Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  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.’

&nb
sp; 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, tucking 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?’

  She wanted to blurt out, ‘My name is Emily!’ but she would not. Neither would she complain of his mother’s poor manners towards her. If he cared, there was plenty of opportunity for him to witness it.

  She made herself assume a pleasant expression. ‘I had not noticed any undue discomfort, but, of course, I am perhaps less delicate than your aunt.’

  Lady Pipham nodded vigorously, and the hint of an approving look crossed Miss Nuthall’s face. Her mother-in-law took no notice at all.

  Her husband placed a chair near the fire and invited her to sit. He turned to Lady Keating. ‘Mother, I’m sure Emily would appreciate you introducing her to the servants. There is much for her to learn of the household.’

  His mother pursed her lips. ‘Guy, I declare, I am too exhausted to contemplate such a task.’

  ‘Tomorrow will do,’ he responded in a tight voice.

  ‘I would be most grateful for anything you might teach me, Lady Keating,’ Emily said. ‘But I do not wish to trouble you.’

  No matter Lady Keating’s behaviour towards her, she vowed no one would accuse her of being an improper daughter-in-law.

  Lady Keating, however, turned her back.

  ‘Mother!’ her husband cried sharply. ‘My wife was speaking to you.’

  The sharp tone of his voice took Emily by surprise.

  The Dowager turned back and spoke in a clipped fashion. ‘I will show you the house tomorrow and introduce you to the servants.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emily said.

  Lady Keating began talking of other things, matters which did not concern Emily, who took some time to recover her equilibrium. She glanced around the room, warmed by a small fire in the carved marble fireplace. More colourful than the hall had been, its walls were pale green trimmed with rectangular white moulding. The furniture was also in the classical style, sofas and chairs in the same pale green as the walls.

  There was a very subtle air of neglect in the house, Emily thought, though the scent of beeswax suggested someone had recently dusted and polished. Perhaps the house had been unused for a time. She could not recall any of the Keatings present in town during her last two Seasons, but it was more than that. This décor belonged to her grandmother’s time. It was as if no one had cared enough to tend to it since the last century had passed.

  In Malvern, where she’d grown up, her mother always kept up with the latest styles, no matter how big the expense or the debt. But that was a mere illusion of caring for a house.

  Emily gazed at her husband, mother-in-law and his aunts. They formed a circle where they sat, a circle that kept her on the outside.

  The footman arrived, bringing the refreshments, and Emily busied herself pouring for the others.

  After the ladies retired to their rooms to await the dinner hour, Guy remained in the parlour alone. He searched a cabinet, pleased that Mrs Wilson had been thorough enough to stock it with port, the bottle still smelling of the wine cellar from which it had been unearthed. He poured himself a glass and plopped down in a chair by the fire. He would give his mother a few moments, but then he would have more words with her.

  The gulf between himself and his wife was difficult enough, but her presence was a reality none of them could—or should—ignore, as easy as it seemed. His mother must be made to understand that her disregard of her daughter-in-law was not to be tolerated.

  He downed the contents o
f his glass. His guilt at trapping Emily into marrying him was not eased by her perfect manners, her quiet way of doing whatever was required. With a few kind words, she’d already made a conquest of Mrs Wilson. And goodness knows what would have happened to Bleasby if she had not noticed his illness. He felt certain his mother would rush to report any sharp words from Emily, but none existed. Each day brought new evidence of what a fine woman he had married, how much more she deserved than a man who must make his fortune with cards and neglect her in the process.

  Guy stood. The very reserve he admired in her dealings with his mother rankled him at the same time. It left him at sea as to how to make amends to her, how to go about begging her forgiveness.

  A few minutes later he knocked at the door to his mother’s room, announcing himself. She bade him enter.

  She lay upon her bed in a dressing gown and cap, but sat up as he walked to her side. ‘I had not recalled what a small room this was. Kirby was barely able to find places for my clothing.’

  He glanced around. It was more snug than she was used to, but perfectly adequate. ‘What would you have me do about it, Mother?’ he asked in a flat voice.

  She waved her hand dramatically. ‘Oh, there is nothing to be done.’ She flung herself back on the pillows and gestured for him to sit in a nearby chair. ‘She has quite taken over.’

  He chose to remain standing. ‘Now you know that is unfair. I made the decision. She, by the way, has asked for nothing.’ He gave her a direct look. ‘Emily is the new Viscountess Keating, and she is due all the advantages to the title.’

  His mother closed her eyes, as if that would prevent her from hearing what he had to say.

  He came closer and took her hand in his. She opened her eyes again. ‘Mother, Emily is an agreeable creature. I urge you to treat her with more consideration.’

  She sighed, clasping his hand tightly. ‘I do apologise, Guy. But I simply do not like her.’

  He pulled away from her fingers. ‘And why is that? What is there to dislike in her?’