Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  She pointedly favoured Guy with her coy glances and flirtatious banter throughout the game. As she’d predicted, Sir Reginald and the other gentleman played like simpletons, putting down high trumps when low ones would do or leading with suits they knew she’d held. Lady Widow squealed becomingly at every trick she won. She grinned when the losing team pushed their counters to her side.

  Guy gave Sir Reginald an amused glance. He’d watched Sir Reginald partner Emily in whist and knew the man to be a crack player. The love-struck old fool was merely tossing away money. Sir Reginald was a nodcock for letting his funds dribble through his fingers. He’d be better off playing at a high-stakes table and winning the fortune he said would entice the lady. The man could do it. He and Emily had been formidable opponents.

  Sir Reginald and Emily.

  Guy’s head snapped up. He stared at Lady Widow as she regarded the hand she’d just been dealt. She tapped the cards against her fingertips, then snapped the cards into place exactly like a practised gamester.

  Exactly like Emily. Guy’s heart thudded in his chest. Could it be?

  She looked up. He quickly averted his gaze for the moment, arranging his own hand. As the round commenced, he watched her carefully. When the cards were in play, her face held no expression. No smile, no frown, no clue to what she really thought or felt.

  How many times had he seen that same lack of expression? Certainly in that game of whist more than a fortnight ago. He’d not thought about it, but, then, he’d glimpsed the same lack of expression every day when he said good morning at the breakfast sideboard.

  By God, she was Emily. Lady Widow was Emily.

  ‘Your turn, Keating,’ Sir Reginald said.

  He quickly put down a trump, winning the hand.

  The game was theirs. Lady Widow’s face lit with delight. ‘Oh, thank you, Lord Keating! We have won again!’ Smiling, she leaned over the table and scooped up the counters, giving all the gentlemen a good glimpse of her décolletage. ‘Did I not tell you I always win?’

  He wanted to throw his coat over her chest. This woman was nothing like his wife, but she was Emily all the same. He was very certain. ‘Indeed you did, my lady,’ he replied.

  ‘You must play with me some more,’ she teased, her eyes filling with mischief.

  Would Emily speak so provocatively? No, she would not, but he heard the words coming from her mouth. ‘The night is merely beginning,’ he said.

  She grinned wickedly at him. ‘Do you mean to say you wish to spend the whole of the night with me, Lord Keating? I assure you, sir, other gentlemen will wish their turn.’

  His body lit like a rushlight touched to flame, the heat of raw carnal desire. But before he went completely up in flames, he struggled to consider that this wife of his now spoke like a skilled coquette. What games was she playing here besides whist? Nothing yet, if Sir Reginald’s tale of a wager was true.

  By God, these gentlemen were wagering on bedding his wife! He had half a mind to call them all out. He had half a mind to drag her away from this place this very moment. Drag her to his bedchamber at least.

  That would not answer, however, no matter how much he craved it. What was she doing here? Why was she dressed in this disguise? Why was she flirting with every man in the place—even her husband?

  He’d never discover her purpose by prematurely tipping his hand. She did not know he recognised her. She believed he thought her to be Lady Widow. He could play along for a while, until he found out exactly what she was up to. And, by God, he would be here every night to make sure none of these men collected on that wager.

  After winning the next game, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head and declaring she must retire for the night. All three men jumped to their feet as she rose from her chair, Guy included.

  ‘Now, I do not need all three of you to escort me to the door, do I?’ She swept her gaze over the three of them, letting it light on Guy longer than the others. ‘I pick…Sir Reginald!’

  ‘Delighted. Delighted.’ Sir Reginald nearly knocked over his chair to give her his arm.

  Guy’s fingers curled into fists. By God, he didn’t care if Sir Reginald was on the far side of fifty and an old friend of his father’s, the man was asking for a duel if he led Guy’s wife to a room above stairs.

  Trying to appear calm, Guy wandered over to the door a bit behind Sir Reginald and his wife. If they turned to the stairway leading above, Guy would not be far behind.

  None other than Cyprian Sloane waylaid him.

  ‘No need to draw daggers, Keating,’ Sloane said, sounding as slippery a cad as ever. ‘She’ll allow Sir Reginald help her with her cloak and walk her to her hack. Nothing more. He’s no rival.’

  What the devil was that fellow doing here? ‘Sloane,’ Guy said, pushing towards the doorway. ‘Didn’t know you were in town.’

  As he reached the hallway, Sir Reginald’s voice sounded from down in the hall. Guy heard the front door open and close. Apparently Sloane had been correct. Guy bit down on a relieved sigh and leaned against the wall.

  Sloane, who had followed him, eyed him curiously. Of all people, why should Sloane show up here? He’d been in Bath, and here he was again. Was this an accident? Had Emily come to meet Sloane in this place? She’d hardly given him a glance, however. Or was that because her husband had walked in the door?

  ‘Have a drink with me,’ Sloane said, bending his head to the supper room.

  Guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. What better way to discover what kind of fast shuffle the man was playing with Guy’s wife?

  The supper room was nearly empty. They sat at a secluded table where no one would overhear their conversation. Sloane ordered whisky for them both. After the pretty maid delivered it, Guy sipped and waited.

  Sloane lifted his glass as if in a toast. ‘Congratulations, Keating. You seem to have won the regard of our Lady Widow. I commend you.’

  Guy gave Sloane a shrug. ‘What concern is this of yours?’

  ‘I lay claim to her. I saw her first.’ Sloane’s voice dropped into a more menacing tone. ‘Consider yourself informed.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Guy kept his cards close to his chest, but he certainly did so with effort. ‘She has your carte blanche?’

  Sloane did not break off his gaze, but Guy perceived a fleeting look of uncertainty there. ‘Not quite.’ Sloane paused before continuing, ‘She’s a wily creature, Keating. Not an easy win. I intend to be the first to bed her, however.’

  Guy nearly rose from his chair to plant his fist in Sloane’s face. With difficulty he adopted a calm demeanour. Could Sloane indeed not know he was speaking of bedding Guy’s wife?

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Guy asked casually.

  Sloane took a swig of his drink. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘Maybe to make the game more challenging. No cards hidden.’

  ‘The game?’

  Sloane smiled. ‘The game of who wins the lady. Have you put your wager in the betting book? Stakes are at four thousand, I believe.’

  Guy’s fingers squeezed the glass in his hand. This was his wife Sloane spoke of! His wife the men had bet on! He silently fought for control. They could not know Lady Widow was his wife. Even a man like Sloane would not speak in this manner to a husband of his wife.

  Guy believed he discovered the gentlemen’s interest in Lady Widow, but he still did not know why Emily engaged in this masquerade. He’d discover nothing if he unleashed his temper. ‘Who the devil is she, anyway?’ he asked instead.

  Sloane’s brows rose. ‘No one knows. Makes the game more interesting. The winner removes the mask!’

  Guy let that one pass.

  Sloane glared at him. ‘The point is, Keating, I claim her. I aim to win. Do not waste your money on this wager. She’s mine.’

  No, Guy thought. She’s mine.

  The air vibrated with tension. The two men stared each other down, like two Captain Sharps, each daring the other to accuse him of playing a dirty game.

&n
bsp; Guy figuratively threw in a stack of coins. ‘Seems to me the lady decides,’ he said. ‘You play your cards, Sloane, and I’ll play mine. We’ll see whose hand wins the lady.’

  Guy would play his hand, yes, indeed. He’d return to Madame Bisou’s, every night if necessary, until he discovered why his wife came there in a mask, flirting like a demi-rep. He’d return to make certain Sloane failed in his plan to entice Lady Widow into his bed. He’d return to make sure all of them failed.

  No one would bed Lady Widow. No one save her husband.

  Chapter Ten

  Emily slept late the next morning. Or rather, she remained abed, until certain her husband would not be about. It was his habit to go out in the morning, off on some jaunt in town. Perhaps he’d go to White’s to boast of meeting Lady Widow.

  She rolled onto her side, hugging her pillow. Silly. No one would speak of Lady Widow at White’s. Lady Widow’s renown confined itself to one gaming hell. Not very auspicious fame, but more than Emily had expected to experience. She had aimed merely to be considered above reproach in every quarter. Ironic that by being Lady Widow she risked every shred of her reputation. Emily would be mortified if discovered.

  But even her husband had not known her. Lady Widow’s mask proved to be an effective shield. She could say and do as she pleased.

  Even flirt with her husband, if she chose to.

  Emily sat up and pressed her fingers to her temple. Why had he, of all gentlemen, walked into Madame Bisou’s? It changed everything. She must not allow him to ruin her plans. She would make sport of him instead, show him how his desires could be shattered just as easily as hers…

  She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. No, she must not admit to any foolish notion that she’d hoped for anything more from her marriage besides an escape from her parents. She’d known from the beginning it was a marriage of convenience. She merely had not known that the convenience her husband sought was a fortune to gamble away. She’d thought he sought an heir.

  What a lovely idea. A baby. A robust boy with hair as dark as mahogany and eyes as blue as the sea. She sunk her head to her knees. This was indeed foolish in the extreme. Her husband avoided her bed. There would be no baby from this marriage.

  Do not think of that, she scolded herself. Think of how he looked upon Lady Widow. Think of the sweet revenge when she spurns him.

  The clock struck noon. Had she ever stayed in bed this long? Dragging herself from beneath the covers, she summoned Hester to help her dress.

  ‘You have slept late, my lady,’ Hester remarked.

  ‘I was out very late.’

  Would not Hester’s eyes grow round as saucers if Emily told her the disguise she’d fashioned worked so effectively that Emily’s own husband did not know her?

  She and Hester had created a more dazzling creature. Lady Widow made his eyes glitter with desire. The reprobate.

  ‘Did you win the card game?’ Hester asked.

  Oh, she’d won more than a card game. She’d won the favour of Lord Keating himself.

  ‘Of course I won.’ Emily opened a drawer and removed four shillings, dropping them into the maid’s palm.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Hester curtsied and, with a wide grin, thrust the coins in a pocket of her apron.

  ‘And your brother received his share as well.’

  Still beaming, Hester skipped over to the wardrobe. ‘What dress today, ma’am?’

  Lady Widow would undoubtedly have picked something bright and gay, but Emily Keating owned nothing of that description. ‘My green and brown stripe, I suppose.’ The stripe was about as dashing as ever-so-proper Emily Keating could manage, which was to say, not at all.

  Hester helped her into the dress, tying the laces in the back. The looking glass reflected back a drab young woman in a drab outfit. Emily sighed. It really was much more fun to dress in something like the gold confection that had captivated her husband the night before. For the first time Emily appreciated her mother’s madness for the latest fashions.

  Hester arranged her hair in a simple knot on top of her head. Emily wondered how Lady Widow would wear her hair if she went without her hat?

  Probably in a becoming cascade of curls.

  When she finished dressing, Emily made her way down the stairs. As she reached the first floor, the Dowager Lady Keating called from the drawing room, ‘Is that you?’

  Not, ‘Is that you, Emily?’, which would make some sense, but, ‘Is that you?’, which avoided using her name, and could be answered affirmatively by anyone.

  She took a deep breath. ‘It is Emily.’

  Her mother-in-law appeared at the drawing-room door. ‘You slept the morning, did you not?’

  ‘My apologies, Lady Keating. Did you require me?’

  Lady Keating walked back into the drawing room, no doubt expecting Emily to follow. ‘I have several calls to make and I need someone to accompany me. I hope you do not have plans.’

  The word plans was emphasised, referring, Emily supposed, to the one day her brother had called upon her.

  Emily lingered at the doorway. ‘I shall accompany you, if you wish.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lady Keating, ‘because Guy has taken Aunt Dorrie and Aunt Pip out in the curricle, and I have no one else I might ask.’

  He’d taken the aunts out? How nice of him. The dutiful grand-nephew.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  A tension inside her eased. She would not run into him after all. Inexplicably, this easing of tension closely resembled disappointment.

  Lady Keating went on, ‘Aunt Dorrie got a notion she needed air and ribbons, so Guy took them to the shops.’

  Good for him, Emily thought. She hoped they would make him look at every ribbon and engage him in a quarter of an hour’s discussion of whether to buy the yellow or the blue. And which shade of blue? Would this blue perhaps clash with the shade of her bonnet? It would, Miss Nuthall would say. Lady Pipham would insist it would not. Finally Miss Nuthall would choose green, because her sister said green would never do. Emily had been to the shops with the aunts.

  ‘When do you wish me to be ready?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Well, not now,’ Lady Keating huffed. ‘I could not leave for another hour at least.’

  ‘Then I shall go see how Mrs Wilson goes on.’

  Emily continued down the stairs, finding the housekeeper in the passageway outside her sitting room giving instructions to the maid.

  What crisis would Mrs Wilson report today? A tiff between the maid-of-all-work and the kitchen maid? No partridges for dinner? Mice in the cellar? No difficulty was too small for Mrs Wilson to lay at Emily’s feet.

  When she saw Emily, Mrs Wilson shooed the maid away. ‘Good day, my lady,’ she said.

  ‘How do things go on, Mrs Wilson?’ Emily asked.

  The housekeeper launched into a long discussion about the coal porter, how he meant to cheat them, how she, not knowing what her ladyship would do, worried her head off, but finally gave the fellow what-for and he’d done just as he ought.

  ‘What else could I do, my lady? You were abed and like to never get up,’ she concluded.

  Perhaps Emily ought to sleep late more often.

  ‘You did very well,’ she assured her.

  She walked back to the hall where Bleasby approached, begging to ask how he might serve her. She’d managed to reduce his duties to the lightest of tasks, but the old butler felt remiss if he did not do as much work as he’d done thirty years ago. She spent some moments convincing him his services were perfectly adequate, trying all the while to salvage his pride.

  The door opened. Guy and the aunts had returned, Lady Pipham’s and Miss Nuthall’s shrill voices, bickering as usual, echoing into the hall. With the quarrel in full swing and the door open to the chilly air, Guy urged each of them over the threshold. He stood ready to remove their pelisses, but Bleasby beat him to it, silently assisting while the two ladies barely drew a breath between angry words.

&nb
sp; Emily could have made a hasty retreat, but instead watched as Guy removed his beaver hat and caped coat, moving as always with a masculine elegance totally without affectation. He continued placating the sensibilities of each great-aunt, and successfully cajoled them out of their huffiness, making them each feel they had won the point.

  They were in perfect charity with each other as they made their way up the stairs. With any luck, their truce would last until they reached the upper floors.

  Watching Guy’s solicitude towards the aunts affected Emily as much as it had the first time she’d seen it. She watched him through the whole exchange with the aunts, as if in a trance, his kindness still able to touch that needy part of her she tried so hard to ignore.

  She stepped forward to take his coat and hat, but he did not hand them over. Instead, he lay them on a nearby chair.

  ‘Good day, Emily.’ He gave her a smile.

  It almost seemed as if he’d really looked at her.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ she responded.

  ‘You were not at breakfast,’ he went on. ‘Were you feeling unwell?’

  She felt herself blush, knowing she’d stayed abed merely to avoid him.

  ‘I assure you, I am very well.’ She heard the edge of anger creeping into her voice. Beware, she told herself. Do not give him anything to wonder about.

  She composed her most colourless countenance, but it seemed his eyes almost twinkled in response, as if he alone knew the answer to a riddle and was keeping it to himself.

  What was the reason for his sunny mood? He had won a great deal of money at Lady Widow’s table the previous night. Perhaps that was the origin of his bonhomie. Or perhaps it was meeting Lady Widow herself.

  Her mother-in-law emerged from above stairs. ‘I am ready,’ she announced.

  Emily turned her blank expression on her husband’s mother. ‘I shall get my coat and bonnet.’

  Lady Keating gave her a quick nod, then came over to her son’s side.

  ‘Where are you and Emily bound, Mother?’ He kissed his mother’s cheek.