by Anne Stuart
“Surely that is nothing new,” said Letty, reaching for a bonbon from the silver dish just in reach of her plump white fingers. “White’s and Watier’s have been operating in such a manner for years.”
“But my husband says there is a question of dishonesty in the play. And that certain people, people highly connected with the place, have developed the habit of luring green young men there and fleecing them shamelessly. Horace wouldn’t tell me where he heard it, but it was the most reliable source.”
“I would have thought the most reliable source would be Lord Marlowe himself,” Gillian snapped, unable to keep silent any longer. Those beady little eyes turned toward her, and she felt a sense of impending doom.
“I wouldn’t know, my dear. But then, Horace is not unconvinced.”
“Well, if he has such ignoble suspicions why does he continue to frequent the place?” Gillian inquired.
“Because he has no proof. And for some odd reason he likes Marlowe. Gentlemen have ever been incomprehensible. How one could like and admire a man that one suspects of shaving the cards and fleecing innocents is beyond me. And as for Marlowe’s licentious behavior . . . well, the less said about that the better.”
“Amen!” agreed Gillian in a determined tone.
Mrs. Huddleston looked nonplussed for a moment, then ploughed on, undefeated. “His opera dancers are legion. Never has the same one been in his keeping for more than a few weeks. He has been flirting and casting out lures to all sorts of ladies of good reputation, and then, once he has raised hopes in their breasts, he has dropped them and moved on to another.” She sniffed. “Thank heavens he knew better than to trifle with my sweet Prunella.”
Her sweet Prunella did not look similarly gratified at Marlowe’s forbearance. “But that’s not all, Mama,” she said in her whining voice. “Tell them about last night.”
All Gillian’s forebodings came home to roost. “Last night?” she echoed with an admirable attempt at innocence.
“Last night,” Mrs. Huddleston said in awesome tones, “a lady visited Marlowe’s gaming hell. And remained closeted alone with the lecherous beast for almost half an hour!” The sharp eyes left Gillian little doubt they knew perfectly well who that lady had been.
“I don’t know what you’re making such a piece of work over this for,” Letty said fretfully, her understanding not being great. “Any number of ladies must frequent Marlowe’s salon. Sally Jersey has been there and tells me it’s monstrously entertaining.”
“I mean a lady, Letty. Someone of heretofore unblemished reputation. Someone we know quite well.” Two pairs of Huddleston eyes were glaring at poor Gillian, and Letty, a bit slow on the uptake but not beyond hope, finally followed the direction of their accusatory gaze to Gillian’s flushed face.
“Good gracious,” she breathed. “You don’t mean . . . ?”
“She does,” replied Gillian, throwing her shoulders back.
“Good gracious,” Letty said again, resorting to another chocolate in her agitation. “I don’t know what Derwent will say to all this.”
“Derwent has already said a great deal about it,” Gillian assured her calmly, controlling her temper with an effort. “He escorted me home from Marlowe’s salon. Mrs. Huddleston forgot to tell you that, and also forgot to mention that I was accompanied by Bertie.”
“Who promptly abandoned you to that—that libertine’s attentions,” Mrs. Huddleston stated, her thin nose pinched in disapproval. “I have regretted coming here with such distressing news, Letty dear, but I believe I know my duty when it lies before me.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Mrs. Huddleston,” Letty breathed. “If I had only realized Gillian was capable of such . . .”
Gillian rose to her full height. “Not that I think my presence is having a constraining effect,” she broke in affably, “but I’m certain you will be a great deal more comfortable castigating me without having me here. I promised I would escort Felicity to Hookhams.”
“More novels!” Letty shrieked, incensed. “You’ll be getting more novels, and I blame them for your current licentious behavior!” She blithely ignored the stack of French romances that lay beside her own bed next to the tray of chocolate creams.
“I will be certain, however, that Felicity only reads improving tales, Letty,” Gillian replied politely. “It is always a pleasure to see you both, Mrs. Huddleston. Prunella.” With that she sailed out of the drawing room, leaving more than one lady gasping in outrage.
“BUT I HAVE NOT the slightest desire to go to Hookham’s Lending Library,” Felicity argued as she kept pace with her aunt’s determined progress down the crowded London streets. “I have more than enough to read, and I was rather hoping I would have a chance to get down to see Liam this afternoon.”
“There’ll be time enough for that,” Gillian said grimly. “And as a matter of fact, I have more than enough to read myself. I merely had to leave the house before I did physical violence on that wicked old toad.”
“Mama?” Felicity inquired, surprised.
“Mrs. Huddleston. She arrived this morning with the express purpose of telling Letty where I had been last night. I left the three of them tearing my character to shreds when I could bear it no longer. They were just jealous because Lord Marlowe paid no attention to that bracket-faced daughter of hers. I should have known something like this would happen. I should have never left Winchester, no matter how insupportable I find Pamela’s husband.”
“Now, now, Gilly, don’t be absurd. Then you wouldn’t have met Lord Marlowe.”
“Exactly!”
“And you wouldn’t have those unsuitable diamond ear-bobs that I would give anything for,” Felicity pointed out. “You would be safe and secure and bored to death!”
“I hadn’t noticed I was bored before,” Gillian said stiffly without a great deal of veracity.
“Well, I had. And I think Lord Marlowe’s been very good for you. As long as you remain heart-whole, as you insist you will, I can only think it an excellent thing. You wanted some shaking up.”
“Not that I noticed,” Gillian snapped irritably, her head still pounding somewhat from last night’s exertions. “Are you coming in with me?”
“I thought I might wait out here. It’s such a delightful day I hate to miss any of this glorious sunshine,” Felicity said innocently.
Unfortunately Gillian was too preoccupied to notice this unusual affinity for Mother Nature on the part of her niece. Besides, the aforementioned glorious sunshine was contributing to the monstrous headache.
“You know perfectly well you shouldn’t be out here alone. But I suppose it is useless to try to stop you. I don’t suppose Letty has any faith in my chaperoning abilities anymore.”
“I don’t suppose she does,” Felicity agreed cheerfully.
“Hmmph!” Gillian was too weary and irritable to argue further. “I’ll be out directly. I know precisely what I want, and I don’t doubt they will not have it. Do not talk to strangers, Felicity.”
It took Gillian rather longer to find the book she was seeking, an unusual treatise on lives of monkish contemplation, but at last success was hers. With a feeling of foreboding, the leather-bound volume in her hand, she dashed out the door, her sharp eyes searching the street for her ingenuous niece.
With a sinking feeling Gillian finally discovered her, slender arm entwined through a gentleman’s strong, broadcloth one, her pretty face smiling up as she chattered on at breakneck pace, her eyes fluttering up in a manner that Gillian had come to recognize as Felicity Flirting.
“Blast!” she said under her breath, weaving her way through the passersby on the way to her niece’s rescue. “I cannot leave the child alone for a moment. She’s even worse than I am.”
She was almost upon them when Felicity turned, greeting her aunt with innocent charm as she
retained her grip on the gentleman’s arm. “Aunt Gillian!” she cried. “Look who I have found this morning. Was there ever such a fortunate happenstance?”
The tall figure turned, the arm tried to detach itself from Felicity’s limpet grip, and Ronan Blakely, Lord Marlowe, bowed with his customary grace, the faint trace of a quizzical smile in his dark green eyes.
Chapter Eleven
“GOOD MORNING, Miss Redfern,” he greeted her, and his slow, deep voice sent an uncomfortable little thrill along Gillian’s backbone as well as a deep blush to her suddenly pale complexion. There was no way she could banish from her mind the circumstances in which she had last seen Ronan Marlowe, especially with that wicked, knowing smile lurking in the back of his fine green eyes.
“Why, Gilly, you’re blushing,” Felicity announced ingenuously, and Gillian controlled a strong urge to trample on her foot. “Whatever happened to overset you?”
“Miss Redfern doesn’t appear to be the slightest bit discomposed,” Marlowe broke in smoothly. “As a matter of fact, she is looking absolutely radiant this morning considering the excesses of last night.”
“Excesses?” Felicity echoed, her high, breathless laugh that was also a key part of Felicity flirting grating suddenly on Gillian’s already frayed nerves.
“An excess of champagne, Felicity,” she said casually as she felt the color subside from her face. “Good morning, Lord Marlowe.”
“Lord Marlowe was just telling me the most fascinating stories of his life on the Continent,” Felicity continued archly. “I vow, I have never laughed so much in my entire life. What a vastly diverting life you have led, my lord.” She batted her eyes at him outrageously.
“No more than most,” he replied shortly, struggling once more to release himself from her clinging grip and this time succeeding. “Miss Redfern . . .”
Felicity recaptured his arm. “I am convinced you are too modest,” she interrupted. “I have it on the best authority that you are a rake, forever casting out lures to hapless females and then abandoning them once their hopes have been raised.”
Marlowe’s dark face showed a flash of interest. “And who told you that? I hope it wasn’t your aunt?” The green eyes rested on Gillian’s discomfited expression.
Felicity laughed again, and Gillian’s mortification rose. “Oh, heavens, no! Gilly does nothing but sing your praises, although she says she sees you as a slightly older version of Bertie.”
“She does, does she?” He appeared to be more amused than affronted, but Gilly by this time had had enough.
“Felicity!” she said in a dangerous undertone, taking that lady’s arm in an iron grip and removing her from Lord Marlowe’s side. “Your behavior goes beyond the line of what is pleasing!”
“But I haven’t spoken a word that wasn’t true, have I?” she demanded with a great show of innocence. “Didn’t you say Lord Marlowe reminded you of Cousin Bertie?”
“Yes, do answer, Miss Redfern,” Marlowe encouraged her affably. “I wasn’t aware that I appeared to you in quite so callow a light.”
Gilly’s deepening blush was reply enough. “Anything I might have said to my niece was not meant to be repeated,” she said in a muffled tone. “I . . .”
“You see!” Felicity interrupted once more, and Gilly longed to strangle her. “I would never have made up such a thing. For my part I think she must have windmills in her head, my lord. I find you vastly romantic. But then, Gilly is of an age where she has ceased to have an interest in such things.”
Marlowe raised an eyebrow, and the effect was to make him appear even more saturnine. “Oh, really? I had failed to notice such a disinterest on your aunt’s part, but then, I may have deceived myself.”
“I do wish,” Gilly said finally, “that the two of you would cease to discuss me as if I weren’t here. Leave go of his lordship’s arm, Felicity, and let us return to Berkeley Square. I have a great deal to say to you about your unbecoming behavior.”
“You see what an ogre she is?” Felicity demanded of Marlowe, releasing his arm with a great show of reluctance. “Dare I ask you to come to my rescue and save me from the lecture her disapproving expression promises? Believe me, despite her gentle appearance she can be quite fierce.”
Marlowe turned his shoulder to her, smiling down at Gillian in a manner that left her feeling curiously weak-kneed. “Your niece is certainly an ill-mannered minx,” he remarked, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Is there any way we can dispense with her tiresome company, or do you need her as a chaperone?”
Felicity’s outraged gasp coincided with Gilly’s reluctant chuckle. “I am afraid the shoe is on the other foot, my lord. I am Felicity’s chaperone, and could hardly let her out by herself.”
“I can see why. Very well, I suppose we must make do with what chance has offered us. I shall see you home by way of Gunters, and we may only hope that the ices offered there will keep her prattle-box busy enough to allow us to enjoy a brief conversation.” He held out his arm for her, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it.
Felicity’s discomfiture could only last a certain time. Undaunted, she caught his other arm in her confiding clasp and smiled up at him winningly. “I will behave myself,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “If you have the remarkably good taste to prefer my aunt to myself, I can hardly fault you. But let me tell you you are setting all my carefully laid plans to naught.”
If she hoped to beguile Marlowe with her honesty, she had failed once more. “Just as well,” he said repressively. “If you behave yourself we will allow you to accompany us. If you keep chattering I will, despite your aunt’s protests, bundle you into a hackney and send you back to Berkeley Square. Is that understood?” There was a flinty note in his voice, and Felicity, usually a sunny-tempered girl, for a moment lost her customary amiability.
“Certainly,” she snapped. “Though why you should be so uncivil . . .”
“It is no wonder you feel fagged to death if you have to put up with her all the time,” Marlowe said to Gillian, who had been surveying this interchange with amazement and not a little gratification at seeing her irrepressible niece silenced for once. Felicity had subsided into a very pretty case of the sulks, and Gilly cast her an anxious look before replying.
“I love Felicity more than anything,” she defended her. “Admittedly she is a trifle high-spirited . . .”
“I don’t wish to talk about your niece,” Marlowe interrupted gently. “I wanted to find out how you fared after last night. Derwent Redfern can be exceedingly unpleasant, and I have the notion you aren’t terribly adept at taking care of yourself.”
Gilly’s blush deepened as she was startled into a laugh. “How can you say such a thing?” she demanded with the trace of a smile in her warm blue eyes. “I would have thought I had proved to you last night how very capable I was.”
“You proved a great many things last evening, my dear Gilly,” he said softly. “Not the least of which is how delightfully innocent you are. But I wouldn’t want you to suffer for last night, as I have little doubt that idiot of a brother of yours would like to make you.”
“That is my father you are insulting,” Felicity interrupted, clearly fascinated by this exchange.
“I am fully aware of that. I am also aware that I told you to be quiet. If you do not do so I will be forced to believe that you resemble your esteemed father even more than I had believed.”
“You are—are a monster!” Felicity stormed.
Marlowe laughed heartlessly. “I would think you would be gratified to know that you resembled the father you are so busy defending. Though I will grant you that there is a look of your mother about you also.”
“You know my mother?” Felicity questioned, curiosity overlaying her outrage.
“Far too well,” he replied enigmatically before turning back to t
he lady on his other arm. “Was he unbearably stuffy last night? I wished I had confronted him.”
“That would have only made things worse. And no, he wasn’t too desperately awful. I simply told him I wasn’t in the mood to be yelled at. He was so astounded he was scarcely able to come out with one or two lecture points before I escaped to bed.”
“You don’t usually stand up to him?” There was a pleased expression on his face that Gilly couldn’t quite fathom.
“Not usually,” she admitted. “However, I decided that at the advanced age of thirty I was far too old to be intimidated.”
“May I hope I added to your feelings of resolution?”
A smile played around Gilly’s soft mouth, and the expression in Marlowe’s eyes deepened inexplicably. “You may hope so,” she said, giving nothing away.
He stared down at her for a long moment. “Can’t we dispense with your niece’s presence?” he demanded in a husky voice. “I would much prefer to continue our conversation of last night in private.”
“I don’t believe that conversation will be continued, my lord. I was a trifle above myself last night from an excess of champagne and high spirits. I doubt it will happen again.”
“I am grieved to hear you say so. I have yet to see a case where high spirits can truly be described as excessive, and champagne is such a delightful drink. However, if you are determined to continue a nunlike existence . . .”
“I am determined to do no such thing,” she shot back. “I merely have regained a sense of propriety . . .”
“Worse and worse. I had thought better of you, Gillyflower,” he said softly, and Gillian’s resolution almost failed.
“I am exceedingly flattered,” she said firmly, “at your offers to lead me astray, but I believe I have other obligations. Not the least of which is to my niece. I am supposed to provide a model of proper behavior for her, not an example of flighty womanhood bent upon her own destruction.”