Rogue Grooms

by Amanda McCabe

  She had already arranged to rent a house for the summer, at the seaside resort of Wycombe-on-Sea, where they had sometimes gone with their parents as little girls. There she could rest at last and wash away the past years in the clean seawater. She and Phoebe could plan how best to introduce Phoebe to some kind of good society. Surely their parents’ names still carried weight with someone. . . .

  A knock sounded at the inner office door, interrupting these musings.

  “Yes?” Caroline called.

  “It’s Mary, madam.”

  “Come in, Mary.”

  Mary was Caroline’s maid, and had been ever since she had come to the Golden Feather. Once, in another life, she had been Caroline’s nanny. She was the only other person who knew her true identity, and Caroline trusted her implicitly.

  Mary bustled into the room, carrying a red wig, a black silk mask, and a small rosewood cosmetics box. “It’s almost midnight, madam. They’ll be expecting your grand appearance.”

  The tentative excitement and hope vanished before the prospect of the evening ahead. Caroline sighed. “Yes, of course.”

  Obviously sensing her melancholy, Mary patted her shoulder comfortingly. “It won’t be long now, madam. In two weeks, maybe even less if that buyer comes through, we’ll be gone from here.”

  “You are quite right, Mary. Not long now.” Caroline rose from the desk and went around to the small, gilt-framed mirror on the wall. She took the red wig, fashioned into elaborate curls and decorated with ebony and crystal combs, and fitted it carefully over her own short, silvery-blond hair. Over it she tied the ribbons of the black silk mask that covered all her face except her mouth and lower jaw.

  “Do you have the lip rouge?” she asked, making sure that no telltale blond strands showed beneath the red.

  “Of course, madam.” Mary brought the tiny enameled pot of rouge out from the cosmetics box and handed it to her.

  Caroline used the little brush to paint her lips crimson, making them appear larger and richer than her usual pale rose bow. Then she slid glittering emerald drops into her earlobes and removed her shawl to reveal a low-cut, deep green satin gown. Long black gloves and high-heeled green satin shoes completed what she thought of as her “costume.”

  No one who ever encountered her as Mrs. Caroline Aldritch could possibly connect her to Mrs. Archer of the Golden Feather.

  “All right, Mary,” she said in a voice that seemed even deeper and lower. “I am ready to make my appearance.”

  Justin stood in the doorway between the dining room and the gaming room of the Golden Feather and looked about in growing boredom.

  It was just like all the other gaming establishments he had frequented before he left for India. Fancier than most, perhaps, luxuriously appointed and full of fine flowers and champagne. And the people crowded around the tables were undoubtedly well dressed and well-bred, gentlemen in evening dress and ladies, some masked, in bright silks and jewels. But it was the same.

  There was the same look on these people’s faces, a mix of desperation and hope. The laughter had the same sharp edge. The same smell of liquor, cigar smoke, and perfume hung in the air.

  What had he ever found so appealing in such places? It was appalling, especially after the brutal honesty and the shimmering skies of India. He wanted to run from it all, to breathe in fresh, clean air.

  But once he had loved it all with a desperate excitement he saw now on his brother’s face.

  Harry sat at one of the card tables, avidly studying the hand he had just been dealt. A woman in a blue feathered mask sat beside him. She laid her kid-gloved hand on his arm and whispered something in his ear. Harry nodded and laughed, a sharp, brittle sound.

  Justin noted the rather large pile of coins in front of his brother.

  He frowned and would have started over to the table, but someone coming out of the dining room bumped into him. Champagne sloshed from the man’s glass onto the marble floor, just missing Justin’s shoe.

  Justin turned around and came face-to-face with his old friend the Honorable Freddie Reed.

  It had been only four years since Justin had seen him, on the morning of that fateful duel, but Freddie looked twenty years older. His eyes were blood-shot, underscored by bags and wrinkles. His skin was a grayish pallor, and his ample belly strained at his yellow brocade waistcoat.

  Obviously, Freddie had continued on the pathway to dissipation he and Justin had started on so long ago. It was startling to realize that he himself might very well look like this if he had not gone out to India when he had.

  Justin quickly concealed his astonishment behind a polite smile. “Freddie!” he said. “How are you, old man?”

  “Eh?” Freddie squinted at him, then cried, “Justin! Dem me if it isn’t old Justin Seward. Back from India, are you? Must have been very recently—you’re as brown as a nut! Quite the pukka sahib.” He laughed uproariously at his own weak witticism.

  “Quite,” Justin answered. “I only arrived in London today I just came here to accompany Harry.”

  “Ah, yes. Young Harry. He’s been following in his brother’s footsteps, so I hear. I often see him about.” Freddie turned to the woman at his side, a petite blonde in pink satin who was boldly unmasked. She was obviously as foxed as Freddie was, swaying unsteadily on her feet. “Meet Justin, m’dear. He used to be the boldest rogue in London. Now he’s an old, respectable nabob, just back from India, and an earl to boot.”

  The woman giggled. “Pleased to meet’cha, I’m sure.”

  “Run along and wait for me at the faro table, sweet,” Freddie told her. “I want to talk to Justin.” The woman, sped on her way by a tap on the bottom from Freddie, left in a cloud of more giggles. Then Freddie turned back to Justin. “I am glad to see you again, Justin. Town’s not been the same since old Larry Aldritch died and James Burne-Jones left. Not the same at all.”

  “Oh? Where did James go to?”

  “Didn’t you know? He left the day after your duel with Holmes, sent off to America by his father. I heard he married a rich widow in Boston.” Freddie shook his head mournfully. “No, it hasn’t been the same at all. But the Golden Feather is jolly good fun. Don’t you think?”

  Justin looked back out at the crowded gaming room. Harry was still at the same table with the woman in the feathered mask speaking to him quietly. “Indeed.”

  “I come here at least twice a week.”

  “The play is that good, is it?”

  “Oh, yes. Champagne’s not bad, either. And then there’s Mrs. Archer.” Freddie gave a blissful sigh.

  “The owner?”

  “Yes. She’s a real beauty. At least I think she must be.”

  Was Freddie so drunk that he couldn’t even see the woman straight, then? Justin laughed. “You mean you’re not sure?”

  “Well, she always wears a mask. But she has a beautiful voice. And a magnificent bosom. Though she is always so secretive; she will never give any man a second look, so they say. Ah, now see, you’ll be able to judge for yourself.”

  A door at the top of a spiral staircase opened, and amid a sudden hush, a woman appeared on the landing there.

  She was not especially tall, not above middling height, but she commanded the room just by standing still.

  She wore a black silk mask that covered all her face except for her full red lips and an alabaster jaw-line. Her hair, a deep burgundy-red color, was piled atop her head in curls and whorls. The emeralds in her ears winked and dazzled in the light.

  Mrs. Archer was very striking. And she did indeed have a magnificent bosom, its whiteness set off by the low bodice of her green satin gown.

  Justin very much feared he was gaping, just as everyone else in the room was. But he couldn’t seem to help himself; she was such a terribly striking sight.

  “You see?” Freddie sighed. “Beautiful.”

  Then Mrs. Archer came down the stairs, her skirt held up daintily to reveal green heeled slippers and the tiniest amount of white s
ilk stocking, and moved into the crowd.

  Justin could see only the very top of her red head as she walked about, stopping to speak to various patrons and accept a glass of champagne from a footman.

  He blinked and turned quickly away, feeling as if he were trapped in some bizarre, terribly attractive dream.

  Caroline had never seen him before. She was sure of it. If she had, she would have remembered him.

  He stood in the doorway between the dining room and the gaming room, surveying the crowd with a look of almost-boredom on his face. He did not look contemptuous or disdainful, only as if he wished he were anywhere else.

  And he was handsome. Very handsome indeed. His hair, a sun-streaked light brown, was a little longer than was strictly fashionable and brushed back in neat waves from his face. Unlike most of the men who came to the Golden Feather, he radiated good health and vitality. His skin was dark, as if he spent a good deal of time outdoors, and his tall, lean figure obviously had no need of corsets or of padding in his coats.

  Beside all the other men who flocked around the gaming room, he stood out sharply, as a beacon of things that were honest and decent. Things like a fresh morning breeze, a brisk ride down a country lane, or a good laugh.

  Things Caroline hadn’t enjoyed for years.

  She smiled wryly, mocking herself for such fanciful thoughts. A beacon of honesty, indeed! Here she had thought herself far beyond having her head turned by a pretty face. If he was here, he could scarcely be so decent as all that. No doubt he gambled terribly, just as Lawrence had. He was just a new patron, perhaps one who had recently come from the country.

  Definitely one she should meet. After all, it was her job to make certain everyone who came to the Golden Feather enjoyed themselves.

  Just her job.

  Caroline made her way slowly across the room toward him, stopping to talk to people, to sip champagne, to check on the dealers at the various tables. All the while, she kept her eye on the stranger, where he stood talking to Lawrence’s old friend Freddie Reed.

  As she came closer, she felt a most unusual sensation fluttering in her stomach, tightening her throat. Was it . . . could it be nervousness? Nervousness at the thought of talking to a strange man?

  Nonsense, she told herself briskly. It was only the champagne.

  At last she reached them, and came to a halt to smile up at Freddie. “Good evening, Mr. Reed,” she said. “So nice to see you here again.”

  Freddie blushed at this special attention, and stammered out, “G-good evening, M-Mrs. Archer! You are looking stunning, as always.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Reed.” She glanced over at his companion, the handsome stranger, and tilted her head inquiringly.

  “Oh!” said Freddie. “Mrs. Archer, I would like you to meet my friend, Lord Lyndon. He is just back from India and has never been to the Golden Feather before.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Archer?” Lord Lyndon said, bowing over her outstretched hand. His fingers were warm through her thin glove, his grip steady and sure.

  “Welcome to the Golden Feather, Lord Lyndon,” she answered. “I do hope you are enjoying your first evening here.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Who could help but enjoy themselves here? You have a lovely establishment, Mrs. Archer.” But his eyes, a vivid sky blue in his sun-browned face, still looked bored and perfectly, blandly polite. His gaze slid ever so briefly over her shoulder before focusing on her again.

  “Thank you, Lord Lyndon,” she murmured, wondering what could possibly be so interesting behind her. Another woman, perhaps?

  Her vanity was a bit piqued by this inattention. Unaccountably, she wanted this man’s attention; she wanted his gaze to fill with admiration when he looked at her. Usually she disliked male attention and longed to turn away from their flattery, their long, suggestive glances.

  “This may be Lyndon’s first visit, but his brother is a regular patron,” Freddie said, interrupting her jumbled thoughts.

  Caroline turned to him in relief, away from Lord Lyndon’s mesmerizing blue eyes. “Oh, yes? And who might that be?”

  It was Lyndon who answered, in his deep, brandy-rich voice. “Mr. Harry Seward is my brother.” He gestured with his champagne glass toward a table.

  Caroline looked back to where he pointed. So that was what had caught his attention. His brother, Mr. Seward, was quite familiar to her. He came to the Golden Feather several times a week, sometimes winning, more often losing. He was a bit of a mischief maker, but she had never had any serious trouble with him. Tonight he sat next to another regular patron, a woman who called herself Mrs. Scott, a bottle of champagne between them.

  It was hard to believe that the feckless Mr. Seward was the brother of the serious, solemn man who stood before her.

  “We do see Mr. Seward often,” she said.

  “So I have heard,” he answered softly. Caroline had the distinct impression that he did not approve of his brother’s pastimes.