by Anne Stuart
Chapter Seven
THE WEEKS SINCE Ronan Patrick Blakely, Lord Marlowe, the marquis of Herrington, had returned to his native shores had been busy ones. His lordship had been greatly amused to discover that what was completely unacceptable in an impoverished younger son was lauded as being delightfully original in a wealthy marquis. Even young Ronan Blakely’s final escapade, which involved attempting to elope with a married woman of impeccable lineage, was now looked upon twenty years later as an amusing prank.
One of the strangest aspects of his re-entry into society was the attitude of mothers. The gentlemen accepted him, which was only to be expected. Marlowe was a man’s man, with easy, charming manners around his peers that had always made him universally well liked, despite his predilection for the petticoat line. But unlike his youth, when the mothers of husband-hunting daughters would refuse to allow their precious offspring to stand up with such a rake, nowadays he was considered an extremely eligible parti. How often, one matron with a gangly, bracket-faced daughter demanded of another with an equally unfortunate child, does a handsome, wealthy, titled gentleman of excellent lineage come along? What had put him beyond the pale before were now dismissed as youthful peccadilloes; what had caused mothers to snub him outright were now treated as entertaining eccentricities.
It was little wonder that a man of Marlowe’s cynical nature would endeavor to discover just how far his pardon extended. Would the proper Miss Chansforth care for a stroll in the deserted garden? Miss Chansforth would be delighted. But wouldn’t her mother mind? Oh, no, Mama told her that Lord Marlowe was to be deferred to in all matters. Whatever would give him pleasure. Whatever, Miss Chansforth?
Such sport soon paled for Marlowe. For one thing, the majority of the ladies, though extremely pretty, were idiots, with nothing to say for themselves. Strumpets, out to sell their bodies to the highest bidder who came complete with wedding license, yet lacking the easygoing honesty of their less legal-minded sisters. And besides, they were all so damnably young. By the time he met Gillian Redfern, women, that is, proper ladies, had been relegated to a very minor position in his scheme of things.
“You can’t do that, old man,” protested Vivian Peacock. “Got to get leg-shackled sometime. And you’ve been raising hopes in several breasts. They won’t like it that you’ve lost interest.”
“Well, I can’t very well marry both Miss Chansforth and Miss Waterford,” replied Marlowe amiably. “I think I’d best forget about the weaker sex altogether for now. They can be damnably disrupting.”
“Does that include forgetting about Miss Redfern?” Vivian toyed idly with his brandy glass, an absorbed expression on his puffy face.
Marlowe cocked an eye at him. “We have a wager on, do we not? A gentleman never forgets a wager. Besides, I have the suspicion that Gillian Redfern is a great deal more interesting than these misses just out of the schoolroom. Have we set a time limit on that wager?”
“Not yet. How long do you think it would take you to bring her around? It wouldn’t do to overestimate your powers,” said Viv with just a hint of malice. “I want to win, but I want it to be fair. It’s late March now—what do you say to the end of the season? Late May?”
“More than enough time.”
“It may not be as easy as you think,” Peacock cautioned.
“It may not be as difficult,” retorted Marlowe. “She’s already unwillingly fascinated by the first rake she’s ever met in her sheltered life. Once I set my mind to it, it shouldn’t take much time at all.”
“You’re forgetting that damnably starched-up family.”
Marlowe dismissed them with an airy wave of his hand. “I expect them to prove more a help than a hindrance. Gillian Redfern is not going to like being ordered about by her cod’s head of a brother.”
“She has for her entire life. Why should she change?”
Marlowe smiled slowly. “I’m going to introduce her to a few things far more pleasurable. Derwent Redfern should pale in comparison.”
Vivian eyed his friend warily. “Is this quite kind of us?” he inquired casually. “After all, you wouldn’t want to step too far beyond the line of what is pleasing. If Sally Jersey were to hear of this she might consider it too much.”
“Why, Viv, I never knew you had a conscience. After all, this was your idea,” Marlowe said lazily. “And I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I intend to see to it that Gillian Redfern’s heart is bruised but not broken. When we part she’ll be more than ready to fall in love with someone a great deal more eligible, and will never again take the easy way out by burying herself among her demanding family.” He lit a cheroot with a practiced air and surveyed the smoke with a faint smile of satisfaction. “I consider this an errand of mercy.”
“You would,” Vivian scoffed.
BUT THERE HADN’T been much time for the furtherance of their schemes. The problem of finding a suitable residence for his gaming hell, decorating and outfitting and staffing it took up all his spare time. The thousands of decisions involved in setting up a gaming house proved to be quite overwhelming. There were servants to hire, including the French chef whose duty was to provide the elegant champagne suppers de rigueur for all gamesters. There were a thousand wax candles to order, and a thousand greasy tallow ones for the kitchens. There were invitations and bribes to be offered, and all manner of tedious detail to fill Marlowe’s usually indolent days. The first of which was the proper piece of real estate.
“I still don’t see why your own house wouldn’t do,” Vivian had protested as they chased around for a residence large enough, with a properly elegant location. “Blakely House would have been perfect.”
“I realize you think I’m lost to every vestige of propriety, Viv,” he’d replied easily, “but my ancestors would spin in their graves if I were to turn the old place into a den of iniquity. Not that I owe them that much, but I suppose there must be one or two situations where I can be traditional. Besides, were I to have a gaming hell in my own home, how could I ever escape from the noise and intrusion? There are times when I need my privacy. No, a largish house somewhere near St. James’s Street will do very well. I’ll have private apartments there, of course, but Blakely House must be kept separate.”
“But, Ronan, have you considered the cost? You may have forgotten that I helped your cousin manage his affairs the last few years, and I am aware that he was none too plump in the pocket. He could hardly have left you enough for such a grandiose scheme. And frankly, dear boy, I don’t think I could afford to invest that kind of capital. Things haven’t been going that well on the ‘Change recently. I know I promised I’d be a full partner, but I’m afraid if it involves buying a place I can’t . . .”
“Vivian, your excellent advice will be more than enough contribution to our little enterprise,” he soothed. “And although Cousin Beowulf didn’t leave me much except the title, the houses, and a number of debts, my years abroad were not wasted. Vienna was remunerative, and my years in India were positively absurd. At this point I can live quite lavishly on income alone. So you see, you needn’t worry. I’m afraid I’m a regular Golden Ball.”
Nothing but surprised pleasure showed in Vivian’s dissipated countenance. “How splendid, Ronan! I had no idea you were so full of juice. In that case, I happened to hear of a cozy little house just off St. James’s that could be turned into something quite special, provided there’s a small outlay of cash to put it in order. I could arrange for us to see it tomorrow.”
The house was duly seen, purchased, and the small outlay of cash required to turn it into a fashionable gaming hell began to reach staggering levels. Marlowe paid the bills without blinking, his mind on other things, his trust entirely on his old friend Vivian.
There was no way a gambling hell owned by society’s newest and most outrageous darling could fail, although Vivian was doubtless gratified to find that it succeeded beyond his wild
est expectations. Every night the place was an absolute crush, with baccarat, piquet, faro, dice, and even an e.o. table offered by the most elegant and charming of dealers. Marlowe would survey it all with his customary unruffled amusement, tiring of the entire thing before it even started. But it kept Vivian occupied, and provided a decent place to go for a hand or two of piquet when one was bored, as one too frequently was in the stultified London air. He wondered whether he ought to try the countryside.
The night of March twenty-sixth was some improvement. It was past eleven, with the evening’s play just beginning to heat up, when there was a stunned lull in the conversation. Marlowe looked up from a hand of piquet to see Bertram Talmadge, a far too frequent habitué of these rooms, escort a very pretty lady in nile green into the room. The lady was staring about her in open fascination, and it was with a shock that Marlowe recognized Gillian Redfern.
Chapter Eight
GILLIAN HAD NEVER before in her life stepped inside the wicked portals of a gaming hell, and she was busy experiencing a great deal of disappointment combined with a feeling of ill-usage. There was essentially no difference between the elegant, understated decor of the upper drawing room of 39 St. James’s Street, where Marlowe’s had its existence, and her sister Pamela’s withdrawing room in Winchester. The same silk drapes, although Marlowe favored a dusky rose color, the same elegant, damask-covered furniture, the same genteel company and low murmur of voices. The only difference between Marlowe’s upper room and the sort of card party one might find in the best homes in the city was the existence of the infamous e.o. table. And the fact that almost every guest there that night was male.
Gillian turned to her nephew, who fidgeted with his suddenly constricting collar and disrupted the folds of his Orientale cravat. “But where are the fallen women?” she inquired in what Bertie considered to be a damnably carrying voice.
“Please, Gilly!” he hushed her, his face turning beet red as he tried to avoid the curious gazes of his fellow gamesters. “The company here is very select. Guests are here by invitation only—not just your usual hugger-mugger are allowed in.”
A look of consternation passed over her face. The champagne was beginning to fade a trifle, and old habits were struggling for possession. “Should we be here, then?” she inquired with a trace of anxiety.
“Of course,” he reassured her, wishing heartily that he had thought of this excuse earlier. “I have the entrée, and am welcome to bring any guests I choose.”
“I should have known. Bertie, have you gotten yourself into trouble here?” she questioned, her maternal instinct coming to the fore.
“Nothing I cannot get out of,” he said stubbornly. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so. I know what I’m—”
“Miss Redfern.” Marlowe’s smooth voice interrupted them, and Bertie turned a brighter red. “We are honored that you’ve condescended to visit our humble club.” His tone was lazily insinuating, and Gillian turned to look up at him, the last bit of euphoria fleeing in sudden self-consciousness.
The jet-black evening clothes made him appear even taller in the candlelight, and the smile on his shadowed, handsome face was curiously disturbing. For the fifth time in the last three minutes, Gillian regretted her rash decision.
“Good evening, Lord Marlowe.” None of this indecision and regret was in her cool, low voice. “I trust you don’t mind that my nephew brought me along tonight. I wished to see what occupied such a great deal of his time.” It was a shot in the dark, and Gillian could see by the deepening of Bertie’s ruddy cheeks that it had hit the mark.
“Mr. Talmadge doesn’t spend all his time here, Miss Redfern,” Marlowe protested lightly. “I gather White’s and Watier’s share his patronage equally.”
Worse and worse, thought Gillian, uncomfortably aware of the covert glances cast in her direction by the seemingly absorbed gamblers around her. There was Derwent’s close friend Pinkthorp staring at her unabashedly before he bent to whisper something to the red-faced gentleman opposite him. They both laughed, and Gillian squirmed uneasily. There must be some way to extricate herself and her card-besotted nephew with both grace and dispatch, but her still somewhat fuzzy brain couldn’t comprehend what it might be.
“Do you go along and join Peacock,” Marlowe directed the hapless Bertie with a casual dismissal. “I will see to Miss Redfern’s entertainment.”
Bertie looked suitably torn. “But I promised my aunt . . .” he began weakly.
“Your aunt will be safe with me, Talmadge,” said Marlowe, and there was nothing Bertie could do but bow himself away, his youthful face a study of misery and frustration.
“Poor Bertie,” Gillian sighed.
“Poor Gillian,” Marlowe corrected. “You’re far too young to be that scamp’s aunt. And you certainly shouldn’t have the care of him adding to your other burdens.”
She met his gaze coolly, only briefly disconcerted by the gleam in those dark green eyes. “I’m afraid you have it somewhat turned around, my lord. It is I who am his burden.”
“Not tonight,” he replied, drawing her arm through his and leading her past the hidden glances of his curious guests. “I was wondering how I could persuade you to grace my establishment. I have been on the lookout for you any number of occasions these past weeks, but you don’t seem to go out in society much. To what do I owe the honor of your visit tonight?”
Disbelief warred with delight within her at the thought of Marlowe looking for her. Disbelief won. She ignored both emotions stoically. “I am celebrating attaining my majority,” she replied solemnly, accepting the glass of champagne he handed her with the erroneous conclusion that one more wouldn’t do much damage.
“You have reached the advanced age of twenty-one?” he inquired, sipping at his own glass while his eyes kept hers captive.
Gillian, in her lamentable fashion so recently acquired, drained the glass. “Thirty,” she replied succinctly.
Marlowe’s smile was gently mocking. “Such a very great age, to be sure,” he murmured. “I don’t know that I should be seen in public talking with such an aged hag. I have my reputation to consider.”
“It’s all very well for you to jest,” she replied, as he refilled her glass. “But I have lines!”
He peered closely, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin. “Your head is full of windmills,” he replied frankly. “I cannot see a single line, and furthermore it would only add character to a face that is far too pretty.”
Needless to say, Gillian found this extremely pleasing. “At least,” she said, “I can now be comfortable. No one will look twice at a lady of my advanced age when she ventures out unaccompanied. What would be frowned upon in a young ingenue cannot be thought singular in a woman of my years.”
“Much as I regret disillusioning you, I am afraid I must. You have been the cynosure of every eye since you set foot inside this room. A great deal can be laid to the fact that you are in extremely elegant looks tonight, but part of it must be ascribed to the fact that very few properly brought up and behaved young ladies set foot inside a gaming hell, no matter how exclusive. And when that proper young lady is none other than Derwent Redfern’s sister, and has heretofore been odiously starched-up herself, it’s no wonder they are all staring at you.”
“I am not odiously starched-up!” she shot back, stung.
“You were well on your way to being so when I happened along,” he replied, unmoved. “And I would think we might be a great deal more comfortable in my private rooms in the back. I can promise you a late supper far above the general run of things, and a hand of piquet that should quite shatter you. Besides, I have something for you.”
She stared up at him, suspicion warring with the lulling effects of the wine and his dark green eyes. “I wouldn’t think it would be at all the thing for me to be closeted in your rooms, sir.”
“I like the snippy way you call me ‘sir,’” he said disconcertingly. “And I thought we had decided that your advanced age rendered you immune from criticism. Surely no one would suspect such an antidote capable of lascivious behavior?”
He was quizzing her, and she longed to give him the sharp set-down he so richly deserved, but the words and the real desire to do so escaped her. Sighing, she nodded, letting him lead her past the now scandalized eyes of the gamblers with a trepidation she told herself was patently absurd.
The moment she stepped into the private compartment at the back of the house all her doubts assailed her anew, and she took an instinctive step backward, directly into Lord Marlowe’s solid form. Jumping away nervously, she watched him close the heavy panelled door behind them with absurd misgivings. He caught her somewhat desperate expression and smiled suddenly.
“You don’t like my rooms?” he asked softly. “I consider them quite comfortable. I had them decorated with just such occasions in mind.”
It seemed to Gillian’s melodramatic mind that the smile that had so enchanted her was suddenly very sinister, and she wondered if anyone would hear her if she were to scream for help. “What sort of occasions?” she managed to choke out.
The smile broadened. “Why, dinner and a partie or two of cards with a friend,” he replied smoothly. “Unless you had something else in mind?”
Gillian felt color suffuse her skin, and once more cursed her ready blushes. Before she could reply, however, he took her gloved hand and led her across the Aubusson-carpeted room to a rose velvet sofa, depositing her there but making no effort to join her. She breathed a small sigh of relief, allowed herself to relax just a tiny bit, and once more surveyed her surroundings.
It had been the sight of the bed that had panicked her, she realized. Mind you, it was at the very end of the room, shrouded discreetly in heavy gold curtains, and a lady wouldn’t have even noticed its presence in an otherwise charming apartment. But Gillian was never one to be able to control unruly thoughts, and her attention kept slipping to that far end of the room, much to Marlowe’s obvious amusement.