Oliver had done some checking in the last few days, and since Adam House wasn’t entailed, he was rather surprised the late Earl of Cameron hadn’t sold the place to keep the dunners off his trail. But perhaps he’d intended to regain his fortune in Europe and then return to London and Adam House in the rather spectacular manner his wife had managed. That might even be what Diane wanted everyone to think. It was only because of a quirk of fate that he knew otherwise about her fortunes.
A young woman opened the front door as he reached it, and Oliver paused for a moment. He’d seen attractive women before, of course, but this one wore breeches. And a butler’s jacket and waistcoat. Whatever Diane was up to, apparently she’d lost her sensibilities in the process.
“My lord,” the woman intoned, inclining her head. “Lady Cameron is expecting you. If you’ll follow me.”
Once he’d entered the foyer, the lady butler shut the door and led the way upstairs. Oliver occupied himself with watching her hindquarters—a surprisingly sensual sight in those breeches and long jacket tails—and nearly ran into her when she abruptly stopped outside a closed door. She knocked twice, cracked open the door, and then returned down the stairs.
So he was expected to make his own entrance. That was nothing new, except that he knew Diane Benchley. This would be a chess game, and in her home, at her request, he’d already lost several pawns.
And she was undoubtedly counting the seconds between the knock and his entrance, estimating whether he was hesitating or plotting, or both. Oliver pushed open the door with one fingertip and stepped inside.
Diane sat behind a desk. “Are you trying to look busy, or to keep me at a distance?” he asked, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it.
Lifting one forefinger at him, she continued to scribble in a ledger. She wore black again, this time a simple, straightforward muslin that still managed to make her look sleek and stunning. Black hair swept back into a simple knot might have been meant to look severe, but the strands that escaped to frame her face were far too artfully placed to be accidental.
“You were wearing black when I last saw you in Vienna,” he commented, studying her lowered face. “You didn’t mean it then, either.”
“When last you saw me I’d been widowed for less than a month. Of course I meant it.”
Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “How closely do you wish me to recall the events of Vienna? Because I wouldn’t have called it mourning.”
With a sigh she set down her quill pen and steepled her fingers in front of her. “You didn’t care what I called it. How could the color of my gown signify when you only wanted me out of it?”
“Is this the game we’re playing, then?” He folded his arms over his chest. “I wanted you in it, but I could only have you out of it.”
“Until you ran home to London like a scalded dog. That is what I recall about Vienna.”
He pushed upright again. “I returned home to claim my inheritance.”
“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot. You’re a marquis now. What a fortunate bit of timing that you can blame your cowardice on your uncle’s demise.”
Oliver took a step closer. “I suggest you stop referring to my uncle’s death as fortunate,” he said, his jaw clenched. “That sort of talk causes rumors to start.”
“I will, as soon as you cease referring to my period of mourning as gown deep.”
Well, she had him there. As for the scalded-dog reference, she had him there as well. That part, however, he had no wish to admit to. Not to her, or to anyone else. “Agreed,” he said aloud. “We shall cease insulting one another about our feelings or lack thereof upon the death of near relations.”
“Good.”
Reaching behind him, Oliver pulled open the door again. “Then good day, Diane.”
“I’m not finished with you yet.”
“Unless you have something to say that involves money or sex, I’m not interested.”
“Money.”
Finding that he would much rather have left Adam House regardless of her answer, Oliver forced himself to close the door again. “Speak.”
“Sit down, why don’t you?”
“Not until I know whether your conversation will make me money or cost me money.”
A muscle in her cheek jumped. “First one, and then the other.”
As little information as she was feeding him, she was replying. And he remained curious despite himself. Oliver released the door handle and strolled forward to sit in one of the large chairs placed opposite the desk. “I’m listening.”
“I had a plan for my club,” she said without preamble. “Lord Blalock signed papers agreeing to lend me five thousand pounds and to lease the old Monarch Club property in his name and for my use.”
“Blalock broke his damned neck out riding after foxes with his latest mistress.”
“Yes, I know. I discovered that the morning after I arrived in London.”
Oliver gazed at her. Emerald green eyes held his steadily; she knew what he was deciphering, and she wasn’t attempting to keep any information from him. Not about her finances, at any rate. “That must have been quite a shock.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m to be Blalock’s replacement, then. You want me to lend you the money.”
“A bank won’t.”
“What about the money your late husband owed nearly everyone?”
“I’ve either repaid it or made arrangements to do so.”
“With what? You were, as I recall, left penniless in Vienna.”
“Frederick signed over all his unentailed property to me.”
Sinking back in his very comfortable leather chair, Oliver crossed his legs at the ankles. “No, he didn’t. Not before he died. You complained about having nothing the night we met. Or the morning after that, rather.”
“I have a talent for forgery. And I had been signing most of his papers for him since our marriage, anyway.”
“You’re not even going to attempt to fabricate a lie? I’m disappointed.”
“Lying takes effort, and I don’t see the point.” She gestured toward the trio of bottles set on a small table beneath the room’s large window. “Do you wish something to drink?”
“No. Go on.”
“Very well. I sold off everything Frederick willed to me with the exception of this house, and I was able to settle most of his debts. I’m only telling you this so you’ll realize that the money you lend me will be used solely to establish my gaming club.”
Ignoring for the moment that she’d assumed he would be amenable to giving her anything, he nodded. “Tell me about this club, then.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Diane shifted a little to partially pull open the desk’s top right-hand drawer.
The thought that she likely had a pistol in there didn’t do much to cool his temper, but it did tell him quite a great deal about how importantly she viewed this conversation. “Then I’ll bid you good day, Diane.” Mentally he began counting.
Before he’d reached five, Diane stood. “Oh, very well. You may listen. I do not want your opinion.”
“Get on with it, then. You’re the one who called this little meeting.”
Slowly she took her seat again. “I have learned a great deal about the power of wagering. I have also determined that the only party who is guaranteed to have money at the end of the evening is the gambling establishment.”
“There are a dozen high-class gentlemen’s clubs here already, my dear. You’re not the first to come to this conclusion.”
“Frederick’s idiotic wagering took everything from me, Oliver. Now it is my turn. My club will be extremely exclusive. And given that the Monarch Club property was just sold to some merchant wanting to open a shop in Mayfair, my club will be here, at Adam House. The architecture and floor plan are nearly ideal, and very little need be done to render it perfect. Every one of my employees will be female, well educated, and attractive. The—”
“So you’re going to manage a brothel.”
Her cheeks darkened. “Absolutely not. Sex is not the vice I aim to exploit. I am invariably disappointed by its brevity and arbitrariness.”
Whether she meant to aim that particular barb at him or not, Oliver wasn’t about to lose the path of the conversation because of an insult. “That explains the lady butler at your door. You do have an elderly fellow in your stable, however.”
“I never said men aren’t capable of shifting manure. You seem supremely well suited for it, in fact.”
“And this is how you ask for money? I’d hate to hear you flat-out insult someone.”
She hesitated. It was only a heartbeat, a brief lowering of her eyes, but he saw it. Not very long ago he’d earned his way by finding weak points in others and making them bleed any blunt he could get his hands on. This time he waited. Whatever it was about her that irked him also made him curious. Lamentable but true.
“Whatever my employees choose to do privately will not be my concern, as long as it doesn’t reflect badly on the club. So no, I am not opening a brothel. If anyone should choose to think so and decide to pay my membership fee because of that … misapprehension, I have no objection.”
“You have some interesting ideas, I admit, but I’ve never heard of a woman opening a club that didn’t feature sex. And if you’re assuming you’ll remain Society’s new darling once words become deeds, you’re sadly mistaken.” He pulled out his pocket watch and clicked it open. “It’s an unsound enterprise, and I won’t throw money at it.”
“What would convince you to do so?”
“In general? Partial ownership, a guaranteed percentage of the profits, a say in which games were offered and who was granted membership. Specifically? I’ve been in bed with you, Diane. I don’t care to repeat my mistakes.”
She sighed. “I’d hoped you would see that I don’t much care what Society makes of me, as long as they continue speculating. And I thought you might realize that I intend to do this, whatever your unasked-for thoughts on the matter.”
“Determination does not make a business successful, my dear.”
“Men who flee my bed so swiftly they leave their waistcoats behind aren’t permitted to call me ‘my dear.’” She pulled a folded piece of paper from that half-open drawer. Considering he’d expected to see a pistol or a dagger, he was slightly relieved. “And before you pretend to be insulted and slink off again,” she continued, “you should read this.”
Frowning, he sat forward and pulled the paper toward him. “If you mean to publish a memoir about my ‘slinking,’ as you call it, pray keep in mind that I know a few unpleasant things about you, as well. Aside from that, I don’t embarrass easily.”
She flicked her fingers toward the note. “Read.”
Oliver unfolded the paper. In neat cursive two lines curled across the otherwise bare page: “I have a sworn statement from Tomas DuChamps affirming that you cheated him and four other gentlemen at cards in the amount of 812 pounds on the twenty-seventh of April 1816.”
Murder. That was what the chit deserved. Murder. Black fury flashing through him, Oliver snapped to his feet. “You little b—”
The pistol in her hand stopped the insult he’d been about to utter, but not the biting anger behind it.
“I know you don’t embarrass easily,” she said coolly, the pistol unwavering and aimed directly at his chest. “Losing your reputation as a cardplayer, however, is, I believe, another matter entirely. Sit down.”
He nearly refused, until it occurred to him that not only would she more than likely pull the trigger, but she also might even enjoy it. Slowly, every muscle taut, he sank into the chair again. “I hope you’ve considered how you mean for this conversation to end,” he murmured.
“I have,” she returned. “I’ve done nothing else for five days, in fact, since I learned of Lord Blalock’s death and that little nuisance Anthony Benchley made me realize that I have quite the prize in Adam House.”
“Get to it, then.”
“It’s actually quite simple. Wagering took very nearly everything from me. I mean to turn the vice to my own use now. As for you, Oliver, though you weren’t my first choice, when I consider matters I believe your participation is quite fitting. After all, thanks to Frederick and you I’ve learned a great deal about how men attempt to take advantage, and about how … ill-advised it is to rely on anyone else.”
“This is all a rather overelaborate means to tell me to go to the devil, then? You might merely have sent a letter. There’s a chance I would even have read it.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she retorted, true emotion pitching her voice a breath higher. “This has nothing to do with you, other than the fact that you’re knowledgeable about wagering and that I can compel you to assist me.”
“By threatening to ruin me and have me banned from every club in London? That’s not a wise approach, Diane.”
She gazed at him for a long moment. “I’d rather not ruin you, or even shoot you. But I suppose that’s up to you now. Shall we discuss my business requirements, or would you prefer to continue with the threats?”
Oliver eyed her. “Two years ago you were much more weepy and … soft.”
“Two years ago I’d just buried an idiot husband who’d left me destitute in a foreign country. And I was not weepy. I was angry.”
A flash of her moaning beneath him, her nails digging into his back, crossed his mind. “You were, at that. It was quite invigorating.”
“I have a pistol pointed at you. Do you truly wish to discuss that particular fortnight? You didn’t precisely look anything but cowardly by the end of it.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do. What am I being compelled to do, then? Loan you five thousand pounds and then what, gamble at your club? Very well. I will lend you the blunt for one year, at the end of which you will return to me six thousand pounds. As you said, no bank would do business with you, so accept the offer or walk away.”
“I have a counteroffer.”
“Do tell.” Her statement didn’t surprise him in the least. What she said, however, just might. And that at least made it interesting.
“You will lend me the money, and you will keep a private lodging at the club. Th—”
“What? You must be joking.”
“Your presence here will both provide me with a shield against unwanted attention from others of your gender and make me sought after. You see, via you I will have made myself unobtainable, and you’re quite aware, I believe, that men most want what they cannot have.”
“So you want me to live here, under your roof. You do wish to be murdered, don’t you?”
She actually smiled. “I should have mentioned— I’m not in direct possession of that statement from Monsieur DuChamps. I’ve put it somewhere safe, to be opened in the event of my death or disappearance.”
“Good thinking.”
“I agree. You are also a master at card playing, so in addition to lodging here you will provide me with every bit of information you have on odds and wagering and the rules of particular games, and you will train my employees.”
“I’m not going to assist you with cheating anyone. Best shoot me now if that is your—”
“There will be no cheating of anyone. You will teach them how to take advantage. How to know when to encourage a wager from a gentleman, or when to send him away from the table so that he will return with more money later. Everything you know.”
Oliver considered her demands. In truth she could have required the five thousand as payment for her silence rather than as a loan; he wagered heavily and with influential men, and any document proving that he’d cheated would see him ruined and reviled. No matter that he’d done it once and out of desperation. A scandal was a scandal, and this would be a delicious one. The ton would feast on it for months. Years.
“What is the name of this club of yours?” he finally asked.
“I’ve decided to call it The Tantalus
Club.”
He snorted. “Really? You’ve had two years to contemplate every aspect of this little plot of yours and the best you can come up with is The Tantalus Club?” Oliver reached into his coat pocket for a cheroot, which he lit on the lamp set at one corner of the desk. “An unrealized temptation? Rather … literal of you, isn’t it? Why not The Tangled Web, then? Or the Toss Your Blunt down the Well Club?”
Diane gazed at him levelly. “Firstly, ‘The Tangled Web’ implies deception or dishonesty. My club will be neither of those, and I certainly will not put that thought into any potential member’s head.”
Hm. She had been considering things. But then, he’d never thought she was dull-witted. “And secondly?” he prompted, taking a long, herb-scented draw on the cheroot and breathing it out again.
“‘Tantalus’ is a very honest name. They come through my doors tempted by fortune or fame or beauty. And realistically, they won’t acquire any of the three. Not here. Not at any wagering club, really. Therefore, they’ve been warned.” She leaned forward on her elbows, her right-hand fingers still curled around the butt of the pistol. “And thirdly, y—”
“A thirdly, even. No wonder you point pistols at everyone you invite in for a chat, with the amount of criticizing and insulting and exposition you do.”
“And thirdly,” she repeated, more forcefully, “you are providing funds and training and your presence. Not your ideas, opinions, or your thoughts. We are not partners.”
“If I’m to invest my money and my presence and my expertise, I believe we are partners.”
Her lips tightened. “You are a lender. A bank with, unfortunately, a mouth. I’ve had the papers drawn up. Sign them, and then have your man transfer the funds to my use.”
If this had been a game of cards, Oliver reflected, he likely would have raised the stakes and dared the opposing player to show his—her—hand. In this instance, however, the surest way to learn what his opponent was thinking—and what she might ultimately be pursuing—would seem to be to surrender. For a long moment he studied her expression, but she’d learned a thing or two over the past two years about hiding her thoughts and emotions. Cool emerald eyes gazed back at him, revealing … nothing, which in itself meant something.
A Beginner's Guide to Rakes Page 3