Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  There were new works to be seen by Lawrence ("glossy bravura"), Wilkie ("exquisite sentiment"), Chantrey ("tender pathos"), Samuel ("a dabbler"), Fuseli ("horrifically sublime"), Martin ("portentous"), Ward ("I detest equine portraits"), and Mulready ("derivative"), as well as a massive work by Turner representing the Decline of the Carthaginian Empire. Rosalind read aloud from the catalog that it was a companion piece to Dido Building Carthage exhibited two years before.

  "I recollect that one," Max said. "I believe this to be more successful in the subtlety of lighting."

  "It is glorious, but—"

  "The man's work is an outrage," a voice behind them boomed. "It is an offense to the eye and ought not be displayed in public."

  Rosalind's lips pursed in anger and she spun around to face the harsh critic. "I beg your pardon, sir, but— Uncle Talmadge!"

  Lord Talmadge, a stout, florid gentleman nearly bald as an egg, puffed out his chest and glared at Rosalind over the edge of gold spectacles perched precariously on a bulbous nose. "And who might you be, madam?"

  "Do you not recognize your own niece? I am Rosalind Lacey."

  He reared back and squinted through the spectacles. "Lacey? One of that brood, eh? How should I be expected to recognize one of—how many? Dozens?"

  "There are six of us, as you well know. Or would, if you took the least interest in your sister's family."

  "Impertinent hussy!" The man's face turned a deep red and he looked near to apoplexy. "As though I cared a fig for any brats sired by that fool Louisa married. Never approved of the man or his loathsome family. That sister of his racketing about town, setting herself up as some sort of courtesan to the Prince of Wales. Spawn of the devil, she and all her kin. Want nothing to do with any of you. Be off now, girl."

  "How dare you speak like that of my family, you hateful old man." Her voice had grown loud and Max was dismayed to see a crowd begin to gather. "Your own sister's family! Allow me to tell you to your head that we want none of you, either, my lord. Is this gentleman a friend of yours?" she asked, nodding to the gaunt, elderly man standing next to Lord Talmadge. "Did you know, sir, that his fine lordship refused even to acknowledge any of his own sister's children? That he never answered his sister's plea for help the year my father's crops failed and we had barely more than two shillings to rub together? That the only time he was persuaded to darken the doors of our home was when he came to demand return of a family bible my mother cherished? That he never bothered to attend her funeral, or even to acknowledge her death? Christian charity, indeed."

  "Impudent girl! I knew no good would come of marriage with a Lacey. Come along, Abernathy. I've had enough of this sharp-tongued baggage, as well as these monstrous splatters of paint. Let us leave this godless den of wickedness!"

  The gaunt man was pulled roughly along by Lord Talmadge, but continued to stare over his shoulder in open-mouthed astonishment until he had disappeared into the crowd. The confrontation had drawn a large group of bystanders who began to whisper and snigger as they stared at Rosalind.

  Max had kept hold of Rosalind's arm the whole time, and now guided her away from the crowd. "Perhaps we should leave," he said. "You cannot enjoy the pictures now. Come along, minx."

  She walked stiffly at his side, head held high on her long, elegant neck, chin lifted at a defiant angle. She looked as imperious and proud as any duchess and drew many an appreciative glance as they made their way to the exit.

  Max settled her in his carriage and gave the driver instructions before joining her. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and yet a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I have always wanted to do that," she said, "to tell him exactly what I thought of him."

  "You made an excellent job of it, my girl. He deserved every blow you landed."

  "Yes, he did. It is just so frustrating!" She pounded the bench with a fist. "There was never any need for him to be estranged from Mama, though God knows she was probably better off without him. But she was his sister! And the irony of it is that Papa felt the same way about his own family. He has always been ashamed of Fanny and her notoriety. My uncle ought to have approved of him. Papa is a quiet, reserved country gentleman who finds more pleasure in his books than in his family. Though not as sanctimonious as Uncle Talmadge, he is very much steeped in propriety."

  Max guessed that Rosalind's gregarious, lively personality was a reaction against such a parent. "How the devil did you get him to agree to let you stay with Fanny?"

  "I am well above the age where I need his consent," she said, "but even so, he was quite accommodating. He was not thrilled, to be sure. He would rather I had gone with starchy old Lady Hartwell, who chaperoned both my sisters during their Seasons. But Fanny intrigued me. When I boldly wrote to ask if I might visit her, she obliged by writing Papa and inviting me."

  "Capital woman, Fanny."

  "She is. And it saddens me that so many of my family think otherwise. I am so glad I have got to know her. Uncle Talmadge can be damned. Aunt Fanny is worth a hundred of him."

  "And so are you, minx." Max kissed her gently on the mouth, without passion, and knew in that moment that he was completely, foolishly, deliriously in love with her.

  She smiled up at him, then rested her head on his shoulder. "Do you have any loose screws in your family, Max?"

  "Had a great uncle who lost his wits and had to be locked up in an attic for years."

  "Oh!"

  "But I am sorry to report that most of my relations are frightfully upstanding. My eldest brother, Ethan— he's the current Earl of Blythe—minds the family estates with great care. Married well, and his wife has dutifully presented him with three sons and a daughter. Old Ethan is a pillar of the community. Then there's my sister Adelaide, Lady Gresham. Married a marquess with buckets of money, and spends it all on various charitable causes. Always doing good works, is Adelaide. Funding some school or hospital. And finally we have my younger brother, Trevor, Colonel Davenant of the 16th Light Dragoons. Made a name for himself with Wellington, listed in any number of dispatches. A hero at Waterloo. Now on Castlereagh's staff."

  "What a remarkable family you have," Rosalind said. "You must be quite proud."

  "Quite." The achievements of his siblings were indeed a source of pride for Max, but also a burden. He had never been able to match their productive lives, and ceased trying at an early age. Instead, he decided to dedicate his life to pleasure, and could boast that he had succeeded, reaching the top of his "profession."

  "Speaking of siblings," he said, "whatever became of that brother of yours who stalked us at the Opera House?"

  Rosalind lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled. "He came around to Fanny's the next day. Believe it or not, he didn't rip up at me at all. Thought it was grand lark."

  "Not everyone in your family, then, is a stuffed shirt."

  "No, but my sister Ursula makes up for the rest. You will never meet anyone higher in the instep than Ursula."

  "I shall do my best to avoid her."

  "Where are we going, Max?"

  "To Gunter's. I thought you might need a lemon ice to cool you down after that fiery outburst."

  A smile broke across her face, bright and fresh as a sunrise. "Excellent!"

  * * *

  "You told him he was a hateful old man?"

  Rosie giggled at her brother's look of astonishment. "I did, and it felt wonderful. Hurry up with my cravat, Tommy. I am all agog to be off."

  "Can't believe how you've changed, Rosie. Telling off old Talmadge. Curricle racing."

  "I won!"

  "Yes, I know. The whole world knows. And now this. Don't know how you managed to talk me into this caper."

  "You said I passed easily as a boy at the masquerade."

  "A costume ball is one thing. People think nothing of a female in breeches. But this ain't a masquerade, Rosie. If we're caught, I'll be a laughingstock."

  "No, you won't. You may
simply say that your notorious sister is touched in the upper works and you wash your hands of her. Besides, why should men have all the fun? You have mills and clubs and cock fights—though I don't believe I should enjoy watching chickens tear each other to pieces—and gaming hells and who knows what all. I have promised myself I would sample all that London has to offer, even if I have to disguise myself as a man to do it. How do I look?"

  Thomas eyed her up and down, then walked around her in a slow circle. She was wearing a pair of his own breeches that fit snuggly at the waist and hips but were a shade too long, along with a shirt, waistcoat, and jacket borrowed from a friend closer to her size. Thomas admitted he'd been honest enough to tell the young man that his sister needed them, but had implied it was for a masquerade, not a disguise.

  "You'll do," he said at last. "But let's keep to the shadows. And don't forget our cover."

  "I am Ross Lacey, your sixteen-year-old cousin fresh from the country." Yet another role to play.

  "Just so. Lord, I hope you ain't discovered, Rosie. Father will skin me alive if he finds out."

  She was not, however, discovered.

  Their first stop was a sparring match at the Fives Court. It had been a battle to get Thomas to agree to bring her, apparently thinking her delicate sensibilities would be affronted by the sight of men naked to the waist, sweating and grunting and pummeling one another. When she announced her intention to go without him, he relented.

  Sparring was not as good as a real mill with a purse, Thomas told her, but often tolerably good sport. The Westminster Fives Court was a cavernous building packed shoulder to shoulder with men of all ranks of society. Near the center was a raised square platform, like a stage, with ropes stretched all around it. The din was deafening as two combatants were cheered on by the mob.

  Rosie was at first glance slightly sickened by the sight of blood streaming down the face of one of the men, but the bout soon ended with both men seeming to be in fit shape. A second bout began soon after.

  The two men, bare-chested and well-muscled, approached the center of the ring and shook hands. Facing each other, they stood with one foot forward, knees bent, gloved fists held at chin level, then began to parry blows. Thomas tried to explain the rules and the science of the ring, but the noise was too loud for Rosie to hear all he said.

  She was soon, however, caught up in the excitement, cheering on her brother's favorite, wincing now and then at a particularly fierce blow, and sending up a whoop when the favorite bested his opponent.

  Some of Thomas's friends invited him to join them at the Daffy Club, and Rosie cajoled him into taking her along. She was pleased to note that none of the young men suspected her true identity. As a young boy, she was ignored for the most part, barely tolerated as an encumbrance by Thomas's friends.

  The Castle Tavern was a gathering place for the Fancy, connoisseurs of pugilism. The long room in the back, known as the Daffy Club, was fitted up with several tables set together to form one long table. The walls were lined with framed sporting prints and illuminated by gas lights. The table was crowded with men, primarily Dandies and Corinthians, though Thomas pointed out a few famous prize-fighters, old standers including the great Belcher himself, who received the homage of their admirers.

  Rosie was unable to follow most of the conversations going on around her. They spoke of doublers, digs, and choppers, of claret jugs, nobs, and mufflers, of corner coves and Broughtonians. She had no idea what they were talking about.

  Before long, a tankard was placed in front of her. Taking an experimental sip, Rosie discovered it to be gin and was sent into a fit of coughing. She felt a tug on her arm and found Thomas, cocking his head toward the door.

  "Come along, cousin. You're too young for gin. My uncle will have my head if I get you tanked up on Hollands."

  Rosie had no objection to leaving. She found nothing particularly entertaining about a bunch of loud, disorderly gentlemen, foxed to their eyeballs, yammering on about this bout or that race. No wonder women never made a push for entry into these male bastions. They were deadly dull.

  "Dammit, Rosie, I'm taking you home. The Fives Court was enough. I ain't taking you anyplace else."

  "No, Tommy! Please. We haven't been to a gaming hell yet." At least she could depend upon entertainment at a hell. Rosie was very good at cards.

  "Oh, Lord." Thomas grabbed his head and groaned. "I swear, you are going to owe me for this. Where the devil am I supposed to take you? Can't get you into Whites. We'll have to go to Jermyn Street. Know of a little establishment there that ain't too rough."

  They took a hackney to the club, a nondescript building in an alley off Jermyn Street. Inside, it was crowded, though much quieter than the Daffy Club. The only sounds seemed to be the slapping of cards on a table, the rattle of dice in a cup, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional murmur of the players. Games of faro and hazard and macao were taking place at tables scattered about the room. Men stood behind the chairs, watching the play and drinking wine or coffee. Waiters quietly meandered about the room, delivering drinks on silver trays. It all seemed very sedate and very serious.

  "Whatever you do," Thomas whispered, "don't sit down at a table. You'll be marked for a pigeon and plucked before you can blink an eye. It's deep play, Rosie. Don't even think of getting into a game. Just watch. Nothing more."

  Thomas found a couple of friends and stood with them at a faro table running at high stakes. Rosie wandered about from table to table, finally making her way to one that had gathered the largest group of spectators. It was a hazard table. The player was apparently on a winning streak, causing soft gasps from the spectators with every throw of the dice.

  Rosie nudged her way closer, and was startled to find the player was Max. Her gasp of surprise matched those of the spectators as he won again, and more chits were added to his side of the table.

  "Good Lord, it's Davenant." Her brother's voice came as a mere whisper in her ear. "He is accounted one of the best hazard players in town."

  "How does he win?" she whispered. "I don't understand the game."

  Thomas quietly gave her the bare details of hazard. She watched in quiet awe as Max won time after time, never once throwing out. His concentration was fierce, eyes sharp beneath the sleepy lids. Though it was a game of chance, Thomas explained that a really good player could master the odds, and Max seemed to have done so.

  When Max, who played standing, had amassed a considerable stack of winnings, he stepped back and called for a glass of wine. His glance swept over the group of spectators, passed over Rosie, then jerked back to stare at her. He arched a brow. Rosie, trying to look masculine, nodded an acknowledgment. Max took the glass of wine offered by a waiter and downed it in two swallows. He signaled that his winnings should be collected and cashed in, then made his way toward Rosie and Thomas.

  "Mr. Thomas Lacey, I believe," he said, addressing her brother.

  Thomas fidgeted awkwardly and said, "Yes, I am Lacey."

  Turning toward Rosie, Max said, "And this must be..."

  "Er ... this is my cousin, Ross Lacey."

  "Ross, is it? How delightful to make your acquaintance, young man."

  Rosie was hard pressed not to dissolve into giggles. Max seemed to sense her dilemma and steered her and Thomas toward an unoccupied corner of the room.

  "I don't suppose this is your idea, Lacey?" he said in a low whisper.

  "Lord, no!"

  "I thought not. Rosalind—that is, Ross—you are an incorrigible minx. Has she always been so uncontrollable, Lacey?"

  "Actually, no. Don't know what's got into her."

  "Dare I ask what brings you here?"

  "I wanted to see a gaming hell," Rosie said. "You know how I love cards. I thought it would be fun to see how men play when women aren't around."

  "And what have you discovered?"

  "That men have lots more money with which to gamble. Or at least they have control of more money. I suspect some of these ge
ntlemen are losing their wives' dowries and their children's futures."

  "That may be so. However, I was not losing, as you may have noticed. Nor was I beggaring some poor sap. I play against the bank."

  "I wish I knew how you do it, Davenant," Thomas said. "The dice never seem to fail you."

  "Oh, but they do," Max said, "from time to time. Tonight, though, they have been good to me."

  "Max," Rosie said, "you will never believe all I have done this evening."

  "Indeed?"

  "Yes, it has been great fun! First we—"

  "Lacey! Lacey!" Thomas's friend, who'd been introduced earlier that evening as Jack Loring, came bounding up to him, then practically screeched to a halt when he saw Max. "Oh, I say. Davenant, isn't it? Didn't know you were a friend of Lacey's. Name's Loring. Honored to meet such a prime gamester. Heard you had quite a streak tonight. Bit of luck, what?"

  Several more minutes of fawning appreciation followed. The young man was obviously in awe of Max, not only for his skill at the tables, but for his particular mode of dress. Rosie had learned early on that Max was not only exceedingly attractive to women, but was very much admired by other gentlemen as well. He was always beautifully dressed, precise to a pin. When asked by Mr. Loring for advice on achieving the subtle but artistic folds of his neckcloth, Max replied that it was purely accidental. He'd caught Rosie's eye, and she rolled her gaze heavenward, for she knew he was bamming the young man. He'd probably spent hours perfecting his neckcloth.

  It was some time before Mr. Loring recollected his errand. "I say, Lacey. Came to tell you. That little Covent Garden dancer you've been dangling after has been giving Challinor the fish eye all evening. Met him in the green room after the first act. Told me she was his for the taking, and he meant to take her tonight. Thought you should know. Might want to beat him to the punch."

  Thomas blushed scarlet and dragged his friend out of earshot. Max chuckled. "Poor Thomas. No man wants his sister to know about such things. But then, you aren't like most sisters, are you?"

  After a hushed conversation with his friend, Thomas returned. "I'm taking you home, Rosie. Said you'd owe me for tonight. Well, I'm calling in my vowels right now. You've had your fun. Now, let's go."