by Regina Scott
Indeed, Cleo did feel the same. She remembered her reaction all too clearly the day before when Leslie had demonstrated seduction. Betrayal by someone you loved had to be the worst hurt of all. She had been witness to Eloise’s betrayal the first time. Perhaps this time she could prevent it.
“I understand,” Cleo told her. “And I am certain it will surprise you to learn that I agree with you. We must know Major Cutter’s true colors.”
Eloise cocked her head. “Then you have a plan?”
Cleo nodded. “The beginnings of one. But before I can start it, I must know. If Major Cutter proves himself a gentleman, are you willing to let him choose which lady he would like to pursue?”
“Certainly.” Eloise’s charming smile told Cleo the girl had no doubt who that would be. Cleo wasn’t so sure, but she found it did not matter. She smiled as well.
“Very well, then. We are agreed to work together to determine Major Cutter’s motives.”
“And woe betide him,” Eloise added, “if he should prove to be a villain.”
*
Agreeing with Eloise was always a rare occurrence, Cleo knew, but she somehow thought getting Leslie to agree to her plan would prove far more difficult. Still, she resolved to try that very afternoon when he came to teach Hector. Although the lessons were no longer necessary for either her plan or Hector, the ruse proved a good excuse to spend time together. She was certain Leslie would appear at three. Neither did he disappoint her. It was only his insistence that Mr. Cowls stay and chat that surprised her.
It surprised the butler as well. He raised a thin, white brow and leaned toward Leslie as if he could not have heard properly. “A conversation, Lord Petersborough?”
“Yes, Mr. Cowls, if you would be so kind.” Leslie turned eagerly to Cleo. “I thought of this last night. Mr. Cowls is an expert at reconnaissance, according to Lady Agnes. I thought he might shed some light on our friend Major Cutter.”
Cleo brightened and turned to the elderly retainer. “Oh, yes, please, Mr. Cowls. Tell us anything you know.”
Cowls glanced back and forth between the two of them, then slowly straightened and closed his eyes. Cleo glanced at Leslie with a frown, but he looked just as perplexed. They both jumped as Cowls began to recite rapidly, as if reading off the insides of his eyelids.
“Anthony Gervais Cutter, born the fifth of February 1788 to Mrs. Marva Cutter of Sussex, husband deceased. No marriage lines available. Schooled by the local rector. Entered His Majesty’s forces at fifteen. One of the few to be promoted to an officer on recommendation rather than purchasing his commission. Colonel who recommended his appointment to major died shortly afterward in battle. Passed most of his career in London but served at Waterloo. Currently serving at half pay at his request. Owns two horses, rents a small flat outside Mayfair. Gambles, badly. Currently owes debts of over six thousand pounds to people of rather unsavory reputations. Favorite club appears to be Madam Zala’s. Tolerable place, but never drink the wine. Applied for a loan to remove his debt and was summarily dismissed.”
Leslie whistled, and Cleo shook her head, as much in astonishment at the amount Cutter owed as admiration of Mr. Cowl’s skills. The butler slowly opened his eyes and blinked twice. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“How do you know all that?” Cleo couldn’t help asking.
“I regret, Miss Cleo, that I am not at liberty to say. Might I be excused?”
Leslie nodded, and he bowed himself out. Cleo took a seat on the sofa, still shaking her head.
“How does he do that?” she asked as Leslie sat beside her.
“I have no idea,” he replied, “but I can see why Lady Agnes treasures him. So, Sprout, did that answer your questions about Cutter?”
“No. He is in debt for a great deal, Les, with no apparent means of repaying it. Yet if he was a fortune hunter, why pursue me?”
Leslie tapped his finger against the knee of his chamois trousers. “You received no inheritance from your father or mother?”
“Only a bit, but that’s tied up until I turn one and twenty. We were never rich. Mr. Carlisle may provide me with a small marriage dower, but not nearly enough to pay a debt of that size.”
“No rich great-uncle waiting to pop off and endow you with all his worldly goods?”
Cleo giggled. “Not a one. Only a dear godmother with her own inheritance. And Lady Agnes would never pay my husband’s debts.”
“I grant you it is unlikely. So, where does that leave us?”
“With having to determine Major Cutter’s worth,” Cleo replied firmly. “I must do it, Les.”
“He means so much to you?”
She thought she heard more than curiosity behind the comment, but Leslie’s face was composed. “Yes. Leslie, I have made up my mind. I want you to take me to this gaming establishment he spoke of, but only if we can be certain he will be in attendance.”
She expected to have to fight him over the request and readied her arsenal of reasons.
“We can be certain he’ll be there,” Leslie said grimly. “We shall go tonight.”
Cleo stared at him. “You agree?”
Leslie rose. “You overwhelm me with your gratitude,” he quipped, going to face the parrot. Hector shrugged and turned his back. “As do you, old boy. Don’t you have a squawk for the fellow who taught you to say barbarian?”
“Barbarian,” Hector grumbled.
Cleo rose to join him. “Leave him be for a moment. I know I should simply thank you, Leslie, but your turnabout confuses me. You do not trust Major Cutter. Why agree to meet him?”
Leslie hunched a shrug, reminding her for all the world of the parrot at his most recalcitrant. “I decided you have the right of it. The only chance you have to see him for himself is to spend some time with him, away from the rules of good Society. I’ll send a note round to tell him we’ll join him tonight at eight. It’s early enough in the evening that the heavy players will not be out. That should keep the company moderately respectable.”
“That also puts us in conflict with Mrs. Winston’s ball,” Cleo informed him. “I believe it starts at nine. Lady Agnes has already written to have you included in the invitation.”
Leslie frowned. “Mrs. Winston? Another high stickler. I can imagine her frustration when she receives Lady Agnes’ note. She’d be only too happy to cut me, I’m sure, but she won’t like to offend the DeGuis.” His frown deepened. “Still, Lady Agnes is unlikely to get through the receiving line before ten. That should allow us an hour or so at the gaming establishment.”
Cleo grinned, giving his arm a squeeze. “That would be perfect. Now we just have to get Lady Agnes to agree to let us go to the ball without her.”
That proved all too easy. Her godmother started in her usual argumentative state of mind, but by the time Leslie was through, she was demanding that he swallow his pride and take Cleo to the ball without her. All that remained was to dress for the fateful event and wait for Leslie to return for her.
Dressing did not provide difficult. Having decided to put Major Cutter to the test, Cleo donned her scandalous gown, tucking the lace fichu she had used earlier into her reticule along with some pins. She certainly didn’t want to look seductive at Mrs. Winston’s ball, not with everyone already gossiping about Leslie. She regarded herself in the mirror, noting the height of her color and the depth of her décolletage. She cinched the apricot satin ribbon under her bosom tight and let the ends hang tantalizingly down each thigh. With her long gloves and pearls, she fancied she looked ready for intrigue.
The hardest part of all was waiting. She finished her toilette early and paced her room for a quarter hour before going down the stairs and repeating the performance in the entry hall. Mr. Cowls ambled past twice, once with her brown velvet evening cloak and another with a glass of sherry. When she accepted the glass with a questioning frown, he shrugged.
“You seem a bit nervous, miss,” he ventured with his usual wheeze. “Would you like me to fetch your godmo
ther instead?”
“You needn’t fetch anyone,” Lady Agnes informed him, coming down the hall. “And remove that alcohol from my goddaughter’s hand immediately. Do you want Major Cutter to think her a drunkard?”
Cleo gasped, fingers suddenly as numb as the rest of her as she handed Mr. Cowls the glass. “Godmother, I...” she started.
Lady Agnes waved a hand. “Don’t bother to lie. You do it rather badly.”
She reached the entry way and raised a quizzing glass to look Cleo up and down, reaching out to pluck open her cloak with her free hand. Not sure what to think, Cleo spread her skirts and did a pirouette.
“An all-out assault, I see,” her godmother quipped, dropping the quizzing glass to her chest. “You stay close to Leslie tonight, my girl.”
Cleo felt herself flaming. “You don’t mind, then?”
“Of course I mind,” Lady Agnes replied, moving toward the sitting room. “You know I don’t like the fellow above half. But you’re obviously not willing to accept my word that he’s a miscreant, and I’m not sure I’d want you to. So, go. Prove to yourself he’s not the fellow for you. Just don’t be too late to Mrs. Winston’s. The old cat will never let me live it down if you and Leslie cause a scandal at her event.”
Cleo rushed forward and planted a kiss on her godmother’s cheek. “Oh, thank you, Lady Agnes! I promise we will be good.”
Lady Agnes snorted, but she patted Cleo’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. Then the knocker sounded, and the adventure began.
“Did Lady Agnes give you any trouble?” Leslie asked as he saw her seated in the carriage.
Cleo shook her head. “No, but she gave me a fright. She knows, Les. Don’t ask me how, but she knows.”
Leslie chucked in obvious admiration. “If she and Mr. Cowls weren’t as old as Methuselah, I’d think they knelt at key holes. She must have some other source, though I don’t know who could have heard us.”
Cleo stared at him. “Hector!”
“Hector? Of course!” Leslie shook his head. “No wonder the old bird picked up the insults so easily. I’d wager he’s talked to Lady Agnes for years, and she’s never let on. Of course, she appears to have other sources, for some of her information could not come from the bird.”
Cleo nodded. They both fell quiet as Leslie’s driver directed the coach a short distance to the establishment, which sat back from the street in a turreted house. The elegantly dressed couple entering just as Leslie and Cleo arrived went a long way toward reassuring Cleo as to the propriety of the place.
But Leslie did not appear appeased. Indeed, his face darkened, and he muttered under his breath as they climbed the stairs and rapped at the red lacquered door. She could not ask him what troubled him, however, for the door opened immediately to reveal a fellow nearly as large as the Mighty Bull of Lancaster and twice as battered.
“We’re friends of Major Cutter,” Leslie told him when he growled an explanation for their presence. “I believe we were expected this evening.”
“Mayhap yer were,” the giant grumbled. “Yer names would be?”
“The lady’s name is not important,” Leslie replied with a coolness to match the man’s heat. “I am the Marquis of Hastings.”
The giant swept the door wide. “Yer very welcome, yer lordship. Enjoy yer evening.”
Cleo clung to Leslie’s arm as they walked into the cavernous entry. The door swung silently shut behind them. A liveried footman stepped forward to take their cloaks, and she tried not to shiver as the air hit her bare skin. Leslie paled when he caught sight of her gown, but he only rolled his eyes as he straightened the white silk of his cravat in his otherwise black evening wear.
Trying to ignore her growing unease, Cleo glanced surreptitiously about, not sure what to expect. The entry looked little different from those of the other London homes she’d visited. Landscapes graced the walls, which were draped in a soft green silk patterned with leafy medallions. A marble-tiled floor, with small green blocks alternating with larger white ones, spread down a short corridor to what was likely the dining room. A white stair with a black iron banister curved up to the upper floors. The crystal chandelier over her head and the sconces set high along the stair led her eye up, to where a woman waited on the landing.
Cleo swallowed. She had done her best to attempt what she thought would be a seductive style, but this woman had obviously mastered it. Her dress, what there was of it, was black and dripped with jet beads that reflected the light. It was impossible not to notice her creamy skin, for so much of it was displayed–her shoulders; her arms to her hands, which were encased in black lace gloves; and most of her chest. In fact, as she leaned on the balustrade to regard Leslie, both bare arms were propped so that it was possible to gaze straight down her impressive cleavage. Cleo’s eyes widened.
“We won’t stay above a half hour,” Leslie whispered near her ear. “Let’s find Cutter and get on with it.”
He started for the stairs, and, as his hand was on her elbow, she could only go with him. The woman straightened slowly as they climbed, so that by the time they reached her, she was fully upright and smiling in welcome.
“Lord Hastings,” she greeted, extending her hand palm down. The movement was languid yet Leslie stiffened as if she had suddenly drawn a knife. “A pleasure to have you join us. And this must be Miss Renfield.”
Cleo nodded and started to drop a curtsey, but Leslie’s grip tightened, forcing her to remain upright.
“I trust,” he growled, “that that is the last time I will hear the lady’s name in this house.”
The woman raised a finely etched brow. While it was a black as deep as her dress, her hair, Cleo couldn’t help noticing, was a soft gold piled high on her head. Jet drops fell from tiny ears. She was beautiful, and Cleo could only stare in fascination as her reddened lips raised at one corner and she withdrew her hand.
“As you wish, of course, my lord,” she murmured. “We specialize in discretion. Allow me to show you around.”
Leslie eyed her a moment more before inclining his head in acceptance. She moved ahead of them into the room that opened off the top of the stairs. Cleo wanted to gaze all about her, but she only got a glimpse of gold and scarlet and green before her eyes were drawn to the woman again. Her hips had looked no different than Cleo’s but they certainly moved in a way Cleo had never experienced. Her whole being swayed most poetically as she glided into the card room. Cleo suspected a gentleman would find the movement even more compelling. She glanced at Leslie, but his mouth was set in a grim line. If the woman’s grace was intriguing to him, he didn’t show it.
Their hostess paused partway into the room. “This is our main salon,” she said, voice low and husky. “To your right are the tables for hazard and vingt-un. To your left are the tables for silverloo and Faro. The more interesting play is generally at the tables toward the back of the room, where there is more privacy. Should you prefer even more adventurous play, I’d be happy to escort you to one of our private rooms.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Leslie assured her, his grip on Cleo’s elbow once more tightening as if he expected her to be torn from him.
“Good evening, Madam Zala.” The familiar voice made Cleo straighten, and Major Cutter, in evening wear as black as Leslie’s, stepped up to the woman. He raised her hand and brought it to his lips in salute. Cleo tried not to stare.
Their hostess merely smiled. “My dear Major, how lovely to see you again. And how thoughtful of you to recommend us to your friends. I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent round to your usual table.”
Major Cutter inclined his head in thanks, and she glided off. Cleo pulled her eyes away from the woman’s walk as Major Cutter stepped closer to her.
“Miss Renfield,” he murmured, “a pleasure as always.” He raised her hand, turning her fingers at the last moment to press his kiss deeply into her palm. Cleo tried not to shiver as the touch made her stomach roll over.
The game had begun.
It remained to be seen who would be the winner.
Chapter Seventeen
L
eslie watched as the delicate skin of Cleo’s shoulders turned pink with her blush. He wanted to rip the cloth off the nearby table and swathe her in it from head to toe. What had he been thinking to insist that she buy a scandalous gown? It left nothing to the imagination. Or rather it inflamed his. He could picture just how easily it would slide to the floor if he could put his hands on those blasted ribbons.
By the appreciative gleam in Cutter’s eye, the major could imagine the same thing. Leslie tightened his grip on Cleo’s arm and felt her wince. Realizing he was hurting her, he hastily let go. She stepped away from him, rubbing her elbow, and he felt suddenly chilled by the loss of her body next to his.
“I’ve never played Faro before,” she was saying in an utterly insipid fashion that set his teeth on edge. “Perhaps you could teach me, Major.”
The good major was only too happy to agree, and she accepted his arm. Leslie hurried after them.
He had thought playing Faro might take his mind off Cleo’s plan for the evening, but there was no escape at the table. After explaining the situation to the gentlemen present, and using Cleo’s name in the process, Leslie heard with chagrin, Cutter requested their permission for her to share his hand. The knowing smiles of agreement only set Leslie’s hackles higher.
The night got no better. Cutter let Cleo hold the cards, but one of his hands cradled hers. The other lolled along the back of her chair, grazing her bare shoulders. Cutter’s head bent to her ear as he whispered suggestions for play, and Cleo dimpled at his words. Leslie grabbed the champagne flute offered him by a passing waiter and guzzled the contents.
Cleo won, of course. That made her throw back her head and laugh with delight, her curls dancing, the slender length of her throat exposed. Several of the gentlemen playing grinned. The Duke of Reddington went so far as to raise a quizzing glass to stare at her in obvious appreciation. Cutter’s hand slid with proprietary confidence from Cleo’s shoulders to her waist. Leslie refused another glass.