A Beginner's Guide to Rakes

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I don’t know what my plans are. Have her roast the pig; the lot of you might as well enjoy it.”

  Myles gave a rare smile. “That is very generous of you, my lord. Thank you.”

  “If anyone should call, inform them that I’m out paying a visit to an old … friend.”

  “An old friend, my lord. Very good.”

  “No. An old … friend. With the implication that ‘friend’ isn’t the correct word, but merely the most proper one.”

  “An old … friend. I understand, my lord.” Myles turned for the hallway door, then hesitated. “I hope you know, my lord, that I would never promote gossip in such a manner without your express instruction to do so.”

  “If I thought otherwise, Myles, you wouldn’t still be in my employ.”

  Oliver headed out the front door as a groom from the stable where he lodged the five horses he kept in London arrived with Brash in tow. He flipped the lad a shilling and set off at a trot toward Regent Street.

  Had Diane given him such short notice of their meeting to keep him off balance? Or to prevent him from planning a rebellion? If either was the case, however, she’d badly underestimated him. He’d been conjuring scenarios and possible responses to her theoretical demands for three days. That still left her ahead at plotting, but he reckoned he was catching up.

  The butler chit opened the Adam House front door as he topped the worn granite steps. Diane would need to have them and the door replaced before her club opened. He could point that out, he supposed, but it would likely cost him more money.

  “Lord Haybury, Lady Cameron is expecting you. You’ll find her upstairs in her office. I believe you’ve been there before.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to deliver me there, Langtree?”

  “Not today, my lord.”

  If he asked why she was unable to leave her post at the door she would only tell him it was none of his business. He was not going to lose ground to a damned female butler.

  For the same reason he refrained from asking about the curtain of sheets that ringed most of the foyer. While the material hid the sight of the ongoing construction from any callers, it did nothing to muffle the sounds of hammering and sawing and the low buzz of men’s voices.

  The office door stood open, and Oliver stepped into the room without bothering to knock. “It’s half eleven, though you likely know that because you’ve been looking at the clock for the past twenty minutes, haven’t you?”

  For God’s sake, she was wearing black again—this time a straightforward muslin that would have looked fetching and fresh in any number of colors but that she managed to make … alluring. Quite a feat, really.

  She indicated the chair opposite her desk. “Gentlemen’s games. Faro, vingt-et-un, whist, hazard, and what?”

  Oliver took a seat. “No. I demand a bit of social chatting before we get to business.”

  Diane cocked her head at him. “Very well. Have you bedded anyone interesting lately?”

  Despite the sharpness of the conversation, he had to admire her skill at stabbing at him. But he had those same skills himself. “Interesting. Hm. Compliant, accommodating, yes. Now that I consider it, however, I have to concede that you were a more interesting lover than the chits I’ve run across lately.” He deliberately lowered his gaze to her pretty bosom. “In fact, parts of me missed parts of you quite a bit, I think.”

  “How sad, considering that I forgot you the moment you walked out of the room.”

  Leaning forward, he set his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands. “Did you now? Is that truly the tack you wish to take? Because I could always remind you.”

  “Yes, I imagine one of us would enjoy that quite a bit. Not me, however.” She tapped her fingers against the paper in front of her. “Now. Tell me about games of chance.”

  Evidently he’d pushed her far enough this morning. “Very well. Men will wager over anything. How many times a friend says ‘ain’t’ in the course of an hour. Whether a chit will step out of a carriage right foot or left foot first.”

  “Yes, that’s all very well, but not terribly organized. Do I need to be more specific? I require a list of games and amusements they may play here, and preferably ones where the bank has the best chance of profit.”

  “Why don’t you just rob them when they come through the front door?”

  Diane didn’t even blink. “Because then I would only gain what they had in their pockets on that particular evening. I imagine only a very few of them would return to be robbed again.”

  “True enough. It’s all about subtlety, I suppose.”

  “Precisely.”

  He eyed her for a moment. “Two years ago you detested both wagering and the weak-minded men who failed to recognize their own lack of skill. And while I have to applaud the way you’ve moved beyond your contempt to see where wagering can be used to your advantage, I have to wonder at something.”

  She gestured at him. “Pray continue. I know I won’t be able to get any use out of you until your girlish curiosity is satisfied.”

  The insult was rather blatant. To him that signaled that she wasn’t comfortable with the path of the conversation. Good. “My girlish curiosity wants to know whether you’ve considered that you’re planning on doing to other women what was done to you.”

  “Oh, good heavens!” she exclaimed, putting both hands to her mouth. “You’re absolutely correct! How could I have been so blind?” Her horrified expression lifted into a faint smile. “I will no longer be trod upon, Oliver. I chose a wagering club because I appreciate irony and because it’s a splendid way to make money. What is that old saying? ‘The house always wins,’ I believe.”

  “And the other women?”

  “I’m not a tutor or a morality lesson. They are on their own, just as I was.” One long finger tapped the sheet of paper in front of her. “Games. What have I missed?”

  She had changed in two years. But he’d been attempting not to. In fact, that was why he’d left Vienna. To keep his life from upending. As she continued to gaze at him with thinly veiled suspicion, he shook himself. Contemplation was to be done in private, preferably with a large bottle of spirits at hand.

  “In addition to cards and dice, there are wheel games and even some exotic Oriental fare.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  As he went about explaining the more basic rules of piquet and faro, he kept his attention on her. Most women took care not to be in a room alone with him unless it was intimacy they were after. But Diane simply wrote out her notes and glanced up at him from time to time when he intentionally shifted the path of the conversation. Did she truly see him as only a means to an end? Had she truly forgotten—no, not forgotten, but discounted—what he considered to be an extremely memorable fortnight?

  And why the devil did he care if she had? That was the aggravating part—that he couldn’t seem to stop dwelling on it. “Have you found anyone to share your bed since I left?” he asked abruptly.

  Diane didn’t look up. “You rather put me off all that.” Then she glanced at the mantel clock and stood. “Time to meet the first group,” she said, and left the room without a backward glance.

  “Like hell I did,” he muttered, and followed her. After all, out of all the men in England, she’d gone looking for him. As a second choice, perhaps, but it still counted.

  Twelve young ladies waited for them in a spare upstairs room. Diane had instructed that all furniture be removed and a card table and chairs be brought in. These women had passed her first three criteria of being young and literate and attractive, but she was aware that the ability to read was quite different from being able to converse—especially while managing gentlemen, money, and a game of chance.

  “Ladies,” she said as they all curtsied in ragged unison, “this is Lord Haybury. He will be discussing the game of faro. If you have any questions, feel free to ask him. I will be observing your aptitude, not just for the game, but as hostesses. You should think of your gaming
table as your home, and you must entertain your guests well enough that they want to stay all night.” There was of course much more to it than that, but with sixty-two women to choose from now, she needed to prune out the weeds, as it were.

  While she remained at the back of the room, the thirteen seated themselves around the table. Oliver explained the basics of the game in a surprisingly understandable manner, and Diane allowed herself a brief moment of self-congratulation. Perhaps Blalock had been her first choice, but despite the irritation of having Oliver entangled in all this, he seemed to be the better choice.

  Two seats around from Oliver on his right, a striking brunette lifted a hand to ask her third or fourth question. Oliver sent the chit a glance, his mouth dipping a fraction, then looked away again as he answered her and went on with the lesson.

  “You,” Diane said, flipping through her notes. “Miss Carlysle, is it?”

  The brunette nodded, her eyes darting in Oliver’s direction and back to Diane again. “Yes, my lady. Mary Carlysle.”

  “You may go, Miss Carlysle.”

  “But—”

  “If you can’t control your tongue or your eyes when you know you’re being observed, I can only imagine what might occur later. I don’t blame you; Lord Haybury is evil.” She turned to the group in general. “Anyone else who has been or who intends to become intimate with Haybury might as well leave now, too.”

  Miss Carlysle sent her an angry look, grabbed up her reticule, and stomped out the door. Oliver stood. The girls nearest to him actually shifted away, Diane noted. Good for them.

  “A word, Lady Cameron?” he grunted, and walked out to the hallway.

  “You may practice a round, ladies. I’ll return in a moment.”

  As soon as she left the doorway Oliver stalked up to her. He lifted a hand as though to grab her arm, then clenched his fingers and backed away a step. “What the devil was that?” he demanded in a low voice.

  “Why is it that as rakes get older, their mistresses get younger? She’s barely nineteen, Haybury.”

  “Firstly, I am only nine-and-twenty, which is hardly anything close to being old. Secondly, Mary Carlysle is quite experienced for her age. Thirdly, you—”

  “I already told you that I won’t employ anyone with whom you’ve shared a bed.”

  “Which leaves you as the exception.”

  “I’m not an employee.”

  “Yes, well, you’re beginning to sound jealous.” He took a half step closer again. “Are you? Jealous, that is?”

  Her cheeks heated. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am not jealous. I am realistic. And realistically I know you are likely to do something to disappoint me. I’m attempting to prevent that. Or at least make it more difficult for you.”

  Oliver closed the scant remaining distance between them. Damnation, she wished he weren’t as tall and physically imposing as he was. All she could do was lift her head and squarely meet his glare. Then he took her chin in his fingers, far more gently than she expected.

  He meant to make her flee, no doubt. To run away trembling and lose ground to him while he returned to the room and more than likely ravaged all the remaining eleven women while each one stood in a queue waiting her turn.

  “Well?” Diane demanded, inwardly delighted that her voice remained steady.

  He leaned down, his breath close and warm against her lips. “Liar,” he breathed. “You know I won’t touch any of them.”

  “I know no such thing. Now unhand me.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth. “I do wonder if you still taste as sweet, with all the sour things you say these days.”

  “Keep wondering.”

  “Do you dream about me?” he murmured, then abruptly released her and straightened again. “I imagine you do.” He took the sheaf of papers she’d somehow raised to hold over her chest like a very ineffective shield. “I’ll let you know whether any of these chits can manage a table. You decide whether they can sit back and watch men be ruined.”

  Diane took a deep breath. “Finish with them by two o’clock. You have another group at half past.”

  He nodded just before he stepped back into the room. Diane stood in the hallway, glaring after him. Very well. She still had several initial interviews to conduct, and given his conversation with her earlier, she also needed to look into ordering a pair of roulette wheels and something to contain rolling dice.

  And she supposed with eleven ladies present in the practice room they didn’t require a chaperone. Given the employment they’d chosen to pursue, perhaps this would be a valuable first lesson in other than faro, as well. After all, if they could resist the Marquis of Haybury, then they would have little difficulty turning away Lucifer himself. Her, jealous. Over him. Ha. Ha twice.

  Diane headed down the hallway to the sitting room she’d given over for Jenny to interview the applicants who continued to appear on the doorstep at the rate of one or two per hour. If gentlemen showed themselves as eager to enter the doors of The Tantalus as the ladies clearly were, she would have no worries at all.

  Inside the room Jenny sat across the small desk from a large bonnet. Someone, presumably a female, sat beneath, but the chapeau very nearly shielded every inch of her but her feet. And those were hidden beneath a rather drab gray and blue muslin. For a moment Diane nearly turned around and left the interview to Jenny—so far she’d managed to avoid speaking with the most insipid applicants. If she did leave, however, she would be sorely tempted to hover outside the practice room and fume over the nonsense Oliver was more than likely spewing.

  “Jenny,” she said before she could change her mind, “would you mind taking a look at the paint color I’ve chosen for the ceiling? I’m having second thoughts. I’ll see to this.”

  Her friend nodded. “Certainly,” she replied, rising. As she passed through the doorway she brushed her fingers against Diane’s elbow. “Be nice,” she whispered, and was gone.

  Stifling a frown, Diane sank into the vacated chair. When, precisely, had it become necessary for anyone to remind her to be nice? Pushing that thought aside, she pulled Jenny’s notes closer and read through them. Hm. Evidently the interview hadn’t progressed very far. “You are Emily Portsman,” Diane stated, and finally looked up.

  “I am.”

  The face, shadowed though it was by that voluminous hat, looked pretty enough. Hair color was even more difficult to determine—somewhere between blond and brown. “I am Lady Cameron.”

  “I have to ask, my lady. Your advertisement said you were looking to hire ladies to work at your club, but it didn’t specify … Anyway, I … There are things I won’t do, no matter the salary. So I wanted to know if you might be more specific before we began this, so as not to waste your time or mine.”

  Diane nodded. “I am not opening a brothel. What my employees choose to do on their own time is not my concern, as long as they are discreet about it. Or to be more direct, I will never ask you to sleep with anyone. I require employees to work at wagering tables, serve food, keep count of money, et cetera.”

  Miss Portsman reached up to untie her bonnet strings. Pulling the monstrous thing off, she set it on her lap. “Then I wish to proceed with the interview.”

  Chestnut. That was the color of Miss Portsman’s hair, a still somewhat indecipherable combination of brown and blond and red. Diane jotted the notation down on the interview page, along with noting that the applicant had brown eyes. “Your age?”

  “One and twenty.”

  Diane made another note. “You can read and write?”

  “Yes.”

  “Languages spoken? Other than English.”

  “French, Spanish, and a smattering of Italian.”

  Well, that was commendable. She jotted that down as well. “Mathematics?”

  “Passable. Sufficient for card playing and wagering and percentages.”

  “Did you attend a finishing school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Splendid. Which one?”

&n
bsp; “I prefer not to say.”

  Diane stopped in midscribble. “Beg pardon?”

  “I attended finishing school and was considered an exceptional student, particularly of the fine arts. I prefer not to tell you which school I attended.”

  Well. She should have been offended, she supposed, that a prospective employee was unwilling to supply the most basic of references. She should likely end the interview and send the girl packing. Diane slowly sketched a light half-moon on the interview page. “References?”

  “I have served as a governess in two distinguished households, neither of which I will name.”

  “I see.” Diane set down her pencil, lifting her gaze to meet the direct brown eyes opposite. “Is Emily Portsman your real name?”

  Silence. “No, my lady.”

  “You are aware that working here is likely to be seen as scandalous, whether you actually engage in any scandalous behavior or not. You may not be able to find employment as a governess again. Not for some time, anyway.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. I do not mind the appearance of scandal, as long as the decision of whether to actually sin or not remains mine.”

  “That’s very … unusual of you.”

  “Is it? Are most of your applicants living comfortable, tidy lives, then?”

  Diane had assumed that to be the case, she realized. Perhaps not entirely comfortable lives but … yes, tidy ones. The idea that she might be misreading her own potential employees troubled her. She didn’t know everything, of course, but she had learned how to read people. Men, mostly, but certainly the ladies she’d allowed into her house. The ladies she’d left in the Marquis of Haybury’s company.

  The girl shifted forward in her seat a shade. “The position does offer room and board, does it not?”

  “Is having you here going to cause me trouble?” Diane asked slowly.

  Finally the supposed Miss Portsman looked down, pulling on her bonnet and settling it over her hair again. “It might. Thank you for seeing me. Next time I shall invent something more creative.” Inclining her head, she stood and picked up her reticule.