Authors: Emery Lee
Upon Lady Messingham's final fitting in the French sacque gown bedecked with sprays of silver stars, Madam Guilane had fondly called her “
la
Grande
Dame
de
Minuit
,” or the Lady of Midnight. Now that she had donned the completed ensemble, ordered especially for tonight's occasion, she confessed that it was ravishing.
When the coach arrived, she descended the staircase with regal satisfaction knowing she had never looked better, but when the footman opened the door of the emblazoned carriage, her ebullient smile froze.
“Your Highness? I was not anticipating⦠er⦠I understood Lord and Lady Hamilton were to escort me this evening.”
The prince assumed a wounded look that with his bulging eyes reminded her of nothing more than a Pug. “I am disconsolate, indeed cut to the quick, with your seeming dismay at my humble escort,” he said.
Overcoming her distaste, she quickly recovered. “But Your Highness, I am only overset by the unexpected honor.”
“Lady Messingham.” He inclined his head with a smug smile. “May I avail myself of your Christian name?” He proceeded to do so without awaiting her consent. “My dear Susannah, why do you not enter the carriage, where I assure you all will be made clear.”
Laying aside both reservations and jangled nerves, she stepped inside. Although the prince moved to make room for her, she assumed the opposing seat.
“Come now, my tear.” The prince's occasional lapses in pronunciation betrayed his Germanic origins. “I do not bite; vell,” he chuckled, “perhaps I take a nibble now and again, but only when tempted by a dish so delectable I cannot resist.” The lascivious gleam in his bug-like eyes revealed precisely those intentions.
She responded nervously, hopefully. “Is the Princess Augusta to join us? Or the Hamiltons? I was under the impression⦔
His lips curved in false regret. “Sadly, Lord Archibald had some business at the Admiralty that keeps him well into the night, and the princess is abed with a megrim that I assured her only her Lady of the Bedchamber could soothe. Thus it is just the two of us until we arrive.”
She shifted nervously in her seat, her anticipation of the evening already blighted by the prospect of spending an entire night fending off his advances. After all, he had just made it abundantly clear that this entire solo outing was his contrivance. His mistress was keeping company with his wife, at his behest, and Lord Archibald, to whom she might have turned for aid, was occupied as well.
The prince chidingly patted the cushioned space at his side. “Now, my tear, would you not be more comfortable by my side? It is cold in de carriage, is it not?”
She forced her lips to curve into a semblance of a smile. “You are all consideration, Your Highness, but I am quite comfortable.”
“Ah, but it is precisely
your
comfort
that I wish to discuss. Your circumstances, they greatly concern me.” His voice oozed false sympathy. “Such a beautiful woman.” His eyes swept her with unveiled appreciation. “With no husband. No protection. Moreover, no money. You haf debts, my lady.” He awaited her reaction, not displeased to see her eyes widen in trepidation.
Only the artificially enhanced pallor of her cheeks disguised the draining color.
How
did
he
know? Did the whole world know that she was dipped in debt?
He raised a hand to silence her forthcoming protest. “There is no denying it,
liebling
, but I am moved by compassion to help you. I can arrange to pay your debts, quietly, through your man of business. Allendale, is it not?”
“Who told you? Jane!” she realized belatedly. “But why?”
“She was seeking my advice on a match for you. But now I make no secret of my own admiration, my pretty vidow, and I am a generous man.” His lips curled meaningfully. “In many ways. My mistresses, they are well satisfied.”
His double entendre was not lost on her. Although he boasted of his manhood, rumor held him to be an unimaginative and clumsy lover. She turned away, parting the curtain and gazing out the window as if thoughtfully deliberating the offer. If not for the desperation of her circumstances, she might have laughed.
Lady Hamilton's favors to the prince had merited her positions in the Royal Household amounting to an astounding income of nine hundred pounds per annum, as well as an offer to her husband as Lord of the Admiralty. Although a similar position in the royal household would be the end to her own problems, she could not debase herself to such a private whoredom, even to a prince. Other women would be tempted to close their eyes and endure his attentions for far less, but she was not among them.
She shuddered at the thought of another loveless, passionless coupling, remembering poor Nigel's breathless rutting before the gout had left him completely impotent. Although she'd endured it for his sake, she'd never become insensate to the distastefulness of the act.
Nevertheless, she could not afford to fall afoul of a prince. Given her dire circumstances, the heir to a throne might one day be a useful ally. She posed her response carefully to avoid hubristic injury. After all, what man with a prince's pride would mind the challenge of a rival?
“I am flattered by your interest, Your Highness, but you see⦠I have already taken a lover.”
***
Belsize House, with its extensive park, wilderness, and garden, was once a grande dame of Elizabethan mansions, until a Welshman named Howell had purchased the private residence to transform it into a place of public amusement. In its heyday, the house was used for many a gala affair, attended by all persons of rank, with music and dancing into the wee hours, but unbeknownst to Lady Messingham it was now a mere shadow of its former self, its reputation for low gaming and intrigues having become as degenerate as its habitués.
When Philip saw her, a vision in midnight blue surrounded by a coterie of admiring swains, she looked uncomfortable and out of place amongst the coarse revelers. She was devoid of a domino on this occasion, Philip remarked, with only a filmy veil obscuring the upper half of her face. Nevertheless, even in costume, the tilt of her head, the rich chestnut of her unpowdered hair, and the lush curves of her silhouette in the form-fitting confection gave her away. Her presence also proved his earlier efforts at dissuasion had all been in vain.
She stood in the company of an openly roistering party from Leicester House, with the prince and his chief sycophant, Bubb Doddington, foremost among them. The few ladies within the mix comprising the company of gamesters might not have been called ladies at all if not for their lofty titles or dubious attachment to a man of rank.
“What the hell is
she
doing here?”
“Who?” George asked.
“The Lady Messingham, damn her.”
She was fixated on the spinning E-O wheel, an object of universal fascination invented by a Frenchman in an endeavor to create a perpetual motion machine, as if determined to unravel its secrets.
Within the wheel itself were forty pockets, twenty labeled E for even and twenty labeled O for odd, and two unlabeled pockets designated for the bank. The table itself was marked all around with the two letters, offering spaces for each adventurer to place his wager before a ball set in motion around the gallery of the wheel commenced the play.
It was a simple enough game, giving the punter twenty out of forty-two chances of winning, but while others drank, laughed, and carelessly threw out their coins, Lady Messingham's expression revealed her ill luck.
Serves
her
bloody
well
right
for
dismissing
his
warnings.
“What should you care, Drake? She lacks not for company, surrounded by swains, and by the look of it, the prince himself fawns over her. Seems you've developed quite an unhealthy interest in the widow Messingham.”
At first, Philip intended to leave her to her own devices, but while she contrived to humor her companions' drink-inspired vulgar jests and
bon
mots
, her gaze shifted about the room as if seeking escape. Philip once more remarked the prurient looks of the prince and something vastly unpleasant churned in his gut. He unconsciously moved toward her.
“Leave her be, Drake, she's trouble,” George advised, not for the first time. “There's faro and hazard to better occupy your time.”
Unlike those paying particular court to the prince, who appeared quite bedeviled by drink, Philip found his head still remarkably clear. He turned back to George. “Go on without me, Bosky. I've another game in mind.”
***
In addition to his lavish and impulsive spending, Prince Frederick was best distinguished among the royal family for his preference for low company. Yet, among his numerous so-called friends, the Prince of Wales had as many enemies, as nobody was too great or too good for him to betray.
Lady Susannah's brief time in his escort lent truth to what even his own family said of him: that he was singularly loutish and insincere. When he aimed to be merry, the manner of Frederick's mirth was to genuine cheer what wet wood is to fire, damping the flame it is meant to feed. The prince desired without love, could laugh without pleasure, and weep without true grief, for which Susannah knew even his mistresses were not truly fond of him.
For what regard was it possible to have for a man who had no truth in his words, no justice in his inclinations, no integrity in his commerce, no sincerity in his professions, no stability in his attachments, no sense in his conversation, no dignity in his behavior, and no judgment in his conduct?
Nevertheless, this man, whom so many despised, was surrounded by parasites who anticipated the day he would wear the crown.
Trapped in this company of drunkards and louts, Lady Messingham wore a doleful expression that transformed the moment she remarked Philip's familiar swagger. She made little effort to disguise her gratitude at his approach.
“Your Highness.” Philip swept a courtly bow to acknowledge the prince before extending his hand to the lady. “I have come to claim a partner, for there is dancing in the next chamber. Madam, would you do me the inestimable honor?”
The inebriated prince turned to Bubb Doddington. “Who is this jackanapes who would poach on royal preserves? Is there not a penalty for such a trespass?”
“Hmm⦔ Doddington replied thoughtfully. “The Game Law may apply. It clearly states any creature to which no man can claim ownership belongs by prerogative to the crown. Would not this same law then also apply to widows?” He observed the prince and knew the moment his mind grasped the nuance.
The prince stared and then erupted in drunken laughter. “A brilliant interpretation of the law, my good Doddington! Remind me to consider you as my lord high chancellor.”
Lady Messingham's cheeks now flamed in affront.
Philip rose to her defense. “Surely Your Highness does not mean to classify the lady with the beasts of the field?”
Philip's rebuke caused the prince to regret at once his ill-chosen words. He reached for Susannah's hand with a suitably contrite expression. “My dear lady, 'twas all but a poor effort at jest and meant only to repel this interloper.” He eyed Philip with haughty contempt.
She slanted a meaningful look to encompass the prince and his sycophant before taking Philip's proffered arm. “A very mean effort indeed, expressed at my expense,” she answered and turned to Philip. “Come, sir, let us go and walk the minuet. I am thankful to escape such boorish company.” With this retort, Lady Messingham tripped away, leaving the royal heir gaping after her.
“Just who is that contemptuous, poaching whoreson?” the prince asked.
“Hastings's stripling, I believe.”
“Hastings? The Jacobite?” The prince's lips twisted on his words.
“By conjecture only, Your Highness. He was acquitted after the '15.”
“You are an invaluable asset, Doddington.”
Having provided the heir to the throne with countless thousands in loans, never repaid, Doddington knew the remark to be true as literally as it was figuratively.
Rather than escorting her to the ballroom as she'd expected, Philip steered Lady Messingham toward the French doors leading outside.
“I thought we were dancing.”
“Dancing is the least of my talents,” he replied, propelling her onto the open terrace. “You looked in need of rescue and 'twas the best excuse I could muster.”
“It's lovely out here.” She inhaled deeply of the cool night air, taking in the cascading fountain that shimmered in moonlight enhanced by a hundred lit torches.
Oblivious to his surrounds, and in no mood for pleasantries, Philip demanded, “What are you doing here? Didn't I warn you about the company of places like this? Its habitués are nothing more than rogues and harlots.”
His harsh words transformed her warm smile of gratitude into ice. “Think what you will, but the particular company I keep is only the highest. I was with the Prince of Wales, for goodness' sake! Moreover, what right have you to demand an account of my actions? I am free to do as I wish. And with whomever I please.”
“Indeed, and you looked none too pleased with the choice you had made only a moment ago,” Philip replied testily. “Their conduct leaves much to be desired. Prince or not, the man is a vulgar buffoon, and his preferred companions can only claim gentility by virtue of rank. You despise the lot of them as much as I do. God save us if Freddie ever does obtain the crown.”
Acknowledging the truth of his claim, she dropped her defense. “I am thankful for the rescue, Philip. I admit their decorum diminished markedly with every bottle passed and every glass poured. I was, in truth, glad of escape.”
Lady Messingham regarded Philip as if puzzling out a great enigma. He, who so convincingly affected the manner of a reckless ne'er-do-well, was surprisingly sober. Moreover, Philip had incurred a prince's displeasure in her defense. Even in his pique, she felt strangely protected rather than threatened by him.
“Why are you here, when I expressly advised you against it?” he asked.
Her mind worked to compose a plausible answer that was not an outright lie. “For the play,” she blurted with a slight flush. “I came for the play.”
“This is no place for a lady. I'll call for your carriage.”
“I did not come in my own,” she said.
“I see.” He directed a scathing glance toward the ballroom.
“It's not what you think.”
“That you encourage him one moment, and repel him the next? I believe I understand only too well.” He laughed mirthlessly, wondering if she'd only acted the damsel in distress to inspire Frederick's jealousy, using Philip as part of an intricate ploy to fix the prince's interest. Then again, hadn't she emphatically repulsed Frederick when she practically had the heir to the throne at her feet?
Her rising color said that his biting words had indeed left their mark. “Do not make presumptions. He manipulated me, Philip. I had not intended to come here with him.”
“You don't belong here. Especially with
him
.”
“There's the question,” she remarked almost rhetorically. “I don't seem to know where I belong.”
He studied the angles of her face, shadowed by moonlight. “At this moment?” His voice was low and husky in her ear. “I'd say with me.”
“Is your conceit boundless?” She tilted her face and discovered their lips only inches apart.
“You deny you want me?”
She opened her mouth to do exactly that, and then closed it with a perplexed frown. His lips twitched smugly. “We've both known it since that night in the carriage. I dare you to refute me.”
She couldn't, in all honesty. Something pulled deeply within, tempting her to explore it, to learn precisely what lay between them. Giving in to the urge, she leaned into him with parted lips.
Philip didn't hesitate. He claimed her mouth in a ravaging kiss that clearly bespoke his desire. She answered back instinctively, with an involuntary moan, but the sound of her own pleasure seemed to stir her back to her senses. She broke away with a gasp, regarding him with a look of mixed guilt and bewilderment. “
That
was a mistake,” she said.
Philip stifled a curse and raked his hair with a groan of frustration. In that fleeting kiss he had felt her reciprocal desire. There was nothing ambivalent about it, but in the same breath she kissed him, she once more rejected him.
“I'll call you a hackney,” he said tersely.
“But I don't wish to leave.”
“Are you already so infected with the fever?” he asked, his black eyes deeply probing.
“It's complicated,” she said.
“Complicated? Are you saying you are in want of money?”
“It's uncivil to ask such a thing.”
“You didn't answer me.” He pressed. “Is that why you're here?”
“If you insist on knowing, I had indeed hoped to win a few pounds. I have several new gowns on order and have shamefully overspent my allowance.” She laughed lightly, as if embarrassed to have revealed such a triviality.
“How much?” he asked and reached for his purse.
“Wh-what?”
“How much do you need? I will make you a loan.”
“I don't need your money. Pray put away your purse. God knows what will be said, if anyone sees you hand me money!”
“I only meant to keep you from the tables. They are a dangerous place.”
“But not nearly so dangerous with you to guide me. Please, Philip,” she cajoled, “accompany me to the tables.”
He conceded with a scowl of displeasure. “If there is no dissuading you, it appears I have little choice.”
***
After their brief interlude on the terrace, Philip and Lady Messingham returned inside to the clattering dice, whirring wheels, press of bodies, and peals of bawdy laughter. As they navigated the rooms, Philip positioned himself deliberately to shelter her from the undesirables, but her attention was only for the tables.
As he guided her, Philip explained the basics of the games, warning her in particular against basset and faro.
“Why?” she asked.
“These are most dangerous and ruinous games, frequented by only the deepest and most unscrupulous players.”
“The Greeks of whom you spoke?”
“Ah! My prior admonitions did not fall on completely deaf ears. You just
chose
to ignore me.”
She refused to take the bait. “I wished to play, but I had deplorable luck at the E-O table earlier.”
“That comes as no surprise. E-O requires no skill and is little better than a lottery, and the payoff, even when one wins, is negligible.”
“Then what should I play? I am determined not to depart with an empty purse.”
“Every gamester's most famous last words,” he chuckled.
They had approached a table where the banker was in the process of dealing out a single card to each of four players who, in turn, examined his card and placed a wager in front of it.
“What is this solemn game?” They stopped to observe the play. “Does the punter place his stake on just one card?”
“Not quite, my lady. The game is called
vingt-et-un
. Although there is considerable luck involved, it also requires a certain skill.”
“Indeed? Will you teach me?”
His nod directed her toward the table, where he silently encouraged her to observe the play.
The dealer looked at his own card without placing a stake and then dealt a second card to each player again, and finally back to himself.
He then turned to the first player on the left. “
Carte?
”
The gentleman frowned in irresolution but then replied, “
Content
.”
The dealer proceeded to the next player who nodded.
“Carte
.”
The card, a deuce, was dealt face upwards.
“
Encore
,” spoke the player, and a nine appeared. “
Crevé
,” said the punter with a grimace, throwing his remaining cards face down in the middle of the table. The croupier swiftly swept the wager to the bank.
“Crevé?
” she looked to Philip for explanation.
“Crevé
,” Philip translated, “is burst. The object of the game is to achieve a perfect
vingt-et-un,
or twenty-one, without going over. The player erred by anticipating a low card but overdrew and broke.”
The game proceeded with the next two players holding with the cards dealt them.
“At this point the dealer will reveal his own hand and may hold or draw as he sees fit.”
“I see. It appears a simple enough game.”
“There is a certain strategy,” Philip explained. “The banker will generally draw if he holds anything below sixteen, but in this case three players have failed to draw additional cards, leading one to surmise that each holds at least sixteen. This could motivate the dealer to play more aggressively.”
The dealer tuned over his own pair of nines.
“Eighteen,” she said. “The dealer will stand?”
“He must. Any sensible man would,” Philip said as the remaining players each showed their hands, revealing twenty, seventeen, and eighteen respectively.
“Twenty wins, seventeen loses, and eighteen loses,” Philip said.
“But the last is a tie,” she exclaimed.
“Ties go to the dealer. There is nary a game that doesn't present some advantages to the house,” he said. “But there are ways a savvy player may overcome his disadvantage and even increase his odds to win.”
Her eyes took on an excited gleam. “How, Philip?”
“By close observation of the cards played and the number of additional cards dealt, one may deduce if there is yet a high percentage of ten-cards and aces in the remaining deck, which can be good for the player and bad for the dealer.”
“How can you tell?”
“The key is to look for extremes in play. A player with a ten-card or ace will generally take a second card and forego a third. Thus, when a number of players stand on their dealt hand, it is a disadvantage to increase your wager. However, when there is a noticeable dearth of high value cards, the advantage is for the player to increase the wager. While this is no guarantee, it is playing to your best possible advantage.”
***
They spend the remainder of the night at
vingt-et-un.
With Philip a constant presence at her side, she quickly learned the strategies of the game, how to split pairs, when to receive a card, and when to rest. His hawk-like stare took in every movement, every card, and every nuance of the dealer's expression. With his subtle cues, she doubled her wagers when the odds best favored her, and began to win.
She had come with a purse of fifty pounds, and having lost more than half at the E-O wheel, sat down to the cards with only twenty. After two hours of play, her accumulated winnings now neared seventy-five pounds. Bound to leave with one hundred in her purse, she would have stayed until the table closed had not Philip intervened.
“You've lost the last three hands, my lady.”
“When I next double down, I shall win it all back.”
“You've grown overconfident. Recklessness follows, and ruin inevitably ensues. It is time to leave the table.”
“But everyone loses a hand or two. My luck will surely come back around.”
“Luck, my lady, tires just as surely as the player. It is time to quit.”
“Surely. Right after this game.” She signaled the dealer, but Philip stayed his hand.
“The lady no longer plays.”
“What do you think you're doing?” she hissed, as he forcibly lifted her from the chair.
“Protecting you from yourself.”
She glared. “Perhaps I only require protection from you!”
Philip replied with a low, ironic chuckle, “That may prove truer than you know.”
***
She was infuriated when Philip had curtailed her play by manhandling her at the gaming tables, and outraged when he bundled her unceremoniously into a hackney, but with the light of day came the remorseful acknowledgement that he had indeed protected her from her own uncontrolled impulses. Had he not intervened, she might well have continued losing.
As it stood, she'd departed Belsize House with seventy-five pounds in her pocket, half again what she had brought with her, but unfortunately not enough. At least it was sufficient to pay her servants' back wages, and more important, the evening had proven that her plan was not as outlandish as Jane had implied.
If she could win twenty-five pounds in a single night with minimal tutelage, how much more might she gain if Philip were to take her truly under his wing?
Although he had preached a very pretty sermon about the evils of the tables, she remained undeterred. On the contrary, she was more convinced that she could soon come about, if he would only cooperate. The wrinkle, to her growing consternation, was that Philip was not so easily led.