Authors: Emery Lee
Covent Garden, an innocuous fruit and vegetable market by day, became the crown jewel of the voluptuary by night. On one side of the square stood the theatre, a convenient stone's throw from the brothels and bagnios offering ample supplemental income to the actresses and dancers.
Opposite, on Russell Street in the Little Piazza, stood the Rose and the Shakespeare's Head Taverns, fierce competitors who offered superior food, fine wines, and most important, rooms for private pursuits. Although patronized by a more exclusive clientele, the taverns were nonetheless public places which did not discriminate as long as the patron could foot his one-shilling cover. Taken as a whole, the district held potential to become a gaming mecca if one could somehow offer a haven from the scoundrels and sharps who frequented the public taverns and gaming hells.
The dowagers Baroness Mordington and Lady Casellis had just such a vision when they began hosting a series of private gaming parties. These exclusive gatherings were designed to attract the uppermost echelon and the very deepest players. Sparing no expense to outdo the upscale Rose and Shakespeare's Head taverns across the square, the entrepreneurial ladies issued gilt-edged invitations to “a private assembly where all persons of credit are at liberty to frequent and play at assorted diversions.”
While the other gaming houses of Covent Garden suffered fines and penalties for their trespasses, these women openly flouted the gaming laws under the auspices of noble privilege and paid off the local magistrates; in sum, they thumbed their noses at Parliament. In short time, the gaming-mad aristocracy flocked to their gates.
***
By ten o'clock the crested coaches and private sedan chairs, two and three abreast, lined the square in front of the leased three-story mansion in the Great Piazza. Due to the exclusivity of the company, Sukey had insisted upon Lady Mordington's so-called assembly as the perfect venue for her real gaming debut.
When Sukey waived the gilt invitation in his face, Philip had conceded, albeit with some misgivings about her readiness for those who would surely habit the tables. In truth, he was becoming utterly powerless to resist her. It was anticipation of spending the ensuing night in her arms that had induced him. With an evocative look here and a seductive smile there, she had completely bewitched him.
His passion for Sukey was anything but tempered. She was his first true lover, one who made him feel a man in every sense, and he couldn't seem to get enough of her. The cheeky tavern wenches, dimpled dairymaids, and pert shop girls of his past had already receded to a far distant corner of his memory. Yet even in their most intense moments of intimacy, she seemed to hold some little piece of herself in reserve, frustrating him with what he couldn't seem to reach.
As they awaited their turn to alight from the vehicle, Philip sat restlessly in his seat, thinking the confinement would have been unbearable if not for the chance to study her at close quarters. When she pulled the curtain aside to discern their position in the long queue, he slanted a slow heated gaze over her, desiring to drink her in with all of his senses.
His roving eye followed the graceful curve of her neck revealed by unpowdered and upswept chestnut hair. Her gown of old gold satin was cut scandalously low, nearly revealing the dusky ring of her nipples. He had instructed her to dress to distract attention from the cards, and God help him now, she had taken him at his word.
When she turned back to him, he tore his eyes guiltily away, shifting in growing discomfort and fidgeting with his lace-edged cravat.
“It appears we've arrived at last. Philip, are you unwell?” she asked coyly, noting his flushed face and overbright eyes.
“I'm near suffocating in this infernal neckcloth, and confounded peruke,” he replied irritably. “Can't fathom how you induced me to crop my own mane to wear a horse's instead.”
Her lips turned up in amusement. “But it is the latest mode from France, and just look at you, my darling, the absolute pink of fashion.”
“
Pink!
The tailor called it salmon, declaring it the rave of the season. I'll surely
pink
anyone who dares call it otherwise.”
“Oh, my!” She laughed outright. “Then
salmon
it must be!”
When the hired footman let down the coach steps, Philip and Sukey alighted in front of a magnificent neo-Palladian mansion built in the original style of Colin Campbell. With her hand resting lightly on his sleeve, they navigated the silk and velvet-bedecked crowd ascending the marble stairway to the grand covered entryway of the mansion.
Philip swiftly assessed his surroundings, the dancing flames of a hundred Venetian crystal chandeliers, the expanses of pink-veined marble, and the gilt-framed mirrors adorning richly colored, silk-papered walls. He eventually lit upon the hostess of the evening, the powdered and patched queen of her domain, Lady Mordington, who stood in her grand entry greeting each of her guests as they arrived.
She flicked him a curious glance and then raised a brow upon recognition of his companion. She moved toward them in a rustle of silk.
“My dear, dear Lady Messingham! What a delight to see you have sacrificed your period of mourning to join us,” the dowager gushed.
“Old cat!” she hissed in Philip's ear before returning the greeting with an air buss to a papery, rouged, and cerused cheek.
“I am indeed back about in society, Lady Mordington, and your assembly has received such encomiums.”
“You are all too kind, my dear. Lady Casellis and I do our poor best to provide worthy entertainment,” she answered with false modesty and then looked greedily at Philip. “Now I must know. Who is your
delicious
young escort?”
Philip suppressed a shudder of revulsion, thinking her look conveyed that she really would like to taste him.
“Baroness, I present to you the Honorable Philip Drake.”
Philip bowed over his hostess's extended hand. “Baroness.”
“So you are Hastings's disreputable scamp?” The old baroness cackled with a flirtatious tap of her fan. “How delightful to have both father and son under my humble roof!”
“The honor is all mine,” Philip replied, stifling a grimace at the mention of his father.
“Of course you will wish to pay your respects to Lord Hastings at once. He was last seen playing at piquet, I believe. Shall I have a footman conduct you to him?”
“You needn't trouble yourself, madam, when you have so many new arrivals. I am sure we can manage to navigate the rooms without assistance. My lady?”
He inclined his head to Lady Susannah, clearly indicating his desire to move on. Taking his cue, she curtsied to the baroness and took hold of his sleeve.
“Ah, Your Grace,” Lady Mordington gushed to the Duke of Grafton, having now moved on to her more important guests.
“How long has it been?” Sukey asked as they began a slow perambulation.
“How long has what been?” He smiled benignly as he began tracking the room.
“Since you've spoken with your father?”
“Not as long as I would wish,” he replied vaguely.
“Have you no hope of reconciliation?” she asked.
“Not the slightest,” he said with disinterest and nodded acknowledgement to George Selwyn who was looking pathetically doleful, anchored to his mother's side across the room.
“But there is always hope, child.”
“You have no idea of what you speak,” Philip snapped, more irked by her continued condescending address than by the topic of discussion. He thought she would have desisted by now. After all, he'd proven himself no naïve schoolboy. If he had her alone for a moment, he would certainly remind her. The very thought of taking her against a wall somewhere seemed to mollify his irritable temper.
“Then tell me of it,” she persisted. “We've known each other for weeks. My secrets are revealed, yet you've disclosed so little in turn. Surely if you really desired, the earl would forgive your youthful misdeeds. You are, after all, his son.”
“But not his heir.”
“But his flesh and blood. Blood is blood, as they say.”
“I would rather not speak of my family, if you don't mind.”
Blood
indeed.
Absently, Philip's thumb turned the ring on his little finger, as had become his habit, recalling the initial shock in learning of his own tainted blood, but was abruptly recalled to his surroundings when
still she persisted.
“Since the earl is present, you might at least pay your respects, Philip. Your father is a wealthy man, is he not? Your unhappiness and your troubles might end just like that.” She snapped. “If you would only make amends⦔
“Devil take you, Sukey!” he growled. “I don't need his money and won't submit to that black-hearted bastard even for you! Now, may we please turn the subject?”
She stared at him at the slight, and then answered back, “Why, certainly we may! Since you are so ill-tempered and overcome by brooding, I'll do one better and relieve you of the burden of my company.” She abruptly released his arm.
“Where do you think you're going?”
“Why, to seek out more scintillating conversation.”
“Then if that is your wish,
my
lady
, I suggest you restrict
your
conversation
to the dowagers playing in the blue salon. Do not take it into your head to engage in any play in the gold room.”
“And why ever should I not?”
“Because you'll be bloody well in too deep if you do!”
She responded with a pointed glare. “You have no right to direct me at all, Philip. I am my own woman, free to do as I please. That includes choosing my own diversions⦠as well as my own companions.”
With that parting remark, she broke away, exclaiming, “Ah, there is Prince Frederick's party!”
Affecting a winsome smile, she tripped purposefully toward the royal entourage, making her obeisance and gushing, “My Lady Baltimore, how lovely is your gown! You must tell me, who is your mantua maker? And Jane dear, how do you fare?”
Pretending not to notice her, Lady Hamilton turned away in an undisguised snub. Lady Messingham's face fell in dismay, but she soon had to contend with the prince who appeared by her side. “Don't mind her,
liebling
, I believe her to be jealous of your superior charms.” In speaking, his eyes never rose above the exposed portions of her breasts.
She wished heartily she had not eschewed her lace fichu.
“My dear, it has been too long since our last meeting, for which I still owe you my most humble apologies⦔
“There is no need, Your Highness.” She managed to greet the Prince of Wales with her most dazzling smile posed with gritted teeth, all while slanting a sidelong glance at Philip. She offered the prince her hand, “I would be a shrew indeed if I took lasting offense to such a triviality. The best of men surely suffer an occasional lapse under the influence of wine.”
“Oh, but you are a gracious angel, my lady. Others would not be so generous of spirit. Now I pray you will accompany us to the gold room. I hear they play at basset.”
“I would be delighted to join you
in
the
gold
room
, Your Highness⦔ She looked over her shoulder with triumph, hoping she had spoken clearly enough for Philip's ears, but he was already engaged in conversation with George. Drat him.
The moment he looked up, she laughed merrily at something the prince said and with this bit of satisfaction, they moved out of Philip's earshot.
***
Knowing she had played that hand purely to spite him and inspire jealousy, Philip refused to pursue her, shrugging the matter off in favor of seeking his fortune at hazard.
George Selwyn had by now broken away from his mother's side to join him. He nodded in the direction of the gold room. “Basset's the word tonight, Drake, and they're playing dangerously deep.”
“Basset? They outlawed the game in France, you know, after it threatened to beggar half the princes of the blood. Now it will beggar our nobility instead.”
“But the odds are more in favor of the punter than many other games,” George protested. “Name me any other game where one can win over sixty times his stakes in one sitting?”
“Name
me
anyone who ever has,” Philip rejoined.
“Well, it's not beyond the realm of possibility,” George protested.
“No, just probability,” Philip replied cynically. “The chances of the punters winning are truly no better than winning the national lottery, yet the fever takes these dupes with the contagion of the pox.” Philip indicated the crowds pressing into the next room.
“Then you would deem it another French pox?” George laughed.
“Nay, at least the French pox can be eradicated with mercury pills. For basset there is no known cure but ruin, and then it comes too late.”
“Such opprobrium from a seasoned gamester?”
“I speak no hypocrisy, George. I simply choose to lay my money where my chances are, let us say, subject to more favorable conditions. The odds might improve with a fair deal, of course, but I daresay an honest
tallière
doesn't exist. Who holds the bank tonight anyway?”
“The Marquess of Weston,” George replied.
“Weston?” Philip frowned at the vaguely familiar name. “Do you know him?”
“Only by repute,” answered George. “He's recently returned from extended Continental travels. It's rumored he was sent out of the country by his family years ago after affecting some scandal. I daresay it's true, as he's garnered quite a reputation for gaming, dueling, and debauching other men's wives,
not
necessarily
in
that
order.
As the accursed Fates would have it, such a rogue has now claimed a title and family fortune to boot.”