A Beginner's Guide to Rakes

by Suzanne Enoch

“This trouble,” Diane said to Miss Portsman’s retreating back, not certain why she felt compelled to continue. “Would a man be to blame, by chance?”

  Miss Portsman turned around. “I give equal credit to a man and to my own naïveté.”

  That certainly sounded familiar. “If your skills are as you claim, Miss Portsman, you’re hired.”

  For the first time uncertainty crossed the other woman’s shadowed features. “I … thank you.”

  “With a caveat: Keep the secrets you have now if you wish. But from this point onward, you will be honest with me. And if something from your past looks to impact my club, you will inform me of it.”

  Emily Portsman, or whatever her name might be, inclined her head. “You have my word, my lady.”

  “Good. I have a mathematics examination for you to complete. I imagine you won’t have any difficulties with it. When you’ve finished, we’ll find you something to do, shall we?”

  It belatedly occurred to her that her new employee hadn’t asked about wages or days off or specific duties, something Jenny said most of the other girls had immediately wanted to know. After Diane looked at the completed examination and put Emily to work organizing the arrangement of the beds in the attic rooms, she went to find Genevieve.

  “What did you think of the small thing with the large hat?” Diane’s friend asked, not moving from her place in the doorway of the main gaming room. Beyond her several workmen perched on scaffolds and applied pale gold paint to the ceiling.

  “I hired her.”

  “I thought you might.”

  Diane sent her a glance. “How could you possibly think so? You barely spoke with her.”

  “The look in her eyes reminded me of you.”

  “Oh, really? How so?”

  “A determination not to be vulnerable.” Jenny shifted. “I do like this color. It doesn’t look so much like a home any longer. And it will complement the gold thread in the curtains and wallpaper.”

  “Jenny, were there any other applicants who didn’t inquire about salary?”

  Genevieve faced her. “Others who had that same look about them, you mean? Yes.”

  “I’d like to see those applications.” At Jenny’s stifled smile, though, she frowned. “This is not a charity or a home for wayward girls. I want charm, not desperation.”

  “There were a few. I’ll gather the papers together for you.”

  “Thank you.” Diane smoothed her skirt. “I think it’s past time I looked in on our gaming instructor.”

  “I’m a bit surprised you left him alone with those young ladies in the first place.”

  Yes, so was she. But she wasn’t about to admit that she’d been outmaneuvered. Not even to Jenny. “If they can resist his so-called charms, avoiding succumbing to any other temptation—or man—will be simple.”

  * * *

  “But do the right-side-up cards always have to be spades?” the generous bosom asked.

  Blinking, Oliver lifted his gaze from the table. Him, in a room with eleven very attractive young ladies and no one but the naive little ninnies to naysay him. He’d thought himself in heaven, but after an hour he was nearly ready to call this the other place.

  “No, the face-up cards do not have to be spades. It’s merely tradition.”

  “In my establishment the faro face-up cards will always be diamonds. That will be my tradition.”

  His spine straightened before he could tell his body to keep its relaxed pose against the card table. “Lady Cameron. You might have told me about your new tradition earlier.”

  The bosom bounced. “I asked that question because I thought diamonds would be more clever. Because we’re ladies, and ladies love diamonds.”

  Oh, good God. In a more social setting he could have had the bosom ungarbed and spread upon the table by now, if he’d so desired. After the time spent listening to her and the other chatty, eager chits, however, what he most wanted was a drink and then another drink.

  “Ladies, that will be all for today. Please be here at eight o’clock tomorrow for my final decision regarding your employment.” As the chits left the room, Diane caught the arm of the bosom. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “Charity. Charity Evans.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Oh yes, my lady.” With a last bounce the bosom hurried from the room after the others.

  When Diane remained in the doorway, Oliver took his seat once more and stacked the two decks of cards he’d been using for demonstration. She’d stayed away for the entire hour, which surprised him. And he didn’t like being surprised. “A game, Diane?” he asked, setting one of the decks aside and shuffling the other. “Or are you afraid to play?”

  “Disliking something and fearing it are two completely different things.” She came forward. “Vingt-et-un.”

  “But then I don’t get to play against you.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “You think not? Never mind, then.”

  That was what he got for speaking plainly—a figurative slap to the jaw. “Sit down,” he grumbled.

  Apparently she considered that to be a signal of his surrender rather than an order, because she pulled out the chair opposite him and took a seat. “So you disliked Miss Evans, did you?”

  “Did I?” He shuffled once more, then dealt each of them one card, hers face-down and his face-up, then dealt them each a second card, face-up. “If I say I found her attractive you’ll send the poor half-witted chit away, and if I say she made me wish to put a ball through my head then undoubtedly you’ll have the luscious young thing trailing me everywhere.”

  Diane lifted the corner of her hold card and glanced at it. “Another card,” she said. “And you might consider that I won’t suffer fools even if they do annoy you. Fools will cost me money and reputation.” She looked down as he placed the four of clubs in front of her. “Now if she were secretly brilliant and only playing a fool, that would be something else entirely. I will stay.”

  “The dealer takes a card.” He flipped over a five of hearts, which together with his king of hearts and the two of spades gave him a count of seventeen. “The dealer stays. And she was not playing at being a fool. She may not even be able to find her way back to her residence this afternoon.”

  “Then I won’t hire her. How were the rest of them?” She turned over her hold card. “Twenty.”

  He nodded. “Seventeen. Player wins. Half the chits were rubbish, but four of them seemed fairly trainable. One of them already knows the game, and seems to have a talent for it.” Taking the spent cards, he stacked them to one side and dealt again. “But you do realize that teaching them to play doesn’t mean they can hold their own even as dealers or bankers.”

  “I’m aware. That’s why I’m giving you the entire six weeks to train them. I’ll keep on the five you mentioned for at least another few days. When I open I think thirty girls for the tables and serving drinks and general pleasant conversation will be sufficient.”

  “So you’re listening to my opinion? Color me surprised.” And intrigued. More intrigued.

  “You know about wagering and presumably who has a talent for the cards. I may detest you on moral grounds, but I’m not a fool.”

  “I would be cautious where you fling your accusations of immorality, lady proprietor of a wagering club. You’re taking sin in an entirely new direction for London.”

  “I suppose I am. Doing the sinning is much more pleasant than being sinned against, I’m discovering.”

  She meant that as yet another insult to him, of course. She thought she’d learned all the lessons of the world. But clearly she hadn’t. Not yet. “Being sinned against may hurt, of course,” he said, “but sinning has its own set of consequences.”

  She glanced up at him. “Do you have regrets, then?” she asked, her tone genuinely surprised.

  “Of course I do. Beneath my monstrous exterior I am, after all, human.”

  “So you say. I shall withhold judgment un
til I see actual proof.”

  “Well then.” Standing, Oliver shoved back his chair and reached across the table. Before she could shift backward he grabbed the front of her black muslin gown and yanked her forward. Lifting her chin with his free hand, he lowered his mouth over hers.

  Heat slammed down his spine at the contact. He wasn’t gentle about it, either, pulling her halfway across the table as he plundered her mouth. Her tongue flicked along his, drawing him harder against her. When he felt ready to combust, he straightened his fingers and let her go.

  Diane plopped backward into her chair with none of her usual grace. Breathing hard and wishing he weren’t, Oliver stayed on his feet and walked around her to the door. Bloody hell. He’d meant to remind her that she’d enjoyed him in Vienna just as much as he’d enjoyed her. Instead all he could conjure was the image of her beneath him, her midnight hair wild around her face and her green eyes sharp with excitement and passion.

  “How is that for proof?” he said over his shoulder, his voice low and rough. “I’m going to get something to eat before my next so-called class begins.”

  He was halfway through the door when she shot him.

  Chapter Seven

  Diane dropped the spent pistol onto the table. She couldn’t very well return it to the small band tied around her thigh, because the barrel was quite hot. And the room still seemed to echo with the loud roar.

  In the doorway, Oliver staggered around to face her. “You shot me!”

  “It’s not as though I didn’t warn you,” she returned, lowering her skirt from where she’d lifted it to get to the pistol.

  “You kissed me back! Shoot yourself if you’re angry at someone for that!”

  “Oh. I’m not certain I agree with you, but I’ll remember for next time.”

  He clapped his right hand over his left shoulder. “See that you do,” he snarled, and stumbled to his knees.

  Jenny charged into view and then skidded to a halt, Margaret on her heels. “What— Margaret, fetch water and bandages. And keep the men downstairs. Tell them we shot a mouse.”

  “You’re very quick with the excuses,” Oliver noted, sinking onto his backside and no longer looking particularly alarmed.

  “Yes, well, I’ve had practice.” Jenny turned her head to look up at Diane. You shot him? she mouthed.

  “He kissed me,” she whispered back. And now she supposed she needed to assist Jenny, to keep the rat from expiring on her floor. Because that would certainly frighten away potential club members.

  “Diane, do you need smelling salts?”

  “No! I’m fine.” What a silly question. Though she did seem to be swaying a bit. Diane gripped the edge of the table. For God’s sake, she’d shot Oliver Warren. Yes, she disliked him—well, not precisely disliked, but loathed maybe. Or wanted to punch him in the nose—but not enough to shoot him. It was just that he’d—he’d kissed her. And that he’d been correct just then. She’d kissed him back, even knowing that he’d fled her bed like a fox with its tail on fire.

  “Come and help me with his jacket,” Jenny instructed, her voice sharp.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Blinking, Diane moved forward and knelt beside him to yank Haybury’s jacket down his arms.

  Oliver cursed blackly, using a selection of profanity so varied that some of it she’d never heard before. “I’ll do it,” he barked, pushing her back with his elbow.

  One of the maids arrived with water and cloths, then hurried away again. This wouldn’t be the first test of her household’s discretion, but a shooting would be of far more temptation and interest to everyone than a countess’s monochromatic wardrobe. Better to know now if they could be trusted, she supposed, rather than later.

  “It looks to be a deep graze, my lord,” Jenny said, ripping the sleeve of Oliver’s lawn shirt off at the shoulder. “No ball to dig out.”

  “And yet I don’t feel so very grateful,” Oliver retorted.

  “Be thankful that I can aim, then,” Diane commented, sticking her finger through the hole in his jacket sleeve and attempting to rid her head of the last of its cobwebs. “And that I decided your heart was too shriveled to make a decent target.”

  His right hand jabbed out and caught her around the wrist. “We’re even now, Diane,” he breathed, pulling her closer and off balance. “I damaged your pride in Vienna and now you’ve shot me. Attempt something like that again and I won’t be so charitable.”

  She kept her arm relaxed, refusing to pull against a grip she couldn’t break without putting both feet against his chest. So he thought he’d done nothing more than damage her pride. God knew he wasn’t a stupid man, though. Had he not even realized how much he’d hurt her? It was so odd to think she might have misread things. And even odder was the way she abruptly seemed willing to look at them—at him—again. After all, she had shot him. Perhaps he’d earned a moment of consideration before she began loathing him again.

  “If you attempt to kiss me again without my consent I will aim my pistol much lower,” she returned, because she had no intention of letting him know what she was thinking.

  He released her arm, his gaze sharpening. “Not without your consent, then.”

  “You both baffle me,” Jenny muttered as she wrapped the deep gash high on Haybury’s well-muscled left arm. “That’s the most civil conversation I’ve heard you have. Now, have a seat back in the sitting room, my lord, and I will fetch you a whiskey while Diane finds you one of Lord Cameron’s old jackets.”

  Oliver sent her friend a dubious look. “I am not going to wear a hand-me-down, and certainly not one worn by that fool.”

  Diane stood once more. “You have another group of ladies to assess in ten minutes. And keep your opinion of my late husband to yourself.” Whether she agreed with it or not.

  To her surprise, Oliver pulled himself to his feet and followed her down the hallway, denying her the moments she needed to think. Of course he was much more to blame than she was, because he’d stepped into the illusion that she had control of the entire situation and he’d stepped into her memories. And he’d found the chink in her armor.

  She’d wounded him, but now he knew that physical contact with him rattled her. Diane scowled at the air before her. Damn it all. When she’d realized she needed to include Oliver Warren in her plans she’d known he wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew how he conducted both his business and personal affairs, and she’d thought herself prepared for it. Clearly she’d been wrong. Because whether she wished to deny it or not, she had kissed him back. And for the maddest, briefest of moments, she’d enjoyed doing so.

  “I have a question,” Oliver said from just behind her.

  She resisted squaring her shoulders. “If the question is about why I shot you, I believe you can figure it out on your own.”

  “Yes, I know precisely why you shot me. You hoped it would keep me from noticing your tongue dancing with mine.” He paused, undoubtedly to increase the dramatic effect of the statement. “My question is, why do you still have pieces of Lord Cameron’s wardrobe?”

  “There were a few things left behind when we departed London.” She shrugged. “I’ve been back for only a fortnight, after all.”

  “It’s just that the last time I saw you with one of Cameron’s shirts, you were ripping it to shreds. With a knife, as I recall.”

  “I was a bit angry then. I’ve had two years to consider things since that day.”

  “Ah. And now that you’ve witnessed the results, was shooting me as pleasant as you imagined it would be?”

  Oh, that was enough of that. Diane stopped, turning on her heel to face the absurdly tall marquis. “What you should have considered is that I have no tolerance for men who attempt to ruin my life.” She lowered her gaze to the bandage around his upper arm. Red slowly stained the middle of it. She’d done that. And it troubled her that injuring him bothered her. “I will, however, apologize for shooting you,” she forced out. “I confess that you … disturb me more than I
’d anticipated.”

  Astute gray eyes met and held hers. “Likewise,” he finally said, and motioned for her to continue forward.

  Little as she liked having him behind her, the sooner they could find him appropriate clothing, the sooner she could have a moment or two on her own to think. The way he lived his life, this most likely wasn’t even the first time he’d been shot. It was, however, her first time shooting someone.

  “Are you going to open The Tantalus with a grand party, or simply invite prospective members to stop by?”

  “None of your business.”

  Silence. “I’m not suggesting anything,” he finally commented. “I’m only asking a question.”

  “Very well. A party. And don’t give me your opinion of that.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Good.” She turned into the small bedchamber where most of Frederick’s remaining things seemed to have accumulated since her return to London. “The jackets are in there,” she said, gesturing at a half-open wardrobe. “A shirt or two as well, I think, though the quality isn’t as fine as yours.”

  Favoring his left arm, Oliver began shuffling through drawers. After a moment he lifted out a lime-and-olive-colored jacket and held it by the collar with his fingertips. “Truly?” he asked.

  Memory flashed through her, images of her thin, stern-faced husband remarking that when Prinny wore something it immediately became fashion and that fashion bespoke confidence and competence. And then him returning after a night in his fashionable attire a hundred pounds lighter in the pockets and forbidding her to speak of either.

  “Diane?”

  She shook herself, turning away from the brown-haired devil and his lifted eyebrow. “Just choose something and get back to your classroom.”

  With a noncommittal grunt he returned to digging. “If anyone sees me in this I’ll be ruined,” he finally said, and she faced him again.

  The brown of the jacket was a fairly close, if less rich-looking, match to the one he’d worn to visit The Tantalus. The problem was the way his own shirtsleeves—sleeve—ended at his wrist while the jacket’s extended somewhat short of that. And he couldn’t have buttoned the thing if his life depended on it. “You two were of a height. I thought it would fit.”