by Jane Feather
“No, they merely perform in as lewd and depraved a manner as any slavering idiot could wish for. Stand up, so I can reach the rest of you.”
Octavia did so, fighting hard now to keep the conversation going as the towel patted over her bottom and down the backs of the thighs. “Slavering, arrogant, and complacent idiots,” she declared, her voice catching in her throat. “We’re making fools of them all, and it would never occur to them that we might not be what we seem.”
His hands on her hips turned her to face him, and it dawned upon her that she was going to lose this particular battle.
Rupert laughed and leaned back, looking up her body with an amused and desirous eye. “Shall I have mercy, sweeting?”
“Would you take any notice of my wishes?” Her voice wouldn’t come out right. Her body cried out now for the promised dissolution, and she wanted him to finish it, even though she knew that to do so would deny her the long hours of sensitized anticipation that brought their own exquisite delights.
“Oh, I might,” he said consideringly. “But I think I’ll leave matters as they stand.”
Octavia’s breath rushed between her lips, and she stepped away from his hands hastily … too hastily. The rim of the bath caught her behind the calves and she fell backward, arms and legs flailing, water slurping over the tub in a soapy gush.
“Clumsy,” Rupert said, shaking his head reprovingly as she lay in an ungainly sprawl. “Now I’m going to have to start all over again.”
“No, you’re not!” She struggled to her feet again. “Go away, sir, and leave me to Nell.”
He laughed, enjoying her indignation that was only half-feigned. He caught her chin and kissed her before replacing his waistcoat and coat. “I’ll be back here by eleven at the latest. I don’t imagine the serious business of the evening will begin before then, but you’ll be able to amuse any early guests in your own inimitable fashion, my dear.”
Octavia wrapped herself in the towel again. Two inducements were offered in the Warwicks’ salon on Dover Street. The flirtatious and entertaining company of Lady Warwick, and the high-stakes gaming furnished by Lord Rupert. Between them they managed to entice to their house most of the younger members of the ton led by the Prince of Wales.
Enticed them and made fools of them, Octavia thought as the door closed on Rupert’s departing back.
Gaming was against the law, but it remained the most popular and ruinous activity in London. Octavia hadn’t been surprised to discover that Rupert was an expert gamester. Expert and perfectly willing to take a fortune from any young blood eager and inexperienced enough to allow him to do so. It was one way to pay their household bills. Octavia, who had no skill and couldn’t see the appeal in hazarding fortunes on the turn of a card or the fall of the dice, played the part of an easy, flirtatious hostess, offering a warm welcome and generous hospitality to all who came to play in her salon and pit their wits and nerve against her husband.
And it was an amusing business for all its deadly, serious purpose. The vain, posturing idiots deserved to be made mock of. The men with whom she flirted never showed the slightest reservation over her frequently outrageous flattery. The women who preened themselves under Rupert’s suave attentions never evinced a hint of suspicion that he might not be in earnest. The greed, self-consequence, and vanity of George Ill’s court defied belief, or at least to Octavia’s blunt and clear-eyed way of thinking. She felt no scruples about using such failings against them and knew that Rupert had not a whisper of conscience about it.
It was an amusing game, but it was also an exhausting one. After a long evening’s performance Octavia was drained and relished tonight’s prospect of a few quiet hours before the curtain went up. She would dine with her father, who was so much his old self these days that he was once again the entertaining and informative companion of her childhood. And when Griffin announced the first guest, she’d be refreshed and ready for the fray.
Dirk Rigby and Hector Lacross were rather old to be part of the Prince of Wales’s set, but they both affected a style more suited to men ten years younger than themselves, wearing brightly striped waistcoats, high powdered wigs, a plethora of fobs and pins and gold-frogged coats. They fawned upon the prince with all the slavering enthusiasm of a pair of anxious puppies.
Octavia found it hard to take her eyes off the men who had ruined her father. They were only two of the guests who had poured into Dover Street since the clock struck ten, but her eyes kept returning to them, her ears strained to catch their conversation, as she moved around the room, encouraging her guests to the tables where faro and evens and odds were being played.
“You’re a trifle distracted, Octavia.” Rupert’s voice spoke in her ear, startling her. “The prince has been winking and beckoning you for the last four minutes, and you haven’t once looked in his direction.”
Octavia glanced guiltily across the room to where the prince sat at a faro table, waving a chicken-skin fan at her. She smiled and waved back, whispering distractedly, “I beg your pardon. It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve seen—”
“I know,” he interrupted with a crisp edge to his voice. “But they’re my pigeons, not yours. And if you keep staring at them in such a fashion, you’ll draw attention to them and to yourself.”
Chagrined, Octavia only nodded and moved away to obey the prince’s summons. Rupert might say that her enemies were his pigeons, but he’d made no particular attempt to cultivate them this evening, or even to play with them. At first she’d assumed his plan was to win back her father’s fortune at the gaming tables, but she realized now that that had been a naive assumption. There was too great an element of chance in such a plan to appeal to a man like Rupert, who plotted with such cold detachment. Lord Nick on his silver mount enjoyed taking risks, enjoyed courting danger. But Lord Rupert Warwick was a man of icy clarity, who planned to the last possible detail.
Rupert watched covertly as Octavia reached the prince and stood at his chair, laughing at some inevitably gross royal sally. His body stirred as he remembered their earlier game in the bathtub and what that game promised for later.
Tonight she was looking more striking than ever, in the gown of dark-green silk with ivory-ribbon knots, her hair clustered in loose, glowing ringlets on her creamy shoulders. The emerald eardrops and necklace were such a perfect facsimile that only the two of them could possibly know that they were paste.
She had taken to her part as if she’d been born to it, the daringly unconventional young bride who was always ready to welcome new guests and whose every gesture seemed to suggest that she was open to any suggestions for entertainment, however risque they might be. Rupert played the indulgent husband, flirting with his wife as outrageously as other men did, and flirting pointedly with every woman who came his way.
They were the season’s most attractive and sought-after couple, and to everyone’s delight and no one’s concern, the scandalmongers were having a field day.
And sometimes, when Rupert watched her laugh and flirt, when he saw the greedy eyes fixed on her bosom, the pawing hands reaching for her, he felt nauseated at the thought of that scented damask skin sullied by such attentions, at the thought of the lascivious fantasies behind every pat and hungry, covetous gaze. The rich glories of her body belonged to him, and he turned with disgust from the contemplation of other men’s lust. And yet it was necessary.
His cold gaze sought and found Philip, standing beside the fireplace. The earl also watched Octavia over the hp of his wineglass. Philip Wyndham was not a serious gamester, but it didn’t keep him away from Dover Street. And Octavia was playing him with all the skill of an accomplished fisherman.
Rupert closed his mind to the thought of his twin’s hands moving in possession over Octavia’s golden body. He thought instead of the Wyndham emeralds, of how, if he had his birthright, paste jewels would not he against Octavia’s skin. His hand slipped into his britches pocket. Fleetingly, his fingers brushed the silk pouch, the small round shape of his
own Wyndham ring.
It was said that the tradition of the Wyndham rings went back to the times of the Crusaders, but its genesis was lost in the mists of generational memory. Every son born to the earl had his own ring, slipped onto his finger as the umblical cord was cut. Convention dictated that the child was thus bound to uphold the honor of his family above all other commitments, and when his own son was born, the ring and the commitment would be passed on. When it had been suspected that Lady Wyndham was carrying twins, their grandmother, a lady of whimsical temperamant, had had fashioned two identical rings with a curious design feature that she had fancifully intended would bind the boys to each other as they were bound to the family. A fancy doomed to disappointment from the first breath they’d taken.
Gervase, as the eldest, had worn the earl’s own ring, and according to custom, because he had died childless, the ring had been buried with him. Philip now carried the ring that represented the Earl of Wyndham. Or thought he did.
Rupert’s mouth curved in a grim smile. Octavia would bring him Philip’s ring. Only the twins knew the secret of the rings’ design. When Philip saw both in Rupert Warwick’s possession, he would know his twin again. And the knowledge would destroy him. Rupert wanted to see his brother’s face as he recognized his twin and understood all that that twin’s reappearance would mean. It would be a moment of personal vengeance so sweet, it would compensate for all the miseries of his boyhood.
Octavia would make that moment possible.
The conviction restored his cool equanimity, and he turned his attention to Rigby and Lacross, new arrivals in Dover Street. They were playing faro and drinking heavily. Two youngsters were at the same table and Rupert was convinced that Rigby, who held the bank, had marked them both for fleecing.
Rupert had no objection to heavy winners. Indeed, for his house to be a success, he needed them. He would offer worldly advice and casual commiseration to the inexperienced youngsters who left his table with barely their shirts. But he did object to cheating. He had no desire, though, to provoke Dirk Rigby. Because the man’s greed was the weapon Rupert intended to turn against him, it needed to be encouraged. But on this particular occasion it could be foiled.
He strolled over to the table and stood between the two drink-flushed young men who were now scribbling IOUs with reckless abandon. “Gentlemen,” he drawled, laying a hand on either shoulder, “I prefer not to take IOUs in my house. We play only for gold, I’m afraid.”
The two looked up at him in startled dismay and met a level gaze that made them shift uncomfortably on their little gilt chairs.
“Oh, come now, Warwick, since when has a man not accepted IOUs?” demanded Lacross.
“I find them tedious,” Rupert said mildly, taking snuff. “Such a nuisance having to chase around after one’s debtors …” He glanced down at the two young men again, a lazy half smile playing over his lips. “If you have money, gentlemen, then you’re more than welcome to remain at the table. If not …” He moved his hands apart in a gesture expressing reluctant resignation. “If not, I must ask you to leave.”
“You … you would imply that I would not settle my debts,” blustered one of the young men, his face flushing darkly. “I tell you, sir, you insult me. I demand satisfaction.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd, Markham,” Rupert said. “No one’s insulting you, lad. I am simply saying that you are playing under my roof, and I make the rules. I daresay you were not aware of those rules when you began to play. But now you are. So the choice is yours. If you can afford to play, then pray do so. If you cannot, then I’m afraid I must bid you good evening.”
The two young men, scarlet with embarrassment, pushed back their chairs, bowed jerkily to the assembled company, and left.
“Harsh, Rupert,” Peter Carson said, watching their discomfited departure.
“Young fools,” Rupert said with a shrug. “They shouldn’t be playing with grown-ups. They’ll get over it. Loss of dignity is easier to bear in the long run than an extended stay in the Fleet.”
He turned back to the clearly annoyed Lacross and Rigby. “Shall we open at two hundred guineas, gentlemen? Pray refill your glasses.” He gestured over his shoulder to a footman with a decanter of claret. “Let us begin anew and cut for bank. Lacross, do you play also? Peter, won’t you join us?”
Rigby gathered up the IOUs that littered the table and stuffed them into his coat pocket. “You set rather eccentric rules at your tables, Warwick.”
Rupert laughed easily and took his seat. “Eager young puppies will turn into real gamesters, Rigby, only if they’re not ruined at the outset.” He threw a handful of golden guineas onto the table, where they glittered in the lamplight. A fortune tossed carelessly before the rapacious eyes of Rigby and Lacross.
Hector Lacross gave a shout of laughter, and in his enthusiasm knocked over his glass of claret. Red wine puddled on the table and dripped onto the waxed floor beneath. A footman moved swiftly to blot the mess, while another refilled the empty glass.
Rupert ignored the commotion, his expression as bland as milk pudding as he cut the pack of cards. “I must say, I favor a surer route to fat pockets than relying on the inexperience of babes and sucklings,” he observed.
“Oh?” Lacross leaned over the table, his little blue eyes focusing with difficulty. “What’s that, then, Warwick?”
Rupert smiled. “There are always schemes, I find. Shall we play, gentlemen?”
Octavia heard the immoderate laughter interspersed with Rupert’s light tones. She tried not to show her curiosity as she devoted her attentions to the prince, aware of Philip Wyndham’s still presence behind her. She could feel his eyes on her back as if they were burning probes, and there was something unnerving about his stillness, about his aura of focused determination. He was never suggestive, never flirtatious, but he was always in her vicinity. She wondered if he was waiting for her to make some move toward him, some acknowledgment of his interest. But instinct kept her from doing so. She sensed he would be drawn toward her more by an appearance of indifference than by the usual simpering affectation she saw on every side. And if perhaps she was a little frightened of Philip Wyndham, she didn’t want to admit that even to herself.
“Lady Margaret Drayton,” Griffin intoned from the doorway. Octavia turned sharply. Only women of hardy reputation patronized the Warwicks’ gaming tables, but Margaret Drayton, whose reputation was of the hardiest, had not so far shown her face.
Rupert rose immediately from the table, crossing the room with hands outstretched. “My dear ma’am, ravishing as always,” he declared, taking her hands between his and raising them to his lips. “You do our poor house too much honor.”
“La, Sir Rupert, but you’ve a pretty tongue,” Margaret said with a curtsy. “I’ve heard the fastest game of E and O in town can be found here.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” he promised, drawing her forward. “Come and sit beside me at the faro table first, though. I’ve a game I must finish out.”
Octavia glanced at Philip. His expression was carved in granite, his eyes gray pinpricks. His face was as smoothly beautiful as ever beneath the white wig, and yet Octavia was reminded of the face of a gargoyle, hideous and misshapen.
“Your husband seems to find La Drayton an entertaining companion,” he observed as he caught her glance.
“He’s not alone,” Octavia said easily, with a graceful shrug.
“No, that’s the truth, dear ma’am,” chuckled the prince, leaning back in his chair and seizing Octavia’s hand. “Margaret’s the town Toast. But I’ll say this”—he lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper, his little eyes gleaming in the folds of his pudgy sweating face—“can’t hold a candle to you, my dear lady. Not a candle!” So saying, he roared with laughter, mightily pleased with himself, and kissed her hand.
“You’re too kind, sir,” Octavia murmured, waiting patiently for his slobbering to be over and her hand to be given back to her.
She glance
d again at Rupert and Margaret. Rupert was whispering something in Margaret’s ear, his hand resting on her bare shoulder. For a man who professed indifference to the lady, he was paying her remarkably close attention. Closer than he paid any other of his numerous flirts. He’d said he wanted to provoke Philip’s interest in Octavia, but that was achieved now. So why continue this dabbling and fondling and secret whispering?
But, then again, why not? There was nothing to prevent his having a liaison with Margaret Drayton. No loyalty to a wife, or anything like that. He and Octavia were simply an instrumental partnership. Rupert was such a passionate man, with a great sensual appetite—perhaps one woman wasn’t sufficient to satisfy him.
It was such a repellent thought that Octavia closed her mind to it.
“Your husband is certainly walking a well-trodden path,” Philip said softly behind her. “But I find it’s one that becomes wearisome soon enough.”
“Indeed, sir.” She couldn’t help the touch of hauteur in her voice. For some reason Philip’s apparent commiseration was deeply offensive, and she had to remind herself sharply of her part in the play before she could summon a careless smile.
“Do you not play, Lord Wyndham?” She linked her hand through his arm. “Let me be your luck, tonight. Do you wish to play faro or E and O?”
“I find little appeal in either, ma’am,” he said. “But a game of piquet, perhaps?”
“You wouldn’t consider backgammon instead?” Octavia peeped up at him from beneath her lashes with an almost guilty air of mischief. “It’s shocking to confess, I know, but I’m an abysmal card player. Warwick has quite despaired of me. But I can play a passable game of backgammon.”
Philip Wyndham laughed with genuine amusement, and it transformed his demeanor. Once or twice before Octavia had felt herself bathed in his warmth and approval and on each occasion had been drawn to him against her will and in the face of every instinct. At such moments he reminded her of something, or someone, and the memory brought only warmth and pleasure. But she couldn’t identify the memory.
