by Diane Gaston
Had some danger befallen him? Had he been set upon by footpads? Or had there been a dispute over the cards and duels challenged? Did he lay dying on some grassy knoll somewhere, some corner of Hyde Park, his life’s blood flowing into the thirsty earth? She compressed her lips into a grim line.
Or had he lost so catastrophically that he had shot himself, like his brother? Her hand flew to her mouth, and her breath came quicker. She paced the room, trying to calm herself.
It was possible he had won. Perhaps he was celebrating. She stopped pacing and narrowed her eyes. When the big winners celebrated at Madame Bisou’s, the girls she employed flocked around them, sometimes throwing their arms around the men’s necks and kissing them on the mouth.
At least he would be alive, if that were the case. She would prefer he be alive, even if the one way she could imagine it made her murderously angry—or jealous, she could not decide which.
She strode back into her own room and shut the door before summoning Hester to help her dress.
‘Oh, my lady,’ Hester said, her eyes round as full moons. ‘Mr Rogers says his lordship did not return home all the night!’
Of course the servants would know. ‘Yes, Hester, I realised that as well. I do hope no one spoke of this to Lord Keating’s mother or to his aunts.’
‘I do not think so, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Mr Bleasby said we was to keep mum until he spoke to you.’
At least that was fortunate.
‘He did right.’ Emily forced a smile and squeezed Hester’s wringing hands. ‘I am sure Lord Keating was merely…detained. Unavoidably, I am certain, but we must save the Dowager and her aunts any distress.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the girl without conviction.
‘Let us dress me quickly,’ she went on.
A few minutes later she hurried down the stairs. When she reached the first floor, her mother-in-law stepped into the hallway.
‘You have developed a habit of sleeping late,’ the Dowager said by way of morning greeting.
Emily clutched the banister to stop herself. She took a deep breath. ‘Good morning, Lady Keating. Did you have need of me?’
‘No,’ she said in a desultory tone. ‘But I have not seen my son this morning either, and I had cause to wonder…’
Wonder what? Emily silently asked. Wonder if your son and his wife had slept late together?
‘I believe Guy went out quite early,’ she said. Which, she persuaded herself, was not a lie. He’d gone out when the clock marked the new day. ‘Did you have need of him?’
‘No,’ her mother-in-law said. ‘I merely wondered.’
‘If you do not object, ma’am, I will take leave of you.’ She took a step down the stairs.
‘Where are you bound?’
Emily stopped again. ‘To speak with Mrs Wilson and Bleasby. To…to check the arrangements for the day. That is all.’
‘I see,’ the elder Lady Keating said, turning away and walking back into the parlour.
Emily expelled a relieved breath and hurried to find Bleasby. He was at the silver closet, a worried frown on his face while he counted the silver and polished odd pieces.
When he saw her he said, ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ and gave her his usual bow. ‘I have no wish to distress you, but Master Guy—I mean, Lord Keating—did not return…’ He could not finish.
She placed her hand on his arm. ‘I know, Bleasby. But you are not to worry. It is due to that note he received, you see.’ That might be true, she thought. ‘Please spread the word to the other servants. Tell them to say nothing that distresses Lady Keating or her aunts.’
‘I have done so, ma’am, but, if you must know, Mr Guy does not do such things. I am certain a mischief has befallen him.’ His eyes were filled with worry.
Poor Bleasby. It would not do for him to become ill over this. ‘Perhaps you can send Rogers out to ask some discreet questions. If there is bad news, there will be talk of it.’ She tried to give him an ironic smile. ‘In fact, if there were bad news, we should have heard by now. It is always the way.’
Not always. Not if he were lying in some alley with a stab wound or some such, but she must not think so.
‘Very good, ma’am.’
The idea of sending Rogers out appealed to her, too. Perhaps he could discover something.
Where was Guy? Was he all right? Her heart started pounding all over again.
Rogers returned with nary a word. He’d inquired at all the gentlemen’s clubs and some of the shops. No one seemed to have seen Lord Keating.
When dinnertime came and Guy still had not come home, Emily felt near frantic. She assumed her most placid façade and endured the constant comments and questions from the Dowager and Lady Pipham and Miss Nuthall. She invented a fictitious note that she’d received saying Guy would not be home for dinner and would be out until very late.
Because they had received no invitation for the evening, Emily expected to endure more of the same comments throughout the evening.
After dinner Bleasby asked to have a word with her. She excused herself from the other ladies.
Bleasby looked as if he’d aged another ten years, though that seemed hardly possible.
He spoke in a low tone, leaning close to her. ‘I confess, I am sick with worry, my lady. It is not like Master Guy to do such a thing.’ She did not correct him for forgetting his master’s title. ‘His father or brother might stay out for days playing cards, but not Master Guy.’
She shared every bit of Bleasby’s worry. It was, she agreed, not like him at all.
Which was why her mind conceived disaster after disaster. She’d even wondered if he’d been conscripted, taken off to sea, sold into slavery. Could it really be something so simple as a card game?
When the other ladies of the household finally retired for the night, Emily hurried Hester to dress her as Lady Widow. She was ready so early she had to wait for Hester’s brother to drive up with the hackney coach.
When she arrived at Madame Bisou’s, she rushed inside, remembering, in time, to appear as if she were the serene Lady Widow.
‘Good evening, Cummings,’ she said to the footman.
‘Evening, my lady,’ he responded in a voice that was always two octaves lower than anyone else’s.
She did not usually engage the large man in conversation. ‘What is it like inside tonight?’ she asked. ‘Who is playing cards?’
She hoped that was question enough for him to tell her what she wished to know.
‘The usual sort,’ he replied.
She abandoned the art of subtlety. ‘Are Lord Keating and Mr Sloane still playing whist?’
‘No, my lady.’
Her fledgling hopes were cast down to the depths. Visions of Guy bleeding in some alley returned. She handed Cummings her cloak and, with a step as leaden as her heart, climbed the stairway to the first floor.
When she reached the top step, a gentleman staggered out of the supper room, almost careening into her. His neckcloth was askew, his coat unbuttoned, his waistcoat stained. His face bore more than a shadow of beard and his hair stood on end.
It was her husband.
Chapter Fourteen
She grabbed the banister to keep from falling. Her husband swung around, tripping on the stair and winding up a step below her, his arms pinning her in place.
Her first thought was, He is safe! The second was, He reeks of brandy. While she’d been nearly sick with worry, he’d been here the whole time. Drinking.
He gave her a crooked grin. ‘Em-m-m—Lady Widow!’
Trapped between his arms she could not move. He leaned into her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her against the banister. Being a step below, his face was level with hers. He nuzzled her cheek with his stubble-covered one.
‘Missed you, Lady Widow,’ he said, chuckling as if he’d said something very funny.
‘Unhand me,’ she rasped, pushing against his chest. None of the gentlemen had ever pawed at Lady Widow. How dare h
e touch her in sight of anyone happening by? How dare he cause her to worry that he was dead somewhere, lying in the cold all alone?
‘Don’t want to.’ He kissed her ear and, in spite of her fury, sent shivers of sensation riffling down her spine. ‘Want to be with you, Lady Widow.’ His lips warmed the sensitive skin of her neck. ‘I did it,’ he whispered, breath tickling her ear. ‘I did it.’
She did not care what he had done. She pushed again. To no avail.
A laugh came from behind her. ‘To think all I needed do was buy him a drink.’
She glanced up to see Sloane leaning against the door-frame of the supper room, looking as dishevelled and unshaven as the man now rubbing his hand down her back.
Her husband was behaving even worse than Sloane had done, treating her like she was no better than one of Madame Bisou’s girls. The thought that they might have had more than Madame Bisou’s brandy made her push with new force.
He merely held her tighter.
‘You might get him off me,’ she said, casting Sloane an irritated look.
Sloane grinned, taking a step but steadying himself with a hand on the wall. ‘Jus’ when he’s doing such a capital job of ruining his chances with you? Don’t be a nodcock.’
Her husband tried to lift a leg on to the step where she stood. His foot missed the step and he almost unbalanced them both from their precarious perch.
‘Oh, do something,’ she demanded of Sloane, grabbing the banister to keep from falling. ‘Before we both tumble down the stairs.’
Sloane did not wobble as he walked, but his gait was very, very careful. She’d once seen her brother walk like that when he’d broken into their father’s wine stores.
Sloane took each stair carefully. He braced himself and grabbed Guy’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Keating. Time t’take ya home. I daresay y’r wife’ll be at daggers drawn, but it cannot be helped.’
‘You are as drunk as he is,’ Emily accused.
‘We had only one little drink. To celebrate. Promise…’ Sloane made a gesture with his thumb and finger, to show just how little the drink had been. He gripped Guy’s shoulders and pulled with more force. ‘Keating, get on with it, man. Go home to your wife.’
Guy released Emily and wound around to Sloane, using Sloane to keep his balance. ‘Home to my wife?’ he snickered. His mirth escalated until he was shaking with laughter so intense, no sound came from his mouth. Sloane needed to hold him upright.
Emily gripped the banister so hard her knuckles turned white. He dared laugh about his wife? She was some monstrous jest to him, was she? What thanks these were for the hours and hours of worry she had expended on his behalf. If someone handed her a dagger at this moment, she might indeed draw it.
Her husband’s laughter died with one long sigh. His expression changed to alarm and he quickly patted his coat pocket. ‘Must take care,’ he said shaking his finger in the air. ‘Don’t want to be set upon by footpads.’
‘Indeed,’ Sloane nodded his head vigorously as if Guy had said something profound. ‘Footpads.’ Sloane slung his arm around Guy. ‘On our way, man.’
The two men stumbled their way down the stairs.
At the bottom, however, Guy turned back. He gazed up at Emily with an expression on his face so raw with desire it surely belonged only in a bedchamber. ‘Goodnight, Lady Widow,’ he called to her in a voice suddenly steady and clear.
He remained there, gazing at her, his eyes searing her skin with a lick of fire. It thrilled her.
And sickened her.
How dare he look at Lady Widow in that way, when his wife was nothing more to him than an object of laughter? How dare he touch Lady Widow as if she were a common harlot, when he did not touch his wife? How dare he arouse those senses in Lady Widow, when he could not bear to bed his wife?
He might look at Lady Widow all he pleased in that lascivious manner. It merely threw more fuel on the white-hot furnace burning inside her now.
So hot with anger she could not move, she glared at him as the men fumbled into their greatcoats and stumbled out of the door.
Lady Widow had one advantage over Emily Keating. Lady Widow could hurt him. Give him some measure of the pain he so casually inflicted upon his wife.
She tapped her fingers on the wood of the banister railing. She would do it. If her husband was so determined to be unfaithful, she would oblige him. She could also inflict a jest upon him. Would not it be worth a laugh to know he’d been unfaithful with his wife, rather than to her?
At that moment, the East India man walked out of the game room. Spying her, he said, ‘Ah, Lady Widow! I beg you to sit down with me for a round of whist.’
Playing Lady Widow, even winning at cards, would give her no joy this night. The fawning attention the gentlemen showered upon her suddenly gave her a great disgust. She could not bear their compliments, their over-solicitousness. Not when her husband behaved in so horrid a manner.
She did not give the gentleman a glance. Glancing instead down towards the front door, she said more to herself than to him, ‘I must leave.’
She did not wait to listen to his protests, but ran down the stairs, begging Cummings to get her cloak. Without bothering to put it on, she hurried out of the door, heedless of the night’s chill. It would take more than cold weather to cool the fury within her. She ran down the street to where the hackney waited for her, calling for her driver to take her home.
Her driver made excellent speed, and she ran through the mews to the servants’ entrance in the back, realising at the last minute that Hester would not be there to let her in. She rapped on the locked door.
It was opened by a startled Rogers. ‘M’lady!’
She said a quick thank you, gave no explanation, and hurried off to the servants’ stairway. She made it up the three flights of stairs to the hallway of her bedchamber’s floor when noise from below stairs reached her ears. She tiptoed down to the first floor where she could see the hall.
Her husband stumbled in, greeted by an obviously frantic Bleasby, who was repeatedly exclaiming, ‘Master Guy! Master Guy! Are you injured, lad?’
Her husband’s laughter reached her ears once more, though he stepped out of her view. ‘No, Bleasby, I could not be better. I’ve done it, you see! No more to worry over now.’
Oh, yes, he had done whatever it was he had done, but worry would not escape him. She intended to give him plenty to worry about.
‘I’m devilish tired, Bleasby,’ she heard him say. ‘It was a hellish long game.’
Card playing as well as drinking. She ought to have known. It sounded like something her father would have done. That and more.
Rogers’s voice was added. ‘M’lord!’ he exclaimed in much the same tone as his greeting to her.
‘Ah, Rogers,’ her husband said. ‘Be so good as to help me to m’room. I’m devilish tired. Devilish tired.’
He might well be tired from playing cards and drinking and whatever else all that time. Let him sleep all he wanted. She would plot her revenge.
Emily ran ahead of them, reaching her bedchamber before their footsteps sounded in the hall.
Guy woke to daylight, but with no conception of what time it was or even what day it was. He was somewhat surprised to find himself in his own bed. His last clear memory had been of his two whist opponents, heads on the card table, sound asleep in the room where they’d spent almost twenty-four hours straight.
He bounded out of bed. Where was his coat?
He found it brushed and folded neatly in the wardrobe. Bleasby’s dedication, he suspected, but his heart pounded until he inspected the inside pocket and discovered the packet of banknotes.
He spread them on a table. One note signed over to him the total sum of ninety-four thousand pounds. Other notes were in denominations of one thousand pounds. Still others in lower denominations. Guy was not entirely sure how much he had won, but he knew he had succeeded. He had won enough to rebuild Annerley, to fix the tenants’ cottages, to pay for sprin
g planting. And he had plenty left over to invest in the funds. He’d won enough to make his family and Annerley secure.
He’d done it!
After carefully replacing the banknotes in their packet, he walked to the bureau and poured water into the basin. Splashing it over his face, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored glass. He looked as if he’d survived a battle rather than a bout of cards. He rubbed his cheek, the stubble of his beard scratching his hand.
A vague memory of Lady Widow invaded his mind, of him rubbing his rough face against her soft, smooth skin. Had he seen her, embraced her, as his memory seemed to tell him, or was it a dream? She seemed to inhabit many of his dreams of late.
Lathering his bar of soap and wiping it on his face, he scraped his cheeks and chin with the razor and then quickly washed and dressed. Still unsure of the hour, he chose a brown frock coat and trousers. If there were still time in the day, he meant to call upon his father’s former man-of-business. The man had been wise enough to sever ties with his father and brother when they did not heed his advice, but perhaps he would be willing to take a chance on another, luckier Keating. Guy meant to tie up his winnings in safe investments as soon as possible.
The house was quiet as he made his way downstairs. It was deflating he had no one with whom to celebrate, but he supposed that was the cost of keeping their financial problems to himself. He wanted to tell the whole to Emily, wanted to share his good fortune with her, to see her changeable eyes dance like Lady Widow’s, to swing her around in total happiness.
But he’d never explained to her how badly he had needed that fictitious fortune of hers. At the time it would have been like rubbing salt in her wounds to tell her she’d married a man one step from Dun territory.
He found Bleasby napping in a chair in the hallway, his chin bobbing against his chest. Poor Bleasby. Soon he could have a small cottage of his own on the Annerley estate and he could nap all the days through, not needing to serve anyone’s desires but his own.