If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  Restell had wanted to take her the moment she stepped out of the dressing room and again in the carriage. He managed to hold himself in check, but it was a narrow thing, especially because she seemed to be peculiarly naive about her effect on him. He found his thoughts straying to all the ways he might educate her.

  They were about to go up the stairs to the house, when Restell tugged on Emma’s elbow and drew her to one side to allow another couple to pass. He backed her against the iron fence bordering the sidewalk and sheltered her by holding on to the bars on either side of her shoulders. “You are Miss Jane Warwick,” he reminded her. “A courtesan. Do not forget yourself. You must not act in any way ashamed. Gentlemen will stare. Everyone will be curious. You may answer questions as you see fit. If you do not wish to answer, simply change the subject. It will add to your mystery.”

  Emma’s nod was barely perceptible. “Why will they stare? Do I look as if I do not belong?”

  “They will stare because you are with me. I am known to many of the patrons, and I’ve never brought a woman here. Some will know I am recently married. That will elicit comment behind your back.” His smile was perfectly wicked as he saw her understand the impossible situation she was willingly stepping into. “You are feeling the double-edged sword, I collect.”

  She glanced down. His frock coat was a modest covering for the bulge in his trousers. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

  Restell’s shout of laughter actually stopped passersby in their tracks. He pulled her to him, kissed her hard, then drew her quickly up the stairs and into the house. Once they were across the threshold and their voices could not carry over the low hum of all the other patrons, he told her: “They will also stare because you are looking extraordinarily lovely this evening.”

  “I am painted.”

  He nodded. “Scandalously beautiful.”

  That description made Emma smile. Her arm tightened in his. Already her eyes were watering a bit from the tobacco smoke that hung in the air. “In the event I forget to tell you later, thank you for bringing me.”

  Restell bent his head. “Make the most of it, my dear Jane. I don’t expect I shall revisit this offer again. Come. This way.”

  The rooms were crowded but still navigable. Restell escorted her through the sea of patrons, only occasionally stopping to speak to someone. As this necessitated an introduction, Emma preferred it when he merely nodded to an acquaintance and they moved on.

  Gentlemen and their occasional companions participated in games of chance or found entertainment in watching others grow lighter in the pockets. Roulette was the most popular game of chance and exquisitely crafted tables were set up in each of the ground-floor rooms. The spinning of the wheel made a distinctive sound, especially as the onlookers typically grew quiet waiting for its revolutions to slow. In contrast to the hush that fell over the roulette tables, the rooms were also occupied by small clutches of gentlemen noisily rolling dice and calling out their wagers on what numbers would appear.

  Restell encouraged Emma to place a wager at one of the wheels. “You will not mind if I lose?” she asked. It was Restell’s chuckle as well as the laughter from others around the table that made her realize she’d posed a question one did not often hear from a courtesan. Mildly piqued by her misstep, Emma coyly tapped Restell’s arm with her closed fan. “And if I win?”

  “It’s all yours, of course.”

  She nodded, pleased. “Just so.” Turning back to the table, she impulsively made her choice, then waited for all the other wagers to be placed. Several gentlemen placed their markers on the same square she had.

  “Why did they do that?” she asked Restell as they climbed the stairs to the upper rooms. “Did they think I was prescient?”

  “Hardly. They did it to flatter you and attract your notice. If the wheel had been kind to you, they would have no doubt given you some portion, if not all, of their winnings.”

  “But I lost.”

  “Thank God. It cooled their ardor, else they would be trailing after you now like puppies.”

  At the top of the stairs a footman offered them drinks. Restell chose brandy for himself and a sherry for Emma. He turned her toward the first open doorway in the hall, then steered her away when he recognized the peculiar fragrance of the smoke coming from the room. Feeling the hesitation in Emma’s step as her nose wrinkled and she attempted to sniff the air, he answered the question she hadn’t yet asked. “Opium. It is an experience you will have to forgo.”

  “Have you?”

  Restell supposed he should have been prepared to answer questions of this nature, but he hadn’t given a thought to them. “Used it?” he asked. “Yes. By way of experimentation. And it accounts for the pucker on my backside.”

  “Oh.” Her henna-highlighted eyebrows rose as she regarded him askance. “You truly did aspire to be a rake.”

  “With a vengeance. Come. We will try another room. One with card play.” Restell chose a closed door farther down the hall. “Perhaps we will find Breckenridge here. The owner. He was not belowstairs, and he does not frequent the opium den.”

  “Lord Breckenridge? Viscount Breckenridge?”

  “You know him?”

  “I have met him. He commissioned a portrait from Sir Arthur several years ago. Don’t concern yourself. He won’t recall me.”

  “God’s truth, I hope not. If he sees through your paint and red hair, then he has a better eye for a woman’s true beauty than even I suspected.”

  Emma was not certain what to make of that comment, but it seemed as though there was a pretty compliment for her in it. Smiling over her glass of sherry, she watched Restell’s fingers curl around the doorknob. At his questioning glance, she nodded to indicate that she was prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

  Her entrance into the room on Restell’s arm caused a momentary hush and suspension of card play at the three tables set up for it. Restell acted as if the notice they attracted was no more than what was due them, and Emma took her cue from him. She smiled coolly and inclined her head as though their attention did not merely flatter her, but honored her.

  Restell escorted her to the table closest to the sideboard where silver platters of small cakes, cheese, and fruit were laid out. A young woman wearing a sky blue silk gown with an overlay of lace stood at one end of the sideboard pouring brandy from a crystal decanter. Emma watched her expertly draw back the decanter and stopper it without spilling a drop, then wind her way between the tables to serve the drink to a gentleman who was clearly waiting for her—and easily twice her age. Emma did not miss the sly, knowing smile the woman cast in her direction as she draped her arm around the gentleman’s shoulders. It struck Emma then that this woman recognized her as a compatriot of sorts, more sister than rival.

  Emma’s attention was drawn back to Restell as he was asked to join the table where they were standing. He accepted the invitation and sat. Emma realized she was expected to stand behind him, but slightly to one side as she observed other women in the room were doing. She lay one hand lightly on his shoulder as the player beside him began to shuffle the cards. When it was time to cut the cards, the gentleman did not offer the deck to Restell, but indicated to Emma that she might have the opportunity instead.

  “S’il vous plaît,” the dealer said. His voice was warm, and his eyes were warmer still.

  Emma glanced at Restell. When he nodded, she obliged. “Merci,” she said. “Vous êtes très aimable.” She nudged the deck in his direction.

  Looking past her to Restell, the dealer asked, “Qui est cette demoiselle?”

  Restell made the introduction. “Monsieur Jourdain. Miss Jane Warwick.”

  “C’est un vrai plaisir, Mademoiselle Warwick.” Raising her gloved hand to his lips, he kissed the back of it.

  As the rest of those seated at the table took note of this, one of them spoke up. “Have a care, Jourdain. Gardner is credited to be a fine shot and better still with a sword. Even your father will not be abl
e to protect you.”

  “Qui est votre père?” asked Emma, though she was almost certain now that she knew precisely who his father was.

  Jourdain did not have time to respond. Another of the players was all too delighted to answer for him. “The French ambassador.”

  Emma looked sideways at Restell, her eyes a bit narrowed and accusing. Although others at the table observed her glance, none of them save Restell could divine its meaning. For his part, Restell merely smiled innocently and offered up a thoroughly Gallic shrug.

  In lightly accented English, the French ambassador’s son invited Emma to sit beside him and view his cards after he dealt them. “I trust you will not give my hand away. These others are like sharks, watching every facial tic for some sign that there is a liar among us. Look especially to the Allworthys.” He pointed to the pair of fair gentlemen opposite him. “Messieurs Bennet and William see everything.” He waved to a footman to bring over a chair and have it placed closely beside him. Looking past Emma to Restell, he finally had the grace to ask, “You have no objection, Monsieur Gardner?”

  “No,” Restell said. “I wish you luck of her. She has shared none of it with me tonight.” This announcement, taken by some as having an altogether different meaning, raised some chuckles and commiserating smiles.

  Emma repressed the urge to pinch Restell and took the chair she was offered instead. The game he had been invited to join was a variation of the old Spanish card game conquian that she had never seen before. Several decks were in use, all of them with the eights, nines, and tens removed. The players—and there were six of them at the table—each played their own hand and were dealt ten cards, five at a time. The deal moved to the right and markers were collected for properly made melds and for being the first player to rid himself of all of his cards.

  It was clearly a favorite card game of Monsieur Jourdain’s, and Emma observed his friends played with similar gusto, snapping their cards on the table and triumphantly making their final discards. When a hand was won, the markers were gathered with considerable relish. In contrast, Restell’s play was restrained. He was more watchful of the cards and the players than he was engaged in the actual game. Occasionally he joined the banter, but mostly he was quiet. Emma also noticed that he was the table’s most consistent winner. The markers in front of him grew steadily and eventually his formidable good fortune garnered the attention of others.

  As the crowd around their table grew, Emma offered the ambassador’s son the opportunity to release her from his side. “You’ve had little enough luck with me beside you,” she pointed out. “Allow me to curse Monsieur Gardner with it instead.”

  Jourdain would not hear of it. “It is always good luck to be in the company of a beautiful woman. Winning…losing…it is of no consequence.” His thin face was transformed handsomely by his whimsical smile. “But some libation would not be amiss.” He pushed his empty tumbler in front of Emma.

  “Of course.” Thinking nothing of it, Emma started to rise. Restell’s firm hand on her wrist stopped her. She sat.

  Restell said nothing. Neither did anyone else speak as he slid his own empty glass over so that Jourdain’s tumbler was moved out of the way. He released Emma’s wrist, making the message very clear indeed.

  Emma glanced apologetically at Monsieur Jourdain. “J’ai regrette.” Rising gracefully, she picked up Restell’s glass and went to the sideboard to refill it. Quite remarkably, she thought, her hands did not shake.

  The hand was already under way by the time she returned to the table. She did not fail to notice that her chair had been pulled closer to Restell’s side. What other messages he might have communicated to the ambassador’s son while her back was turned, Emma tried not to think about. She was more mortified by the attention paid her than she was flattered. She might well have been a savory soup bone for two curs to fight over than a woman possessed of any finer feelings.

  Restell raked in markers from everyone else at the table in spite of Emma’s proximity, then he surprised her by allowing her to take his cards in the next hand. “Go on,” he said. “Make your own luck.”

  She played with more enthusiasm than skill, but did not make a poor showing. On her third round, she won the hand and received congratulations from everyone at the table and polite applause from those around it.

  Restell leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. “Is it enough?”

  Emma nodded and gathered her markers as Restell excused himself from the play. She had no reticule to carry her winnings and pushed them over to Restell so that he might line his pockets. He took all of them save one. This last marker he palmed and dropped it surreptitiously between her breasts as they stepped away from the table.

  Before Emma recovered her wits, Restell was drawing her closer to Lord Breckenridge’s table where vingt-et-un was being played. The viscount was watching the dealer, not participating, but when he saw Restell’s approach he stepped back from the table altogether.

  Breckenridge lifted his chin and shifted his sharp glance to the table that Restell had just vacated. He posed his question in a voice so soft that only Restell and Emma were privy to it. “Are the Allworthys behaving themselves?”

  “Didn’t you see? I won.”

  “Yes, but you cheat.”

  “Only so they don’t.”

  “One would suppose they would learn. They never do. I have nightmares that Jourdain will call one or both of them out.”

  “Bad for business, that.”

  “So is bringing one’s wife.” Breckenridge turned his attention to Emma. “Miss Warwick, I believe.” At Emma’s surprise, he added, “I overheard Restell make the introduction to Jourdain.” He turned back to Restell. “You, sir, have clearly taken leave of your senses.”

  “I didn’t know you were previously acquainted, else I would not have brought her here. She only told me when I mentioned that it was you that owned the club.”

  Breckenridge offered a genial, slightly sheepish smile. “You understand, I have great respect for her uncle’s work.” He took Emma’s hand and raised it to his lips as Jourdain had done. “You may depend on my silence, Miss Warwick. You look as if that might be the question uppermost in your mind.”

  “Indeed it is, my lord.”

  Restell moved closer to Emma but addressed the viscount. “You are holding Miss Warwick’s hand overlong, I think.”

  Breckenridge inclined his head in agreement. Still, he did not release Emma’s hand quickly. His small smile taunted Restell. “It is no more than you deserve.”

  “Quite possibly true,” Restell said. His eyes caught a movement past the viscount’s shoulder. “Ah, here is Mrs. Christie, Breckenridge, and she looks in fine humor. One hopes she does not employ a dull knife to cut out your heart.” With that parting shot, Restell steered Emma clear of the viscount and moved her toward the hall.

  Emma tried to glance back at the inevitable encounter between Mrs. Christie and the viscount, but Restell was relentless in his march toward the exit. “Who is Mrs. Christie?”

  “Breckenridge’s mistress. That is an introduction that I do not want to make.”

  “Is your work finished, then?” she asked as he led her down the hallway.

  “It will be when I’ve assured myself that Jourdain’s friends do not ask him to share an opium pipe.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “By removing them. It will only require a few minutes.” He set her by the doorway and gave her clear instructions to remain exactly where she was. “No one will come this way once it’s begun.”

  Emma had no time to protest his action or even to inquire what action he meant to take. She stood against the wall and listened to the tinkling sound of glass breaking. The sound was repeated many times and on each occasion she jerked a little, expecting a scuffle or some argument to follow. Neither did. She was further surprised when Restell was the first to step out.

  “Now we can go.” He took her arm. “It is but a temporary s
olution, but for tonight at least, the French ambassador’s son is safe here. Breckenridge will see that he does not come to mischief in any of the private rooms. Debauched mayhap, but not damaged.”

  Emma pulled Restell back. “Private rooms?”

  “Oh, no.” He tugged her toward the stairs just as the first of the opium eaters staggered dreamily out of their smoky den. “Now, Miss Warwick. This way.”

  She had no choice but to follow. She pressed herself against the stairwell as one of the glassy-eyed gentlemen started down the steps. As soon as he passed, Restell all but picked her up to remove her from the path of the other men that followed. Although they reached the street without mishap, Emma was breathless from the descent. This time when she pulled her scarf about her shoulders, Restell did not advise her against it.

  The carriage that Restell had hired for this evening’s purpose rolled along the curb. Restell gestured to Whittier to remain where he was and opened the door for Emma himself. He helped her inside and entered right on her heels.

  “They looked perfectly respectable,” Emma said, staring out the window as two gentlemen from the opium room swung their canes jauntily as they descended from the hell. “One might expect to meet them anywhere.”

  “And one might,” Restell said, tugging her back from the window. “That is why it would be infinitely better if you did not stare. I do not think I can depend on you not to give yourself away if you were to encounter them again. Any one of them might be an art patron.”

  Emma thought his pointed reference was hardly subtle. “I could not have known Breckenridge owned the house. It is above everything comprehensible that he recognized me. I do not recognize myself.”

  “He is a man with a keen eye, but I suspect his recognition was prompted by the likelihood that he’d heard I married you and the fact that he’d previously met you.”

  “So it is not only that he has an eye for a woman’s true beauty.” Her mouth flattened. “I thought you were flattering me overmuch.”