But she couldn't afford to indulge her fragile nerves with a long rest. Even an hour of missed play would be too much. She wanted—needed—one thousand more pounds, and not even her own soul could keep her from it.
Lancaster's sympathy would fade as the days passed, but suspicion had a way of holding tight. Friend or not, he could not ignore his own doubts. So Emma's stay in London was quickly nearing its end.
"Why?" Matthew wailed at the wall of his cell. "Why have You let her do this to me?"
He thought he heard a scratching beneath the bed and jerked his feet up onto the mattress. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he rocked back and forth and muttered prayer after prayer.
He was being persecuted, tortured by these sinful city people who'd lost all touch with the Lord. They could not see the devil even when she flaunted herself so gleefully in front of them.
Some rough voice shouted from far down the long hallway, and Matthew sobbed into his knees.
He could not live like this, locked into a little room like a thief. The rug that covered the stone floor was cheap and stained. The tea that had been set out was likely poisoned. The constable had insisted that Matthew tell where he'd left his possessions, but he'd told the man nothing. He knew that they meant to steal his valuables and sell his clothing on the street.
When the lock rattled, Matthew yelped and pulled the pile of blankets up to his chest. He'd likely be beaten and tortured now. Martyred for his beliefs. It occurred to him suddenly that this could all be the work of the church, those men seduced by money and power, the men who resisted glorious change. They might even have set Emily against him.
A cold gust of air foreshadowed the entrance of menace and set him trembling. "Mr. Bromley, I've brought that heating pan I promised."
Matthew peeked above the blankets. The old constable. He reminded Matthew of his father, which gave him the courage to sit up straight. "You've made a terrible mistake listening to that harlot. She is unnatural and deceptive. The snake in the garden."
The constable sighed. "You're not quite right, are you?"
"I am right and righteous! Can you not see her for the temptress she really is?"
"For the love of the Lord, boy. You've said you mean to marry her."
"I do. It is her only hope, and mine."
The man moved to leave and he would lock the door on this terrifying, horrid box. Matthew gingerly set his feet down to the cheap rug. "Listen. Please listen. You know, you must know that women are the source of all evil in this world. Set down to tempt us and lead us astray. Emily is without the guidance of a man. Her only hope is a firm hand and an iron will and I mean to provide both. Please. Help me save her from Satan. I will beat the devil out of her if I have to."
His father would have conceded by now, bowed beneath Matthew's greater wisdom. This man might look like Matthew's father, but the similarity ended there. His soft, lined face had grown stiff with anger.
"I have five daughters, Mr. Bromley. Five lovely daughters. And I pray to God that none of them ever meet a man like you."
The door slammed with an echoing boom. "My father is a magistrate!" Matthew screamed, but the lock shot into place like the clatter of a great metal insect.
He dared to lunge for the heating pan and tugged it beneath the bedclothes before he curled into a tight ball. Despair overwhelmed him, and he collapsed into the great, heaving sobs of a man betrayed by love and a wicked world.
Chapter 15
"Where is she?"
Hart regretted the way Bess flinched at his harsh tone, but he was being as reasonable as was possible. Her rough red fingers clutched tight to the edge of the front door. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. Truly. My mistress is not at home."
"Oh, I expected that she would not be home. The play's not nearly lively enough here. Where has she gone?"
Bess shook her head. "She doesn't inform me of her plans, sir."
Hart sighed and leaned an arm against the doorway. "No, I suppose she does not."
"My apologies." Bess bowed her head, mouth drawn down in regret.
"Not your fault." No, it certainly wasn't Bess's fault. Lady Denmore was fully to blame. "What the hell has gotten into her?"
"She . . ."
He glanced up to Bess, surprised the woman would answer the mumbled question.
"She has been . . . upset, Your Grace."
Unease crept through his gut and he straightened from his slouch. "Upset by what? By whom?"
Bess shook her head, but Hart thought immediately of the most annoying of the rumors he'd heard over the past two days. "Lancaster?"
"Your Grace?" Her face turned pink.
He told himself it was completely inappropriate for him to quiz a servant for information. "Lord Lancaster? Is he the reason for her upset?"
"No, sir." But her face was red now and growing brighter by the second.
"I see." Hart spun on his heel and stalked back to his carriage. She couldn't be having an affair with Lancaster. She'd said she didn't want that, and Hart had believed her. But the rumor that she'd been seen sneaking from his home after dawn . . .
No. Perhaps Hart himself had upset her. She'd seemed nervous, almost frightened, by his honesty the other day. And now . . . now all the rumors pointed to a woman out of control. She was placing large bets on card games, engaging young men in ridiculous dares, flitting in and out of unsavory parties until the sun broke over the horizon. And she was completely ignoring Hart and his frequent notes.
His stomach had been burning with anger for forty-eight hours now, and it seemed unlikely he'd feel better any time soon. Attempts to track her down in one of her smoky lairs the night before had failed. The woman was as slippery as an eel. But tonight. . . tonight he would find her, and Lady Denmore would discover that his patience was at an end.
"He left?"
The housekeeper didn't look up when Emma stepped from her small office. "Bess? The duke has gone?"
"Yes."
She ignored Bess's clear disapproval and turned her back to her. "Finish fastening the dress then." The amber skirts reflected the flickering candlelight, beautiful as long as you didn't know that mud stains had ruined the hem. Bess had purchased it the morning before and worked two days at fitting it to Emma. She'd also added rust-colored bands of printed silk to the double flounces of the skirt and the wide sleeves. Emma had tied a ribbon of the same color around her throat.
She looked lovely and felt like the fraud she was. Hart's notes had first conveyed worry, then irritation, and finally anger. She had hurt him with her reckless disregard for him, for her reputation. And while she resented his betrayal and the disastrous events he'd set into motion, she couldn't pretend that he'd been malicious. He couldn't have known what would happen when he contacted Matthew's father.
Still, he hadn't trusted her, and that made it so much easier to do what she needed to do. She wasn't trustworthy and there was no need to pretend she was.
Realizing that Bess's tugging had stopped, Emma turned to find the woman standing with arms crossed. "Thank you, Bess. Two more days. Three, at most. Then we will be done with London, just as you wanted."
"He's been good to you."
Emma cocked her head, not bothering to pretend she didn't understand. "Yes, Somerhart has been good to me. But not exactly honorable, wouldn't you agree? He wants to be my lover, Bess, not my husband. He has no say over what I do or where I go."
"He cares for you."
"Yes, just as I'm sure he cares for his favorite hound. The duke is a rich and powerful man. I would not worry over him if I were you."
Bess gave a begrudging nod. "I suppose you're right."
"Now, how do I look?"
That finally softened her frown. "Beautiful, ma'am. I only wish we had a nicer cloak to cover that lovely gown."
"It is lovely thanks to you. Now I must be off. I'm late. I'll only get two hours of play in before my dinner engagement. Do not wait up. I expect I'll return toward dawn agai
n."
The coach she'd hired awaited her at the end of the alley. She had meant to be in it a quarter hour before, but Hart had descended upon her door, pounding the wood as if it were her willful nature beneath his fist. The memory urged her legs to move faster. The surprised driver jumped from his perch and yanked the door open just as she arrived.
She should have canceled her dinner plans, but she was to have a late private meal with Lord and Lady Osbourne and she couldn't bear to miss it. She wouldn't see them again after tonight; she knew that even if they did not. "One last relaxing night before the Season begins to whirl," Lord Osbourne had said, and Emma was thankful they'd invited her.
But first there was this fete at Tunwitty's. Then another party to attend after her quiet meal with friends. Friends who would be hurt when they heard the truth.
But that was not her concern. Her safe was slowly filling. She'd almost reached her goal.
Emma was so lost in gloomy thoughts that she didn't notice the carriage had stopped. The door simply opened and she descended. As soon as the butler swept open the door of the house, as soon as she stepped through, Emma realized she'd made a mistake. She should not have come to this party.
Gentlemen strode by whom she'd never seen before. Ladies were everywhere. The women's heads turned as they passed her, taking in her utilitarian cloak and simple hairstyle. Emma hurried to unfasten the cloak and hand it to the butler. It seemed she had inadvertently gotten herself invited to a respectable party smack in the middle of the Little Season. More households were arriving every day, and while there would be no glittering balls for at least a few weeks, the new arrivals needed entertainment.
Emma maintained her pleasant smile and told herself not to panic. These ladies might disapprove, but none would know the truth about her. Her uncle's village was a tiny, sleepy place. Whatever squires or baronets she had known were not wealthy enough to travel early to town. Their funds simply would not stretch so far. Her plan would hold.
Checking to be sure her hair was still in place, Emma felt the hard jut of the little crystals she'd woven into her braid. She could not afford spectacular hats or expensive feathers, but she was glad for the crystals at least. Between them and the lovely gown, she probably wouldn't be mistaken for the governess.
Two women passed, arm in arm, and Emma felt the burn of two pairs of suspicious eyes, but when she nodded, they nodded stiffly back.
"Lady Denmore!"
She jumped and couldn't suppress her gasp as she scanned the large entry for a familiar face. When she caught site of Mr. Jones rushing toward her, her tension broke on a wide smile.
"Mr. Jones," she sighed and watched a flush work up to his cheeks as he bent to kiss her gloved hand.
"A great pleasure to see you, Lady Denmore. It has been at least a week. I mean to say . . ." He cleared his throat loudly. "Would you care for a refreshment? I would be happy to—"
"I'm afraid I will not be here long, but I would enjoy a tour of the rooms if you'd be so kind. I have never been to Lord Tunwitty's home."
"Of course, of course." He offered a thin arm, his eyes not quite meeting hers. Mr. Jones was young and shy, and Emma was very careful to always be kind but not encouraging. His arm jumped beneath her fingers.
"Will you be playing tonight?" he asked. "I have never. . . I mean I wonder if you will always be keen to play so . . . ardently."
"I do not think so," Emma answered honestly. "I am simply enjoying the challenge of it."
"You are quite good, of course. Quite good. I am a great. . . a great admirer of yours. I have never mastered the intricacies of most of the card games, not well enough to bet more than pennies. You are so very clever."
"Thank you, Mr. Jones." He blushed again, and Emma scrambled for a way to change the subject. "Tunwitty's home is quite lovely." They'd toured three rooms already, but Mr. Jones had been too involved in his compliments to offer commentary.
She steered him toward the more raucous end of the hall. Before she had passed the first door, she heard a loud hoot.
"The lively Lady Denmore! I was hoping you'd make it to my table this evening, my dear."
She managed to hold onto her smile despite that it was Marsh shouting from the crowded library. In fact, her mood inched up to something close to glee. Here was a chance to fleece this disgusting man before she left town. "Marsh," she purred and let Mr. Jones lead her into the room. "I am in the mood for brag tonight. Do you play?"
"Brag?" He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering at the bodice of the dress. "I've been known to play a round of brag or two. That game is quite old-fashioned for someone so young. And quite involved for a woman. Are you certain of your feminine skills?"
"Oh, yes," she offered with a smile.
The men parted to let her make her way to an empty chair at the curved table. Emma glanced over the other players, nodding to the men she knew. There were fewer than normal and she counted that to her advantage. In general, men considered women inferior players, and, in general, those men lost to her.
"Might I get you some champagne?" Mr. Jones asked from her shoulder. "Please."
Marsh gave a low laugh. "Careful, gentlemen. The Dowager Lady Denmore is a fearsome player, and she only gets bolder as the night goes on." The other men chuckled and accepted her demure smile at face value. Fools.
They thought Marsh was simply humoring her, and they also assumed she did not understand the less savory interpretation of his words. The man was implying that he knew something about her skills at night play, as if she would deign to let his chapped lips touch her skin. Oh, yes, she'd enjoy taking his coin.
Mr. Jones brought her the champagne, the cards were dealt and Emma placed her first bet. The game was begun.
One thousand pounds. A thousand.
One thousand pounds lay on the table in a pile of gold and notes, enough to support a laborer's family for half a lifetime or more. And Emma was about to win it. Probably.
Except that she had thrown her last quid in on the previous bet, and Marsh knew it.
Emma broke off from her worrying to look around at their audience. She and Marsh were the last ones left in this hand, and the other players had spread the word. The table was surrounded by gentlemen. The atmosphere had become too hot and fogged with smoke for the other ladies. The real ones.
Sweat soaked through Emma's low-quality gloves, darkening the stains the coins had already left.
You can't back down now, she told herself. You have four hundred pounds in that pile. Not that she wanted to call off. She had a good hand, a win was almost guaranteed. Almost.
"You have me at a disadvantage," she finally murmured.
Marsh tried to appear sympathetic. "Surely you have property? Something that could be used as collateral. I'd be happy to offer a loan."
"I do not."
"I see." His green eyes glinted like moss beneath water. He leaned a little closer, and Emma laid her cards facedown on the table.
His eyes fell to her low neckline. "Are you quite certain you have nothing to offer?"
"Quite. Unless you would accept my word."
"The word of a woman? An unnecessary risk as, in fact, you have something of great value to wager. Something I prize very highly."
"And that is?" She didn't bother leaning forward to make his task easier. She knew exactly what he'd propose, and if he wasn't willing to make his offer in front of others, then the coward could keep his thoughts to himself. He was about to ruin her reputation, and he could damn well ruin his own as well. The sweet scent of port wafted over her as he breathed.
"I believe you know what I mean, Lady Denmore."
"I'm sure I do not."
He glanced up at the men closest to them, but his eyes darted quickly back to the tops of her breasts. "A night in your bed," he finally whispered.
Despite that she'd been expecting it, Emma still felt her body jerk with the shock of it. That wave of tension seemed to continue past her to the
observers at her back. There was a small bubble of silence around them all.
Emma raised her eyebrows. "You think my virtue is worth only four hundred pounds, Lord Marsh? I'm not sure which is more insulting—the offer itself or the measly amount attached to it."
The murmurs around them grew louder.
Her opponent looked into her eyes and smiled. He could see that she was insulted but not exactly outraged. "Fine. Retrieve your previous bets from the pile. That would raise your worth to . . . what? Seven hundred? Eight hundred pounds?"
Emma simply stared at him. If she did this, her name would be ruined forever, but her name would soon be ruined at any rate. And if she did this, and won, she could leave London at dawn. All her worldly possessions were packed in trunks and crates, and not very many of them at that. She would be done. She'd have more money than she needed, and she would be free.
And if she did this and lost. . . then she would leave in the morning anyway, not quite rich enough, because she'd be damned if she'd honor a bet as dishonorable as this one.
Emma clasped her hands tight together and squeezed against the wave of dull pain that roared through her body. You are a liar and a cheat. One more time won't make any difference.
She didn't know why the thought of walking away from a dishonorable debt caused her stomach to knot, but perhaps she would be well served to follow through even on a loss. A night in Marsh's chambers would cool her fiery blood for good. She would be cured.
"Perhaps you wish to simply forfeit," he offered, eyes mocking her turmoil. His mouth curled up in a sneer. He'd played her often enough to know she would not back down.
She unclenched her hands, one finger at a time, and raised them both to the table. Then slowly, slowly, she reached one gloved hand out and began to count out the four hundred pounds she'd tossed out so casually moments before.
"One night," she said clearly, and the room exploded into a beehive of indistinct words. She was glad she could not make out any one conversation. She did not want to know what they said.
Marsh's lips flushed pink as they stretched into a leer. His eyes strayed back to her décolletage, and Emma could see his thoughts, flickering and varied, as he riffled through the things he wanted to do to her. She had never seen him at one of her father's gatherings, but he would have been entirely comfortable at the worst of them, she was sure.
A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 16
