A Beginner's Guide to Rakes

by Suzanne Enoch

“I’m contemplating what I’ll do with my additional ten thousand pounds and no debt,” she returned, mentally shaking herself. Heaven knew she needed to keep her wits about her in his presence. “Travel, perhaps. I hear that Greece is lovely.”

  “Don’t pack your bags yet, my dear.”

  They stopped outside White’s Club and handed the phaeton over to a groom. She took Oliver’s proffered arm again, willing herself to at least look calm. As she’d told him, she was no pot-wabbler; her concern was for her own well-being and that of her club. This wasn’t about making a statement about female rights as much as it was about learning what she could about the competition. And about demonstrating to Oliver Warren that he couldn’t intimidate her.

  The unassuming door opened. A footman dressed in black livery sent her a dismissive glance and then turned his attention to Oliver. “My lord. Welcome.”

  “Hello, Winston. Are you crowded today?”

  “Passable, my lord.” When Oliver stepped forward, the footman took a half step back, then stopped his retreat. Clearly the poor fellow had no idea what to do. “You’re welcome to enter, Lord Haybury,” he said, his voice shaking a bit at the edges, “but of course your … friend isn’t permitted.”

  “Fetch Mr. Raggett and allow us into the foyer, will you?” Oliver returned in the same easy tone he’d used previously.

  “I— Yes, of course.” Finally he stepped aside and let them through the door. “Please proceed no further.”

  Once the servant hurried out of the small entryway, Diane faced Oliver. “This is a very poor idea,” she said in a low voice. “They’ll never allow me inside, and you’ll lose twenty thousand pounds for being so bloody arrogant.”

  “I thought you would wish me to lose,” he returned.

  “You’ve already lost. I’m only pointing out that you would be less embarrassed if you conceded now and took me to luncheon somewhere females are allowed.”

  “Spoken like someone about to lose a wager, my dear.”

  A short, whip-thin man with silver fringing his dark, short hair stepped into the entryway. “My lord. What is this? You know you cannot—”

  “Yes, I know,” Oliver interrupted, a slight scowl drawing his brows down. “This is Lady Cameron.”

  “Ah. The Tantalus Club. Everyone’s been speaking about it today.” Raggett favored her with an assessing look. “You’re looking to take business from me, my lady.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ve been attempting to discourage her from all this,” Oliver put in, shaking his head. “You are my last hope. I thought, George, if she could see the interior of White’s and have a taste of your famous roast chicken luncheon, she would realize that a gentlemen’s club owned by a chit hasn’t a chance against White’s, or even any of the lesser clubs.”

  Oh, that was very clever of him. Appeal to the man’s pride and vanity, belittle her, and get precisely what he wanted. And she couldn’t protest his tactics or she would lose regardless of whether he succeeded or not. Neither, though, did she intend to aid him. Fixing him with an annoyed look, she stood silently and waited.

  “I’d lose half my membership if she sat down to eat here today, my lord.”

  Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “And?” he drawled in a low voice.

  Now that was something she wished she had the talent for: making a single innocuous word sound like a threat. It took her at least half a dozen syllables to accomplish that feat.

  Raggett cleared his throat. “Perhaps a tour—a swift one, as a courtesy from one club owner to another. But no dining.”

  “Very well. Lead on, Mr. Raggett.”

  Taking her hand in his, Oliver placed it over his arm and followed the proprietor into the front room. On her left, at the infamous bow window once occupied solely by Beau Brummell and his cronies, sat a group of well-dressed gentlemen. As they caught sight of her, one of them choked on his drink, a second one shot to his feet and then sat again just as quickly, and the third one spat out his mouthful of whatever it was he was eating.

  “What is the meaning of this?” an elderly man with a shock of white hair and a cane clenched in one fist growled. “Mr. Raggett, I demand an explanation!”

  Oliver took a half step sideways in what looked, oddly enough, like he was moving to protect her. “Lord Frist,” he said with a smile. “This is Lady Cameron. I insisted she tour the best of our clubs in the vain hope that she might improve hers.”

  “You will not belittle me,” she murmured in his ear, “or I will remove that which qualifies you to attend any gentlemen’s club.”

  He actually sent her a brief grin. “Though I do have to say,” he continued, moving forward again, “The Tantalus Club serves an excellent dessert.”

  That elicited some chuckles. She didn’t like it, but she supposed amusement was better than staves and pitchforks forcibly removing her from the premises. “This way, my lady,” Mr. Raggett said, gesturing her toward the next room.

  As they toured the famous club, Diane realized that the layout of The Tantalus was actually quite similar. Separate, more intimate rooms for quiet conversation, billiards, or tea and smoking, and larger rooms for dinner and general card playing. Silent footmen roamed about, seeing to every need of the patrons and toting drinks and platters of food.

  White’s, of course, didn’t have the narrow corridors on either side of the main room for unseen transport of food and servants, and she much preferred her design. And The Tantalus boasted its private apartments—which were solely to accommodate herself and Oliver, but that was beside the point.

  Oliver pointed out a few things as they walked, and one or two of them actually made a bit of sense. Considering that she’d never darkened the doorway of an English gentlemen’s club before today, she thought she’d done an outstanding job with her own version.

  And considering that this tour would not end with her eating on this club’s premises and she was therefore earning twenty thousand pounds, it was turning out to be quite an exceptional day. And that after quite an exceptional night. She wondered if she would ever be able to smell roses without thinking of Oliver, though she would never admit that to the man walking beside her.

  The kitchen was large and bustling with even more staff; clearly she would need to hire more servants as well, if attendance reached anywhere near White’s levels. As Mr. Raggett explained that the kitchen never closed and that he had three master chefs, Oliver left her side and took the proprietor’s arm.

  She had no idea what Oliver said, but she was certain that money exchanged hands—especially when Mr. Raggett bowed and went over to drag a table to one side of the kitchen. As she watched, he and a footman brought in two chairs and then set the table for luncheon.

  “This way, Diane,” Oliver said, walking over and pulling one of the chairs out for her.

  “This isn’t White’s dining room,” she protested, following him.

  “But it is White’s.”

  Somewhat amused and impressed despite her best efforts to the contrary, Diane sat. “How much did it cost you?”

  With a grin he took the seat opposite her. “Suffice it to say that this is the most expensive luncheon I have yet enjoyed.”

  While the kitchen continued to rattle and clank around them, she ate a rather plain chicken brisket and some bland meat pie. She glanced up at Oliver to find him watching her. “What?” she asked.

  He leaned over the table. “Your food is better,” he whispered.

  “And less expensive, evidently,” she returned in the same tone.

  “True, but I’ve won the wager. I hope you enjoy Shakespeare.”

  Well, she had to concede that Oliver had just performed the impossible. Nodding, Diane returned to her luncheon. The Tantalus Club would be opening its doors in another five hours. While she had no doubt that Jenny would be a perfectly serviceable hostess, it continued to irk Diane that she couldn’t be there to oversee the evening. She took a breath. “Oliver, you know this is my club�
�s second d—”

  “In exchange for my releasing you to your duties this evening,” he cut in, “you’ll owe me another night of my choosing.”

  So now he could read minds. Or more likely, he’d read her expression. She’d become better at hiding her feelings in the time since her marriage to Frederick, but Oliver had literally made a living by studying the men seated opposite him at the gaming tables of Europe. “Agreed.”

  “Good. Now finish your luncheon. I still have a few hours, and I haven’t yet decided how to spend them.” He tilted his head, gray eyes lowering to her neckline. “Though I do have an idea or two.”

  “Yes, I would imagine you do.”

  * * *

  At some things, Oliver considered himself a master of self-discipline. Refraining from drink when playing a high-stakes game, declining a wager or an entanglement when the odds were too far against him. Women, however, had always appealed more to his body than to his intellect, and he rarely denied himself.

  Except for this afternoon, apparently. Halting the horses, he signaled for the shaved-ice vendor to approach. “Two lemon ices,” he said, flipping the fellow a coin.

  “This is very … gentlemanly of you,” Diane said dubiously, taking the ices as he flicked the reins again.

  “And what were you actually going to say?” he prompted, guiding the phaeton off the Hyde Park trail and beneath a stand of oak and ash trees. “I know ‘gentlemanly’ can’t have been your first choice of word.”

  “‘Pedestrian,’” she answered, setting the ices on the seat beside her and taking the reins when he handed them over and hopped to the ground.

  Oliver tied off the horses and walked around to help her down to the grass. “Pedestrian” was likely the most accurate word for taking a lady for a drive when he could be wallowing in bed with her, but the word that had first come to his own mind had been “domestic.” And that was at least as frightening as the other one and even more troublesome.

  He wanted her again. Badly. In fact, he’d been conjuring images of pustules and drunk members of Parliament all day to keep from publicly … illustrating his desire. But at the same time he remembered last night. Physically she’d been his, and he would even venture a solid guess that she’d enjoyed the encounter. But at the same time she’d been very careful not to do or say anything that he might take as a sign that she’d forgiven him.

  And he found the idea of experiencing that aspect of their encounter again distasteful. He wanted her to want him. Which was odd, considering that if she’d been anyone else he would have thought the night’s encounter absolutely ideal. Physical pleasure with no emotional entanglement. Apparently, at some moment in the past handful of hours, he’d gone mad.

  Or perhaps it was only his male pride that wanted him to be wanted. He hoped to God that was the case. Anyway, he clearly had her confused, which at least made him feel a bit better.

  “You haven’t changed your mind about letting me see to my club, I hope,” Diane said, sitting on a stone bench beneath one of the trees.

  “I gave my word. And you gave yours.”

  “Yes, I know. The Drury Lane theater, and a night to be claimed at a later date.” She eyed him over her ice. “And you’ll make another appearance tonight at The Tantalus. Perhaps play some whist.”

  So she wanted to take the reins again. Oliver nodded. “You know, I rather enjoy the idea that even if I lose to the house, the money will go to repay your loan. I actually can’t lose, can I?”

  “That’s what Frederick used to say, several hours before he would return home with his pockets to let.”

  “I’m not Frederick.”

  “You’re not invincible, either.”

  “I never said I was. Eat your ice. I imagine you want to get back in time to select the appropriate black dress.”

  “My wardrobe makes a statement.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know. You’re mysterious. Unless you’re belaboring the point, in which case you’re being obvious.”

  Diane snorted, covering her nose with the back of her hand. “It’s a fine balance, I’ll admit. And nothing sounds mysterious when you say it so matter-of-factly.”

  The sound of her amusement made him pause in midbite. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to seeing or hearing from her; two years ago she’d been lonely and angry but definitely not amused. And since her arrival in London she’d been entirely focused on opening The Tantalus Club. “Ah. I’ll attempt to do better next time.”

  “Thank you.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, eating their ices before the treats could melt in the warm London afternoon. Truth be told, he did feel somewhat domestic in her company—at least in his interpretation of what domesticity did indeed feel like. It was an odd, content sensation, and not nearly as uncomfortable as he would have expected.

  “You mentioned holding a ladies’ night at the club,” he ventured, sending her a sideways glance. “I’m aware that you don’t want my opinion, but I do know some chits who happen to be inveterate gamblers. And they have few places to gather in numbers.”

  “I’ve been considering it,” she returned. “I think once the excitement around the club begins to fade a bit, holding a ladies’ night might be a splendid way to return everyone’s attention where I want it.”

  “Will you make it a regular event?”

  “Perhaps. Once or twice a month or so. For the most part, the money lies with the gentlemen.”

  “Very mercenary of you.”

  With a frown, she gestured with her free hand. “Observing facts is not mercenary. Do you dispute that as a rule men have a greater control and quantity of funds than do women in London?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Good. I would like to return to Adam House now, if you please.”

  “You didn’t send me an invitation to your party.”

  Oliver just refrained from jumping at the low voice close behind them. Diane flinched more noticeably, and they both turned. “And who the devil are you?” he asked.

  “I’m her husband’s brother,” the sharp-chinned fellow said, his gaze disapproving.

  “My late husband’s brother,” Diane corrected, standing. “No relation to me at all.”

  “Except that we share a last name and a title, at the moment.” With an audible sniff the fellow turned his gaze back to Oliver. “And who the devil are you?”

  “Haybury,” Oliver said. “You must be the new Earl of Cameron. I haven’t seen you about London.”

  “I haven’t been much about London. I require a brief word with my sister.”

  Even if Diane’s knuckles where she gripped the ice hadn’t been white, Oliver wasn’t much inclined to relinquish her to someone else. “Then call on her at Adam House.”

  “Diane?”

  She didn’t move. “I’m occupied at the moment, Anthony. As for your invitation, I sensed you were less than pleased at the use to which I’m putting Adam House. I didn’t think you wished to attend.”

  “I do wish to attend.”

  “Then come tonight, after nine o’clock. I’ll make certain you’re expected.”

  Cameron gave a stiff nod. “I will be there. Haybury. Diane.”

  “Anthony.”

  From the way he pushed through the shrubbery to claim a horse standing on the far side of the path, he’d obviously been stalking them. Oliver watched him for a long moment. “Your husband’s family didn’t welcome you warmly, I presume?”

  “They welcomed my dowry. I could have been a potato for all they cared otherwise.”

  “Well, my dear, suffice it to say that you are nothing like a potato. A thorn-covered rose, perhaps, but never a vegetable.”

  Her jaw twitched as she faced him. “I don’t require a compliment from you. Nor do I need your protection or your interference.”

  Oliver spread his one empty hand. “I’m not proposing an alliance. I’m merely commenting that you seem to have been improperly categorized, and I’m stating
that I don’t like the Earl of Cameron overly much based on this singular encounter.”

  Green eyes held his for a moment. “Very well, then. Shall we go?”

  He had other questions for her and several suggestions about the club, but oddly enough he wanted her to take them seriously. He actually wanted to help and not to be seen as sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Well, if he’d learned anything through an early career in wagering, it was how to bide his time.

  The moment Diane set foot in The Tantalus Club foyer, she vanished. He hadn’t expected thanks for a voluntary kidnapping, but a balloon ride and luncheon with him at White’s weren’t exactly everyday occurrences. “Langtree,” he said, nodding at the butleress before he climbed the stairs to his own apartments.

  “My lord, you have a note,” she returned, holding out a silver salver for him.

  Oliver turned around and retrieved the missive, then continued climbing. He recognized the writing—Kat Falston. With an annoyed sigh that she’d interrupted his thoughts, he opened the note. It was short and to the point. Evidently she’d grown tired of her cold bed and found another benefactor. Good. That meant Oliver didn’t have to bother with messy farewells. He cast the note into the hearth and walked into his bedchamber.

  Inside his quarters his bed had been made, his clothes from last night folded and put away, and every trace of his female visitor erased from view. The bathtub had been emptied and every stray rose petal picked up and disposed of.

  Generally he didn’t care one way or the other if some chit left behind a stocking or a hair clip. Of course generally he shared their beds rather than them sharing his; it made separating at the end of the evening—or, more rarely, in the morning—that much simpler.

  Why, then, was he looking for traces of her? “Idiot,” he muttered, and went to find a glass of whiskey. Whatever stupidity wanted to roil about in his mind, it was just that—stupidity. And he’d never gotten anything by being stupid.

  The question became figuring out what he wanted. And to begin with, that was fairly clear. The next time they shared a bed—and there would be a next time—she would want to be there, she would yearn for his touch, and she would be just as eager to touch him.