Nigel stepped aside to avoid a perambulating parson. “Maybe you should try telling
her
that.”
“Maybe you should not bother yourself further in my business!” snapped the duke. “You and Lady Syb and Magda and Gus and Sir Charles may take yourselves to perdition and leave Elizabeth and me alone.”
“You forgot Melchers and Birdie and the kitten,” Nigel supplied helpfully. “And you are providing far too much entertainment for us to go anywhere. We await the final act in your little melodrama. I’m sure you won’t disappoint us.” His eyes widened. “Oho. It must surely be against the rules to introduce another character so late in the play.” The duke turned to see what had caused his friend to stare.
Among the traffic on Pulteney Bridge was a carriage painted canary yellow and trimmed with green and red. Justin knew that carriage as well as he knew the niceish hacks which pulled the vehicle. However, carriage and hacks and owner were all supposed to be safe in London and not clattering across the bridge to where he stood.
It was a coincidence, he told himself. The carriage maker had been so taken with the color scheme that he had chosen to duplicate it, in the teeth of all common sense.
Yes, and pigs could fly.
The carriage drew nigh, slowed, rolled to a halt. Through the window could be seen a beautiful, pouting face, with a straight little nose, plump lips, and hazel eyes. Careless auburn curls tumbled from beneath a bonnet bedecked with pleated ribbons and bows. The lady was in the highest kick of fashion, as Justin well knew, since he had also paid for her wardrobe. “By all that’s holy!” marveled Nigel. “You’re about to out-rakehell Melchers, Saint.”
Skewer or strangle or mill his canister. Definitely the duke must deal emphatically with his oldest friend, who was so lacking in proper feeling as to laugh at him. But first he must deal with this latest development.
Nigel watched with bright-eyed interest as Justin walked toward the coach. A footman sprang down to open the door.
The carriage’s occupant wore a pale green pelisse with gold cord and gray fur trim, and carried a matching muff. She greeted the duke with every evidence of delight. “St. Clair! I know you must be glad to see me. Already you will have grown bored with your dreary little wife.”
Justin thought pensively that he might like to become bored. He had lost the wife he wanted, and found the mistress he didn’t want instead. Damned queer it was in him to not want Meloney, moreover. He had wanted her avidly a mere week ago.
His mistress would not take kindly to this change of sentiment. She was hot-tempered as well as beautiful, and not beyond making a public scene. Elizabeth would not like another woman abusing him in public. At least, she hoped she wouldn’t. Wherever she was.
Meloney waited. All the world watched. St. Clair climbed into the carriage he had provided for his mistress, and ordered the coachman to drive on.
Chapter 23
“Passions run amok will break all the bonds of human society and place, and make the world a wilderness of savages.”
—Lady Ratchett
“There!” said Daphne, as she pinned the last ringlet into place. “The duke will be struck with admiration, Your Grace.”
It wasn’t admiration Elizabeth felt as she gazed into the looking-glass. Her low lace-trimmed neckline revealed a shocking expanse of breast. Her pink petticoat showed through the sheer muslin gown.
She looked positively wanton. Mr. Melchers had assured her St. Clair would like it excessively if she looked that way. He had additionally assured her that if, while looking wanton, she asked St. Clair for kisses, her husband would oblige. Elizabeth didn’t know if she should trust Mr. Melchers. He had sounded amused.
He had also said St. Clair would be pleased to learn Elizabeth liked him a little. According to Mr. Melchers, a gentleman needed as much as a lady to know that he was admired.
She took a deep breath, and clutched at her bodice. Daphne tutted. Cautiously, Elizabeth lowered her hands. The gown remained safely attached to her shoulders. She exited her bedroom and descended the stair.
Madame de Chavannes was already in the drawing room, as were Lady Augusta, Birdie, and Minou. The ladies were engaged in animated discussion about how London might be defended if Napoleon led his armies to England, while kitten and parrot were engaged in a game of hide-and-seek. Gus was pointing out, with relish, the farcical conclusion of the last invasion attempt, which had ended at Fishguard in Wales, when Elizabeth walked into the room.
Augusta’s jaw dropped open. “Dear heaven! Why are you dressed like that?”
Magda’s décolletage
was no less scandalous, the cameo from which she was never parted hung around her neck. “Ignore her,
petite!
Gus is feeling jealous. I told her already that she should purchase one of those false bosoms made of wax.
Quel dommage!
Saint will be sorry he did not come home.”
St. Clair had not come home? Hopefully the duke would honor them with his presence before Elizabeth lost all her courage. She perched cautiously upon a chair.
“Ladies dressing and behaving like harlots must not be surprised if they are treated as harlots. Therefore, I do not desire a wax bosom.” Gus moved to the piano and began to play a country dance. Birdie bobbed about in time to the music. Minou raced in dizzy circles in pursuit of his own tail.
Came a sound at the door. St. Clair had come home! Elizabeth lounged back in her chair in an attempt at nonchalance. Her gown slipped off her shoulder. She yanked it back up.
Not St. Clair walked into the room, but Chislett, with a note on a silver tray. With a bow, he presented the tray to Magda. All eyes were on her as she unfolded the note and read it, folded up the paper and tucked it in her bodice.
“Eh bien.
I
must go out. No, you will not accompany me, Gus. Do not press me further, it is a private matter. Chislett, I require my cloak.” She swept out of the room.
No sooner did Madame pass from view than Augusta sprang to her feet and followed. “Where are you going?” Elizabeth asked.
Gus paused impatiently in the doorway. “After her, of course. I’ll wager anything you like Magda had that note sent to herself in an attempt to give us the slip.”
Elizabeth wasn’t entirely certain Lady Augusta hadn’t contrived this entire business to give
her
the slip. “I’m coming with you.”
There was no time to waste in argument. “Do as you will, but hurry,” Augusta replied, ungraciously.
Dusk had fallen when the ladies stepped outside. Even wrapped in a velvet evening cloak, Elizabeth was chilled. “There she is!” Augusta hissed. Keeping to the shadows, they followed Magda along the curve of the Royal Crescent to Brock Street, down the Gravel Walk, and entered Union Street to see her entering a stately brick structure. Gus swore softly. “Catterick’s.”
It looked little different from the other buildings on the street, this gaming hell where many a lordling and lady had learned the consequences of playing deep and hard. Again Elizabeth questioned Augusta’s motives. “Do you really suspect Magda of being an agent for the French?”
“I suspect Magda of nothing and everything,” Augusta said gloomily, as she inspected the building’s Palladian facade. “Saint told me that if ever I set foot in Catterick’s, he would cut off my allowance for a year.”
The air was damp and bitter. Elizabeth’s feet, in her evening slippers, were turning numb with cold. “Magda will not thank us for following her like this. We should go home.”
“Magda isn’t up to all the rigs, though she will not believe it. She has tumbled into trouble more than once.” Augusta drew her cloak more tightly around her. “We must go inside.”
Would St. Clair thank Elizabeth for keeping an eye on his cousin? Probably he would not. Nor was he likely to be delighted that his wife had entered a gaming hell. “Why must we go in?”
“Despite the fact that we agree on nothing,” Augusta said stiffly, “I would not want Magda to come to harm. It’s too cold to stand here gawking. Come along. I can’t enter that place alone.”
Elizabeth was fagged to death with worrying about St. Clair. She picked up her skirts and stepped into the street. “I haven’t seen any other indication that you care for your cousin’s opinion. Surely he would never cut off your allowance for an entire year!”
“I think I know Saint better than you do.” Augusta grasped Elizabeth’s arm as they approached the front door. “Anyway, it’s not because I fear my cousin that I need your company.”
Odd to see a beseeching expression on Augusta’s haughty features. Elizabeth trusted her no more in this conciliatory mood. “Oh?” she asked.
“If you must know, because I cannot trust myself! People play at games of chance in Catterick’s— Faro. Hazard. Vingt-et-un. I like play more than anything. I like play so much that I dream about it. And once I start to play, I do not stop until either the club closes or I haven’t a shilling left. It is called gambling fever, and once the spell is past, I wallow in self-loathing until the next opportunity presents itself, at which point I succumb to the lure of the tables yet again. If I show signs of succumbing tonight, you must remind me that Justin will cut off my allowance if I gamble. If that doesn’t serve, you must kick me, hard.”
Monstrous, to be in the grip of such compulsion. Elizabeth drew in a deep, cold breath. “Very well. We will go in, and you will assure yourself that Magda is in no danger, and then we will depart. And if you make one move toward the tables, I will leave you there and tell St. Clair he is to cut off your allowance for the rest of your life.” Probably this was not entirely what Mr. Melchers had in mind when he suggested Elizabeth show St. Clair some affection, but it was more practical than moping about the drawing room.
The door was opened by a burly individual who resembled less a butler than a pugilist. He gazed down his crooked nose at the ladies and lifted a scarred eyebrow. Elizabeth raised her own eyebrows and elevated her chin. “We are friends of Madame de Chavannes. I believe she has already arrived.”
The butler recognized a gentry mort when he saw one. Gentry morts had no business in such a place as this. However, it was no skin off his nose if the silly twits gambled away their garters. He stepped aside and allowed the women to enter, and bore away their cloaks.
A footman led the way up the staircase to a suite of rooms on the first floor. The establishment was furnished like a grand private home, with thick carpets and marble fireplaces, richly upholstered furnishings and comfortable chairs, green baize-covered tables and numerous potted palms.
One room was given over to deep basset, another to faro and E.O. In yet another, supper was being served. All the rooms were crowded with people engaged in every conceivable game of chance. Some of the more serious gamblers had turned their coats inside out for luck. Others wore eyeshades and leather guards around their cuffs. In this establishment, five or ten or fifteen thousand pounds might easily be lost in an evening’s play.
Augusta whimpered at sight of a faro table. Elizabeth took a firm grip on her arm. “No! Not even a rubber or two of piquet. I don’t see Magda. Where can she have gone? Maybe she realized we’d followed her, and slipped out a back door.”
Gus fought to ignore the temptations all around her. She moved toward the supper room, where chicken in mushroom and wine sauce was being served, along with an excellent claret and green peas; started to enter the room, then abruptly spun around and blocked the doorway. “Magda isn’t there, either. You’re right. We should leave now.”
Here was an abrupt about-face. Elizabeth tried to look beyond Augusta into the supper room. Gus moved also, to block her view. “Fiend seize it, Duchess!” said Conor Melchers, from behind her. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Melchers! You startled me.” Elizabeth turned, and Conor caught her arm. He and Augusta exchanged a glance. “Why
shouldn’t
I be here? What are the two of you trying to keep from me? If you do not remove yourself from that doorway, I will make you sorry, Gus!”
“It is nothing to signify!” Lady Augusta said quickly. Mr. Melchers added, “You must leave now, Duchess. I will explain another time.”
Elizabeth did not feel like leaving. She jerked away from Mr. Melchers, and kicked Augusta in the shin. Gus yelped and grasped her injured leg. Elizabeth stepped around her and entered the supper room.
Here, too, the appointments were lavish. Guests were dining off the finest china and glassware. The room was crowded with visitors pausing to refresh themselves before resuming their pursuit of Lady Luck.
Among those visitors was the Duke of Charnwood. An auburn-haired beauty clung possessively to his arm. The woman murmured; the duke smiled. He appeared to be on better terms with his auburn-haired companion than with his own wife.
The woman looked up, caught Elizabeth staring, stood on tiptoe to murmur into the duke’s ear. Justin glanced at the doorway. His expression, upon seeing Elizabeth standing there, wearing a gown so diaphanous that she might as well have been naked, and with Conor Melchers clutching her arm, was not indicative of admiration. He brushed off his companion and strode toward the door.
Mr. Melchers watched the duke approaching. “This is not the way I meant for you to get your husband’s attention, Duchess.”
Before Elizabeth could respond, St. Clair was upon them. Had he worn a sword-stick, the three people in the doorway would have been made into a human kabob. Lacking a sword-stick, he reached out and grasped his wife’s bodice, and yanked it up as far as it would go. “Melchers, I require a word with you. Augusta, you will escort Elizabeth home, at once. And if you dare say so much as one word to me, I will wring your blasted neck.”
Little conversation passed between the ladies during their journey, on which they were accompanied by a footman from Catterick’s, whose purpose was less to see that the ladies reached their destination unaccosted than to make sure that they reached the destination the duke had in mind, which was not the nether regions, where he might have fairly consigned them both, but his home in the Royal Crescent. Once safely in the drawing room, Lady Augusta rang for refreshment, as well as for burnt feathers and hartshorn. The women were alone, Birdie and Minou having already been taken off by little Katy to their beds. “I am so sorry,” Augusta said. “I didn’t know Meloney was in Bath.”