Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (17 page)

"You said I passed easily as a boy at the masquerade."

"A costume ball is one thing. People think nothing of a female in breeches. But this ain't a masquerade, Rosie. If we're caught, I'll be a laughingstock."

"No, you won't. You may simply say that your notorious sister is touched in the upper works and you wash your hands of her. Besides, why should men have all the fun? You have mills and clubs and cock fights—though I don't believe I should enjoy watching chickens tear each other to pieces—and gaming hells and who knows what all. I have promised myself I would sample all that London has to offer, even if I have to disguise myself as a man to do it. How do I look?"

Thomas eyed her up and down, then walked around her in a slow circle. She was wearing a pair of his own breeches that fit snuggly at the waist and hips but were a shade too long, along with a shirt, waistcoat, and jacket borrowed from a friend closer to her size. Thomas admitted he'd been honest enough to tell the young man that his sister needed them, but had implied it was for a masquerade, not a disguise.

"You'll do," he said at last. "But let's keep to the shadows. And don't forget our cover."

"I am Ross Lacey, your sixteen-year-old cousin fresh from the country." Yet another role to play.

"Just so. Lord, I hope you ain't discovered, Rosie. Father will skin me alive if he finds out."

She was not, however, discovered.

Their first stop was a sparring match at the Fives Court. It had been a battle to get Thomas to agree to bring her, apparently thinking her delicate sensibilities would be affronted by the sight of men naked to the waist, sweating and grunting and pummeling one another. When she announced her intention to go without him, he relented.

Sparring was not as good as a real mill with a purse, Thomas told her, but often tolerably good sport. The Westminster Fives Court was a cavernous building packed shoulder to shoulder with men of all ranks of society. Near the center was a raised square platform, like a stage, with ropes stretched all around it. The din was deafening as two combatants were cheered on by the mob.

Rosie was at first glance slightly sickened by the sight of blood streaming down the face of one of the men, but the bout soon ended with both men seeming to be in fit shape. A second bout began soon after.

The two men, bare-chested and well-muscled, approached the center of the ring and shook hands. Facing each other, they stood with one foot forward, knees bent, gloved fists held at chin level, then began to parry blows. Thomas tried to explain the rules and the science of the ring, but the noise was too loud for Rosie to hear all he said.

She was soon, however, caught up in the excitement, cheering on her brother's favorite, wincing now and then at a particularly fierce blow, and sending up a whoop when the favorite bested his opponent.

Some of Thomas's friends invited him to join them at the Daffy Club, and Rosie cajoled him into taking her along. She was pleased to note that none of the young men suspected her true identity. As a young boy, she was ignored for the most part, barely tolerated as an encumbrance by Thomas's friends.

The Castle Tavern was a gathering place for the Fancy, connoisseurs of pugilism. The long room in the back, known as the Daffy Club, was fitted up with several tables set together to form one long table. The walls were lined with framed sporting prints and illuminated by gas lights. The table was crowded with men, primarily Dandies and Corinthians, though Thomas pointed out a few famous prize-fighters, old standers including the great Belcher himself, who received the homage of their admirers.

Rosie was unable to follow most of the conversations going on around her. They spoke of doublers, digs, and choppers, of claret jugs, nobs, and mufflers, of corner coves and Broughtonians. She had no idea what they were talking about.

Before long, a tankard was placed in front of her. Taking an experimental sip, Rosie discovered it to be gin and was sent into a fit of coughing. She felt a tug on her arm and found Thomas, cocking his head toward the door.

"Come along, cousin. You're too young for gin. My uncle will have my head if I get you tanked up on Hollands."

Rosie had no objection to leaving. She found nothing particularly entertaining about a bunch of loud, disorderly gentlemen, foxed to their eyeballs, yammering on about this bout or that race. No wonder women never made a push for entry into these male bastions. They were deadly dull.

"Dammit, Rosie, I'm taking you home. The Fives Court was enough. I ain't taking you anyplace else."

"No, Tommy! Please. We haven't been to a gaming hell yet." At least she could depend upon entertainment at a hell. Rosie was very good at cards.

"Oh, Lord." Thomas grabbed his head and groaned. "I swear, you are going to owe me for this. Where the devil am I supposed to take you? Can't get you into Whites. We'll have to go to Jermyn Street. Know of a little establishment there that ain't too rough."

They took a hackney to the club, a nondescript building in an alley off Jermyn Street. Inside, it was crowded, though much quieter than the Daffy Club. The only sounds seemed to be the slapping of cards on a table, the rattle of dice in a cup, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional murmur of the players. Games of faro and hazard and macao were taking place at tables scattered about the room. Men stood behind the chairs, watching the play and drinking wine or coffee. Waiters quietly meandered about the room, delivering drinks on silver trays. It all seemed very sedate and very serious.

"Whatever you do," Thomas whispered, "don't sit down at a table. You'll be marked for a pigeon and plucked before you can blink an eye. It's deep play, Rosie. Don't even think of getting into a game. Just watch. Nothing more."

Thomas found a couple of friends and stood with them at a faro table running at high stakes. Rosie wandered about from table to table, finally making her way to one that had gathered the largest group of spectators. It was a hazard table. The player was apparently on a winning streak, causing soft gasps from the spectators with every throw of the dice.

Rosie nudged her way closer, and was startled to find the player was Max. Her gasp of surprise matched those of the spectators as he won again, and more chits were added to his side of the table.

"Good Lord, it's Davenant." Her brother's voice came as a mere whisper in her ear. "He is accounted one of the best hazard players in town."

"How does he win?" she whispered. "I don't understand the game."

Thomas quietly gave her the bare details of hazard. She watched in quiet awe as Max won time after time, never once throwing out. His concentration was fierce, eyes sharp beneath the sleepy lids. Though it was a game of chance, Thomas explained that a really good player could master the odds, and Max seemed to have done so.

When Max, who played standing, had amassed a considerable stack of winnings, he stepped back and called for a glass of wine. His glance swept over the group of spectators, passed over Rosie, then jerked back to stare at her. He arched a brow. Rosie, trying to look masculine, nodded an acknowledgment. Max took the glass of wine offered by a waiter and downed it in two swallows. He signaled that his winnings should be collected and cashed in, then made his way toward Rosie and Thomas.

"Mr. Thomas Lacey, I believe," he said, addressing her brother.

Thomas fidgeted awkwardly and said, "Yes, I am Lacey."

Turning toward Rosie, Max said, "And this must be..."

"Er ... this is my cousin, Ross Lacey."

"Ross, is it? How delightful to make your acquaintance, young man."

Rosie was hard pressed not to dissolve into giggles. Max seemed to sense her dilemma and steered her and Thomas toward an unoccupied corner of the room.

"I don't suppose this is your idea, Lacey?" he said in a low whisper.

"Lord, no!"

"I thought not. Rosalind—that is, Ross—you are an incorrigible minx. Has she always been so uncontrollable, Lacey?"

"Actually, no. Don't know what's got into her."

"Dare I ask what brings you here?"

"I wanted to see a gaming hell," Rosie said. "You know how I love cards. I thought it would be fun to see how men play when women aren't around."

"And what have you discovered?"

"That men have lots more money with which to gamble. Or at least they have control of more money. I suspect some of these gentlemen are losing their wives' dowries and their children's futures."

"That may be so. However, I was not losing, as you may have noticed. Nor was I beggaring some poor sap. I play against the bank."

"I wish I knew how you do it, Davenant," Thomas said. "The dice never seem to fail you."

"Oh, but they do," Max said, "from time to time. Tonight, though, they have been good to me."

"Max," Rosie said, "you will never believe all I have done this evening."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, it has been great fun! First we—"

"Lacey! Lacey!" Thomas's friend, who'd been introduced earlier that evening as Jack Loring, came bounding up to him, then practically screeched to a halt when he saw Max. "Oh, I say. Davenant, isn't it? Didn't know you were a friend of Lacey's. Name's Loring. Honored to meet such a prime gamester. Heard you had quite a streak tonight. Bit of luck, what?"

Several more minutes of fawning appreciation followed. The young man was obviously in awe of Max, not only for his skill at the tables, but for his particular mode of dress. Rosie had learned early on that Max was not only exceedingly attractive to women, but was very much admired by other gentlemen as well. He was always beautifully dressed, precise to a pin. When asked by Mr. Loring for advice on achieving the subtle but artistic folds of his neckcloth, Max replied that it was purely accidental. He'd caught Rosie's eye, and she rolled her gaze heavenward, for she knew he was bamming the young man. He'd probably spent hours perfecting his neckcloth.

It was some time before Mr. Loring recollected his errand. "I say, Lacey. Came to tell you. That little Covent Garden dancer you've been dangling after has been giving Challinor the fish eye all evening. Met him in the green room after the first act. Told me she was his for the taking, and he meant to take her tonight. Thought you should know. Might want to beat him to the punch."

Thomas blushed scarlet and dragged his friend out of earshot. Max chuckled. "Poor Thomas. No man wants his sister to know about such things. But then, you aren't like most sisters, are you?"

After a hushed conversation with his friend, Thomas returned. "I'm taking you home, Rosie. Said you'd owe me for tonight. Well, I'm calling in my vowels right now. You've had your fun. Now, let's go."

"Hold on, Lacey," Max said. "You'll never reach Covent Garden in time if you have to drive all the way back to Berkeley Square. Go on with Loring. I'll see your young cousin safely home."

Thomas looked back and forth between them, apparently weighing his brotherly obligations.

"Don't worry, Tommy. Max and I are old friends. You can trust him to take me back to Fanny's."

He cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but was distracted by Mr. Loring's urgent pleas to hurry. "All right," he said at last, and offered a hand to Max. "Thanks, Davenent. See that she gets home safely." He was out the door a moment later.

Chapter 11

"Well, my Ganymede," Max said, "let us be off."

She looked every bit as appealing as she had at the masquerade and he wanted to get her out of here before those long, shapely legs led him to make a public fool of himself.

"Oh, Max, can we not stay for a while longer? I would love to learn to play hazard, though I confess I haven't much money."

"I could not let you lose what little you have in such a place, my dear. It's a fast game, and the bank will have your poor blunt before it's out of your pocket."

"Can you not show me how it is played without the bank? Could I not simply play against you, with no stakes?"

Dammit all, she was tenacious as a terrier. "You are a stubborn minx, aren't you? Let me see if a private room is available."

Within a few moments, Max was leading her into a small room in the back, one of many used for private games with private stakes. A waiter carried in a steaming silver bowl and two goblets, then retired, pulling a heavy velvet drapery across the door.

The other patrons would no doubt think he'd found himself a plump young pigeon to pluck in private. Or worse. But if she insisted on staying, her disguise might be discovered, so it was best to keep her away from prying eyes. Of course, having her all to himself was no small advantage.

"We shall make a night of it, my little minx. Imaginary stakes and rum punch. It's a bit chilly for May. This brew should warm our bones."

"Rum punch? How marvelous! I've never tried it."

He poured her a glass and she sipped cautiously. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, then she took a long swallow. She closed her eyes and he could almost feel her savoring the sweetness of rum and the tang of lemon juice as it slid down her throat. Head thrown back, lips slightly parted in a blissful smile, she looked positively beatific. If he hadn't been afraid of someone interrupting them, he'd have kissed her then and there.