The Wagering Widow

by Diane Gaston

  ‘Oh, famously well, darling.’ She gave Sloane a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes, before turning back to her daughter. ‘Emily, be a dear and have Sutton bring our guest some refreshment. I believe your father has some very nice sherry put away.’

  She crossed the room to the bell cord and a moment later met Sutton in the doorway to give her mother’s instructions.

  ‘I must not stay so long, my lady,’ Sloane said, his glance sliding to Emily as she returned to her chair. ‘My errand was with your husband, after all, and I would not intrude upon your visit with your daughter.’

  Her mother flung out her hand as if to stop any attempt to flee. ‘Oh, nonsense. You must have a glass of sherry with us. I insist upon it.’ She made room for him to sit next to her on the sofa.

  He laughed. ‘I never could resist the entreaty of a beautiful lady.’ He sat down.

  Emily gave an inward groan.

  After Sutton delivered and poured the sherry, Emily asserted herself to break into the bantering between her mother and Sloane. ‘Mother, we are bound for London in two days’ time. I came to inform you.’

  ‘London!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘Oh, I envy you. How naughty of you to leave me when I am in such need of diversion.’

  As if her mother had given her daughter’s presence in Bath a moment’s thought. Since Emily’s marriage, her mother had not once called upon her.

  ‘I believe my husband’s affairs require it.’ One way of describing a flight from creditors.

  ‘Oh, that is right,’ chirped her mother, acting as if she’d forgotten all about her daughter’s marriage. ‘Where is that handsome husband of yours?’

  Sloane’s eyebrows rose in anticipation of her answer.

  ‘He has much to do to get ready.’ Another half-truth, though her husband had been very busy cramming in as much card playing and who-knew-what-else as he could.

  ‘Bath will be much duller without your presence, Lady Keating,’ Sloane said, his voice silky.

  Her mother tapped his thigh with her fingers. ‘Oh, we shall contrive to stir up some excitement, will we not?’

  He laughed, carefully placing her hand back upon her own person. ‘Lady Duprey, you must not say such things. Your daughter will get the wrong notion of my visit.’

  Emily’s lips thinned.

  Sloane inclined his head towards her. ‘See, she looks at me very disapprovingly.’

  Was he mocking her? Emily could not tell. In any event, he made her difficult interview with her mother much worse.

  ‘I must not stay, Mama.’ She stood and placed her nearly full glass on the table next to her mother’s empty one. ‘There are many preparations to be made.’

  Emily had assumed the task of arranging the household’s transfer to London. It kept her busy and relieved her mother-in-law of a tedious chore, though she expected no thanks from that quarter.

  ‘Wait,’ her mother said, again flinging out a hand. ‘You may perform a task for me.’

  She sat again. ‘Certainly, Mama. What is it?’ Likely something troublesome, and something she would rather not do.

  ‘Take a trunk back to London for me.’ Her mother used a tone of voice as if talking to a servant. For some odd reason, it irritated Emily that Sloane witnessed it.

  ‘A trunk?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mother nodded. ‘A trunk of old dresses. I do not know why Shelty packed them. They are hopelessly out of fashion. All from last year.’

  Emily stole a look at Sloane. He caught her, and a smile slid across his face.

  She quickly looked back to her mother. ‘Perhaps Shelty expected you to give them to her.’ It was the custom, after all. A way for Shelty to make a little money on the side by selling them.

  ‘She has no need of them, I assure you,’ her mother shot back. ‘Besides, they might be altered. Who knows what fashions will be the rage next year?’

  Emily had a fair idea of how many boxes and trunks the Keatings needed to transport to London. ‘I am not sure if—’

  ‘You must take them,’ her mother wailed. ‘I am tripping over that trunk every time I take a step. I threatened to make Kirby store it in her own room.’

  Emily sighed. She knew better than to oppose whatever her mother wanted. There would be no peace if she did not acquiesce.

  ‘Very well,’ she said in sinking tones. ‘Have Sutton send it over not later than the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you tell him before you leave?’ her mother pleaded.

  She sighed again. ‘Certainly.’ Rising from her chair, she said, ‘I really must leave.’

  ‘Oh, if you must.’ Smiling, her mother gave a sideways glance to Sloane, who also rose.

  ‘And, dear lady, I must depart as well.’ He took her hand and blew a kiss over it. ‘I have left my card for Lord Duprey.’ He turned to Emily, an amused expression in his eyes. ‘May I escort you home, Lady Keating?’

  ‘It…it is not necessary, I assure you, sir,’ she stammered.

  He smiled like a cat who’d got into the cream. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  The walk back to Thomas Street seemed inordinately long to Emily, though Sloane behaved like a gentleman and spoke to her in the most proper of ways. They finally reached her door.

  ‘Well, thank you, sir,’ she said with nothing more than politeness.

  ‘As I anticipated—’ he grinned ‘—it was my pleasure.’

  She opened the door and entered, feeling like she’d narrowly escaped getting tangled in a snare. Before she closed the door, he said, ‘My regards to your husband.’

  She hurried inside.

  Sloane paused a moment before proceeding on his way. He smiled to himself. The new Lady Keating. It was amusing to rattle her, to see what cracks he could make in that armour of perfect primness.

  Well, it was of no consequence. Now that she was off to London he must give up that mild amusement. How grim. Bath society had been thin enough that she had once been an attraction.

  As he strolled down towards Union Street, he wondered if Baron Duprey would make good his gambling debt, the sole reason Sloane had made this call. He suspected not. Shocking when a gentleman shirked a debt of honour. If one wanted to sink low in society’s eyes it was much more enjoyable to be known as a rakehell. That sort of dishonour earned a man some respect.

  Chapter Six

  When Emily stepped into the hall of the Keating London townhouse, she was unprepared for such a fashionable residence. Tucked into the corner of Essex Court, it was a few doors from the grand Spencer House, tiny in comparison, but perfectly large enough to accommodate them all in some style.

  The journey had been tedious. Poor Miss Nuthall had complained of every bump and jolt, which Lady Pipham immediately countered as trifling. Lady Keating had much to remark upon about the countryside, about who might be in London and what entertainments they might find there. Her remarks were not directed to her daughter-in-law, however. Emily spent most of the trip looking out of the window. She’d found herself wishing she were outside the carriage, riding on horseback, like her husband, though she was merely a passable horsewoman.

  The housekeeper and a footman rushed to greet them all, receiving a barrage of instructions from the elder Lady Keating while assisting in the removal of hats, gloves and outer garments. Guy had remained in the street, watching for the coach carrying the baggage, the ladies’ maids, and a still sniffling and coughing Bleasby.

  Emily examined the surroundings. The hall was bright with white flagstone floors and marble staircase, pale grey walls, plaster mouldings with gilt trim. A white marble statue of some Greek god gave the entrance its focal point.

  A beautiful entranceway, like the interior of a small Greek temple, but perhaps a bit old fashioned. It wanted colour, she thought.

  Lady Keating gave the footman, whom she called Rogers, three different instructions at once, and the man bowed and hurried out of the door to do one of them. The housekeeper became disengaged from her ladyship for the moment
, and Emily took the opportunity to introduce herself.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said to the somewhat flustered woman. ‘I am Lady Keating, Lord Keating’s wife.’

  The woman clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Goodness,’ she said, belatedly remembering to curtsy. ‘We did hear his young lordship had married. I am Mrs Wilson. I did not realise who you were, ma’am. I beg pardon.’

  What had the housekeeper expected? A more beautiful lady? Or had she merely thought the new Lady Keating would be introduced by the Dowager? That, of course, had not happened.

  Emily extended her hand. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs Wilson.’

  Mrs Wilson clasped it briefly and curtsied again. ‘Do you have any instructions, ma’am? I had planned for dinner at seven, because her ladyship always likes it that way. I hope it is to your liking. Do you wish to approve the menu first?’

  Emily was lady of the house. She had quite forgotten. Apparently her mother-in-law had forgotten, too, since that lady was busy directing everything and everybody, though merely adding to the confusion.

  She smiled at the housekeeper. ‘I’m sure whatever Lady Keating likes will be quite acceptable to me. She is so used to making the decisions, is she not?’

  Mrs Wilson looked relieved. ‘Yes, my lady. She’s been mistress of the house a long time, but I cannot say she likes making the decisions.’

  Guy strode in. ‘The baggage has arrived.’ He saw the housekeeper, who curtsied once again. ‘Good day, Mrs Wilson. Would you be so good as to supervise?’

  Bleasby was ushered in on the arms of the maids, protesting all the while he did not need their help and should not enter the front door, but he was clearly in no position to direct the bags, boxes, trunks and portmanteaux. Guy firmly insisted he retire for the rest of the day, also directing Mrs Wilson to have Bleasby served hot broth and whatever else he might request.

  The Dowager Lady Keating and the aunts climbed the staircase to the first floor, Lady Keating tossing instructions to Mrs Wilson to bring some refreshment.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the housekeeper called back. She turned to Emily with a panicked look.

  Emily took her aside. ‘Ask the footman—Rogers, is that his name?—to take care of the baggage, then have the cook prepare Lady Keating’s refreshment. It will take Mr Bleasby a bit to settle in. You may discover his needs later.’

  Mrs Wilson smiled gratefully and started to rush away. She stopped, turning back to Emily. ‘The bedrooms are prepared as Mr Guy…I mean Lord Keating’s letter instructed. Do you require anything else, my lady?’

  She had required nothing at all to this point. ‘No, indeed. I am well satisfied.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mrs Wilson curtsied and hurried away.

  The hall suddenly quieted. Emily stood at its centre, none too certain where to go.

  Her husband spoke from behind her. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  He startled her and she forgot to be annoyed at his typical salutation. ‘For what, sir?’

  The corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. ‘For bringing some order to the chaos.’

  She tried to think of what she had done. Nothing of consequence.

  They were alone and they stood for a moment without speaking.

  He finally said, ‘Would you care to retire to the drawing room? Or do you wish to refresh yourself in your bedchamber?’

  She knew where neither of those rooms could be found. ‘Wherever you wish.’

  He stepped towards her. ‘My apologies for the commotion. It was hardly a fit introduction to your home.’

  Her home? It did not feel as if she would ever belong here. ‘There is no need to apologise.’

  He made no effort to look at her, but said, ‘Perhaps tomorrow you can properly meet the servants.’

  It seemed to her as if he were merely being polite, saying words he was expected to say.

  ‘I hope you had a pleasant journey,’ he added.

  She clamped down a desire to tell him exactly how unpleasant it was. ‘Very pleasant,’ she said instead.

  His eyes still slightly averted, he offered his arm. With a hesitation she accepted it. He escorted her up the stairs. ‘Do you join my mother in the drawing room, then?’

  Emily did not think she could endure a moment more of her mother-in-law’s company. Not after that interminable coach ride.

  ‘Do you mind very much if I refresh myself in my bedchamber first?’

  ‘Not at all, my dear,’ he said. ‘I will show you where it is.’

  She forced a smile. Of course it made no difference to him what she did. ‘Thank you.’

  He left her very quickly at the bedchamber door, before she could ask where to find the drawing room. This was not some sprawling country house, she thought. She doubted she would have to wander too far.

  Hester, her maid, was already in the room, busy unpacking her trunk. The girl looked up, face flushed with excitement. ‘Good afternoon, my lady,’ she said. ‘I cannot believe I am back in London.’

  At least someone besides her mother-in-law was happy about the change in locations. ‘I expect you will be eager for a visit to Chelsea to see your mama.’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am.’ The girl grinned.

  ‘Then we shall have to contrive a day off for you as soon as possible.’

  Hester’s eyes grew larger. ‘Oh, thank you, ma’am. My aunt—Miss Kirby, I mean—said I was not to ask you and I wasn’t meaning to. Not at all.’

  Emily gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Indeed, you did not ask me. I offered.’

  Hester grinned. ‘You are so kind.’ She darted around the trunk to put clothes in the tall mahogany chest of drawers against the wall. Another pleasant room, Emily noticed. Except the carpet was worn of its nap in places, and the curtains looked frayed.

  The footman appeared in the doorway with a trunk hoisted on his shoulder. ‘Where shall I put this, my lady?’

  It was her mother’s trunk.

  She looked about the room. ‘Perhaps we can tuck it in the corner out of the way.’

  ‘There’s a small dressing room over here where it might fit.’ Hester skipped over to a door and opened it.

  On the other side was not a dressing room, but another bedchamber. No lamp burned there, but a large trunk and portmanteau stood in the centre of the room. Her husband’s, undoubtedly. No one was tending to his unpacking.

  She’d not had time to consider, but should he not have a valet? Bleasby helped him on occasion in Bath, and she’d not thought to question it, except to fear the family expected too much of the elderly servant. Here in London, however, it seemed odd indeed for a gentleman to be without a valet.

  The footman noisily shifted the trunk.

  ‘Gracious,’ said Hester. ‘It is the other door.’ She danced around to a door on the opposite wall that indeed opened to reveal a small dressing room.

  ‘That will be an excellent place for the trunk,’ Emily agreed. The footman placed it in the little room.

  Hester quickly pushed it to the best corner of the dressing room. Emily envied her maid’s energy and enthusiasm. She was glad to have rescued the girl from her father’s household. Indeed, now she could not fathom how to cope without sweet Hester. The maid was so grateful to her, it was almost like having someone on one’s side.

  Indeed, it was difficult at times to keep the energetic maid busy.

  Emily glanced into her husband’s room. ‘Hester, I suspect Bleasby would have unpacked Lord Keating’s belongings had he been well. Would you mind doing so? It should not be too difficult.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. I would be happy to do so.’ Hester grinned again and said with a sigh, ‘His lordship is a very nice gentleman.’

  At least his lordship did not grope young maids or try to get them into bed as her father did. That was one thing to her husband’s credit.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He is a nice gentleman.’

  Emily sat at the mirrored dressing table and fussed with her hair, tuckin
g away tendrils that had come loose during the journey. She’d wait until the dinner hour to change her dress, though a change of clothing was a tempting excuse to delay her appearance in the drawing room, but soon she rose and made her way to the first floor. Her husband was ascending the stairs at the same time.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear. Shall we go in together?’ he said.

  My dear, again. She almost lost patience. ‘I had thought you already there.’

  ‘I decided to see how Bleasby goes on.’ He waited for her.

  How kind of him. Sometimes she hated being reminded of his kindnesses. It made her feel like weeping. ‘How does he fare?’

  He offered his arm, another kind gesture. ‘He is quite fagged, but no more than that, I think.’

  It felt almost companionable.

  They turned to the first room on that floor and he opened the door, stepping aside to let her pass.

  Her mother-in-law rose at their entrance, but looked beyond her daughter-in-law. ‘Guy, dearest, where have you been? You have not yet told me how your journey was.’ She presented her cheek for him to kiss and gave him no chance to respond. ‘Ours was uneventful.’

  ‘I’m a mass of bruises, I’m sure,’ said Miss Nuthall. ‘That hired vehicle was not well sprung at all.’

  ‘I thought it most comfortable,’ murmured Lady Pipham.

  Guy left Emily’s side to greet his aunts. ‘I am sorry it gave you pain.’

  ‘It did not give me pain,’ Lady Pipham said.

  Miss Nuthall tossed her sister a scathing glance. ‘I cannot see how anyone could tolerate being jostled about like mail-coach baggage. Why could we not ride in one of the Keating carriages?’

  Guy darted a quick look at Emily. ‘They are at Annerley, Aunt Dorrie.’

  Emily watched her husband more closely. Why look guilty about carriages? The coaches were very likely to be let to the tenants. Why not just say so?

  He tucked his aunt’s shawl more snugly around her, and fondly patted her back. Another kind gesture.

  He looked back at her again and this time she quickly averted her eyes. ‘Did you have a difficult ride as well, my dear?’