The Wagering Widow

by Diane Gaston

  The word plans was emphasised, referring, Emily supposed, to the one day her brother had called upon her.

  Emily lingered at the doorway. ‘I shall accompany you, if you wish.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lady Keating, ‘because Guy has taken Aunt Dorrie and Aunt Pip out in the curricle, and I have no one else I might ask.’

  He’d taken the aunts out? How nice of him. The dutiful grand-nephew.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  A tension inside her eased. She would not run into him after all. Inexplicably, this easing of tension closely resembled disappointment.

  Lady Keating went on, ‘Aunt Dorrie got a notion she needed air and ribbons, so Guy took them to the shops.’

  Good for him, Emily thought. She hoped they would make him look at every ribbon and engage him in a quarter of an hour’s discussion of whether to buy the yellow or the blue. And which shade of blue? Would this blue perhaps clash with the shade of her bonnet? It would, Miss Nuthall would say. Lady Pipham would insist it would not. Finally Miss Nuthall would choose green, because her sister said green would never do. Emily had been to the shops with the aunts.

  ‘When do you wish me to be ready?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Well, not now,’ Lady Keating huffed. ‘I could not leave for another hour at least.’

  ‘Then I shall go see how Mrs Wilson goes on.’

  Emily continued down the stairs, finding the housekeeper in the passageway outside her sitting room giving instructions to the maid.

  What crisis would Mrs Wilson report today? A tiff between the maid-of-all-work and the kitchen maid? No partridges for dinner? Mice in the cellar? No difficulty was too small for Mrs Wilson to lay at Emily’s feet.

  When she saw Emily, Mrs Wilson shooed the maid away. ‘Good day, my lady,’ she said.

  ‘How do things go on, Mrs Wilson?’ Emily asked.

  The housekeeper launched into a long discussion about the coal porter, how he meant to cheat them, how she, not knowing what her ladyship would do, worried her head off, but finally gave the fellow what-for and he’d done just as he ought.

  ‘What else could I do, my lady? You were abed and like to never get up,’ she concluded.

  Perhaps Emily ought to sleep late more often.

  ‘You did very well,’ she assured her.

  She walked back to the hall where Bleasby approached, begging to ask how he might serve her. She’d managed to reduce his duties to the lightest of tasks, but the old butler felt remiss if he did not do as much work as he’d done thirty years ago. She spent some moments convincing him his services were perfectly adequate, trying all the while to salvage his pride.

  The door opened. Guy and the aunts had returned, Lady Pipham’s and Miss Nuthall’s shrill voices, bickering as usual, echoing into the hall. With the quarrel in full swing and the door open to the chilly air, Guy urged each of them over the threshold. He stood ready to remove their pelisses, but Bleasby beat him to it, silently assisting while the two ladies barely drew a breath between angry words.

  Emily could have made a hasty retreat, but instead watched as Guy removed his beaver hat and caped coat, moving as always with a masculine elegance totally without affectation. He continued placating the sensibilities of each great-aunt, and successfully cajoled them out of their huffiness, making them each feel they had won the point.

  They were in perfect charity with each other as they made their way up the stairs. With any luck, their truce would last until they reached the upper floors.

  Watching Guy’s solicitude towards the aunts affected Emily as much as it had the first time she’d seen it. She watched him through the whole exchange with the aunts, as if in a trance, his kindness still able to touch that needy part of her she tried so hard to ignore.

  She stepped forward to take his coat and hat, but he did not hand them over. Instead, he lay them on a nearby chair.

  ‘Good day, Emily.’ He gave her a smile.

  It almost seemed as if he’d really looked at her.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ she responded.

  ‘You were not at breakfast,’ he went on. ‘Were you feeling unwell?’

  She felt herself blush, knowing she’d stayed abed merely to avoid him.

  ‘I assure you, I am very well.’ She heard the edge of anger creeping into her voice. Beware, she told herself. Do not give him anything to wonder about.

  She composed her most colourless countenance, but it seemed his eyes almost twinkled in response, as if he alone knew the answer to a riddle and was keeping it to himself.

  What was the reason for his sunny mood? He had won a great deal of money at Lady Widow’s table the previous night. Perhaps that was the origin of his bonhomie. Or perhaps it was meeting Lady Widow herself.

  Her mother-in-law emerged from above stairs. ‘I am ready,’ she announced.

  Emily turned her blank expression on her husband’s mother. ‘I shall get my coat and bonnet.’

  Lady Keating gave her a quick nod, then came over to her son’s side.

  ‘Where are you and Emily bound, Mother?’ He kissed his mother’s cheek.

  It occurred to Emily then that he did not kiss her in greeting. A dagger twisted inside her. She’d wager he would kiss Lady Widow if she let him.

  Lady Keating patted her son’s cheek. ‘The daughter of my dearest friend is in town awaiting the birth of her baby. I sent a note round asking if I might call on her and her reply arrived this morning.’

  ‘How nice for you,’ Guy said.

  Emily tried to keep her tread light on the stairs, though she felt like stamping her way to the next floor. It should not bother her that this gambling husband of hers cared nothing for her, but lavished all his attention on his mother and his great-aunts. It should signify nothing to her. She would soon leave them all behind.

  She paused a moment, straightened her back, and continued up the stairs with more iron in her spine. By next spring, she told herself, before the Season was underway, she should have winnings enough to walk out of the door and say good riddance to them all.

  Guy’s gaze followed his wife as she ascended the stairs, her spine straight, her step purposeful. She walked with Lady Widow’s dignity, he thought. With Lady Widow’s grace, but in Emily both were held back, controlled, contained. There all the same, however. How could he not have seen it before in Emily? He felt like a blind man suddenly blessed with sight. Everything became clear. Everything except why. Why masquerade as Lady Widow? Why hide Lady Widow’s vivacity the rest of the time?

  The cloth of her dress caught between her legs, for an instant clearly outlining her pleasing form. This sudden vision rekindled the desire she’d aroused the night before. He had half a mind to follow her to her bedchamber, putting an end to that infernal wager once and for all.

  Be patient, he told himself. Don’t rush the cards. Play out the full hand.

  He turned back to his mother. ‘I am glad you are taking Emily with you.’ He gave a glance back to the now empty stair.

  Lady Keating sighed. ‘I would not upset you for the world, Guy, but I still cannot like her.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘She tries mightily to please you. She tries to please all of us.’ And underneath her pleasing manners was so much more.

  ‘I know,’ his mother admitted. ‘But her parents, you know. They are such wretched people. I’m convinced she cannot be as utterly correct as she seems.’

  If you only knew, Mother, Guy said to himself.

  ‘Blood always tells, Guy.’ She gave a knowing nod, obviously overlooking the blood of a wastrel father in his own veins.

  Was that it? he suddenly wondered. Emily’s father was a sad gamester, even more ruthless in his play than the elder Keating’s had been. How much of Duprey’s blood flowed through his daughter’s veins? As much as his own father’s flowed through his? If Guy were always a hair’s breadth from falling completely into the lure of the cards, why not Emily?

  Lady Widow’s eyes had danced with every winning hand.
Was Emily at Madame Bisou’s for love of gambling?

  Eventually the gentlemen at Madame Bisou’s would tire of letting her win, especially if the wager about her were won. What would be the result? If her opponents played to win, how long before she must present her husband with her gambling debts? She would not be the only woman to have succumbed to the lure of the card table. The Duchess of Devonshire had been known to bet deep, owing everyone throughout London. It was said she sadly damaged the Duke’s finances with her losses.

  The Duchess was also known to have borne another man’s child. Surely Emily would not go so far?

  His mother broke into his reverie. ‘Besides, she is utterly lacking in charm.’

  Guy almost laughed aloud. If his mother only knew how much charm Emily could display when she so chose. ‘Emily’s is a quiet charm, Mother,’ he told her.

  His mother rolled her eyes.

  His temper flared. ‘Do not roll your eyes when I speak of her. She is my wife, ma’am. Treat her with the respect she deserves.’ He leaned towards her to imprint upon her that he was entirely serious. ‘One word from her and you could be away from here.’

  Lady Keating put her hands on her hips. ‘There is nothing I should more desire. I am perfectly content to make my home at Annerley. I pine for a spell in the country.’

  A short time ago she’d longed for London.

  He shook his head in frustration. ‘Annerley is her house as well, Mother. But you know even the dower house at Annerley is unfit for habitation, and the main house needs total repair.’

  The dower house was under repair, thanks to a fat pot won a fortnight ago, but it would be spring before work on it could be completed. Guy planned to live in the dower house while Annerley was restored. He wished to be in residence for spring planting and to oversee the renovations. First, however, he needed to win the necessary funds.

  ‘Surely it is not as bad as all that?’ his mother said.

  His mother was not privy to the whole of their financial distress. He’d taken care that none of his family were.

  Guy gave her a steady look. ‘It would be a great inconvenience for you if you were not welcome in your daughter-in-law’s house, would it not? There is nowhere else to live.’

  She glared back at him defiantly. ‘She would not dare to toss me out.’

  He did not falter. ‘No, she would not be so cruel. Do not be so certain of me.’

  Her face paled. ‘You?’

  ‘I would send you off, Mother, make no mistake about it, but only if you force my hand, only if you refuse to be civil to my wife.’

  She began to wring her hands. Guy stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ‘Now, do not fly to pieces. It is not so difficult a request, is it? As I have said before, all you need do is give Emily a fair chance.’

  She slanted him a wary glance.

  He continued, ‘We have all underestimated her.’ How true a statement that was. Had he underestimated her love of cards?

  His mother buried her face into his chest. ‘Oh, I will try, I promise.’

  Guy had been as remiss as his mother in attending to Emily. Was it his neglect that sent her off wagering into the night? Well, she would soon have an abundance of his attention, both she and Lady Widow.

  Half an hour later, Emily and the Dowager walked the short distance to Grosvenor Square, Rogers the footman accompanying them a few steps behind. Her mother-in-law actually attempted conversation, in a petulant tone, perhaps, the topics forced, but conversation none the less. Emily could not have been more surprised had the squirrel in the square begun to talk. What led to this sudden volubility?

  Emily, however, acted as if it were the most natural circumstance in the world, responding exactly as she ought and even making an effort to advance the conversation.

  Grosvenor Square was such a premier address, Emily wondered exactly who they might be calling upon. Lady Keating had not informed her. Who might the Dowager know well enough to visit?

  Emily, of course, did not presume to ask.

  ‘Here we are,’ Lady Keating said.

  They had stopped in front of one of the finest residences, the one house on the square Emily did not wish to enter, not with her family’s connection to this one.

  ‘Who—who do we call upon here?’ Emily stammered to her mother-in-law.

  ‘The Marchioness of Heronvale,’ Lady Keating said. ‘Do you not know whose house this is? She is the daughter of my oldest friend.’ Lady Keating gestured for Rogers to sound the knocker.

  Perhaps there was no cause for worry. Perhaps the Marchioness would not even remember Emily.

  They soon entered a spacious hall more than twice the size of the Keatings’. The gilt in this hall was not chipped. Indeed, the gilt-adorned walls were painted Chinese blue. Huge Chinese vases held fresh white, orange and yellow chrysanthemums.

  After they were announced, a footman led them above stairs to Lady Heronvale’s personal sitting room, where she lay on a yellow giltwood chaise, a perfect complement to her blonde beauty.

  ‘Lady Keating, how wonderful to see you.’ She extended her hand. ‘Forgive me if I do not get up. The doctor insists I rest.’

  The ethereal Lady Heronvale was quite obviously with child.

  She clasped the older Lady Keating’s hand warmly before glancing towards Emily. ‘Oh, Miss Duprey!’ She blinked prettily. ‘Forgive me, I ought to have said Lady Keating to you, ought I not? We all read of your marriage. My felicitations.’

  Emily took the Marchioness’s delicate hand. ‘Thank you, my lady.’ The Marchioness had remembered her. From the after-the-fact announcement of her marriage, she had also probably surmised the wedding to have been a precipitous one. Emily focused on remaining composed. At least on the outside.

  Lady Heronvale invited them to sit, assuring them she had requested some refreshment.

  ‘How do you go on, my child?’ the Dowager Lady Keating asked with an expression of genuine concern.

  The Marchioness laughed. ‘Never better! I feel amazingly well, as if I could walk from here to Westminster and back, but the physician and my husband refuse to believe it.’

  ‘The Marquess dotes upon you, does he?’ Lady Keating said.

  How nice for her, thought Emily, to have a doting husband.

  ‘Pardon me, Serena.’ A lady’s voice came from the doorway behind her. ‘I do not wish to intrude, but Barclay directs me to tell you that Cook is out of lemon cakes. She is preparing another confection for you, which will take a little time.’

  Emily remained perfectly still. She recognised that voice.

  The Marchioness waved her hand and smiled. ‘Come in, dearest. Come meet my friends.’

  Lady Heronvale sat up on the chaise, while the lady approached. Emily still could not see her face, but there was no mistaking her lovely figure, the elegant length of her neck, the natural curl of her dark hair.

  ‘Lady Keating,’ the Marchioness said, gesturing to Emily who rose to her feet.

  The lady who entered stiffened.

  Lady Heronvale continued, ‘May I present to you my dear sister-in-law, Lady Devlin Steele.’

  Her sister Madeleine.

  Madeleine turned and regarded Emily with her wide blue eyes. ‘Emily,’ she mouthed.

  Emily extended her hand, hoping it did not tremble. ‘Lady Devlin,’ she managed.

  Her sister Madeleine clasped her hand warmly, keeping hold of it until Lady Heronvale spoke. ‘And the Dowager Lady Keating…’

  Madeleine turned, ‘My honour, ma’am.’

  Emily’s mother-in-law did not rise from her chair, but limply accepted Madeleine’s handshake. Lady Keating probably thought, as everyone would, that Lord Devlin had married a woman beneath him, a common sort, perhaps.

  Madeleine was far from common, however.

  Lady Heronvale made room for Madeleine on her sofa. Madeleine sat facing Emily, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Emily felt.

  Correct pleasantries were exchang
ed, to which both Emily and her sister contributed, but soon the Dowager and the Marchioness lapsed into a more private conversation about mutual friends and family members.

  Madeleine leaned over slightly. ‘Do you like books, Lady Keating?’ she asked Emily.

  Such an odd question. ‘Yes—yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘The Marquess has a fine library. Would you like to see it?’

  Emily immediately understood. ‘Yes, I would. I mean, it would be my pleasure.’

  Madeleine interrupted Lady Heronvale’s conversation. ‘Lady Keating desires seeing the library. Do you mind, Serena?’

  ‘If it does not displease you, ma’am,’ added Emily.

  Lady Heronvale smiled. ‘Not at all, but we shall serve some refreshment shortly.’

  As if they were two little girls bent on mischief, the sisters rushed down the hallway, Madeleine leading the way. When Madeleine shut the library doors, however, they faced each other with sudden reserve.

  Emily longed to embrace her sister, longed to show her how dearly she loved her, longed for that affection to be returned. They had not parted badly last spring, but their encounter had been so brief and much lay unsaid.

  ‘Madeleine—’ Emily’s voice cracked ‘—it is so good to see you.’

  ‘Oh, Emily!’ Madeleine rushed up and threw her arms around her.

  Both produced a quantity of tears that would have made their sister Jessame proud. They finally pulled apart, still sniffling and groping for handkerchiefs.

  Emily blew her nose. ‘How are you, Madeleine? Are you well? Are you happy?’

  Madeleine beamed at her. ‘Very happy. I do not much like being in town, but the Marquess insisted Serena come here for her confinement. I could not refuse her request for my company.’

  ‘I read the announcement of your marriage, of course. Is…is Lord Devlin well?’

  A dreamy look came over her sister’s face. ‘Yes, he is splendid.’ She smiled again. ‘But you are a married lady, too. You must tell me of your husband! How did you meet? Devlin said he knew Lord Keating in the Peninsula, but he’d not had the title then.’