Chapter Thirteen

After spending almost the entire afternoon together, Lord and Lady Devlin persuaded Emily and Guy to come to dinner that evening, Guy’s mother and the aunts included.

The evening was a very cordial one. Heronvale was a generous host, his wife a warm and welcoming hostess. Steele and Guy had much in common, and Emily and Lady Devlin were inseparable.

When it came time to leave, Heronvale insisted upon ordering his carriage for them. During the ride home, Emily was very quiet. Aunt Dorrie rattled on about how well sprung the Heronvale carriage was, how delightful the company had been, and how delicious the food. For once Aunt Pip agreed with every word. His mother repeatedly reminded them she was the Marchioness’s mother’s dearest friend.

For once his family was entirely in good spirits. Guy’s heart felt light. He’d wished for this, worked for it, faced the gaming tables for it. He wanted them all to be happy.

While the three elder ladies were busily trying to out-chatter each other, he leaned to his wife’s ear. ‘It was a pleasant evening, was it not?’

She turned, a startled expression on her face. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice tightening. ‘Yes, it was.’

His spirits dipped. None of his wife’s happiness lay at his door.

When they were finally at home, Bleasby was there to greet them. His mother and great-aunts entered the townhouse still clucking like chickens in a coop. Bleasby hurried to assist the ladies with their cloaks, his wrinkled face looking even more sunken than usual.

‘Bleasby, what the devil are you doing up at this hour?’ Guy asked. ‘Where is Rogers?’

Arms piled with cloaks, Bleasby replied, ‘I felt it my duty—’

‘Duty—!’ Guy began, but his wife interrupted him.

‘Thank you, Bleasby,’ she said kindly. ‘It was good of you to take such care of us. You will retire now, will you not? And ask Rogers to take over?’

Bleasby bowed. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

Guy stopped his wife in the act of removing her own cloak, assisting her himself. ‘Thank you, Emily,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘That was much better said.’

She gaped at him with wide eyes. Her eyes looked grey this evening, he noticed, but he’d recalled them looking amber under Lady Widow’s mask. Was her eye colour as mysterious as the rest of her, changing with her costume?

His hands lingered on her shoulders. He liked the air of mystery about her. It was frustrating, to be sure, but it also spawned more pleasurable senses.

Rogers rushed into the hall, a worried look on his face. ‘Beg pardon, my lord,’ he said in Guy’s direction. ‘Meant to be here before Mr Bleasby.’ He quickly relieved Bleasby of the cloaks and waited for Guy to hand him Emily’s.

Bleasby bowed and turned to leave, but stopped. ‘I quite forgot, my lord. A note was delivered for you, and I was requested to put it into your hands tonight.’

He crossed to the marble-topped table and picked up a sealed paper from the silver tray.

Guy threw Emily’s cloak on the pile in Rogers’s arms, and took the note. He broke open the seal and read:

His heart accelerated. Midnight? It was nearly midnight now. He read the note again and barely attended the goodnights of his mother and great-aunts as they started up the stairs to their rooms.

‘Is it bad news?’

His head shot up. His wife stood before him, looking almost concerned. He smiled reassuringly. ‘No, not bad news at all. I…I must go out again, however.’

Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Very well,’ she said impassively. ‘I will bid you goodnight.’

She turned and quickly ascended the stairs. He watched her, wishing he could tell her the whole, and worrying that she would attempt to go out in the night herself as Lady Widow when he would be unable to watch over her. A private parlour meant serious play indeed, and his attention would be commanded by the game. In spite of his concern for his wife and the bevy of gentlemen who’d wagered on bedding her, a thrill shot through him. This game would test his skill, nerve and luck to their very limits.

He ought to pen a note declining the invitation. Playing this sort of high-stakes game was a rash and ill-conceived idea, but still his blood burned to test himself in such deep waters, the same blood that had flowed through his father and his brother. That reaction alone should warn him to beg off, but could he afford to pass up this opportunity? The night before, those gentlemen had dropped five thousand pounds without a blink of an eye. How much more were they willing to lose?

Rogers stood waiting for his coat and hat.

‘I’m going out again, Rogers. I beg you not to wait for me. I will be late.’

He ran into the library and removed from his locked drawer the envelope of banknotes he’d intended to send to Annerley. Stuffing it into the pocket of his coat, he hurried back out into the night, already late and hoping the players had not found another to take his place.

From the first-floor landing, Emily watched her husband rush out of the door.

Only a card game could be so important, she suspected. A note from Lady Widow might be treated as highly, but, of course, Lady Widow had not penned that note.

She gripped the banister before spinning around to climb above stairs to her bedchamber. She had all but decided to stay home this night, content after her lovely long visit with her sister, but if her husband could end such an evening with cards, so could she.

She’d have Hester help her don Lady Widow’s costume and she would stay out just as late as her husband, if she chose.

When Emily entered the game room at Madame Bisou’s, several gentlemen turned welcoming faces her way. Several, but not her husband. Holding her head erect, chin up, she smiled Lady Widow’s smile and glided across the room with more feminine grace than she would employ as her other self.

No, her husband was not present. Nor was Cyprian Sloane, for that matter, but that was of no consequence.

Also absent were the two gentlemen who had played cards with Sloane and Guy the previous night, but that might be mere coincidence. Who was to say those men had not gone elsewhere to play?

She barely reached the centre of the room before Sir Reginald rushed up to her, grabbing her hand. Oh, dear, she must endure another wet kiss.

‘My dear lady, how good to see you this night,’ he said, planting his lips upon the back of her hand as moistly as she’d feared. ‘I do beg you to play at my table. Shall I order you some champagne, or do you prefer something else?’

She gave him Lady Widow’s smile. ‘Champagne, of course.’

She might as well play cards with Sir Reginald as with any of the others, but she would wager none of them would provide the stimulation she’d experienced playing whist with her husband. He was a true gamester.

She allowed the older gentleman to lead her to a chair. Sir Reginald waved at one of the serving girls, who did not hurry to leave the side of the gentleman so blatantly ogling her cleavage. The East India man and the Duke’s son appeared at the table, begging to play.

Madame Bisou wandered over. ‘We have your company again this night, Lady Widow,’ she said, adjusting the ribbons of a particularly atrocious salmon-coloured dress. The matching plumes in her flame-red hair bobbed with every word she spoke. ‘You have been excellent for business, I must say, but may I inquire if your friend Robert is…?’ Her brows rose hopefully.

‘Not tonight,’ Emily told her with sympathy. This tendre for her brother taxed Emily’s ability to refrain from a fit of giggles.

Would it not be delightful to share the tale with her sister and have a good laugh together? But what might Madeleine say about her scandalous masquerade?

‘If I see him, madame, I will convey your regards.’

Madame Bisou cheered a little at her words. Emily knew the madame would, in due time, select another gentleman and disappear with him above stairs.

Emily turned her attention to the game of whist she was about to play. By the time the first game had come to a close, she discovered a slight difference in the quality of the play. The East India man and the Duke’s son seemed bent upon a win, but as the rounds continued, their card-playing skills deteriorated and ultimately she won the game. It was as if they’d attempted to deal from both the top and the bottom of the deck, wanting to give her the challenge her husband had shown her the previous night, but not daring to take it so far as to give her a loss. What did they fear if they won? That Lady Widow would not pay her debt? That she would turn to other partners? That she would search for another gaming hell?

The gamester in her hated that her skills were not further tested as they’d been the night before. The practical side simply counted her money at the end of the night.

When supper was announced, she permitted Sir Reginald to escort her. The East India man and the Duke’s son stuck with them like porridge on a spoon. They’d all seemed perfectly content to pass their losses on to her.

When the East India man brought her a plate and seated himself close to her, she casually moved her chair before commenting upon the excellent selections he had made. After a few minutes more of watching the door, she could stand it no longer.

‘I notice Mr Sloane and Lord Keating are not present this evening.’ She gave a coy smile. ‘Have I lost two of my most ardent admirers?’

‘No, indeed,’ blurted the Duke’s son. ‘They remain in the game.’

‘Remain in the game?’ She blinked at him, truly not comprehending.

Sir Reginald quickly interjected, ‘He means they are engaged in a private party.’

Her amused expression almost fled. The only private parties she knew to take place at Madame Bisou’s were between men and women. If her husband had another assignation besides his precious Lady Widow, how would she abide it?

With great difficulty, she feigned a knowing smile. ‘I see. They have abandoned me for the favours of some other ladies. I am desolated.’

‘Not so,’ said the East India Man, who tended towards pragmatical speech. ‘They bespoke a parlour for a private whist game. Been at it since half past midnight.’

‘That is what I mean,’ she responded. The man’s explanation still did not inform her there were no women present. ‘I am certain they must play more than whist, or why be private?’

‘I assure you,’ the East India man went on, ‘it is a card game. A deadly serious one. The two gentlemen who lost to them last night challenged them to another match. They wanted no distractions.’

She knew it. The gentlemen who had been so seemingly unconcerned about dropping a small fortune the night before were bent on revenge. They would ruin Guy. How foolish could he be? Unlike her father, why could her husband not be content with one big win? Why did men forever have to go back to lose it all again?

She paid particular attention to a small square of cake on her plate, picking at it with her fork, hoping she’d disguised her utter fury at her husband’s foolishness.

After supper, she played another two games, but had great difficulty paying attention. Sir Reginald and the Duke’s son almost took the game, and at the end, she forgot to call honours, until Sir Reginald pointed it out to her.

Guy and Sloane still had not appeared from their private room. Surely they would stop in the card room when the play was finished.

It was late, later than she usually stayed. She must leave.

When she was riding home in the hack, it occurred to her that Guy might have finished earlier and might at this moment be home. If so, would he be waiting for her? Would he catch her in the act of playing Lady Widow?

But he was not at home. When Hester let her into the house, commenting that she’d worried because her ladyship was so late, she confirmed that Lord Keating had not returned. Emily climbed the servants’ narrow staircase to her room and changed out of Lady Widow’s costume, donning her own nightdress. She crawled into her bed and wrapped herself in the blanket, warming her feet next to the hot brick Hester had placed there for her. She lay awake as the minutes ticked by. He did not return.

At dawn she fell asleep. At ten o’clock she woke with a start. Climbing hurriedly out of bed, she rushed over to the door connecting her room with her husband’s. Pressing her ear against the wood, she could hear nothing. She carefully turned the knob and pulled. It was not locked. She opened the door and peeked into his room. It was empty.

Next to the wardrobe, his boots stood at attention like soldiers. His bed was neat as a pin. He had not set foot in this room since dressing for dinner. Her heart raced so fast she thought she could hear the blood rushing through her brain.

Had some danger befallen him? Had he been set upon by footpads? Or had there been a dispute over the cards and duels challenged? Did he lay dying on some grassy knoll somewhere, some corner of Hyde Park, his life’s blood flowing into the thirsty earth? She compressed her lips into a grim line.

Or had he lost so catastrophically that he had shot himself, like his brother? Her hand flew to her mouth, and her breath came quicker. She paced the room, trying to calm herself.

It was possible he had won. Perhaps he was celebrating. She stopped pacing and narrowed her eyes. When the big winners celebrated at Madame Bisou’s, the girls she employed flocked around them, sometimes throwing their arms around the men’s necks and kissing them on the mouth.

At least he would be alive, if that were the case. She would prefer he be alive, even if the one way she could imagine it made her murderously angry—or jealous, she could not decide which.

She strode back into her own room and shut the door before summoning Hester to help her dress.

‘Oh, my lady,’ Hester said, her eyes round as full moons. ‘Mr Rogers says his lordship did not return home all the night!’

Of course the servants would know. ‘Yes, Hester, I realised that as well. I do hope no one spoke of this to Lord Keating’s mother or to his aunts.’

‘I do not think so, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Mr Bleasby said we was to keep mum until he spoke to you.’

At least that was fortunate.

‘He did right.’ Emily forced a smile and squeezed Hester’s wringing hands. ‘I am sure Lord Keating was merely…detained. Unavoidably, I am certain, but we must save the Dowager and her aunts any distress.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the girl without conviction.

‘Let us dress me quickly,’ she went on.

A few minutes later she hurried down the stairs. When she reached the first floor, her mother-in-law stepped into the hallway.

‘You have developed a habit of sleeping late,’ the Dowager said by way of morning greeting.

Emily clutched the banister to stop herself. She took a deep breath. ‘Good morning, Lady Keating. Did you have need of me?’

‘No,’ she said in a desultory tone. ‘But I have not seen my son this morning either, and I had cause to wonder…’

Wonder what? Emily silently asked. Wonder if your son and his wife had slept late together?

‘I believe Guy went out quite early,’ she said. Which, she persuaded herself, was not a lie. He’d gone out when the clock marked the new day. ‘Did you have need of him?’

‘No,’ her mother-in-law said. ‘I merely wondered.’

‘If you do not object, ma’am, I will take leave of you.’ She took a step down the stairs.

‘Where are you bound?’

Emily stopped again. ‘To speak with Mrs Wilson and Bleasby. To…to check the arrangements for the day. That is all.’

‘I see,’ the elder Lady Keating said, turning away and walking back into the parlour.

Emily expelled a relieved breath and hurried to find Bleasby. He was at the silver closet, a worried frown on his face while he counted the silver and polished odd pieces.

When he saw her he said, ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ and gave her his usual bow. ‘I have no wish to distress you, but Master Guy—I mean, Lord Keating—did not return…’ He could not finish.

She placed her hand on his arm. ‘I know, Bleasby. But you are not to worry. It is due to that note he received, you see.’ That might be true, she thought. ‘Please spread the word to the other servants. Tell them to say nothing that distresses Lady Keating or her aunts.’

‘I have done so, ma’am, but, if you must know, Mr Guy does not do such things. I am certain a mischief has befallen him.’ His eyes were filled with worry.

Poor Bleasby. It would not do for him to become ill over this. ‘Perhaps you can send Rogers out to ask some discreet questions. If there is bad news, there will be talk of it.’ She tried to give him an ironic smile. ‘In fact, if there were bad news, we should have heard by now. It is always the way.’

Not always. Not if he were lying in some alley with a stab wound or some such, but she must not think so.

‘Very good, ma’am.’

The idea of sending Rogers out appealed to her, too. Perhaps he could discover something.

Where was Guy? Was he all right? Her heart started pounding all over again.

Rogers returned with nary a word. He’d inquired at all the gentlemen’s clubs and some of the shops. No one seemed to have seen Lord Keating.

When dinnertime came and Guy still had not come home, Emily felt near frantic. She assumed her most placid façade and endured the constant comments and questions from the Dowager and Lady Pipham and Miss Nuthall. She invented a fictitious note that she’d received saying Guy would not be home for dinner and would be out until very late.

Because they had received no invitation for the evening, Emily expected to endure more of the same comments throughout the evening.

After dinner Bleasby asked to have a word with her. She excused herself from the other ladies.

Bleasby looked as if he’d aged another ten years, though that seemed hardly possible.

He spoke in a low tone, leaning close to her. ‘I confess, I am sick with worry, my lady. It is not like Master Guy to do such a thing.’ She did not correct him for forgetting his master’s title. ‘His father or brother might stay out for days playing cards, but not Master Guy.’

She shared every bit of Bleasby’s worry. It was, she agreed, not like him at all.

Which was why her mind conceived disaster after disaster. She’d even wondered if he’d been conscripted, taken off to sea, sold into slavery. Could it really be something so simple as a card game?

When the other ladies of the household finally retired for the night, Emily hurried Hester to dress her as Lady Widow. She was ready so early she had to wait for Hester’s brother to drive up with the hackney coach.

When she arrived at Madame Bisou’s, she rushed inside, remembering, in time, to appear as if she were the serene Lady Widow.

‘Good evening, Cummings,’ she said to the footman.

‘Evening, my lady,’ he responded in a voice that was always two octaves lower than anyone else’s.

She did not usually engage the large man in conversation. ‘What is it like inside tonight?’ she asked. ‘Who is playing cards?’

She hoped that was question enough for him to tell her what she wished to know.

‘The usual sort,’ he replied.

She abandoned the art of subtlety. ‘Are Lord Keating and Mr Sloane still playing whist?’

‘No, my lady.’

Her fledgling hopes were cast down to the depths. Visions of Guy bleeding in some alley returned. She handed Cummings her cloak and, with a step as leaden as her heart, climbed the stairway to the first floor.

When she reached the top step, a gentleman staggered out of the supper room, almost careening into her. His neckcloth was askew, his coat unbuttoned, his waistcoat stained. His face bore more than a shadow of beard and his hair stood on end.

It was her husband.