The Unofficial Suitor

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  “Have some of the pheasant in aspic,” Richard suggested, his appetite apparently not the least bit impaired by the recent furor. “It is quite well prepared.”

  “And your little drama was quite well planned, also,” Lady Letitia complimented him truthfully. “But now you have made me curious. What technique do you intend to use with Lord Rowcliff? He is too lacking in self-consequence to take umbrage at anything you or Lady Cassiopeia might say.”

  “Lord Rowcliff has the devil’s own luck, or so I have been told,” Richard said with a smile. “But then, perhaps he has never yet actually gambled with the devil.”

  * * * *

  “Cut for high card, double or nothing.” Lord Rowcliff's optimism remained intact, even though after several hours of playing piquet all the gold coins on the table were in front of Richard. Scribbling a note on a scrap of paper, the earl tossed it onto the middle of the table. “My credit is good with you, I assume?”

  Nodding his head briefly, Richard handed over the deck of cards. Although they had both been drinking heavily, neither of them was yet in his cups. The same could not be said for the crowd of young bucks who had gradually gathered behind Lord Rowcliff as the stakes became ever higher. They were for the most part rather badly foxed.

  No one stood behind Richard except John Tuke, who had already privately expressed his disapproval of gambling for exorbitant amounts.

  “‘S useless,” one of the observers pronounced rather thickly. “Got the devil’s own luck, Rowcliff does.”

  “He’ll come about. Always does.”

  “Ace of clubs—what did I tell you. The man can’t lose.”

  Without commenting, Richard turned over his card and held it up for everyone to see. It was the ace of hearts.

  “Double or nothing, my good sir.” Without pause, Rowcliff scribbled his name on another piece of paper and tossed it onto the table.

  “Rowcliff's never yet greeted the dawn a loser.”

  “Nor never even had to turn his coat inside out.”

  “Fifty pounds says he wins this cut.”

  There was a flurry of side bets, then Richard turned over his card. “Six of diamonds, my lord,” he said, pushing the deck of cards toward the younger man.

  A murmur of triumph ran round the room, and one of his friends clapped Lord Rowcliff on the back.

  “You can beat a six of diamonds easy as spitting on the ground.”

  After first shaking his fingers to loosen them, Lord Rowcliff carefully and with great precision turned over a three of spades. There were groans behind him, but his smile did not falter. “Double or nothing. I’ll not quit until I win, gentlemen.”

  “Until dawn,” Richard said quietly. The murmur of voices in the room died down. “The game ends at dawn.”

  The silence was absolute, and for a moment Rowcliff s smile wavered. Then with a cocky wink to his companions, he accepted the challenge. “Agreed.”

  “But who’s to say when it’s dawn?” someone muttered.

  “First cock’s crow.”

  “Ain’t no roosters on this street.”

  “First milkmaid calling out her wares,” someone else suggested.

  The crowd immediately agreed to the proposal, and the contest resumed.

  * * * *

  “It is fortunate indeed that your luck was in tonight. Had it been running the other way, you might have lost all,” John commented.

  Richard pulled handfuls of coins, bank notes, and slips of paper out of his pockets and dumped them all unceremoniously onto his dressing table. “My luck, as you call it, consists solely of having made the acquaintance of Raoul Pironquet years ago,” he said, smiling wryly.

  “The Natchez gambler?”

  “None other.”

  “He is the one, then, who taught you to play so well?”

  “He is the one who taught me to cheat so adeptly,” Richard corrected calmly.

  “Cheat? Richard, you cannot have cheated this evening! Why, that is dishonorable!”

  “Surely you have lived with me long enough to know that the concept of honor has not played an important role in my life.”

  “But cheating? No, Richard, this time you have gone too far.”

  “Alas and alack, I do believe my faithful follower has finally noticed my feet of clay.”

  “Will you stop joking? This is a serious business.”

  “I agree. It is much too serious to have risked everything on the vagaries of chance.”

  “I had not thought you so amoral. Have you then no twinge of conscience at what you have done?”

  Richard shrugged. “It was the lesser of two evils.”

  “Two evils?”

  “Have you forgotten the object of the game, which was to prevent Rowcliff from making Lady Cassie an offer? I assure you, I never lost sight of the stakes. But perhaps you would have preferred it if I had forced a duel on him and put a bullet through his heart?”

  “Dueling is illegal.”

  “But still considered to be an affair of honor, you must admit. Which poses an interesting theological question: whether ‘tis more righteous to kill a man in an honorable fashion or merely to ruin him financially by totally dishonorable means.”

  Tuke was silent for a long time.

  “Well, John, have you come up with an answer to my thorny question?”

  “What I have come up with is another question.” Tuke looked at him with suspicion. “Do you make it a habit of cheating at cards?”

  “Ah-hah! What you are asking now is whether or not I have been fleecing you all these years.”

  “I am not worried about myself since I would freely give you anything of mine that you wished for. My concern is for the others you have gambled with.”

  “You may rest easy, oh would-be conscience. In the past I have always made it a rule not to risk more than I can afford to lose, and so I have been content to rely on my skill and the smiles of Lady Luck. But in this case, I could not afford to lose, and so I took what measures I deemed necessary to guarantee that I would win.”

  “The end justifies the means—is that what you are saying?” his friend asked bitterly. “You realize that by stooping to such dishonesty, you are lowering yourself to the level of all the other people who manage to find reasons to justify their wicked actions.”

  “Ah, John, forgive me, but I have never claimed to be better than other men. You are the one who has been working to secure my canonization, not I.” When his friend did not answer immediately, Richard continued in a soft voice, “You did not object when Molly stole food for us.”

  “That was different. That was a matter of survival.”

  “Which means the end justifies the means? It was stealing, John. It was breaking one of the Ten Commandments. How can you possibly say that stealing then was any different than stealing now by cheating at cards? Should we make some effort to judge—to differentiate between honorable stealing and dishonorable stealing? Are we then to set our judgment above the laws of God?”

  “Blast it all, Richard, you know the cases are not the same! It was a matter of life and death then—”

  “And you think it is any less important now? I was gambling for a life tonight—Lady Cassie’s life. Would you have had me risk her entire future on the turn of a card?” As he watched, Richard could see the anger drain out of his friend.

  “There are times when I question whether you are to be my salvation or my damnation,” John said with a smile on his lips that did not, however, quite reach his eyes.

  “Have you considered that if Rowcliff were to marry Lady Cassiopeia, Lord Blackstone would beggar him over the years? Considered in that light, I have actually done my lord a favor.”

  “No matter what your rationalizing, I cannot like it, Richard.”

  “Then if it will ease your mind, I shall set aside the money that I have won this night and return it to that unfortunate young man—after Lady Cassie is safely wed to me, of course.”

  “You would do t
hat?”

  Richard shrugged. “The money is no real part of the affair. It means nothing to me.”

  “Rowcliff may refuse to take it, being under the mistaken impression that you have won it fair and square,” John said doubtfully.

  Richard could not hold back a laugh. Clapping his friend on the back, he said, “Not all men have your scruples, John. Rowcliff will take the money when it is offered, and I will wager a shilling to a hundred pounds that he does not make even a token protest.”

  * * * *

  “There ... there ... what did I tell you.” Ellen rustled the newspaper indignantly, but Cassie did not raise her eyes from her breakfast plate. “Lord Fauxbridge has become engaged to Lady Ermyntrude—a duke’s daughter, and her father is wealthy as a nabob. You are well served for your impertinence, you ungrateful girl. How you could have whistled away a chance to be a wealthy marchioness, I shall never understand.”

  “You are rapidly running out of suitors,” Geoffrey’s voice sounded unexpectedly behind Cassie, startling her so much she dropped her fork. “Rowcliff left town this morning. He lost half a fortune at White’s last night gaming with the mysterious Mr. Hawke. Which leaves only the baron. If you cannot bring Atherston up to scratch, then you will be spending the summer in Leeds.”

  “What a strange thing for him to say,” Ellen commented after Geoffrey had left as abruptly as he had arrived. “Why on earth would we wish to visit anyone in Leeds? To my knowledge, we do not know a soul who lives there. I should much prefer Brighton. How very odd of your brother. But then, I have never truly understood that boy.” Laying her newspaper aside, she began to peruse the pile of invitations that had arrived that morning.

  “The Nethertons are having a rout party tomorrow night. Shall I accept, or would you rather go to the theater with the Spencers?”

  Cassie made no reply. She could not utter a word without breaking into tears—or casting up her accounts, she was not sure which would occur. Unlike her step-mother, she knew precisely what her brother had meant—he was again threatening to auction her off to some rich mill owner or merchant in Leeds. She wanted to flee the house—run away as far as she could from London. But where could she go? And what would happen to Seffie if she did such a cowardly thing?

  “I think the Nethertons’ party will be more fun. I am not at all impressed with Shakespeare, despite what the critics say about his writing. He is much too gloomy to suit me.” Ellen laid aside several more invitations unopened, then with a squeal of glee snatched up a cream-colored missive and broke open the seal. Scanning it quickly, she let out a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Oh, how delightful. Lady Letitia has invited us to go on an outing to Wimbledon tomorrow. Mr. Hawke is thinking of buying a small estate not too many miles from there, and he wishes to inspect it personally. Apparently she has arranged a rather large party since her grandson and the Inglebys will be going, and she has invited dear Arthur and—oh, Cassie, how fortuitous! Lord Atherston is included. That will give you ample opportunity to engage in a flirtation with him, especially if you play your cards right and manage to ride beside him.”

  She looked up, a frown wrinkling her brow. “Whatever you do, Cassie, do not allow that flirt Cecily Ingleby to cut you out. I would not put it past her to try to steal one of your beaux. She must have some ulterior motive for dragging her brother over to our house virtually every day. At first I had thought that Oliver was dangling after you, but he is content to chat with me and has made not the slightest push to win your affections. Indeed, I should not be surprised if Cecily has her eye on Atherston himself. It is a pity that she is Lady Letitia’s grandniece, else I would be tempted to instruct the footman to tell her we are not at home.”

  * * * *

  Moderate—that was the word to describe Lord Atherston. During their ride out from London, Cassie had quizzed the baron as covertly as possible, and as far as she could discover he did nothing to excess. He was not a heavy drinker, nor did he gamble for anything other than chicken stakes. Moreover, she had carefully sounded him out and learned that his feelings on the subjects of absentee landlords and child labor were exactly in line with hers.

  His clothes were quietly elegant without being extravagant, his features were well formed, his intelligence was above average, and his comments revealed a surprising degree of common sense. To add to his suitability, he did not feel it necessary to shower her with flowery compliments. Beyond remarking on how her blue riding habit brought out the color of her eyes, he had said nothing of a personal nature, but had instead kept the conversation on a more general level.

  In short, when she evaluated his suitability as a husband, everything she had learned about him so far seemed to indicate that he would make a very congenial spouse.

  Without volition, her eyes strayed to where Mr. Hawke was riding on a large chestnut horse next to Lady Letitia’s carriage, which was being driven by Mr. Tuke. One thing Cassie knew for certain—it would be far, far better to marry a rather ordinary gentleman like Lord Atherston, who did nothing to disturb her equilibrium, than to marry a dangerous man like Mr. Hawke.

  Even after all these weeks of acquaintance, he had only to turn his dark eyes in her direction and frissons of fear raced through her veins. She could only be thankful that Geoffrey did not consider him a suitable candidate for her hand.

  Although if she failed to bring Lord Atherston up to scratch, might not her brother see in Mr. Hawke a way to avoid the expense of a prolonged stay in Leeds?

  Clearly, the time had come to do as she had been instructed and give Lord Atherston a little encouragement. Smiling at him as sweetly as she knew how, she said, “This mare you have loaned me is so beautifully trained. Did you raise her yourself?”

  Nothing, she had discovered during her stay in London, was a more surefire topic of conversation with the gentlemen than horses. Nor was she mistaken this time since Lord Atherston managed to spend the next half hour describing to her the horses he owned, the ones he had owned, and the ones he planned to purchase someday, including a team of grays suitable for a lady to drive, he added, giving her what was apparently meant to be a significant glance out of the corner of his eye.

  She knew she should seize such a perfect opportunity and respond to his hint with a warm smile at the very least, yet something made her resist taking that fateful step. Feeling unaccountably reluctant to commit herself, she avoided meeting his glance and instead kicked her horse into a gallop. Her step-mother’s advice to the contrary, Cassie felt more comfortable once she joined Cecily and Perry, who were riding at the front of their little cavalcade. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, she received a black look from Ellen, who was seated beside dear Arthur in his carriage. There was sure to be a scolding when they returned home, and Cassie resolved not to make any further attempt to escape the attentions of Lord Atherston. With luck, he would ascribe her abrupt flight to maidenly shyness.

  * * * *

  The estate, Richard was happy to discover, was everything he had been promised. The graveled drive was free of grass and weeds, the shrubs were well trimmed, the flowerbeds a riot of color, and the lawns had an evenness that bespoke two hundred years of being perfectly tended.

  Morwyle House itself was not the least bit pretentious. A lovely example of late Elizabethan architecture, it was beautifully maintained. The sunlight glanced off the mullioned windows, making them sparkle like diamonds. Just such a house had he dreamed of when he was sweltering in the heat of that cursed island.

  Leading the party around to the stable block, which fortunately came fully staffed, as did the house, Richard helped the ladies dismount, then offered his arm to Lady Letitia. “If none of you objects, we shall begin the tour with the house. Then, since the weather is so lovely today, I have arranged for a luncheon to be served al fresco. “

  Everyone proved amenable to his plan, and Mrs. Beagles, the housekeeper, met them at the door. She was a wellspring of information about the history of the manor, having served t
here all her life, as had her mother before her, and her mother’s mother before that.

  With the amused cooperation of Lady Letitia, Richard managed about halfway through the tour to detach Lady Cassiopeia from the arm of Lord Atherston, who could not quite hide his chagrin when he discovered that somehow he was now expected to escort Lady Letitia. In the end, good manners prevailed, and he did not object openly to the switch in partners.

  To Richard’s relief, neither did Lady Cassiopeia, whose opinion of the house he was not slow to solicit.

  “I cannot think of any way it could be improved,” she said, looking around her with delight. “Indeed, I marvel that anyone living here could bear to part with it.”

  “The owner died childless,” Richard explained, “and his only heirs are two nieces whose husbands already own vast estates in Canada. Since they have no intention of returning to this country, they prefer to sell the house and furnishings as they stand.” He paused, then asked casually, “You do not think this house is a bit too small, then?”

  “Well,” she considered the matter carefully, “that would depend, of course, on how much entertaining you might wish to do. The dining room can easily seat thirty, and there are enough bedrooms for a large family plus a dozen or so house guests. Were you planning on getting—”

  She broke off, obviously abruptly aware that she was straying into dangerous territory. Taking pity on her delightful confusion, he pretended to misunderstand her. “I plan to entertain frequently, but not on a grand scale.”

  “And this,” Mrs. Beagles said, throwing open a set of double doors, “is the picture gallery.” She began with great assurance to name not only all the distinguished members of the Morwyle family who were hung there, but also the well-known and less well-known artists who had painted them.

  “There is one change in the house that I would recommend,” Lady Cassiopeia said in an undertone.

  “And what is that?” Richard asked, looking down at her.

  She smiled up at him. “I have never before seen such a depressing collection of sour frowns and homely visages. They are not at all in keeping with the cheerfulness of the rest of the house. I suggest you crate up all these fine people, pack them off to Canada, and replace them with pictures of your own ancestors.”