by Diane Gaston
A triumphant expression suddenly lit up his face. ‘I have it, Keating!’ He grinned like a harlequin. ‘If you do not agree to deny bedding Lady Widow, I will inform your wife of her existence. How would that suit you?’
Guy laughed. ‘Too late, sir.’ He took a long swig of his ale. ‘My wife already knows all about Lady Widow.’
Emily rode back to Essex Court in the Heronvale carriage. She’d stayed with Madeleine all the afternoon, but contrary to what she’d told Guy, she did not mention Sloane’s threat. As soon as her sister’s eyes glittered with pleasure upon seeing her, Emily knew he had been right. She could not burden her sister with this worry. Madeleine would be better off never knowing of the potential hazard to her happiness.
She and Madeleine spent a lovely afternoon together, playing with Madeleine’s daughter, chatting with the Marchioness, catching up on each other’s lives, though their conversations by necessity left much unsaid. Madeleine glossed over her time with Farley, and Emily glossed over her marriage. Nor did she mention Lady Widow.
One more night to wear Lady Widow’s mask.
As soon as she entered the townhouse, Bleasby informed her that the Dowager Lady Keating wished to speak with her.
‘At your convenience,’ Bleasby said.
At her convenience? Was that a nicety Bleasby added?
She went first to her room to make herself more presentable. Before she could finish tidying her hair, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ she said.
Lady Keating entered. She had never visited Emily’s room before. She looked much altered, smaller, paler, wringing her hands.
‘Lady Keating!’ Emily exclaimed.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ her mother-in-law said.
‘Not at all.’ Emily gestured to a chair. ‘Do sit down. I was on my way to see you.’
The Dowager sat in the faded brocade chair, one of a pair that provided a nice place for comfortable chats. Emily had never had a use for the chairs before this time.
Her mother-in-law gazed off into the distance, looking very distracted.
Emily went to her side, crouching down to her level. ‘Ma’am?’ Emily took her hand. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
Lady Keating’s hand was cool to the touch. She snatched it from Emily’s grasp.
‘I am not ill.’ She took a breath. ‘I came to beg you not send me away. Where would I go? I have no wish to be alone!’
Emily grasped both of her mother-in-law’s hands this time. She peered directly into the older lady’s eyes, forcing her to look at her. ‘You will not be sent away. That is all nonsense.’
The Dowager’s lips trembled. ‘Guy says—’
Emily squeezed her hands. ‘Guy will not send you away! Now let us stop all this foolishness. We need to be dressing for dinner soon.’
‘I cannot eat a thing,’ Lady Keating said dramatically.
Emily stood, giving a little laugh. ‘You must regain your appetite, then. Besides, if you do not appear at dinner, your aunts will worry. You do not wish to cause them worry, do you?’
Her mother-in-law’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and her expression lost all its drama. ‘Why are you being so agreeable to me?’
She had been fooled again, by a different Keating this time. She sighed. ‘My lady, I have no wish to be your enemy. Nor do I wish to split your family. These are your decisions, not mine. But make no mistake. I am the lady of the house and I will brook no disrespect.’
The Dowager rose and raised her chin mutinously. Emily, however, did not miss the fleeting look of anxiety in her eyes.
Emily did not know if there was any chance for happiness between her and Guy. But she knew she would never leave her marriage. She would not be traipsing off to some other gaming hell to win money. She would not repeat such a folly.
If she indeed would remain in this household, as she must, she was determined not to be overrun by her mother-in-law.
Emily extended her hand to Lady Keating. ‘Let us agree to be friends.’
Lady Keating stared at Emily’s hand and lifted her head defiantly. Without a word, she strode past Emily and went out of the door.
Guy hurried in to the townhouse near the dinner hour. He and Sloane had consumed a third round before Guy had realised the time. He rushed to his room to change for dinner, all the time wondering if Emily were here, if her meeting with her sister had been difficult for her.
He tried to think of the best time to see her alone, hoping his good news about Sloane would earn him some credit in her eyes. He would need it if he was to tell her everything.
Unlike the previous night when he’d left Madame Bisou’s, he was full of hope. Their afternoon, as difficult and emotional as it had been, had been a moment of unity between them. This night he hoped to strip off all the masks they wore and make love to his wife.
He found her in the parlour, standing by the window gazing into the street, now dark. His mother and her aunts were also present.
She turned her eyes upon him when he walked in. He met them briefly and smiled.
She smiled back.
His heart sang.
But for all that connection he felt with her, the room seemed to crackle with tension. He had forgotten the conversation with his mother that morning. Had his mother made things more difficult for Emily? He swore he would send her off by the morrow if she did not behave with more civility.
He glanced at his mother, who quickly averted her face. His aunts gave him the mildest of greetings and returned to their sewing. How much did they know? He hoped they had not been made a part of this discord.
The silence and tension in the room reminded him of a battlefield after the wounded and dead had been removed. Something of the horror always lingered. He glanced at Emily again and she returned a sympathetic look.
They were still attuned to each other! He nearly laughed with relief. The devil with the rest of them, he was happy to be in union with his wife. He took a step towards her, but, at that moment, Bleasby entered and announced dinner.
Emily walked over to him and took his arm. There was nothing impersonal in her touch. On the contrary, it stirred his senses as much as his hopes and he wished they could dispense with dinner.
He was eager for dessert.
When they were seated and the soup served, his mother said, ‘You were gone all day, Guy.’
He glanced up. ‘I had errands in town.’
The silence descended again. He ought to throttle his mother, who seemed unrepentant. With all their family had been through with his father and brother, she ought to jump through hoops like the horses at Astley’s in order to achieve some measure of peace. The devil with her.
He turned to his wife. ‘How was your afternoon, Emily?’
She gave him a meaningful look. ‘I took your advice, Guy. I had a lovely afternoon with Lady Devlin.’
She had not told Lady Devlin then? Excellent! That was the best of all possible outcomes.
He smiled at her. ‘I am very glad.’
‘What d’you mean about Guy’s advice?’ Aunt Dorrie asked, pointing her soup spoon at Emily.
Guy opened his mouth to answer, but Emily spoke first. ‘We walked through the park, and Guy suggested I call upon Lady Devlin.’
‘Such a nice family!’ sighed Aunt Pip.
Aunt Dorrie gave a huff. ‘I should have liked to call upon the Marchioness.’
Emily gave her a kind look. ‘Then we shall do so again soon.’
Guy’s mother sat stiff and silent during this exchange.
To his surprise, Emily turned to her. ‘Lady Keating, the Marchioness bid me to send you her very best regards.’
His mother glanced up. ‘Did she?’
She returned to her soup, saying nothing more. Guy bit down on a scold. Rebuking his mother in front of them all would not improve the atmosphere. He’d not risk things worsening, when matters between he and Emily were looking up.
Rogers appeared to remove the soup bowls and to serve
the fish. Side dishes were already on the table.
After a few moments, Guy’s mother said, ‘Emily, the menu you selected this evening is quite well done.’
Guy looked at his mother in great surprise.
Emily, however, seemed to take the comment as entirely natural. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she responded in a mild voice. ‘I value your good opinion.’
Guy watched his mother favour Emily with a relieved, even apologetic smile. Guy felt like bursting into a triumphant song.
‘Do we have any engagements tonight, Lady Keating?’ Emily went on pleasantly.
‘No,’ his mother replied. ‘The entertainments are getting rather thin. I expect many have returned to the country.’
Emily added, ‘Have you read such announcements in the papers? There do seem to be many.’
Aunt Pip and Aunt Dorrie joined in the conversation, each declaring who they knew to be in town and who to be gone. Guy merely stared in wonder.
And in pride. Whatever had happened, he was proud of them all, conversing like one contented family. Just when he thought things couldn’t be happier, something better transpired.
The good humour continued throughout the evening. Guy was loathe to interrupt it to request a private conference with his wife. He would wait until they all retired. He fancied, after all, talking with his wife in the solitude of her room, where they might be private, where they might go on as husband and wife.
She retired early, confessing to great fatigue. His mother and her aunts had insisted upon playing whist, and he was roped in to be the fourth partner. They were almost finished the rubber and he could beg off after that very comfortably.
The evening was still relatively young when he ascended the stairs. He would catch her before she gave any thought to dressing as Lady Widow.
He entered his own bedchamber and went quickly to the connecting door. Giving only one knock, he opened the door.
Emily’s maid gave a shriek like before and dropped the dress she’d had in her hands. The girl was alone.
‘Where is she?’ Guy demanded.
She had never left the house so early. Surely she knew he wished to see her? Had he not sent enough messages with his inability to keep his eyes off her?
‘I…I cannot…’ stammered the girl.
‘You can and must tell me,’ Guy said, advancing on her.
He could not help his anger, it burned within him, trying to incinerate any hopes she’d gone to Madame Bisou’s for a repeat of their night together. He tried desperately to cling to that slim, nearly ashen hope.
The maid took tiny steps away from him. ‘I cannot.’
He backed her against a wall. ‘You do not have to keep your lady’s confidence,’ he insisted, his voice firm and fierce. ‘I know she goes to the gaming hell at night. I know she dresses in silks and wears a mask. Has she gone there early this night?’
The maid, eyes very wide, nodded.
Guy turned on his heel and stormed back into his room. Grabbing his topcoat and hat, he rushed down the stairs past a surprised Rogers, and out of the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Emily sat in the hackney coach as it clattered its way to Bennett Street. The risks she had taken before paled in comparison to this one. If Guy discovered her gone, what would he think? How would she ever explain?
She must meet Sloane. Once her sister was safe all her attention could turn to her marriage. And she would pray it would not be too late.
One worry teased her, but she tried to brush it away. What if Guy came looking for Lady Widow this night? What if his desire for Lady Widow had been more than to win a wager?
The idea made blood race through her veins, but it brought no comfort.
She hoped to arrive early enough at Madame Bisou’s to catch Cyprian Sloane alone. Once involved in a card game, he might never speak with her. She must see Sloane tonight. After tonight, she would pack up her fine gowns and never appear as Lady Widow again. Her dress, the green silk she’d worn the first night she’d come to this place, seemed to chafe her skin, and the mask made her face so hot she wanted to rip it off.
Once she secured Sloane’s promise not to divulge Madeleine’s secret, she would run back to the hack and head home where she would try her best to build a life with Guy. To face whatever met her there.
Hester’s brother dropped her off at the Bennett Street address. She knocked on Madame Bisou’s door. It opened immediately. If Cummings was surprised to see her at this hour, he made no sign of it.
‘Is Mr Sloane here tonight?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, ma’am,’ Cummings replied.
‘Be so good as to tell him I wish to see him.’ Emily handed him her cloak.
‘You wish to see Mr Sloane?’ he repeated, with just a hint of curiosity in his deep voice.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I shall wait in the supper room.’
The first person she encountered was Sir Reginald. His hand leapt to his cheek, which still bore a red mark from where she had slapped it. ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he mumbled, giving her a quick bow and a wide berth.
She refused to feel guilty for striking him. He had wagered for her and propositioned her as well. How would she ever act if again compelled to meet him as her mother-in-law’s friend?
She peeked into the card room merely to assure herself Cummings had not been mistaken about Sloane. Her eyes swept the room. She jumped back out of sight.
Her brother Robert was wandering around the card tables, headed for the faro bank. Was he here looking for her? She certainly did not wish to see him.
At least Madame Bisou will be in transports, she thought wryly. She fled to the supper room, selecting a table as far out of sight as possible, but still affording a view of the doorway.
After a mere five minutes, Sloane sauntered in and scanned the room. When he saw her tucked away in her corner, he flashed his most charming smile and strode up to her.
‘You wished to see me, Lady Widow.’ He bowed, making the formality look ironic.
‘I wish a private conference with you,’ she said.
Interest kindled in his eyes. ‘I am honoured to oblige,’ he said. ‘May I suggest one of the private rooms?’
Go into a private room with Sloane? She glanced away. Gentlemen walked in and out of this room. Serving maids brought them drinks. Someone might overhear them if they remained here.
She bit her lip. Stories of Sloane’s conquests had abounded in Bath. It was said he had no scruples where women were concerned. Alone in a room with him, anything might happen, but what other choice did she have?
She lifted her chin, adopting Lady Widow’s confident attitude. ‘Very well, sir.’
He grinned. ‘Let me attend to the arrangements.’
Sloane rushed out of the supper room, barely able to assimilate this unexpected turn of events.
He caught one of Madame Bisou’s girls in the hallway. ‘Procure me a private room and a bottle of your best champagne.’
She curtsied.
‘Be quick about it,’ he demanded.
She scampered away.
‘Sir Reginald,’ he cried, entering the card room. ‘I have a wager to propose.’
Several gentlemen nearly knocked Sir Reginald aside as they hurried to Sloane’s side and called for the betting book.
‘One hundred pounds says I steal Lady Widow from Keating and remove her mask,’ Sloane announced to the gathered throng. He had no difficulty finding takers, though he was a wee bit dismayed the odds were running against him succeeding.
More sweet the victory, he assured himself.
The girl returned with a room key, and Sloane left the men still arguing stakes back and forth. As he swiftly returned to the supper room, he caught Lady Widow looking unusually pensive. Well, if she were pining for Keating, he’d soon make her forget. Perhaps she was contemplating a comparison? If so, Sloane was determined to come out the winner.
He offered his arm, but she seemed not to notice. With a
quick step, she ascended the stairs ahead of him. At the landing she tapped her foot impatiently until he caught up.
He opened the door of the room, extending his arm with a flourish to allow her to walk in first. He turned to lock it, but she said, ‘I will take the key, please.’
His brows lifted, but he tossed it to her. What did he care if the door were locked or not?
She caught it and dropped it tantalisingly down between her breasts. I’ll retrieve that key later, he thought smugly to himself.
She glanced at the bed in the corner of the room and, in a determined manner, turned her back upon it.
The champagne sat on the card table in the centre of the room. Sloane poured two glasses, handing one to her.
She took the glass, but placed it back on the table.
Did she wish to get right at it? Such eagerness. His luck was running high this night. He’d collect the winnings in no time at all. He took a step towards her.
She held up her hand, blocking his approach. ‘I wish to speak with you, Mr Sloane.’
Not so lucky, perhaps. He sighed. Who would have guessed she was the sort of female who demanded conversation first.
He folded his arms across his chest and attempted to look as if he had all the time in the world. ‘I am your servant.’
She toyed with the stem of her glass, but did not pick it up. ‘I will not mince words, sir,’ she said finally.
Good! he thought.
She looked him directly in the eye. ‘You have knowledge that could ruin Lady Devlin Steele. What will it take to induce you never to speak of it to anyone?’
He rolled his eyes. Not again.
He certainly had not expected this from Lady Widow. How many people knew this damned secret of his? Had Keating told her? If he had, it must have been after he’d left Sloane.
He tapped his fingers on his folded arms. Keating knew who she was! If Keating told her, he’d told her outside Madame Bisou’s! Damnation.
‘Well?’ she asked, though her haughty voice quavered a bit.
Sloane peered at her through narrowed eyes. More had been going on with Lady Widow than he’d realised. This smacked of a mystery, and he hated mysteries. Much better to know all the answers. Unmasking her and revealing who she was would have been a particular treat. Second only to winning the wager, that was, but Keating had even ruined that moment. Blast the man!
