by Kruger, Mary
Late evening. A hush lay over the card room in Watier’s, the exclusive gentlemen’s club where the gambling stakes were always high, save for the slap of pasteboard onto green baize as the cards were dealt. The lighted candles threw illumination on a group of men seated around a table, intent on their game of macao. For the most part they were older men, dedicated gamesters all, for whom the turn of the card sometimes meant a fortune won, or lost.
Leaning back comfortably in his chair, Roger DeVilliers held his cards negligently, looking almost bored. A bottle of burgundy stood on the stand next to his left elbow, and though occasionally he took a sip, the hand that held his cards was rock steady. His eyes were heavy-lidded, making him look sleepy, but an astute observer would notice the brightness that appeared from time to time as he surveyed his opponents. Roger was neither sleepy, nor any the worse for drink. He could not afford to be; it was his fortune riding on the cards tonight.
“Mine, I believe,” the gentleman sitting across the table said quietly, and laid his hand down. Roger stared at it for a moment without expression and then tossed his cards down. From a pocket he withdrew a notebook, and carelessly scribbled on a piece of paper his name, and the amount he had lost: three thousand pounds.
“I shall pay a call on you tomorrow.” He pushed the paper toward the victor, and rose. “A good thing I was not playing deep,” he added, and walked out.
Once in the hall, though, his expression hardened. Damn! He had been certain the cards would go his way. He could ill afford to lose three pounds, let alone three thousand, but he was a gentleman. No matter what else was said of him, he always paid his debts of honor. His other creditors would simply have to whistle for their money.
Shrugging into the greatcoat the cloakroom attendant held for him, he headed for the door. There was nothing the least bit poverty-stricken about his appearance; his coat was flawlessly cut, his neckcloth meticulously tied, his luxuriant dark hair lay in carefully-styled waves, one lock curling carelessly over his forehead. Only he knew how desperate his situation was, the mounting debts, the estate that, nearly drained dry, no longer supported him. He needed a great deal of money to restore his fortunes. Once he had almost had it, he thought, and his face hardened at the memory.
A man came in just as Roger was leaving. “I say, DeVilliers,” he said. “Not leaving so early?”
Roger stopped and looked down at the other man’s hand, clutching at his sleeve. He was short and rotund, with a bulbous nose that attested to a great deal of wine already consumed this evening. “No, Kinsdale,” he said, smiling, though his eyes remained watchful. “I find the play here rather boring this evening.”
“Pity. I hoped to engage you in a hand of piquet. Next time, I hope?”
Roger nodded. “Indeed,” he said, and turned to leave.
“By the by, have you heard about Stanton?”
Roger stopped on the threshold and turned, ignoring the porter who held the door open. “No. What of him?”
“He’s said to be engaged, old man.” Baron Kinsdale smiled. “Not to anyone you know this time?”
Roger’s lips set in a hard straight line. “No. Nobody I know, old man.” He laid ironic stress on the last two words, all the time holding Kinsdale’s eyes with his own. “If you will excuse me?”
“Of course,” Kinsdale muttered, and turned away, relieved now that those dark eyes were no longer on him. God, it had been a mistake to bait the man in such a way; the thin scar running down DeVilliers’s lean cheek, rumored to have been obtained in a duel, attested to his danger. Kinsdale felt distinctly lucky to have escaped with his skin whole.
Outside Roger stood at the bottom of the steps, breathing deeply of the soot-scented air and composing himself. At last he set off down the street, dotted in brightish spots from gas-lighted lamps, his eyes constantly alert for footpads lurking in the fog, his ears straining for any sound. Should anyone be foolhardy enough to tangle with him, he would soon learn that the walking stick Roger carried concealed a sword, operated by a hidden spring, and that he was a very good swordsman, indeed. It was something he wished bloody Jeremy Vernon, Viscount Stanton, could learn. Were it not for Stanton, he would not be in such straits now.
Roger’s grip on the sword stick tightened, as if he indeed faced his enemy on the dueling ground. He nearly had, all those years ago, and the thought of what had happened instead still made him clench with anger. Long had he wanted revenge for the wrong done him, and now he just might be able to have it. Stanton’s engagement had given Roger an idea. How satisfying it would be, to serve him the same trick he had once served Roger.
Grinning, Roger used his stick to cock his hat at a jaunty angle, and walked on, contemplating sweet vengeance.
Jeremy swung up the stairs to his house after a session of boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon the following afternoon. Life was rather pleasant. With his decision made, his future was set. He didn’t love Evadne; he doubted he ever would. She was, however, all he could wish for in a bride. While his friends were amazed by his decision and the ton gossiped, he went on his way, able, at last, to pay off his father’s creditors, able, at last, to relax. He had yet to see Thea since his return from the country; somehow, their paths hadn’t crossed, nor had he visited her. He wasn’t certain why. Doubtless, though, he’d see her soon. He would tell her about Evadne’s mannerisms, the way she batted her eyes and lisped, and would at last be able to laugh about them. Thea would probably be the only one who would see the humor in them. Deuce take it, but he missed her. He would have to make an effort to see her soon.
“Good afternoon, Saunders,” he said to his butler as he opened the door. “Is all well?”
“Oh, my lord, such a day we have had,” Saunders said, sounding so agitated that Jeremy stared at him. “Her ladyship said as you were to go right up.”
“Oh?” Jeremy frowned slightly. “Thank you, Saunders,” he said, and turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Now what had got his mother into such a pelter? He hoped she hadn’t got into a scrape. He thought he’d impressed upon her their need to cut back. He knew, though, that she’d never had to watch every penny, and probably didn’t even know how. Whatever the problem was, he’d have to fix it, but likely not before she made a scene. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on her door.
Simon, Lady Stanton’s dresser, opened the door to her sitting room, and he went in, to see his mother lying prostrate on the chaise longue, one arm flung dramatically across her eyes and the other dangling down. This was so unusual in his ebullient mother that he crossed the room to her swiftly. “Mother? What is amiss?”
Lady Stanton’s hand flew up and caught his in a strong grip. “Jeremy! Why did you not warn me?” she demanded, staring up at him.
“What is it, Mother?” he asked, pulling over a chair and sitting beside her. “Another scrape?”
“No, it is not another scrape!” She subsided onto the chaise with a groan.
“Mother?” Seriously concerned, he spoke gently. “Won’t you tell me what is wrong? What has upset you so?”
Lady Stanton lowered her arm and looked up at him with her blue eyes, so like his. “Such dreadful people, Jeremy. You might have warned me.”
“Yes, Mother.” He made his voice patient. “Who?”
“Your fiancée, of course. And her mama.”
“The devil you say!” he exclaimed, before he could stop himself. “They are in town?”
“Yes, didn’t I say so?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and he wondered vaguely why that expression was so familiar. “They arrived this morning, and nothing would do but that they must pay a call on me! Oh, Jeremy. Must you marry her?”
“But, Mother, you were happy about my engagement. Come, you are tired and upset. Rest, and you will feel better—”
“Do not patronize me!” she said, with the sudden clear-eyed sharpness he always found so disconcerting in her. “You have made a dreadful mistake, Jeremy. You must get out of it.”
&n
bsp; “I can’t in all honor cry off, Mother. Besides, I don’t want to.” He clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “I grant you Mrs. Powell is a little hard to take—”
“A little!” She sat up, spluttering with outrage. “She had the nerve, Jeremy, to ask me what I pay in rent for this house! As if I couldn’t afford to own it! And when I wouldn’t answer, she went on to tell me how much they are paying, and how much Miss Powell’s gown cost—and a perfect fright that was, I must say—and even how much they had to tip the postilions who brought them here!”
Jeremy bit his lips to keep from laughing. “I am sorry, Mother. Mrs. Powell does tend to be overly concerned with money.”
“I should say so! But then, what can you expect of someone connected with trade? Oh, Jeremy.” She subsided again with a groan. “I wish to see you married, but not like this.”
“Come, Mother,” he coaxed. “Mrs. Powell might be difficult, but you must agree that Miss Powell is very sweet.”
“Yes, now. Someday she’ll be just like her mother—”
“God forbid,” Jeremy said fervently.
“And she’ll lead you a merry dance.” Her lips pursed. “She flirted, Jeremy. First with her own coachman, and with a footman, and even with Saunders.”
“No!” Jeremy feigned amazement, trying hard to keep his lips straight at the picture that conjured up. “Not Saunders!”
“Laugh if you will, but it isn’t funny. She batted her eyelashes at him. He, poor man, didn’t know where to look! Believe me, Jeremy, I know flirting when I see it.”
“I believe you, Mother.” His mother had been a notorious flirt in her day, and she had lost none of her wiles. “She’ll outgrow it. She’s very young.”
“Yes. She’ll always be too young for you.” She looked at him directly. “You’d do better with an older woman, Jeremy, someone calm enough to settle you down.”
“Mother—”
“I’ve worried about you since you came back from the war. You don’t seem to be able to settle to anything.”
Abruptly Jeremy rose and strode to a window, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I’m all right, Mother.”
“Break the engagement,” she urged. “Miss Powell is wrong for you. I’m sure you could give her reason to cry off.”
Jeremy turned, smiling. “Are you suggesting I should let her jilt me, Mother?”
“Yes. You’d survive it, better than she would. And then you could find someone else.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Althea Jameson.”
Chapter Three
“Thea!” Jeremy let out a bark of laughter. “Come, Mother, you can’t be serious! I admit I’m fond of Mrs. Jameson, but we are merely friends.”
“Then more fool you,” Lady Stanton retorted. “She would be the perfect wife for you. Especially after your unfortunate experiences in the war.”
“Mother—”
“Yes, I know, you don’t wish me to speak of them. Do you think I don’t know why you cannot settle down?” Lady Stanton’s eyes were sympathetic. “Mrs. Jameson is good for you. She calms you.”
“She is sharp-tongued, managing, and independent. You said yourself you think it’s scandalous that she manages her own stables.”
“Nonsense! I quite admire her for it. You really should consider her, Jeremy.”
“Mother.” Jeremy tugged at his neckcloth. “I am going to marry Miss Powell. I hope you will help make her welcome.”
Lady Stanton gave in with bad grace. “Oh, very well, I’ll do what I must. But don’t expect me to get her vouchers for Almack’s, Jeremy, for I fear it can’t be done!”
“If anyone can do it, you can, Mother.” Jeremy bent and kissed her on the forehead. “I must go. The Powells will likely be expecting me to call and see how they are settling in. They gave you their direction?”
“Yes, they are in Curzon Street. Jeremy.” She caught at his hands and looked up at him, anxiously. “You know I only wish you to be happy?”
“Yes, Mother.” Jeremy gently freed his hands. “I do know that.” He smiled at her and turned to go. His mother meant well, but she was wrong. Thea, as his wife? Ridiculous.
A few minutes’ brisk walk brought him to Curzon Street. Surprised though he was by the Powells’ quick appearance in town, he approved their choice of houses. If they wished to make an assault on the ton, they had at least chosen a good location, and that he credited to his future father-in-law. Mrs. Powell might be connected with trade, but Mr. Powell’s family was old and their heritage long. It was not such a mismatch as his mother feared.
“My lord!” Agatha Powell bustled across to him as he was shown into the drawing room. “Why, we didn’t expect you today. As you can see, we’re at all sixes and sevens.”
Jeremy held out his hand, forcing a smile to his lips. Lord, it was hard to believe that this woman was Evadne’s mother. Where Evadne was angelically fair, Mrs. Powell’s hair was steel gray and her skin was coarse. Evadne was slender; her mother was, to put it kindly, plump, and her stays creaked when she walked. And Mrs. Powell’s voice was loud and penetrating. Thank God Evadne did not resemble her. “You’ve chosen a good location,” he commented, after returning her greeting, and sneezed. “Excuse me.”
“Well, I should hope so, it cost enough! But, there, you won’t want to hear about that, I’ll be bound. Evadne! Where are you, girl?”
“Here, Mama.” Evadne came forward, her head demurely lowered. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, peeping up at him through her lashes. Jeremy smiled at her, suddenly realizing why his mother’s wide-eyed look had been so familiar. Evadne looked at him the same way, he thought with amusement.
Jeremy sneezed again. Something in this room was bothering him, unless he were coming down with a cold. Come to think of it, he had had a cold when he had been in Berkshire. Odd. He was never ill. “Good afternoon, Evadne. You are settling in, I hope?”
“Oh, yes.” Evadne’s voice was breathless. “It’s all so exciting. I’ve never been to London before.”
“I’ll show you around,” he promised rashly as they sat down, Evadne and her mother on a sofa, he in an uncomfortably spindly arm chair of gilt and blue velvet. The drawing room was entirely furnished with such chairs, but, as the house was leased, that was not the Powells’ fault. However, Evadne’s gown, trimmed with several rouleaux about the hem and too many ruffles, was. Her mother’s taste, he supposed. He would have to do something about her clothes once they were married.
Over tea, they talked easily about the Powells’ journey and their visit to his mother, and discussed activities for the weeks to come. Mrs. Powell dominated the conversation, talking about the cost of Evadne’s new clothes, the vails one was expected to give to footmen as a tip, and asking how much admission was to the theatre or the opera. Through it all Evadne sat quietly beside her mother, her hands folded in her lap. Only occasionally did she glance up at Jeremy, the brightness of her eyes belying her meekness. She seemed not the least embarrassed by her mother’s obsession with money, which Jeremy was beginning to find rather funny. Thea would be amused by it, also, he thought, and rose abruptly, though a moment before he hadn’t planned to.
“I hope you will excuse me, ma’am, Evadne,” he said, taking Mrs. Powell’s hand. “I fear I have another appointment. However, I shall be happy to escort you to the opera tomorrow evening, if you wish.”
“That’s very gracious of you, my lord,” Mrs. Powell said. “Do you not agree, Evadne?”
“Oh, yes,” Evadne said, smiling so brightly that he was touched. Life in the country must be vastly dull for her, he was thinking, when, to his surprise, she went down on one knee. “Fluffy!” she exclaimed. Jeremy turned, startled, to see a large, brindled cat stroll into the room. It was an ugly cat, looking, with its notched ears, as if it belonged out on the streets rather than in a Mayfair drawing room, and yet it paused and surveyed the room’s occupants quite as coolly as any dowager. In no way did it resemble the name by which E
vadne had called it. Jeremy stepped back, dismayed. He could feel the beginnings of another sneeze.
“Fluffy,” Evadne called again, beckoning with her hand. “Come to Mommy, precious.” The cat looked at her again and then, with unerring instinct, headed for the one person in the room who detested cats: Jeremy. Launching himself with a powerful leap, he jumped into Jeremy’s arms. Jeremy sneezed so explosively that the cat, startled, jumped down again, his sharp claws snagging Jeremy’s fine buff pantaloons and his fur flying all over the coat of dark green superfine.
“Fluffy!” Evadne flew across the room to the cat, which was crouched near the door, unconcernedly grooming himself. “Oh, dear. Do you not like cats, Stanton?”
“They make me sneeze,” Jeremy said, brushing his sleeve and blinking, hard. “I must be on my way. I shall see you tomorrow evening, then?”
“Yes, of course, Stanton. We’re looking forward to it,” Agatha said. Both ladies rose, and as Jeremy left the room he took with him the picture of them standing, Mrs. Powell with her bosom jutting like the prow of a ship, and Evadne, with the cat struggling in her arms. He felt briefly as if he had just escaped from Bedlam.
Agatha remained standing for a few moments. “That coat cost a pretty penny, I’ll warrant,” she murmured. “And boxes at the opera do not come cheap. And you, girl!” She rounded on Evadne, who was kneeling on the floor, stroking the cat. “When that cat jumped on Stanton I was like to swoon with embarrassment!”
“Fluffy was just being friendly, Mama,” Evadne said, hugging the cat again.
“Friendly! We are lucky Stanton didn’t cry off right then. I don’t know why you need must drag that mangy thing to town with us.”
“He would have been lonely. Wouldn’t you, my pretty little kitty?” she crooned. “Mommy’s little love.”