Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  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 exchanged, 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.’

  Lord Devlin had known Guy? Had he known Guy was a gamester?

  ‘I met him in Bath.’

  ‘Bath.’ Madeleine sighed. ‘You must have seen the Cresent and the Circus. Did you meet in the Pump Room?’

  ‘No,’ Emily said. ‘In the Assembly Rooms.’ Though that first glimpse of him had been in the Pump Room.

  ‘The Assembly Rooms,’ Madeleine repeated in awe. ‘The announcement did not say where you were married. Was it at the Abbey?’

  ‘No.’ Emily paused. How much ought she tell her sister? ‘We had a Scottish marriage.’

  Madeleine’s eyes widened and her gaze lowered to Emily’s waist. ‘Are you—’

  Emily felt herself blush. ‘No, I am not.’ Far from it, she thought.

  Madeleine covered her mouth. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I did not mean to offend… It is that I know how easy it…I mean, it could happen to…’

  Emily grabbed her hand and squeezed it. ‘Do not fret.’ She spoke softly. ‘I remember, Madeleine. I remember why Papa sent you away.’

  Madeleine looked away. ‘I am not saying you are like me, Emily. You and Jessame were never like me.’

  Emily put her arms around her sister again. ‘No, we were jealous of you, Madeleine. You were so beautiful, even though you were the youngest. We ought to have looked out for you better.’

  Madeleine put her fingers to Emily’s lips to silence her. ‘That is all in the past, Emily. It no longer signifies.’

  But it signified to Emily. She’d puzzled out what her sister must have been doing in Lord Farley’s room that wretched night. Their father’s wrath had been terrible. The next day, she and Jessame were told that Madeleine had run away and that Lord Farley had been summoned back to London. Emily thought Madeleine had run away with the gentleman, but then, after several days, their father had produced the body of a young girl.

  When they buried that body under a stone with Madeleine’s name upon it, her father had declared that Madeleine’s wild ways had led her to destruction. If Madeleine’s spirit and vivacity had led to her death, Emily knew she must suppress any such feelings in herself. She had vowed to always behave with perfect propriety.

  What had all that propriety gained her?

  ‘I ought to have protected you,’ Emily said to Madeleine. ‘I was older than you. I ought to have done something.’

  Madeleine gave her another quick hug. ‘It is past, Emily. Think only of the life we have now. That is what I do. And I am so very, very happy.’

  More tears flowed, more sniffles and wiping of eyes with damp handkerchiefs.

  Madeleine had married well, Emily realised. She had a good life, a loving husband, a darling daughter.

  ‘I forgot to ask about your little girl,’ Emily said.

  Madeleine smiled again. ‘She is very well. She is above stairs, napping at the moment.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Next spring she will have a sister or brother.’

  ‘How lovely for you!’ Emily exclaimed.
>
  If wantonness brought death, propriety ought to have brought happiness. What had gone wrong? Her sister had been like a vine grown wild, almost lost among weeds, but she’d managed to flower notwithstanding. What had Emily’s strict adherence to correct behaviour gained her? She had all but withered, blossoming only when pretending to be Lady Widow.

  There was a knock on the door and both sisters automatically dabbed at their faces again and fussed with their dresses. ‘Come in,’ Madeleine said.

  In walked Lord Devlin Steele, Madeleine’s husband.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, giving his wife a loving glance. He came directly over to Emily and grasped both her hands in his. ‘Emily, it is so good to see you.’

  Lord Devlin was more handsome than ever, his green eyes sparkling, his smile showing the dimple in his cheek. He was taller than her husband, but just as dark. At one time his entrance to a ballroom had set her heart aflutter. Surprisingly, she felt none of that now.

  ‘It is good to see you, too, Lord Devlin,’ she said, meaning it.

  ‘And I realise I must also wish you very happy.’ He grinned at her. ‘Lady Keating.’

  Emily felt herself blush again.

  ‘I served with Lord Keating for a bit. He is a good man, Emily. A very good man.’

  A good man? Yes, yes, he might have been, but the knowledge did not make Emily feel happy.

  Devlin released her hands and turned to his wife. ‘Serena wishes you both to return to the parlour for tea.’

  ‘Wait.’ Emily faced her sister. ‘Madeleine, I have told no one of…of your true identity. No one. But you must know Robert is in town. Do you wish me to tell him about you?’

  ‘Robert? Oh, how is he?’ Madeleine shrank back. ‘Oh, dear! What if I run into him?’ She gave her husband a reproachful glance. ‘I knew I should not have come to town.’

  ‘You are not likely to see him if you do not wish it,’ her husband said.

  She turned back to Emily. ‘No one knows of me. Only you, Devlin, and the Marquess.’ She nodded her head firmly. ‘I think that is best. I…I would not wish any scandal to befall our family…’