to telling the man that she had divined his despicable game. Rathbourne merely returned a smile.

  The cards were placed in Deirdre’s impatient fingers and she gave them her most careful perusal. It did little good. She hadn’t the least notion of what she was looking for. If only Armand were at her side, he would advise her. She could not believe that her brother would desert her without good reason, and it had better be good, she thought fiercely, for when I catch up with that rapscallion, I’ll flay the skin off his back. Sudden knowledge blazed in her eyes and her accusing glance sliced to the Earl. That unscrupulous gentleman, as if reading Deirdre’s chagrin, merely raised one questioning black eyebrow and intoned mildly that he was ready if the lady wished to commence play.

  Throwing off all caution, Deirdre shuffled and dealt the cards with a dexterity that gave rise to the speculation in the minds of more than a few curious bystanders that the wench had been born and bred in a gaming house. A hum went round the table and wagers were laid, sotto voce, on the identity of the mystery woman who had the temerity to cross swords with the implacable Earl.

  It soon became evident to Deirdre that by procuring a fresh deck of cards she had thwarted Rathbourne’s devious game, but her triumph was to be short-lived. The Earl was not the careless player she had worsted five years before. In the intervening years, he had learned a thing or two, and had become a very formidable opponent. Her former easy win at the start of play she now saw had been a base trick to lull her suspicions and make her careless. He would not deceive her again.

  She won the first hand, although he played her to close finish. Confidence returned, and she remarked tauntingly, “I see, sir, that not only did your stint with Wellington improve your leg on the ballroom floor, but your ability to play your cards has sharpened quite handily. I wonder where you found the time for battles and so on?”

  Rathbourne opened his box of snuff, took an infinitesimal pinch, and sniffed delicately. “For that piece of impertinence,” he said with unruffled composure, “I shall demand unconditional surrender when you cede me the final victory. Now deal, if you please.”

  Feminine giggles and masculine hoots of laughter greeted this sally. Deirdre joined in the general amusement, conscious that to appear outraged would gratify the Earl’s vanity. But she deplored the innuendo, and her eyes glittered like shards of ice.

  From then on she was given no quarter. They played in a silence that stretched taut as if the fate of the world turned on their cards. Deirdre had never played better in her life. It availed her little. As the hours flew by, Rathbourne took her measure and played every winning hand she held to a halt. She had met her match and he was determined that she should acknowledge it. S
he lost two consecutive rubbers and took little pleasure from knowing that it had been a close game.

  She watched with horrified fascination as Rathbourne made a notation on the tally card. He raised his head and said without emotion, “Six thousand pounds, by my reckoning. Do you wish to continue?”

  Deirdre could scarce take in the extent of her losses. Her eyes met his in silent appeal. She could see that she had roused some emotion in him, but it was not the one that she wanted. There was a gloating look about his eyes, and his mouth curved in a smile that boded ill for her. No, in victory, the Earl would not be generous. But Deirdre was no coward either. She was not about to let herself be intimidated by the man who had wronged her.

  “Do you wish to continue?”

  Deirdre’s eyes dropped to the cards on the table. “What would be the point?” she asked in a voice which betrayed nothing of the anger that seethed within.

  The scrape of the chair warned her that Rathbourne had risen to his feet. She felt his presence at her back but could not bring herself to look at him. Her chair was pulled back roughly and Deirdre rose with a show of unconcern. A possessive hand encircled her waist and a titter went round the spectators. Hectic color heated her cheekbones. There could be little doubt that popular opinion had already decided how her debt was to be canceled. My Lord Rathbourne had much to answer for.

  He led her purposefully from the card room. “Shall we discuss terms, Madame X?” he asked in a mocking undertone.

  A footman appeared with her wrap and Deirdre allowed the Earl to draw it around her shoulders. Her expression was frigid. Rathbourne regarded her for a long moment, a frown gathering on his brow. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.