Chapter Nine

Two weeks later at half past midnight, Guy sat near the bow window at White’s, nursing a brandy. The card room was thin of players, a good excuse to relax with a drink before letting the cards perform their own manner of intoxication.

He would much rather have remained at home. He’d escorted his mother and Emily to the theatre this night and had not relished going back out after they both retired. If he did not play, however, he would not win. So here he was.

He swirled the brandy in his glass, idly watching how its spiral reflected in the light of a nearby lamp. It would have been pleasant to sit in front of a fire in his own parlour, sipping his own brandy, going off to bed at a decent hour. More pleasant than facing a stuffy card room with men whose luck and skill might exceed his own.

Even more pleasant would be to knock on his wife’s bedchamber door. Enjoy the fruits of married life, but that was too soon to contemplate.

Maybe some day he could contrive a way to woo his wife, renew that intimacy they’d only begun to explore. If he hadn’t bungled everything, that is. If he could ever risk creating an heir.

He set the brandy to spinning again, eyes fixed upon its play, like a man in a trance. It would be very pleasant to mend that particular breach with his wife. In daylight so much distance loomed between them, but perhaps through that physical act of marriage they could forge a real union with each other.

Her response to his attempts at lovemaking had been sweet, really. Touching. Hopeful.

But hope could be sucked away in an instant. Sometimes it seemed to him that catastrophe loomed in every corner of the realm, perhaps in the whole world. Corn prices kept rising, riots were reported out in the countryside. People were starving. Whenever he walked down the street desperate men begged for pennies, the same men who had fought beside him on the Peninsula and at Waterloo. No winning at cards would ever be enough to stem this tide of poverty.

He raised the glass to his mouth, tasting the amber liquid, savouring the warmth it created as he swallowed.

Cards were a respite, he had to admit. When he was deep in play, he never thought of the world’s catastrophes. Nor of his wife, his family, Annerley. He only thought of winning and losing. If he won a hand, he wanted to see how much more he could win. If he lost, he wanted to play until he reversed his luck.

It was a constant struggle to make his head control his play. To force himself to quit when ahead, to walk away when he lost. So far, he had won the struggle and had won more money than he had lost. He could credit himself with coming a long way towards saving Annerley and his family’s future.

But he had not quite completed the battle. At the next seating, would he keep his head?

‘Why, Keating!’ a man’s voice boomed from behind him. ‘That is you, by Jupiter. I thought so.’

Sir Reginald clapped him on the shoulder and plopped his portly frame in the opposite chair.

‘How do you do, Sir Reginald?’ Guy said. ‘Rare to see you here.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Sir Reginald signalled for a drink. ‘I don’t fancy White’s much at this hour. More tempting enticements in town.’

‘Indeed?’ said Guy, without true interest.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Sir Reginald nodded thanks to the footman who set a drink on the table. ‘Just came in to collect on a small debt. I’m off to Madame Bisou’s.’ He took a sip. ‘Come with me, lad.’

‘Madame Bisou’s?’ he repeated automatically.

‘Delightful place, I assure you.’ Sir Reginald gave a jovial laugh. ‘Games are honest. Women, pretty and clean, if you fancy a bit of sport.’

Honest games?

That caught his attention. He had considered venturing out to one of the gaming establishments that abounded on and around St James’s Street. He’d been afraid to risk it.

Sir Reginald sipped his drink. ‘Capital sport there, I tell you.’ He leaned forward, speaking to Guy in hushed tones. ‘There is a woman there I fancy very much. She is perfection. A piece of quality baggage. I’m about to offer her carte blanche. Called in a few vowels here to fatten my offer.’

Guy tried to sound amused. ‘She sounds like a veritable Venus. What makes you think this Madame Bisou would let her go?’

‘No. No. No.’ Sir Reginald held up his hand. ‘This one’s not in the business. No, indeed. She’s a patron. Comes to play cards, she says.’ He leaned closer. ‘She is magnificent, Keating. Figure is perfection. And she wears this mask, you see—’

‘To cover some imperfection, no doubt,’ Guy interjected.

Sir Reginald looked wounded. ‘I am sure there is not one part of her that is flawed. She just don’t want anyone to know who she is, that’s the ticket. All I need is one more run of luck and I shall have enough blunt to win her. Young blokes won’t have a chance. There’s a wager going, don’t y’know, on who beds the lady first. I intend to win it.’

Guy smiled inwardly. Just one more run of luck? Just another big win? Sir Reginald repeated words that were constantly swimming around Guy’s mind. One more round of luck and maybe Guy would win the lady, too, only the lady would be his wife.

He glanced back to the drink in his hand. If Sir Reginald’s masked lady was the object of such a wager, she was probably out of the man’s reach. Perhaps Emily was out of Guy’s reach, as well. He’d certainly done nothing to win her.

‘Come with me, Keating,’ insisted the older man. ‘One look at her and you will see what I mean.’

Guy glanced towards the game room. He’d not likely win his fortune there tonight. ‘Games are honest, you say?’

‘Depend upon it,’ Sir Reginald said.

‘Is the play deep?’

‘Deep as you like,’ assured Sir Reginald.

He shrugged. ‘Very well. As you said, things are too tame here. Perhaps I should try my luck elsewhere.’

‘Excellent. Excellent.’ Sir Reginald rose, clapping him on the shoulder again. ‘Let’s be off.’

 

Emily rushed in to Madame Bisou’s, later than usual. She’d waited until she was sure Lady Keating was asleep and her husband had departed. She hoped the card room would not be too full for her to play.

‘Evenin’, ma’am,’ the footman said.

‘Good evening, Cummings.’ She was familiar to him now, a regular customer. She handed him her cloak and rushed up the stairs.

Cyprian Sloane was walking in the opposite direction. He gave her one of his most charming smiles. ‘Why, Lady Widow, I nearly gave up on you. I was about to depart.’

She laughed at him. ‘Mr Sloane, do not say you come here only to see me.’

He stood in her way, much too close. ‘Very well,’ he purred. ‘I will not say it, for all that it is true.’

Sloane had become one of Lady Widow’s most faithful admirers, singling her out, contriving to share supper with her alone on more than one occasion. It was flattering, even amusing, to watch his rakish technique, how he drew her in and tried to cast her under his spell. For two nights he’d seemed to ignore her completely. What an excellent ploy that had been. Without even realising it, she’d found herself wanting to seek him out.

This was a mere cat-and-mouse game they played, she knew. She doubted his intent to be any more serious than her own. Although he might relish a brief liaison, she definitely would not, as she told him when he asked her to accompany him to the upper floor. Several times.

‘If I might pass, sir?’ Emily kept her voice light.

He did not move.

‘I must go, sir,’ she said, irritated at him. ‘I came to play cards. That is my passion, you know.’

He favoured her with the smile again. ‘Are you sure you would not fancy other passions? Come above stairs with me. I will show you more excitement than a hand full of trumps.’

She spoke more firmly. ‘Indeed not, sir.’

He leaned on the banister, but still took up too much space for her to get by. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Do you have some husband somewhere whose anger you fear? I assure you I am a match for any husband.’

‘I will not tell you.’ She made her voice light again. Matters went easier with him when she treated everything as a joke. ‘So don’t tease me, Mr Sloane.’

Again he leaned closer, his breath hot against her tender skin. ‘Call me Cyprian. I long to hear my name on your lips.’

She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away. The game had gone far enough for one night.

‘Mr Sloane,’ she said sternly, ‘it would not be proper to address you so familiarly.’

He gave her a pained look, one she suspected was designed to melt a woman’s resolve. ‘You wound me mortally, my lady.’

‘Gammon,’ she said.

He grinned and stepped aside so she could go in the card room. ‘Another time, perhaps?’

She tossed him an exasperated glance and hurried in to see who might play whist with her. Madame Bisou rushed up to her immediately.

‘Lady Widow,’ the woman said in her false French accent. ‘Have you brought your…friend Robert with you?’

What did the woman see in her fribble of a brother? ‘Not tonight, madame.’

The madam, dressed in a truly awful shade of purple, pushed her mouth into a moue and quickly lost interest in Lady Widow.

Several gentlemen leapt to their feet upon seeing her and begged her to play at their tables. It never ceased to amaze her. They treated her as if she were the most desirable creature in London. It was the mask, of course. It lent mystery. It also was curiously liberating. She could say and do as she pleased and no one knew who she was. No one could reproach her.

Thus far, Emily had confined her play to whist, no matter how strenuously she was urged to throw dice or turn cards at faro. Those were fools’ games, too dependent on luck, a goddess her father and husband might revere, but she did not. Luck alone was too fickle. Skill gave her a winning edge.

Ironically, Madame Bisou’s house gave her little opportunity to exercise her skill. Her counters might stack higher and higher in front of her, but the gentlemen who begged her company mostly contrived to let her win. She could tell. She’d watched their play at other tables, taking no time at all to recognise the serious players.

The women had no interest at all in playing whist with her. On the contrary, they often tossed her jealous looks when men clustered around her, acting like buffoons. These men played cards like buffoons as well, with the intent of currying her favour. Did they think she could not tell?

She supposed she ought not to complain, for her fortune grew steadily. The gamester in her protested, however.

A place was made for her at one of the tables, and she sat down with the son of a Duke, the East India man, and a much decorated naval captain. Men who had been deep in cards when she first walked in, now straightened in their seats, asked after her comfort, begged to get her a glass of wine. Lady Widow laughed at their solicitousness.

‘Let us play cards, gentlemen,’ she said.

The Duke’s son dealt. She saw Sloane enter the room. He had not decided to leave after all. After her rebuff, would he finagle a chance to play at her table or was this a night to ignore her? It would be amusing to find out.

The hands went quickly and Emily’s stack rose higher, as usual. In a fortnight, her fifty pounds had quickly ballooned into more than two thousand. How much she needed to live as an independent woman, she did not know, but it would require many more nights at Madame Bisou’s. She did not mind. Life had become rather exciting.

Even if the card games lacked excitement. After several unchallenging games, other gentlemen begged her to change tables. Her stack grew higher. When Madame Bisou announced that supper was served, Emily was almost relieved. In spite of the exhilaration of Lady Widow’s success, with any challenge lacking, she was beginning to get bored.

The East India man was the first to beg her company at supper. A glance at Cyprian Sloane showed he was not at all pleased. Emily grinned to herself. It was so easy to make a man jealous. She gave Sloane a saucy glance as she allowed the East India man to walk her to the door.

Sir Reginald appeared in the doorway, a huge grin erupting on his beefy face when he spied her. He strode towards her, another gentleman behind him.

With a face flushed red, Sir Reginald grasped her hand and kissed it. ‘Lady Widow, you are a feast for my eyes.’

Emily laughed. ‘I thought you had forgotten all about me, sir.’

‘Never. Never. You are constantly in my thoughts.’ He gave her a meaningful smile and squeezed her hand.

She pulled it away. ‘You tease me, of course.’

‘I was never more serious,’ he said, ‘But I’ve brought someone I wanted to meet you.’ He stepped aside.

Emily froze.

Her husband stood before her. He would recognise her. He must. No one else who knew her had recognised her, but surely her husband would! A loud buzzing sounded in her ears. Everything faded from her sight except her husband, handsome as always, still in the evening attire he’d worn escorting her to the theatre.

Sir Reginald gestured him come forward. ‘May I present Lord Keating to you, dear lady.’

He bowed to her. ‘My pleasure, Lady Widow.’

When he rose from his bow, he looked straight in her face, shrouded as it was by her mask and the netting of her hat.

This is the moment, she thought. He will know me. Her knees turned weak. She thought she might faint.

But no recognition flickered in his sapphire blue eyes. Guy Keating, the man she married, looked at Lady Widow the same way every man in this room had done. With definite masculine appreciation.

‘My very great pleasure.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips as Sir Reginald had done.

‘Lord Keating, is it?’ she managed to say.

He still did not recognise her. He smiled at her, that smile of unspoken invitation. She’d come to expect such smiles at Madame Bisou’s. But not from her husband.

But he thought her to be Lady Widow, did he not? Lady Widow, who dressed in daring fashions. Lady Widow, who tinted her lips and cheeks. Lady Widow, who’d become the toast of one bawdy gaming hell. Her husband smiled at Lady Widow. Not Emily. Not his wife.

‘You are going in to supper?’ The gleam remained in his eye. ‘Perhaps Sir Reginald and I might join you?’

The East India man huffed in disapproval. Emily ignored it, feeling an anger building in her so fiercely, she thought she might plant her husband a facer, pop his cork, draw some claret.

How dare he look at Lady Widow in this…this leering sort of way, when in his own home, he did not look at her at all? Is this what he was about when he went out at night? Was he jauntering through the London hells, searching for just such a creature as Lady Widow? A woman he might dally with? Goodness knows, he had no wish to dally with his wife.

Her throat constricted and a bitter taste filled her mouth. Why could he not look at Emily in that manner? Why could he not look at her? The jelly her insides had become now solidified into sharp-edged steel.

If her husband so desired Lady Widow, Lady Widow would lead him a merry dance. She would entice him and tease him. She would become everything he fancied. She would lead him to the brink and then she would push him over so hard, he would be knocked out of his senses. And when Lady Widow left him, he would know exactly what he had lost.

She leaned towards him to make sure he appreciated the low cut of the gold silk gown Hester had transformed. She lifted her hand and ran her finger slowly down his arm. He responded. His eyes darkened. Colour infused his face. His posture changed.

She smiled. ‘Your company, sir, would give me great pleasure.’

Taking his arm, she pressed her bosom into his side as she’d seen Madame Bisou do to Robert. He escorted her to the supper room, leaving Sir Reginald and the East India man to trail behind like two baby ducklings. Sloane glared at her from across the room.

 

Guy’s gaze feasted upon the woman seated across from him in the supper room, his blood coursing through his veins. She had certainly roused his senses.

When he’d seen her stride gracefully across the room, her chin had been elevated regally. Her hips swayed gently. She’d moved with the knowledge that every man in that room wanted her in bed with him.

God help him, Guy was no exception. No wonder Sir Reginald was besotted. Guy was somewhat shocked that he’d reacted so physically. Every sense in his body was aroused. Every one.

Why her? He had certainly encountered other beautiful women on occasion. What was it about this one that stirred him so?

He had an uncanny notion he ought to know her, but that was nonsense. Surely he would remember. Lady Widow, masked or unmasked, could not be a female to forget. Still, the feeling of familiarity nagged at him.

She flirted openly with him, batting her eyelashes, touching his arm, pressing her knee against his. He was not immune. No, she’d whipped him into a vortex of sexual desire the likes of which he had not known since before he’d reached his majority.

When a droplet of wine rested on her lip and she slowly licked it off with her pink tongue, he was struck again with the feeling he’d seen this before, and reacted as strongly. At least the notion distracted him from his sudden raw sexual need.

‘Why have you come to Madame Bisou’s, Lord Keating?’ she asked, music in her voice. ‘To sample her lovely girls?’

He swallowed some wine. ‘To play cards.’

‘Indeed?’ Her eyes widened from under her mask. ‘That is why I attend as well. To play.’ She paused and gave him a saucy look. ‘Play cards, that is.’ She was a seductress all right.

She swept her gaze over the other gentlemen at the table, lighting upon Sir Reginald, who puffed up like a rooster about to crow. ‘The gentlemen here are not very good players, I fear.’ Her eyes, looking golden like her dress, glittered with amusement. ‘I seem to win almost every game I play. Perhaps you wish to partner me? You will win, too.’

He took another sip of wine, a bit wary of the effect she had on him. ‘If you wish it.’

Her smile widened, and she shifted her attention to one of the other gentleman sitting with them, asking him something about trade with India.

A few minutes later, she declared supper over, and all the gentlemen rose in unison. Lucky Sir Reginald had the pleasure of escorting her back to the card room. Guy took up the rear.

He regarded her more dispassionately, an easier task with her back turned, even though that view of her was delightful as well. She flirted with him quite blatantly. Did he wish for a dalliance? Lord knew, he ached for release. Lady Widow was more temptation than his imagination could have conjured up, and he’d not lain with a woman since that night with his wife.

His wife. Emily, alone at home in bed. Always alone. And her husband could do nothing to bring enjoyment into her life, as her brother had so briefly done. Never her husband.

Lady Widow turned around, as if checking to be sure he followed her, smiling when she saw he did. Damn him, he could easily be hooked.

He blew out the breath he’d not been aware of holding. He had no intention of being unfaithful to his wife, no matter how much temptation a masked lady might be. Even if she could never discover it, his conscience would never allow him. He’d betrayed his wife enough.

Lady Widow led him to a table, directing him to be her partner and designating Sir Reginald and another man as their opponents. They all scurried to do her bidding, like bees buzzing around their queen.

She pointedly favoured Guy with her coy glances and flirtatious banter throughout the game. As she’d predicted, Sir Reginald and the other gentleman played like simpletons, putting down high trumps when low ones would do or leading with suits they knew she’d held. Lady Widow squealed becomingly at every trick she won. She grinned when the losing team pushed their counters to her side.

Guy gave Sir Reginald an amused glance. He’d watched Sir Reginald partner Emily in whist and knew the man to be a crack player. The love-struck old fool was merely tossing away money. Sir Reginald was a nodcock for letting his funds dribble through his fingers. He’d be better off playing at a high-stakes table and winning the fortune he said would entice the lady. The man could do it. He and Emily had been formidable opponents.

Sir Reginald and Emily.

Guy’s head snapped up. He stared at Lady Widow as she regarded the hand she’d just been dealt. She tapped the cards against her fingertips, then snapped the cards into place exactly like a practised gamester.

Exactly like Emily. Guy’s heart thudded in his chest. Could it be?

She looked up. He quickly averted his gaze for the moment, arranging his own hand. As the round commenced, he watched her carefully. When the cards were in play, her face held no expression. No smile, no frown, no clue to what she really thought or felt.

How many times had he seen that same lack of expression? Certainly in that game of whist more than a fortnight ago. He’d not thought about it, but, then, he’d glimpsed the same lack of expression every day when he said good morning at the breakfast sideboard.

By God, she was Emily. Lady Widow was Emily.

‘Your turn, Keating,’ Sir Reginald said.

He quickly put down a trump, winning the hand.

The game was theirs. Lady Widow’s face lit with delight. ‘Oh, thank you, Lord Keating! We have won again!’ Smiling, she leaned over the table and scooped up the counters, giving all the gentlemen a good glimpse of her décolletage. ‘Did I not tell you I always win?’

He wanted to throw his coat over her chest. This woman was nothing like his wife, but she was Emily all the same. He was very certain. ‘Indeed you did, my lady,’ he replied.

‘You must play with me some more,’ she teased, her eyes filling with mischief.

Would Emily speak so provocatively? No, she would not, but he heard the words coming from her mouth. ‘The night is merely beginning,’ he said.

She grinned wickedly at him. ‘Do you mean to say you wish to spend the whole of the night with me, Lord Keating? I assure you, sir, other gentlemen will wish their turn.’

His body lit like a rushlight touched to flame, the heat of raw carnal desire. But before he went completely up in flames, he struggled to consider that this wife of his now spoke like a skilled coquette. What games was she playing here besides whist? Nothing yet, if Sir Reginald’s tale of a wager was true.

By God, these gentlemen were wagering on bedding his wife! He had half a mind to call them all out. He had half a mind to drag her away from this place this very moment. Drag her to his bedchamber at least.

That would not answer, however, no matter how much he craved it. What was she doing here? Why was she dressed in this disguise? Why was she flirting with every man in the place—even her husband?

He’d never discover her purpose by prematurely tipping his hand. She did not know he recognised her. She believed he thought her to be Lady Widow. He could play along for a while, until he found out exactly what she was up to. And, by God, he would be here every night to make sure none of these men collected on that wager.

After winning the next game, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head and declaring she must retire for the night. All three men jumped to their feet as she rose from her chair, Guy included.

‘Now, I do not need all three of you to escort me to the door, do I?’ She swept her gaze over the three of them, letting it light on Guy longer than the others. ‘I pick…Sir Reginald!’

‘Delighted. Delighted.’ Sir Reginald nearly knocked over his chair to give her his arm.

Guy’s fingers curled into fists. By God, he didn’t care if Sir Reginald was on the far side of fifty and an old friend of his father’s, the man was asking for a duel if he led Guy’s wife to a room above stairs.

Trying to appear calm, Guy wandered over to the door a bit behind Sir Reginald and his wife. If they turned to the stairway leading above, Guy would not be far behind.

None other than Cyprian Sloane waylaid him.

‘No need to draw daggers, Keating,’ Sloane said, sounding as slippery a cad as ever. ‘She’ll allow Sir Reginald help her with her cloak and walk her to her hack. Nothing more. He’s no rival.’

What the devil was that fellow doing here? ‘Sloane,’ Guy said, pushing towards the doorway. ‘Didn’t know you were in town.’

As he reached the hallway, Sir Reginald’s voice sounded from down in the hall. Guy heard the front door open and close. Apparently Sloane had been correct. Guy bit down on a relieved sigh and leaned against the wall.

Sloane, who had followed him, eyed him curiously. Of all people, why should Sloane show up here? He’d been in Bath, and here he was again. Was this an accident? Had Emily come to meet Sloane in this place? She’d hardly given him a glance, however. Or was that because her husband had walked in the door?

‘Have a drink with me,’ Sloane said, bending his head to the supper room.

Guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. What better way to discover what kind of fast shuffle the man was playing with Guy’s wife?

The supper room was nearly empty. They sat at a secluded table where no one would overhear their conversation. Sloane ordered whisky for them both. After the pretty maid delivered it, Guy sipped and waited.

Sloane lifted his glass as if in a toast. ‘Congratulations, Keating. You seem to have won the regard of our Lady Widow. I commend you.’

Guy gave Sloane a shrug. ‘What concern is this of yours?’

‘I lay claim to her. I saw her first.’ Sloane’s voice dropped into a more menacing tone. ‘Consider yourself informed.’

‘Indeed?’ Guy kept his cards close to his chest, but he certainly did so with effort. ‘She has your carte blanche?’

Sloane did not break off his gaze, but Guy perceived a fleeting look of uncertainty there. ‘Not quite.’ Sloane paused before continuing, ‘She’s a wily creature, Keating. Not an easy win. I intend to be the first to bed her, however.’

Guy nearly rose from his chair to plant his fist in Sloane’s face. With difficulty he adopted a calm demeanour. Could Sloane indeed not know he was speaking of bedding Guy’s wife?

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Guy asked casually.

Sloane took a swig of his drink. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘Maybe to make the game more challenging. No cards hidden.’

‘The game?’

Sloane smiled. ‘The game of who wins the lady. Have you put your wager in the betting book? Stakes are at four thousand, I believe.’

Guy’s fingers squeezed the glass in his hand. This was his wife Sloane spoke of! His wife the men had bet on! He silently fought for control. They could not know Lady Widow was his wife. Even a man like Sloane would not speak in this manner to a husband of his wife.

Guy believed he discovered the gentlemen’s interest in Lady Widow, but he still did not know why Emily engaged in this masquerade. He’d discover nothing if he unleashed his temper. ‘Who the devil is she, anyway?’ he asked instead.

Sloane’s brows rose. ‘No one knows. Makes the game more interesting. The winner removes the mask!’

Guy let that one pass.

Sloane glared at him. ‘The point is, Keating, I claim her. I aim to win. Do not waste your money on this wager. She’s mine.’

No, Guy thought. She’s mine.

The air vibrated with tension. The two men stared each other down, like two Captain Sharps, each daring the other to accuse him of playing a dirty game.

Guy figuratively threw in a stack of coins. ‘Seems to me the lady decides,’ he said. ‘You play your cards, Sloane, and I’ll play mine. We’ll see whose hand wins the lady.’

Guy would play his hand, yes, indeed. He’d return to Madame Bisou’s, every night if necessary, until he discovered why his wife came there in a mask, flirting like a demi-rep. He’d return to make certain Sloane failed in his plan to entice Lady Widow into his bed. He’d return to make sure all of them failed.

No one would bed Lady Widow. No one save her husband.