by Diane Gaston
‘Zounds, Emily,’ Robert said when she’d completed her disguise. ‘Don’t look like yourself.’
She flashed him a smile. ‘Exactly so. And I am not Emily, you must remember. I am Lady Widow.’
‘Ghastly name,’ he said. ‘Makes no sense.’
The name made sense to her, however.
They pulled up to a sedate-looking house on Bennett Street and Emily was relieved it looked like a respectable residence. Robert helped her out of the coach and escorted her to the door opened by a giant of a man dressed in livery. Robert nodded familiarly to the man, and they were admitted without question.
Inside, the house was ablaze with light, and the murmur of voices could be heard from rooms above stairs. They passed by a gentleman who greeted Robert by name and who ogled Emily with open curiosity. Robert quickly led her into the large gaming parlour. Its walls were bright yellow with carved white moulding, so bright she almost had to blink, as if in strong sunlight. She glanced up at the ceiling and quickly glanced back. The ceiling depicted a Bacchanal scene, with many unclothed figures whose activity she dared not examine too closely.
Card tables were set up in the centre. Along the walls were hazard tables and faro banks, with gaily dressed women to run them. There were mostly gentlemen playing at the tables, but a few women players dotted the room.
A lady circulated among the card players. Not a lady, actually. Her bright red dress was cut so low, her generous breasts seemed ready to topple out at any moment. It made Emily’s look like a Quaker’s. Her lips and cheeks were almost as bright as her dress and her hair, also red, was a shade Emily was certain did not exist in nature. As the woman threaded her way through the tables, she rested her hands on the gentlemen’s shoulders or patted their cheeks.
Surely she was a madam, Emily thought, in the baser use of the term. She could not help but stare, fascinated, as one stared at the oddities displayed at Bartholomew Fair. The creature in red glanced in their direction, flashed a white-toothed smile at Robert, and headed directly for them. Emily, still clutching Robert’s arm, felt him fidget.
She nearly panicked. As the madam came nearer and nearer, Emily suddenly remembered seeing a stairway to an upper floor. What sorts of rooms were up there? Rooms for gentlemen to pass time with women such as this one? She gazed around the room. There were other women patrons playing cards, but no one she’d ever been introduced to. She’d landed in the world of the demi-monde. What was she doing in this place?
The riffle of cards and clink of coin brought her back to her senses. She was here to win money, as were the more respectably dressed ladies who dotted the room, playing cards or throwing dice. She would not flee back to Essex Court now.
She stiffened her back. The creature in red descended on Robert, taking both of his cheeks in her hands and kissing him full on the lips. Emily nearly dropped her jaw.
‘Robert, darling,’ she said. ‘Where have you been? We have missed you.’
Robert blushed as deep a red as the woman’s dress. ‘Been busy.’
Emily contrived to look composed. It was somewhat of a challenge.
The woman eyed her. ‘Who have you brought with you, chéri? A paramour?’
‘Good God, no,’ exclaimed Robert. ‘She’s my—’
Emily pinched his wrist. Hard. ‘I am a mere friend, I fear,’ she said, remembering in time to affect her mother’s voice.
‘That’s the thing.’ Robert pulled away and rubbed his wrist. ‘Friend. Wants to play. Secret. Masked, you know. Call her Lady Widow.’
The woman extended her hand to Emily. ‘I quite understand. I am Madame Bisou.’ She laughed. ‘Like your name, a description. “Little kiss”, no?’
Madame Bisou’s French accent was undoubtedly as affected as Emily’s own speech.
She returned the handshake with a wide smile. ‘I see you do understand.’
Madame Bisou turned back to her brother. ‘Robert, chéri, if I do not know your…friend’s name, how am I to know she will play an honest game? How will my loyal guests be assured she will pay her debts?’
‘Uh,’ said Robert. ‘Vouch for her. Upon my honour.’
Emily flashed Madame Bisou another smile. ‘I do not intend to lose.’
The woman laughed. She threaded her arm through Robert’s and pressed the profusion of her bosom into his chest. ‘I like her, chéri.’
Emily averted her gaze. Raising her voice, she said, ‘I would like to play whist, madame, if some gentleman present would be kind enough to partner me.’
Several gentlemen looked up. They stared at her with a boldness that would get them banned forever from Almack’s.
One gentleman stepped forward, grasping her hand to actually kiss it. ‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am.’ He kept hold of her hand and caressed it with his thumb.
It was Sir Reginald, her recent card partner and Keating family friend.
Emily’s heart banged against her chest. He would recognise her. Surely he would recognise her.
She laughed, as her mother would have done at such attention. ‘I am called Lady Widow, sir. And you are?’
‘Sir Reginald Roscomb at your service, Lady Widow.’ He kissed her hand again, and she could swear she felt his tongue through the lace-mittened gloves she wore. ‘You must call me Reggie.’
Trying not to appear as discomfited as she felt, she laughed again, but pulled her hand away. ‘Such familiarity, sir? Don’t be shocking.’
Another gentleman approached from behind. He spoke in a smooth, silky voice. ‘My lady, you will surely lose, if Sir Reginald is your partner. You must partner me.’
‘Oh?’ she said, arching one brow and turning towards this new voice.
Her knees almost gave way from under her. Cyprian Sloane gazed down at her, his smoky grey eyes drinking in every inch of her with more blatant appreciation than when he’d eyed her in the Assembly room at Bath. Surely he would recognise her.
He bowed. ‘Mr Cyprian Sloane.’
Her head felt full of cotton wool and all the air seemed to leave the room. But no recognition dawned in Sloane’s sleepy eyes. Had she fooled even him?
She curtsied, leaning over ever so slightly to show her low neckline to best effect. The gentleman’s gaze riveted to that very spot.
When she rose, she forced herself to form a most charming smile. ‘Mr Sloane. You may call me Lady Widow.’
‘I would be delighted,’ he said smoothly. ‘But which of us do you choose to be your…partner? The older man…or the younger? I assure you, ma’am, I play a more stimulating game than Sir Reginald and will have more stamina when matters become…more heated.’
‘Stuff!’ interjected Sir Reginald.
Even with her limited experience, Emily caught the double entendre in Sloane’s words. He, of all gentlemen, thought of her in that…that bedroom way? It was inconceivable. And Sir Reginald, old enough to be her father, did he too want to bed her?
It could not be so. She ought to be scandalised at this behaviour, repelled, but, oddly enough, she mostly felt a very satisfying feminine thrill.
These men desired her. What a novelty.
In a moment three others came to press her to select them. She tittered and giggled as her mother might have done, flirting with each of them. Robert, standing at the edge of her new admirers, wore a horrified expression. She caught his eye and made a face.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ she admonished, turning back to her flock. ‘I intend to play all night. And if the cards are very good to me, I promise to return. You may all have a chance to play with me.’
While she spoke, the double meaning of her words dawned on her, every bit as shocking as Sloane’s had been. She laughed at herself. What fun it was to say and do what one pleased.
All this masculine admiration, however, was not fattening her pockets. She had come to play cards.
She raised her arms to silence her new admirers. ‘I will have Sir Reginald as my first gentleman,’ she said, giving him a meaningful
look that brought a huff of pride to his face.
She knew Sir Reginald to be a skilled player. She would not risk the little money she had partnering someone who had no card sense. Perhaps when she’d had an opportunity to observe the players, she would discover the best player, then she would know who her next partner would be.
She turned to Sloane. ‘You may be my opponent, Mr Sloane. Do you fancy engaging in a contest with me?’
A seductive smile grew slowly across his face. ‘I would fancy engaging you in any manner,’ he said.
Oh, this was capital fun!
She searched her other admirers and picked a gentleman who had said he was with the East India Company, surmising he might have plenty of money to lose. ‘Would you like to play as well, sir?’ she asked.
‘My pleasure,’ the man replied.
Sloane assisted her into her chair, brushing his hand across her bare shoulders. Sir Reginald took his place opposite her.
As Sir Reginald dealt the cards, she spied Madame Bisou whispering in Robert’s ear. A moment later, Robert left the room with her, disappearing in a blur of red as her skirts swished out the door. Emily felt her cheeks heat and hoped the gentlemen at her table did not notice. Her brother?
With all the artistry of a coquette, she charmed the gentlemen of her table to limit the stakes to suit her, ensuring her fifty pounds would be sufficient. She hoped in the future to have less need of limits. Their agreement was unanimous and immediate. They would do anything she desired. It was a heady feeling, indeed.
Winning came more easily than she’d dreamed, but she suspected Sloane and the East India man were conspiring to be kind to her. It wounded her pride to think they assumed she was not their equal at cards. Or perhaps they merely wished to court her favour. Sir Reginald, not to be outdone by the younger men, plied her with lavish compliments. So much so, she feared flushing with embarrassment.
In any event, her pile of counter pieces grew higher.
‘La, gentlemen,’ she exclaimed, ‘you bring me such luck I dare renege on my promise to give others a chance.’
Protests sounded from all directions. She eventually allowed three other gentlemen to sit at her table, but the only contest seemed to be who could build her stack higher.
Sloane contrived to escort her in to supper and to seat her at a table in a secluded corner.
‘You intrigue me, my lady,’ he murmured to her, handing her a glass of champagne.
She sipped, and the bubbles seemed to sparkle inside her. ‘I, sir?’ She fluttered her lashes.
‘I want to know who you are. Why you must hide such beauty under a mask.’
Such beauty? Now that was flummery, indeed. Still, her chest fluttered, and she felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
She took another sip. ‘It is very simple, my lord. I wish to play cards and I prefer not to be spoken of for doing so.’
He peered at her from above his glass. ‘So you are known in town?’
She gave him a sly smile. ‘Isn’t everyone?’
At that moment Robert walked up. ‘Found you, Em—mmm—my lady.’ His neckcloth was a dishevelled mess, and the perfect curls of his hair had been thoroughly disordered. ‘Must leave. Getting late, y’know.’
‘Not so soon,’ protested Sloane. ‘We were just becoming…acquainted.’
Emily pretended to sigh. In a bold move, she touched Sloane’s cheek as Madame Bisou had done. ‘Another time, perhaps,’ she murmured. ‘I should enjoy another round of whist with you.’
He lifted his glass. ‘To another round, Lady Widow.’
She rose from the chair. Cyprian Sloane rose as well, capturing her hand and kissing it. Three more gentlemen, including Sir Reginald, kissed her hand before she made it to the door. Madame Bisou, waiting in the hall, gave Robert a full-on-the-lips kiss. Emily swore the woman’s tongue was in his mouth before it ended. Surprisingly she felt a wave of sensation, remembering exactly how her husband’s tongue had tasted.
Her husband.
Would her husband even care if another gentleman kissed her the way Madame Bisou kissed Robert? Any number of the gentlemen she met this night might kiss her that way if she allowed it. Emily ought to have been shocked at thinking such a thing, but somehow, as Lady Widow, she found it rather intoxicating.
When they were in the hackney, Emily pulled off her hat and mask.
Robert exclaimed, ‘Zounds, Emily. Acting like a high-flyer. Not proper.’
‘Look what pot calls the kettle black,’ she countered. ‘What were you and Madame Bisou engaging in while I was merely playing cards?’
She could almost feel him blush. ‘Don’t want to say, Em. Cost a bundle, though.’
She patted his arm. ‘Do not fret about me. I am there to play cards, nothing else.’
‘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.