by Diane Gaston
She slammed the book shut and replaced it upon the shelf, closing her eyes on stinging tears. A fire burns within my soul.
‘Would you like the book?’
She opened her eyes. Her husband stood before her, eyeing her quizzically. A fire burns within my soul, she thought again.
She shook her head. ‘I was merely passing the time. I desire nothing.’
He cocked his head, regarding her for a long moment. He finally said, ‘I will make my purchase.’
Guy offered his wife his arm as they walked out. She’d gone so pale in the bookshop. What had happened to her in there? He wished she would open up her thoughts to him, her hopes, her desires.
Emily, the mask you wear conceals more than Lady Widow’s, he said to himself. He wished they could cease this masquerade and bring the fresh air of honesty into their relationship.
But he was not ready to be honest, not until he’d secured their finances and her future. He owed that to her. Still, it would be pleasant to give her some enjoyment on this lovely autumn day. He must be more clever.
‘I have a notion Aunt Pip and Aunt Dorrie might fancy some sweets,’ he said. ‘Are you too fatigued to walk to Gunter’s?’
‘I am not too fatigued,’ she responded, agreeable as ever.
They walked towards Berkeley Square, the day warming in the afternoon sun.
Another gentleman was entering the shop as they neared it. He smiled at them warmly. ‘Lady Keating. Lord Keating. Delightful to see you.’
Guy recognised him as Lieutenant—no, Captain, he’d gained a promotion—Devlin Steele. He had a brief acquaintance with the man in the Peninsula, but not enough to warrant this friendly greeting. Emily’s grip tightened on his arm. She knew him? And was distressed to see him? Another secret, no doubt? Guy extended his hand. ‘Lord Devlin. Good to see you.’
Steele accepted the handshake and turned to Emily. ‘How nice we meet again so soon.’
Soon? What sort of secret might this be?
The man went on, smiling at Emily. ‘Do you come for an ice? The day is almost warm enough for it. I beg you will bear us company. Madeleine is in the carriage over there.’ He gestured to a fine shining vehicle bearing the Heronvale crest. ‘She will want to see you.’
She was acquainted with the wife! Guy felt more than a measure of relief. ‘Would you desire it, Emily?’
With an odd light in her eyes, she responded, ‘Oh, yes.’
Steele insisted upon procuring the ices and shooed them over to the carriage. Emily almost ran to it. As they approached, a pretty face appeared at the carriage window.
‘Emily!’ she exclaimed.
‘We have come to sit with you,’ Emily said, sounding happy.
Her friend opened the door, and Guy assisted his wife in.
As Emily took the seat beside her dark-haired companion, she said, ‘My lord, may I present Lady Devlin. Madeleine—I mean, Lady Devlin, my husband, Lord Guy Keating.’
Guy remained on the pavement. ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He shook the lady’s hand.
Lady Devlin regarded him intently. ‘I am very delighted to meet you,’ she said.
Emily smiled at her friend, and the smile reached her eyes.
‘I shall leave to assist Lord Devlin,’ Guy said, aware of a small pang of envy.
He bowed to them and walked to the confectioner’s. He’d wished to please his wife this day. He had not known he would do so by giving her a moment alone with her friend, a moment away from her husband.
Cyprian Sloane stood in the shadow of the tall green shrubbery watching Keating leave the carriage and walk back to Gunter’s. He’d caught sight of Lord and Lady Keating walking down Bruton Street and on a lark decided to follow them. One never knew what useful information might be unearthed if one seized an opportune moment like this.
He’d watched Keating and his wife meet up with Heronvale’s younger brother and thought it mildly interesting. When he saw a lady’s face at the window of the Heronvale carriage, hairs stood erect on the back of his neck.
Had his eyes deceived him?
He’d moved closer, selecting this vantage point amidst the shrubbery. All he need do was wait for the face to appear again to be sure.
If he were correct, he’d need some time to ponder how to use the information to further his aims. The connection appeared to be between Lady Keating and the young woman he’d recognised. He’d need to discover how she came to be in the Marquess of Heronvale’s carriage, in the company of the Marquess’s brother, and on friendly terms with the respectable Keatings. Then he’d find a way to make this knowledge useful.
Sloane grinned. He’d spent the war years bartering in information, not too dissimilar to what he thought he’d discovered here. It felt invigorating to exercise his skills once more. All it took was a talent for being in the right place at the right time, patience to wait until all facts were revealed, and a little luck.
It was all a bit like a card game. Sloane would wait as long as it took. Then he’d see if he’d just been dealt a queen of spades.
Chapter Thirteen
After spending almost the entire afternoon together, Lord and Lady Devlin persuaded Emily and Guy to come to dinner that evening, Guy’s mother and the aunts included.
The evening was a very cordial one. Heronvale was a generous host, his wife a warm and welcoming hostess. Steele and Guy had much in common, and Emily and Lady Devlin were inseparable.
When it came time to leave, Heronvale insisted upon ordering his carriage for them. During the ride home, Emily was very quiet. Aunt Dorrie rattled on about how well sprung the Heronvale carriage was, how delightful the company had been, and how delicious the food. For once Aunt Pip agreed with every word. His mother repeatedly reminded them she was the Marchioness’s mother’s dearest friend.
For once his family was entirely in good spirits. Guy’s heart felt light. He’d wished for this, worked for it, faced the gaming tables for it. He wanted them all to be happy.
While the three elder ladies were busily trying to out-chatter each other, he leaned to his wife’s ear. ‘It was a pleasant evening, was it not?’
She turned, a startled expression on her face. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice tightening. ‘Yes, it was.’
His spirits dipped. None of his wife’s happiness lay at his door.
When they were finally at home, Bleasby was there to greet them. His mother and great-aunts entered the townhouse still clucking like chickens in a coop. Bleasby hurried to assist the ladies with their cloaks, his wrinkled face looking even more sunken than usual.
‘Bleasby, what the devil are you doing up at this hour?’ Guy asked. ‘Where is Rogers?’
Arms piled with cloaks, Bleasby replied, ‘I felt it my duty—’
‘Duty—!’ Guy began, but his wife interrupted him.
‘Thank you, Bleasby,’ she said kindly. ‘It was good of you to take such care of us. You will retire now, will you not? And ask Rogers to take over?’
Bleasby bowed. ‘As you wish, my lady.’
Guy stopped his wife in the act of removing her own cloak, assisting her himself. ‘Thank you, Emily,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘That was much better said.’
She gaped at him with wide eyes. Her eyes looked grey this evening, he noticed, but he’d recalled them looking amber under Lady Widow’s mask. Was her eye colour as mysterious as the rest of her, changing with her costume?
His hands lingered on her shoulders. He liked the air of mystery about her. It was frustrating, to be sure, but it also spawned more pleasurable senses.
Rogers rushed into the hall, a worried look on his face. ‘Beg pardon, my lord,’ he said in Guy’s direction. ‘Meant to be here before Mr Bleasby.’ He quickly relieved Bleasby of the cloaks and waited for Guy to hand him Emily’s.
Bleasby bowed and turned to leave, but stopped. ‘I quite forgot, my lord. A note was delivered for you, and I was requested to put it into your hands tonight.’
He crossed to th
e marble-topped table and picked up a sealed paper from the silver tray.
Guy threw Emily’s cloak on the pile in Rogers’s arms, and took the note. He broke open the seal and read:
My dear Lord Keating,
Our wealthy sheep of last evening have begged for more shearing and are willing to increase the stakes. I beg you would attend Madame Bisou’s this evening around midnight, where I have reserved a private parlour.
Your faithful servant, etc., C. S.
Sloane
His heart accelerated. Midnight? It was nearly midnight now. He read the note again and barely attended the goodnights of his mother and great-aunts as they started up the stairs to their rooms.
‘Is it bad news?’
His head shot up. His wife stood before him, looking almost concerned. He smiled reassuringly. ‘No, not bad news at all. I…I must go out again, however.’
Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Very well,’ she said impassively. ‘I will bid you goodnight.’
She turned and quickly ascended the stairs. He watched her, wishing he could tell her the whole, and worrying that she would attempt to go out in the night herself as Lady Widow when he would be unable to watch over her. A private parlour meant serious play indeed, and his attention would be commanded by the game. In spite of his concern for his wife and the bevy of gentlemen who’d wagered on bedding her, a thrill shot through him. This game would test his skill, nerve and luck to their very limits.
He ought to pen a note declining the invitation. Playing this sort of high-stakes game was a rash and ill-conceived idea, but still his blood burned to test himself in such deep waters, the same blood that had flowed through his father and his brother. That reaction alone should warn him to beg off, but could he afford to pass up this opportunity? The night before, those gentlemen had dropped five thousand pounds without a blink of an eye. How much more were they willing to lose?
Rogers stood waiting for his coat and hat.
‘I’m going out again, Rogers. I beg you not to wait for me. I will be late.’
He ran into the library and removed from his locked drawer the envelope of banknotes he’d intended to send to Annerley. Stuffing it into the pocket of his coat, he hurried back out into the night, already late and hoping the players had not found another to take his place.
From the first-floor landing, Emily watched her husband rush out of the door.
Only a card game could be so important, she suspected. A note from Lady Widow might be treated as highly, but, of course, Lady Widow had not penned that note.
She gripped the banister before spinning around to climb above stairs to her bedchamber. She had all but decided to stay home this night, content after her lovely long visit with her sister, but if her husband could end such an evening with cards, so could she.
She’d have Hester help her don Lady Widow’s costume and she would stay out just as late as her husband, if she chose.
When Emily entered the game room at Madame Bisou’s, several gentlemen turned welcoming faces her way. Several, but not her husband. Holding her head erect, chin up, she smiled Lady Widow’s smile and glided across the room with more feminine grace than she would employ as her other self.
No, her husband was not present. Nor was Cyprian Sloane, for that matter, but that was of no consequence.
Also absent were the two gentlemen who had played cards with Sloane and Guy the previous night, but that might be mere coincidence. Who was to say those men had not gone elsewhere to play?
She barely reached the centre of the room before Sir Reginald rushed up to her, grabbing her hand. Oh, dear, she must endure another wet kiss.
‘My dear lady, how good to see you this night,’ he said, planting his lips upon the back of her hand as moistly as she’d feared. ‘I do beg you to play at my table. Shall I order you some champagne, or do you prefer something else?’
She gave him Lady Widow’s smile. ‘Champagne, of course.’
She might as well play cards with Sir Reginald as with any of the others, but she would wager none of them would provide the stimulation she’d experienced playing whist with her husband. He was a true gamester.
She allowed the older gentleman to lead her to a chair. Sir Reginald waved at one of the serving girls, who did not hurry to leave the side of the gentleman so blatantly ogling her cleavage. The East India man and the Duke’s son appeared at the table, begging to play.
Madame Bisou wandered over. ‘We have your company again this night, Lady Widow,’ she said, adjusting the ribbons of a particularly atrocious salmon-coloured dress. The matching plumes in her flame-red hair bobbed with every word she spoke. ‘You have been excellent for business, I must say, but may I inquire if your friend Robert is…?’ Her brows rose hopefully.
‘Not tonight,’ Emily told her with sympathy. This tendre for her brother taxed Emily’s ability to refrain from a fit of giggles.
Would it not be delightful to share the tale with her sister and have a good laugh together? But what might Madeleine say about her scandalous masquerade?
‘If I see him, madame, I will convey your regards.’
Madame Bisou cheered a little at her words. Emily knew the madame would, in due time, select another gentleman and disappear with him above stairs.
Emily turned her attention to the game of whist she was about to play. By the time the first game had come to a close, she discovered a slight difference in the quality of the play. The East India man and the Duke’s son seemed bent upon a win, but as the rounds continued, their card-playing skills deteriorated and ultimately she won the game. It was as if they’d attempted to deal from both the top and the bottom of the deck, wanting to give her the challenge her husband had shown her the previous night, but not daring to take it so far as to give her a loss. What did they fear if they won? That Lady Widow would not pay her debt? That she would turn to other partners? That she would search for another gaming hell?
The gamester in her hated that her skills were not further tested as they’d been the night before. The practical side simply counted her money at the end of the night.
When supper was announced, she permitted Sir Reginald to escort her. The East India man and the Duke’s son stuck with them like porridge on a spoon. They’d all seemed perfectly content to pass their losses on to her.
When the East India man brought her a plate and seated himself close to her, she casually moved her chair before commenting upon the excellent selections he had made. After a few minutes more of watching the door, she could stand it no longer.
‘I notice Mr Sloane and Lord Keating are not present this evening.’ She gave a coy smile. ‘Have I lost two of my most ardent admirers?’
‘No, indeed,’ blurted the Duke’s son. ‘They remain in the game.’
‘Remain in the game?’ She blinked at him, truly not comprehending.
Sir Reginald quickly interjected, ‘He means they are engaged in a private party.’
Her amused expression almost fled. The only private parties she knew to take place at Madame Bisou’s were between men and women. If her husband had another assignation besides his precious Lady Widow, how would she abide it?
With great difficulty, she feigned a knowing smile. ‘I see. They have abandoned me for the favours of some other ladies. I am desolated.’
‘Not so,’ said the East India Man, who tended towards pragmatical speech. ‘They bespoke a parlour for a private whist game. Been at it since half past midnight.’
‘That is what I mean,’ she responded. The man’s explanation still did not inform her there were no women present. ‘I am certain they must play more than whist, or why be private?’
‘I assure you,’ the East India man went on, ‘it is a card game. A deadly serious one. The two gentlemen who lost to them last night challenged them to another match. They wanted no distractions.’
She knew it. The gentlemen who had been so seemingly unconcerned about dropping a small fortune the night before were bent on revenge.
They would ruin Guy. How foolish could he be? Unlike her father, why could her husband not be content with one big win? Why did men forever have to go back to lose it all again?
She paid particular attention to a small square of cake on her plate, picking at it with her fork, hoping she’d disguised her utter fury at her husband’s foolishness.
After supper, she played another two games, but had great difficulty paying attention. Sir Reginald and the Duke’s son almost took the game, and at the end, she forgot to call honours, until Sir Reginald pointed it out to her.
Guy and Sloane still had not appeared from their private room. Surely they would stop in the card room when the play was finished.
It was late, later than she usually stayed. She must leave.
When she was riding home in the hack, it occurred to her that Guy might have finished earlier and might at this moment be home. If so, would he be waiting for her? Would he catch her in the act of playing Lady Widow?
But he was not at home. When Hester let her into the house, commenting that she’d worried because her ladyship was so late, she confirmed that Lord Keating had not returned. Emily climbed the servants’ narrow staircase to her room and changed out of Lady Widow’s costume, donning her own nightdress. She crawled into her bed and wrapped herself in the blanket, warming her feet next to the hot brick Hester had placed there for her. She lay awake as the minutes ticked by. He did not return.
At dawn she fell asleep. At ten o’clock she woke with a start. Climbing hurriedly out of bed, she rushed over to the door connecting her room with her husband’s. Pressing her ear against the wood, she could hear nothing. She carefully turned the knob and pulled. It was not locked. She opened the door and peeked into his room. It was empty.
Next to the wardrobe, his boots stood at attention like soldiers. His bed was neat as a pin. He had not set foot in this room since dressing for dinner. Her heart raced so fast she thought she could hear the blood rushing through her brain.
