The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  He didn’t engage her in any more conversation after that, and she was glad, preferring to give herself fully to the music. It was a long and lively dance, and by the time it ended, Hester was warm and breathless.

  Major Hawkes bowed to her, then offered her his arm once more. She tucked her hand around the crook of it, feeling the strength beneath her fingers. She was glad to see him leading her the long way around the room. “Is Papa invited to this rout as well?”

  “Naturally.”

  “He won’t embarrass the exalted company of dukes and baronesses?” she asked with an innocent look.

  “Not if he’s an original.”

  “Oh, he’s an original all right.”

  “What’s his name? For the invitation,” he added.

  “Jeremiah Leighton. Mister.”

  “How simple.”

  “Everyone in America is simply ‘mister.’”

  “I must remember that…if ever I’m in America.” His tone implied that was an unlikely event. She felt a twinge of hurt that a person would dismiss her country out of hand—and a sudden pang, realizing she’d never see the major again once she’d returned home.

  “What is a rout like?” she asked, preferring to change the topic.

  “A roomful of people with barely enough space to move. Not to worry, I’ll introduce you to Delia and she’ll take care of you.”

  So, he did intend to be at the rout. Her heart kicked up its rhythm at the thought of seeing him at least once more.

  Hester bit her lip, seeing Mr. Sedgwick still hovering beside Mrs. Bellows. She was torn between hoping Major Hawkes would not excuse himself immediately and embarrassed that he would be subjected to Mr. Sedgwick’s stupidity and Mrs. Bellows’s foolishness.

  Hawkes gently disengaged his arm from hers. “Thank you for accompanying me. You dance charmingly,” he said.

  She smiled, wondering if he was merely being kind.

  Before Hester could reply, Mrs. Bellows began introducing Mr. Sedgwick.

  Major Hawkes inclined his head. “Work in the city, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Barrister?”

  He shook his head. “Solicitor at Barnes and Jenkins.”

  “Very good.” Hawkes’s eyes met Hester’s, and she had to struggle to hold back her laughter.

  “A lucky guess,” she murmured behind her fan.

  “What was that?” Mrs. Bellows asked.

  “Nothing, ma’am, just breathless.”

  “Of course, dear. What a lovely couple you two made on the dance floor.”

  The major inclined his head. “Thank you. The credit belongs entirely to my partner.”

  Mrs. Bellows tapped him on the arm with her fan, an eager glint in her eye. “Nonsense. There’s nothing like a uniform to give a gentleman a dashing appearance.”

  “Appearances are funny things…” Despite the lightness of his tone, his eyes were bleak. Before Hester could think how to reply, he was bowing. “Well, I must be off.” He took Mrs. Bellows’s outstretched hand, then turned to Hester.

  “Until Friday evening.” His blue eyes held hers a moment before letting go of her hand.

  Once more, Hester was left to watch his departing back as he made his way across the salon. She remembered his words about coming expressly to seek her. It seemed he had spoken the truth. Had it been solely to deliver his sister’s invitation, or had he wanted to see her, too?

  Her mind began conjuring up the rout. Would Papa agree to go? Would Mrs. Bellows accompany them? She cringed at the thought. What would the major’s sister be like? Haughty and proud, or amusingly indolent like her brother?

  Would the major dance with her again? She had executed all the dance steps without faltering. Would there be dancing at the rout? She wished now she’d asked the major more questions about it.

  Mrs. Bellows tapped her fan against Hester’s arm. “Have a care, my dear. You’ve caught the major’s eye.”

  It sounded like a warning. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s known to be a rake.” She whispered the last word and looked around as if afraid someone would overhear. “But oh, what a handsome one he is, to be sure!” She snapped her fan open and fluttered it before her face. “Even my old heart still trembled when he turned those blue eyes on me.”

  Mr. Sedgwick cleared his throat.

  Mrs. Bellows ignored him. “And he’s a war hero.”

  “He was at Waterloo,” Hester offered, hoping to draw out more information while distrusting the older lady’s words.

  “Oh, my yes, and many more battles before that. Let me see, I remember him when he first came to London, before he obtained his commission. Oh, the heads he turned! Then he got his colors as an ensign in the Coldstreams, a most elite corps, you know. Before he’d hardly made the rounds of London, he was off to the Peninsula. Fought under Wellington. Very distinguished career.” She nodded her head, threatening to topple the purple toque that sat above her gray curls.

  “But have a care, my dear,” she repeated, her rouged face drawing closer. “They say he’s broken more hearts than he’s killed French.”

  Hester turned away, not wanting to hear any more. That was what she got for listening to gossip. She would not judge the major on hearsay. As Papa would say, a man should be judged by his deeds.

  The major was as good as his word. Two mornings later, Hester came back from her ride in the park to find a gilt-edged invitation awaiting her on a tray in the entrance hall.

  Miss Hester Leighton was written in ink across the front of the folded paper. Curious, she took it up and broke open the seal.

  You are cordially invited to a rout at Hampshire House, Grosvenor Square, on Friday, August tenth, at nine o’clock.

  It was closed with a long, curling signature, which Hester made out as Alexandra Pennington, Duchess of Wakefield.

  She fingered the thick paper. It was her first invitation to a real London society event. What would her sisters and childhood friends back home think of this? she wondered, bringing the folded sheet to her chin.

  Would she fit in? Would her dress be fine enough? Mama had had some dresses made up from the magazine pictures brought back from London, but they were undoubtedly already out of fashion.

  Would Major Hawkes be there? Would his sister truly befriend her?

  These questions revolved around her mind a dozen times a day until the moment she and her father alighted from their hired carriage at the well-lit entrance of the stately mansion called Hampshire House.

  They ascended the red carpet covering the sidewalk to the front entrance, where they presented their invitation to a footman at the door and were admitted to a grand foyer.

  Hester drew in her breath at its large proportions. It was bigger than any house she’d ever seen. The ceiling was at least two stories high and a double staircase curved around to another floor. It, too, was red-carpeted.

  “Shall we enter the lion’s den?” her father asked with a smile.

  She smiled back, as impressed by his appearance as she was by her surroundings. Her father looked so handsome tonight with his black coat and knee breeches and white waistcoat. She wished Mama could be with them.

  “Doesn’t look like many people are here,” he commented as they began to climb the marble staircase.

  It was true. She saw no one else about except for a footman standing guard at the entrance to another room.

  This room was even more impressive than the foyer. Large gilt-framed paintings lined the walls. The gilt was repeated at the ceiling molding. The ceiling itself was decorated with painted oval panels of clouds and delicate blue sky, cupid-like figures and other angelic beings floating between them.

  She tightened her hold on her father’s arm and walked slowly with him around the room, gazing around and above them. Their heels clicked against the shiny parquet floor with its geometric pattern. The room was empty, except for velvet-upholstered chairs arranged at intervals along the sides and tall urns or Grecian
statuary on marble pedestals interspersed between them.

  “Where is everyone?” Mr. Leighton asked in bemusement when they had circled the room once.

  They exited back into the hallway and entered another empty room. This one was smaller than the first and carpeted, but also lined with paintings. They spent some time examining the various landscapes and still lifes.

  “I feel as if I’m at the British Museum,” Mr. Leighton said after a few moments. “I wonder if we got the date wrong. Maybe the party was for tomorrow night.”

  Hester withdrew the invitation once again from her beaded reticule. “No, it states right here Friday. Besides, the doors were open and the footmen received us with no question. Perhaps we’re early, although it does say nine o’clock. What time is it now?”

  He removed his gold watch from his pocket. “Half-past nine,” he said, then snapped it shut again.

  The room led into another. From there they found themselves in a long hallway lined with portraits.

  Her father surveyed the length of paintings. “If I am correct, this is what is known as a portrait gallery.” Once again they began a slow promenade.

  Hester studied the ruff-decorated men and women in their stiff black clothing and even stiffer expressions. “Do you think they’re all family members?”

  “I expect they are.”

  When they reached the end, they turned around to walk back along the other side. Here, an occasional window broke the procession of portraits. They paused at one to look out. They could see a torch-lighted garden below, laid out in formal beds enclosed by dark green hedges.

  Her father chuckled. “When I was a young lad in London, I wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near such a place. The watch would have run me out of the neighborhood long before I’d get anywhere close.”

  “Like Lazarus and the rich man?” Hester asked with a smile.

  “Something like. Except I’m still on the earth and could probably buy one of these mansions if I so desired.”

  “You can also take the message to the rich man’s brothers.”

  He glanced at her, as if taken aback. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think he—or she, in this case—would listen any more than the rich man did in the parable.”

  “Is that a reason not to try?” she asked, wondering what kind of faith the major had.

  Her father shook his head. “No, no…of course not.” They continued walking the silent corridor. They retraced their steps and discovered new rooms with ornate furnishings and paintings, only occasionally coming upon a footman carrying a tray somewhere or standing at attention.

  “Well, someone has clearly got it wrong,” her father said in exasperation. Before she could stop him, he marched up to a footman and demanded, “See here, this rout—or whatever you want to call it—is it for tonight or isn’t it? It’s—” he snapped open his watch again “—ten o’clock and nary a soul to be seen.”

  “The rout is this evening,” the man answered with no trace of expression on his face.

  “Well, when does it start?”

  “Guests do not usually arrive until approaching midnight.”

  “But the invitation states nine o’clock, doesn’t it?” He turned angry eyes toward Hester.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered at once.

  “That is correct,” the footman affirmed when her father turned to demand an answer from him. “But most guests don’t come until the theater lets out. Some will trickle in at eleven.”

  “Confound it! I’ve had enough of this. If I’d wanted to look at pictures tonight, I’d have gone to a gallery. Come along, Hester,” he said, already stalking away.

  Hester hurried to catch up with him, knowing it was useless to persuade him to stay. Once her father made up his mind about something, there was little one could do to change it. How she wished now that they’d brought Mrs. Bellows. Then Papa might allow her to stay with the older woman, at least until midnight.

  She gave one last look of longing down the splendidly empty corridor, picturing it filled with elegantly clothed ladies and gentlemen. If only they could have stayed a bit longer. There would be no chance of seeing Major Hawkes now.

  She wondered why he hadn’t told her to disregard the time stated on the invitation and not arrive until midnight? Had he assumed she knew the ways of the London ton?

  Chapter Four

  Gerrit took a careful sip from his glass and glanced at the cards pasted onto the enameled board on the table in front of him. After studying them some seconds, he looked at the deck sitting in front of the dealer. If only one’s mind had the ability to envision which card would turn up next. What a priceless talent that would be!

  Alas, he must be content to study the beads on the casekeeper to the dealer’s right one last time. Two beads at either end of the metal rod indicated two aces had already been played. He lifted a couple of chips from his pile and placed them on the ace of spades on the layout in front of him.

  Beside him sat a well-fed earl, a sergeant of the Guards, and a lieutenant from Gerrit’s company. The men placed their bets on the thirteen cards laid out before them on the board. A few coppered their bets—predicting that their cards would lose. Gerrit debated a few seconds then decided against it. He had a few chips on the ten of spades, the queen of spades, and now the ace.

  The banker glanced around him. “All bets are down?”

  At the nods and grunts, he flicked the top card on the deck in front of him upward. Gerrit felt that familiar rush of anticipation—the same sensation as when he ordered the charge of his company. Who would come out alive?

  Who would come out a winner and who a loser? Only the Fates knew as they laughed from the sidelines.

  The banker, a youngblood named Fickett, placed the card on his right in a growing pile. The four of clubs came up. The thick-necked earl who’d flatted the four seemed unmoved that his bet had lost. He had good reason, having already won a significant pile that evening. The next card would determine the winner.

  The card came up and the dealer placed it on the pile to his left.

  It was the nine of hearts. Gerrit swallowed. One pip short of winning. At least the turn was a stalemate for him. His chips could remain in place until the next deal. Again, the men on each side of Gerrit placed or moved their chips on the enameled board. The losers paid up their lost bets, the winners collected theirs from the dealer. It all took less than a minute. Gerrit sipped his drink, remaining otherwise motionless.

  The dealer turned up the next card on the pile. Gerrit breathed a silent sigh of relief when it was an eight of spades. The next card came up and went into the pile on the left. It was the five of diamonds.

  His bet was unaffected. His chips remained on the ten, queen and ace. He took another sip, hardly feeling the gin flow down his throat anymore. Fickett, looking barely out of the schoolroom, but with enough blunt to hold the bank, was smiling at Gerrit as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He should be sitting at White’s or Brooks’s—not in a third-rate tavern’s backroom parlor.

  The evening had started out well for Gerrit when he’d entered the game of faro. He’d won enough to break even, though not to come out ahead by much. But for the past half hour, going through two packs of cards, he’d lost steadily. It was as if the very cards were against him, determined to turn up wherever they would hurt him most. If he placed his chips on a two, it would come up to the right of the banker, if he coppered his bet, the card would come up on the left, making him a loser in either case.

  Fickett began the next turn. Gerrit watched as the two cards were flipped up. This time the four of diamonds was dealt on the losing pile.

  Gerrit began to hope his luck had changed. The deck was more than halfway dealt. The counters clicked on the spindle, as the dealer marked which cards had been played into which piles.

  Gerrit studied them, knowing soon they would be to the end of the pile and he would bet on the sequence of the last three cards. Just before the dealer called the turn
closed, Gerrit moved his chips from the ten of spades to the four of spades, judging it unlikely that another four would be played.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, finding it hard to concentrate anymore. He’d long ago removed his jacket and waistcoat. Had the king of diamonds been played yet? He struggled to recall but every suit and rank formed a jumble in his head.

  He must concentrate. But something kept teasing the edge of his thoughts, distracting him like the moth around the candle flame in front of him. He pushed the question to the recesses of his mind. There’d be time enough after he recouped his losses. Just one more hand.

  The four of hearts was played onto the losing pile.

  How could that be? Gerrit glanced from it to the casekeeper, a rack which looked like an abacus. Only two fours had been played. And now the four of hearts made three. He moved his pile of chips off the four and gave them to the banker, scrawling the amount on an IOU. He’d long since run out of money.

  The heap of vowels sat by Fickett like a flimsy stack of onion skins ready to blow away at the merest breath. If the numbers they represented would only scatter as easily. How much did they total now? He’d lost count, preferring to focus on regaining his losses by night’s end. He gave a barely perceptible nod when the waiter approached with a fresh glass of gin.

  He took another swig from his glass. Vile drink, this gin, but it was all they drank in these taverns. As the deck grew smaller, so did his pile of chips. He knew he should get up and leave, but was unable to move. He had to see it out to the end. The turn came down to the last three cards, the two of clubs, the seven of hearts and the ten of diamonds. Gerrit bet everything on the sequence he believed would come up: seven, ten, two. If he won, the dealer would pay four-to-one on his chips.

  The two of clubs came up first, then the seven and lastly, the ten of diamonds.

  “Worse luck,” Edgar, his lieutenant mumbled, as they settled their bets.

  “Don’t worry, the tide could turn on the next one,” the beefy earl said as he collected his winnings with an energetic will.

  But Gerrit shook his head, having no more to bet that night. He’d probably have to hock something to pay off this debt. As he totaled his vowels to the dealer, he found himself owing him five hundred pounds. How had it grown so rapidly?