The Wagering Widow

by Diane Gaston

  ‘Not a proper place, Em,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, do not be a gudgeon. I won, Robert,’ she cried, shaking him with her excitement. ‘I more than tripled my money!’

  He curled up to escape her revelry.

  She ignored him. ‘Will you come with me again? I think I can slip out tomorrow evening after the others are asleep.’

  ‘Won’t do it,’ he said.

  She pursed her lips and glared at him. What did it matter? She didn’t need him. She would go alone.

  When the hack left her off at Essex Court, she made the arrangements with the driver to pick her up the following night at the place they had agreed upon. She would sneak down the servants’ staircase and cross the mews.

  Emily leaned in the coach window. ‘Thank you, Robert,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t like it, Emily,’ he responded, his voice gloomy.

  The coach pulled away.

  Rogers must have been watching for her, because he opened the door as soon as she walked up to it. She made her way up the stairs as quietly as she could. When she reached her bedchamber, the door to her husband’s room opened.

  She jumped. ‘Oh!’

  ‘I thought I heard you come in,’ he said.

  He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, the white of his shirt glowing in the near darkness of the hallway, lit only by one small candle.

  She gathered her cloak more tightly around her to hide her dress, glad it was too dark for him to see her face clearly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is dreadfully late, I know, but—’

  He rested one arm against the door-frame, high, so that his shirtsleeve slid down, revealing his bare skin. ‘You went out with your brother?’

  ‘Yes. To a…a card party.’ Please don’t ask where, she silently pleaded. Foolish of her not to have a ready story prepared, but who would have guessed anyone would be curious enough to ask?

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ She felt weak with relief that he, this time as always, did not care where she had been.

  He stood there staring at her. All the courage with which she’d faced the evening fled. No more giddy excitement. No heady sensation of feminine attraction. At this moment, she felt more like the Haymarket ware her brother accused her of being.

  His voice crossed her gloom. ‘I’m glad,’ was all he said. ‘Goodnight.’

  He disappeared into his room. Emily expelled a long breath, but the glee at the night’s success had suddenly left her.

  Cyprian Sloane left the house on Bennett Street and stepped into the chill of the night air. No matter. He fancied a walk to his hotel.

  Swinging his swordstick, he made his way to St James’s Street, feeling more alive than he had in months, and all due to the mysterious Lady Widow.

  Boredom had brought him to London, where the lure of the gaming hells promised more excitement than Bath. What entertainment had been in Bath? Dull card games without a shred of excitement? The priggish Emily Keating? He needed more than the diversion of putting a milk-and-water miss to the blush.

  London offered better sport. By Jove, hadn’t he found it at Madame Bisou’s? He’d expected at least a decent card game, maybe a toss in the blankets with one of her girls, but then she walked in.

  Lady Widow. Arrogant and seductive and full of mystery. Desired by every man in the room. He’d be damned if he didn’t become the first to peel off that mask of hers and to keep going until he peeled off the rest of her clothes as well. He’d wager on it.

  Life was grand. He laughed out loud, startling the watchman sitting in his box. ‘Good evening, man!’ he called, thumping on the box with his stick.

  The man grumbled a reply.

  With another laugh, Cyprian set off again, whistling ‘The Lass on Richmond Hill’.

  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 th
ink 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 t
owards 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?’