“Are you saying you only picked up this . . . entertainment, so you could catch him at his tricks? Pray, never tell your brother that. He will forbid either you or Emma ever speaking to me again.” Her eyes narrowed critically. “Nor can you claim that was your only reason for gaming. I have seen how much you enjoy it. The first step may have been taken for this purpose, but you were only too happy to skip along after that, for your own pleasure.”
This was not going as she had planned. “I am not blaming you. I do not think there is cause to blame anyone. I am only explaining why on an evening soon I need to visit a gaming hall less refined than Mrs. Burton’s, and why I thought you would want to come with me when I do.”
“You were wrong. Nor are you going. It is not fitting.”
“That is an odd command coming from you. You used to go, when you were a woman of the world, and not a dutiful, meek bride.” She regretted snapping that out in response as soon as she said it.
Cassandra looked like she had been slapped. They sat in silence. Lydia considered whether bringing Sarah would work. She could dress Sarah up to appear her companion, and sit her at the table, and—
“You are determined?” Cassandra asked.
“I am. I will do it alone if you think aiding me compromises you in some way.”
“It isn’t that.” Cassandra took her hand and patted it. “I was hoping you would have learned from my mistake, that is all. I suppose that almost never happens, however. I will accompany you so there is not too much talk. However, you only get one shot in this duel, Lydia. Be sure your powder is dry before you aim.”
• • •
On returning home, Lydia received the news that Emma had taken ill.
She rushed to her brother’s apartment. He sat beside Emma’s bed, lines of worry etching parentheses on the sides of his eyes. Emma sat up in bed, propped on many pillows. She read a book by the waning light of the day. She greeted Lydia brightly.
“I heard you were ill,” Lydia said.
“I was never ill. I only had a moment of light-headedness.”
“She almost fainted,” Southwaite said.
Emma patted the side of her bed. “Sit a moment. Darius, why don’t you take this opportunity to go to the garden and take some air.”
“I do not need air.”
Emma regarded him indulgently. “Lydia will be here, and there are two servants waiting in my dressing room should I need them. It would not do for me to worry about your health more than you worry about mine.”
Reluctantly, Southwaite stood. “You are to call for me at once, Lydia, if she— That is, if anything—” He bent and kissed Emma’s crown, then left.
Emma cocked her head, listening for the door to close. When it did, she sank back on her pillows with a deep sigh. “Thank you for coming so I have some relief. He watches me so closely that I measure every breath.”
“Did you really almost faint?”
“I only had a moment of dizziness when I rose from my chair in the library. Unfortunately, he was there and—” She gestured to her bed. “He will sit here all night, I fear.”
“I will offer to do so instead, if you prefer.” The plans with Cassandra would have to wait.
“He will never allow it. I expect him to return soon and banish you until tomorrow.”
“I suppose he is worried about the child. It could be his heir.”
Emma could capture one totally with her gaze, with a frank penetration that could be unsettling. She did that now. “It is partly worry for the child that has him so protective and concerned, of course, but mostly he is tortured by worry for me.”
“If you say so, I must believe you, because you know him much better than I do.” There were days when she did not understand Southwaite at all, nor he her. “If he remains like this, however, I fear you will do him grave harm before the child comes.”
Emma giggled and they laughed together. “Oh, he will not be so impossible after a week or so. Why, he left just now, did he not? Thirty minutes here, two hours there—I am weaning him away from my side. Eventually I will have a life that approaches what I normally know.”
“Normal enough for your family’s auction house?”
Emma’s brow puckered. “I think so, but not quickly enough. I confess that I have had to resort to a little deception on that.” She cocked her head again, listening, then fluttered her hand toward her dressing room door. “Go, quickly. In my dressing table drawer there is a letter. Bring it here.”
Lydia entered the dressing room. Emma’s lady’s maid and another female servant sat there sewing, waiting to be called. She plucked the letter from the lap drawer of the dressing table.
She handed it to Emma, who scanned its contents. “Would that I had more time to write this, and could be more detailed. This will have to do, however.” She began folding it. “Will you post this for me, to Obediah at Fairbourne’s? He wrote asking some questions that I needed to answer regarding the next auction.”
Lydia took the page, now folded small enough to fit in her palm. Obediah Riggles was Fairbourne’s auctioneer. “You are still managing things there, then?”
“I am not managing. He asks for advice, and I give it. That is not managing.”
“How did you write this letter, with my brother hovering?”
“I convinced him to allow me to bathe without his help.” She laughed. “He stayed in here. You should have seen me, scribbling away while my maid splashed to make water sounds. Fortunately I really was in the bath when my lengthy ablutions caused him to look in to make sure I was not in need of his assistance.”
“Maybe he just wanted to see you naked.”
Emma leveled that gaze at her again. “You do have a talent for astonishing comments, Lydia. It is not so much what you say, but the everyday manner in which you say them that makes Cassandra and me wonder about you.”
“I hope you do not wonder too much. I regret to say that the only extraordinary thing about me is my talent for inappropriate comments.” She bent and kissed Emma. “I will go now. I think he is standing right outside your door, trying to appear as if he is still sane. I will post this, and come tomorrow to find a way for you to have enough time to write again to Obediah, if you need to.”
Southwaite indeed stood outside the door, arms crossed, taming for a while his fear for his lover. No sooner did she step over the threshold than he strode in.
He probably would spend the whole night there. Which meant he would be unaware of where she had the carriage take her tonight.
• • •
The library beckoned. Attended by his hounds, Penthurst aimed there, planning a silent night of reading after a day marshaling all his faculties to argue against the foolhardy idea of invading France.
Such plans were proposed at least once a fortnight, but this one, put forward by a general who should know better, had taken wing and flown around Whitehall like an eagle, instead of the tiny, wounded sparrow it was. At least three ministers had convinced themselves the farmers and merchants of England would throw down their hoes and lock their shop doors in order to serve in the army.
He understood the desire for action. For anything, really, that might bring years of war to an end. Britain could not field an army large enough for invasion, however, especially now that Napoleon had begun conscripting his own people. Several voices had been insane enough to suggest Britain do the same. As if Englishmen would accept such a thing.
After choosing his books, he settled down in his favorite chair. Caesar sprawled at his feet. Cleo sat near his right side, her head positioned for any scratches he might absently reach over and give.
The table on which a losing queen of spades recently lay still stood beside him. He looked across at the other chair, and remembered Lydia’s shock when she saw the king.
He had almost felt bad for her. Almost. He hoped that she was good and worried about that wager.
He opened his Roman history, but having now been distracted by thoughts of
Lydia, his mind dwelled there, weighing just how worried to make her. A letter was in order, reminding her to arrange to go to the coast in ten days.
He smiled to himself as he imagined her reaction.
A small commotion interrupted. It sounded just outside the library, near the far door. The dogs immediately stood, ready to attack, which meant a stranger had entered the house. He bid them sit and they turned to statues. His chair faced one of the fireplaces, set close to it to carve a human-scaled space out of the chamber’s vastness, but behind him he heard a door open.
“You poor dear,” his aunt said. “Come. Sit. It pains me to see you so distraught.”
A woman’s weeping played behind his aunt’s notes of sympathy.
What was she doing here? She was supposed to be at the theater, not intruding on his privacy.
The weeping continued. Words punctuated sobs and sniffs as another woman gasped out her misery. “So good of you. I have made a terrible scene, haven’t I? I should have remained at home once I learned of it, not—not risked losing my composure in public.”
“I will not have you blaming yourself. Were you to spend the night in your chambers, pacing the floor? The play was so boring I was glad to spirit you away. Now, we must put our heads together and see if anything can be done.”
“Too . . . late. For the family to have such wonderful news, then have to contend with this—”
It was past time to make himself known. Wishing he could avoid it, knowing he would in the least be listening to an hour’s explanation of the ruin waiting to submerge this woman’s family, he stood and walked around his chair with Caesar and Cleo in his wake.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not expect the library to be used tonight. I will take my book and go, so you can have privacy.”
His aunt bent over her friend’s weeping body while the gray-haired woman wailed into her hands. Neither looked at him to acknowledge he had spoken. He strode to the closest door, to make good his escape before one of them—
“Wait.” His aunt’s voice rang out. Plumed headdress still bent to her friend’s misery, she lifted an arm as if to block his departure. “Calm yourself, Amelia. My nephew is here. He will know what to do.”
Amelia? As in Southwaite’s widowed aunt Amelia, Lady Pontfort?
No one else but the same looked up at him, her tear-streaked soft face and filmy blue eyes full of hope. “Oh, Penthurst. Yes, he will know what to do.”
He had no idea what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, but being a gentleman he approached them instead. He greeted Lady Pontfort with a voice and manner appropriate to her grief.
“Amelia was in the next box at the theater, with Hortense,” his aunt explained. “I could see as soon as she arrived that she was not herself. Then during the first act she began weeping.” His aunt gestured to Lady Pontfort, as evidence. “Of course I went and got her, and called for the coach.”
“So good of you,” Lady Pontfort whispered. She dabbed a lace handkerchief at her eyes.
“On the way back here, she told me the cause of her sorrow. Tell him what you told me, Amelia. If the prime minister and the prince confide in him, you can.”
Lady Pontfort nodded. “When my nephew’s coach was late tonight, to bring me to the theater, I asked the coachman why. His response is the cause of my distress.” The last words almost drowned within a strangled sob.
He looked at his aunt in question. She lowered her lids in disapproval of what was coming.
“He was late because another member of my nephew’s family required the coach. It first transported my niece Lydia to an infamous gambling hell in the City. Alone. The whole town is sure to hear of it. The worst sorts of men congregate there, and I have heard even—even—women of ill repute frequent this place. I fear my niece is going to ruin tonight.”
“Or going to the devil,” his aunt muttered. “She is speaking of that terrible place, Morgan’s Club. I am sure you have heard of it.”
He had more than heard of it, but there would be no profit in mentioning that. Or in saying anything at the moment. So much for Lydia learning her lesson.
His aunt gripped Lady Pontfort’s shoulders. “Collect yourself now. She must be stopped. Her late mother would expect us to do something.”
“What can I do? I can hardly march in there and demand this Morgan hand her over to me.”
“Southwaite should be told,” his aunt said.
Lady Pontfort shook her head. “He is with Emma. She fell ill this afternoon. The physician said there is nothing to worry about, but they always say that when they have no solution. Southwaite is sequestered with her in their apartment, the coachman said.”
“If his wife is ill, he is hardly the person to rescue her,” Penthurst said. “It would be cruel to add to their worries with this business too.”
“Then I will send several brawny footmen there, with orders they are to carry her out if necessary,” his aunt announced.
He pictured that. Morgan employed a few brawny servants of his own, who were well practiced in ensuring no one disrupted his establishment.
“You will not send footmen. I will go, as Southwaite’s friend.”
“Oh, would you?” Lady Pontfort could not contain her relief. “Such generosity.”
His aunt frowned. “I do not think that is wise.”
“Surely not. I can think of several ways in which I will pay dearly. However, go I shall, since someone must.”
Chapter 7
Lydia sat across from Mr. Peter Lippincott. For three hours now she had prepared to lure this sharper into her net. Thirty minutes more and he would meet his doom.
They sat at the table he preferred to use at Morgan’s. Impeccably dressed in dark coats and crisp cravat, appearing every inch the gentleman he was not, Lippincott shuffled a deck of cards. All the while he chatted and looked right at her. She knew he wanted her to look back, and not at his soft, almost feminine hands and the dastardly work they did.
A long line of gullible pigeons had visited him here over the last two hours, sure that they could win against his conjuring tricks. He allowed one in three to do so, which meant that he profited off the others. She suspected that Mr. Morgan knew all about it, and took part of the winnings.
She was not sure Mr. Morgan knew the other ways in which Lippincott cheated. The fine fingernails on those fine hands marred the cards as he used them in other play. She had stumbled upon that fact seven months ago. On some he made tiny nicks on the sides. On others he encouraged concavity. A few saw bits of damage to their corners. All but indecipherable, the changes created a code by which he could read the cards’ values from their backs or from feel.
She had spent the months since then learning the code. He always used the same one.
Tonight she had already won a good deal of money. At faro and baccarat, she had turned the one hundred pounds lent her by Cassandra into three thousand by wagering boldly. She did not doubt Mr. Lippincott would be good for more. He had become wealthy with his gambling.
Cassandra hovered behind her, whispering warnings, serving as a Greek chorus. That was part of the plan. She spoke with breathless and sorry amazement at Mr. Lippincott’s uncanny luck, to which her own fortunes had unfortunately succumbed. Lydia suspected Cassandra truly was nervous. She had not told Cassandra about the marked cards. She did not want Cassandra arguing with her on the ambiguous morality of cheating a cheater.
The smooth hands moved. Although she kept her gaze on his face, she paid attention to those hands sliding around at the bottom of her sight. She saw the sleight of hand that moved some cards to the top of the deck and some to the bottom.
Holding the deck, he fanned out the cards and held them toward her. “Pick one, Lady Lydia.”
She did. He made a display of thinking.
“The ten of clubs.”
She threw down the two of diamonds. He smacked his forehead with his palm.
He had let her win, to lure her deeper.
�
��Such luck you have, Lydia,” Cassandra exclaimed. “Far more than I. She has become quite famous for it, Mr. Lippincott.”
“I can see why.” He made a face that indicated he found her luck inconvenient and costly.
He let her win again. She laughed and bounced with excitement. Cassandra cheered. She turned to Mr. Lippincott once more, to press her luck.
The third time, when she reached for a card the fan became a moving target, sliding just enough so that her fingers landed on a particular card. The one he wanted her to pick. If she had not been waiting for it, she would not have noticed. She touched her left ear with her left hand, in the prearranged signal with Cassandra.
“Why don’t you both draw this time?” Cassandra asked. “It will be more exciting that way.”
Lydia did not draw. “Oh, yes. Let us do it that way. High card wins.”
Lippincott glanced up at Cassandra. “I would not think you would encourage your friend to that, considering . . .”
“Considering how poorly I fared against you in that game? She has much better luck, as I said. Nor will I allow her to bid as rashly as I did when I played that game with you in the past.”
He shuffled the cards again, then set them out to be cut. Lydia cut them, but instead of leaving them for his hands to spread, she slowly spread them in a fan on the table. As she did so she noted the nicks on the sides of some and the subtle lack of flatness of some others. The latter would be the honor cards. By the time she had passed her fingertips over all the cards, she knew which had been marked by his system, and what cards they were.
“You go first, since I cut,” she said.
“What will the wager be?”
She frowned over her stack of money, then began to move five hundred toward the cards.
“That is far too much,” Cassandra scolded.
“Are you determined to ruin my fun? I am so sure I will win that I should wager it all.”
The Accidental Duchess Page 7