Regency Wagers (29 page)

Guy’s heart beat erratically. ‘Explain yourself, if you please.’

‘I did explain myself,’ said the Baron pleasantly. ‘I concocted that story about Emily’s inheritance in order to extend my credit. I was in Dun territory, my lad. What else would you have me do?’

Guy felt blood drain from his face.

‘The tale contained but a speck of truth,’ Duprey went on. ‘All the best tales do, you know. The girl did inherit. About one hundred pounds. I managed to get my fingers on half of it before she snatched it away. Never could find the rest and I looked for it, indeed I did. Everyone knew Lady Upford cocked up her toes, so could I help it if they believed she’d dropped a huge sum instead of that damned pittance? Left the bulk of it to some scientific society, for which I shall never forgive her.’

A pittance, not a fortune? Nothing but a ruse? Like a simpleton, Guy had fallen for Duprey’s story. It did not console him one bit that a myriad of other fools had done the same.

‘And don’t be looking for a dowry,’ said Duprey, waving his finger at Guy. ‘That went last Season after she wrecked my plans to marry her off to Heronvale’s brother. What a honey pot that would have been.’ The man sighed. ‘I despaired of being rid of her, I tell you. Who could have guessed a fool like you would marry a dull piece like her? Ha!’

Guy marched over to the man’s chair and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. ‘Do not ever speak of my wife in that manner.’ He lifted Duprey from his seat and thrust him down again, heading for the door.

‘Do not tell me yours was a love match,’ the Baron called after him.

Guy heard the man’s laughter all the way out of the building and down to the street.

What the devil was he to do? No fortune. No damned
fortune. No money at all. Just one more charge upon his finances.

Damn his idiocy. He’d bought the tale of a fortune, lapping it up as the milk of his salvation. Not only had Duprey boasted of it, others had passed it on. There had been no rumour of it being false. Ordinarily he would have waited for some verification, but Cyprian Sloane, that notorious fortune hunter, had begun to turn his charm on Emily, and Guy had feared he’d be cut out if he did not seize his opportunity now.

He’d gambled on the rumours being true. Did his folly know no bounds? He’d gambled. And lost.

Guy strode back to Thomas Street and entered the house still in a towering rage. He shoved his coat and hat into Bleasby’s frail hands and headed to the library, slamming the door behind him.

What the devil was he to do now?

He searched the cabinet in the room for a bottle, finding some old port. He poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp. He poured another glass.

From the corner of his eye he saw a movement and swung around.

There his wife sat, in a chair by the window, a book in her hand. He had the insane thought that she must have been desperate to read whatever was in this room. Three books about farming methods he’d rescued from rot at Annerley. One dusty volume of sermons that had been left on the shelf when they’d leased the place.

Her eyes widened. Indeed, he must look like a wild man. He felt like a man who had lost his senses.

‘What is amiss?’ she asked, her voice coming out hoarse and nearly inaudible.

He laughed and downed another full glass of port. He
poured a third. ‘What is amiss? I have been to see your father. That is what is amiss.’

Two spots of red appeared on her cheeks. ‘What did he say to upset you?’

‘He said that you are penniless.’

Her brows knit.

He had no patience for her confusion. ‘Do not tell me you were not aware he was passing you off as an heiress.’

She paled. ‘I was not aware of it.’

He gulped down more port. ‘Well, neither was I.’

She stood. ‘My father said I was an heiress?’

‘He led the world to believe you were. A big inheritance from your aunt, Lady Upford.’

‘It was not a big inheritance,’ she said.

He laughed again and finished the port. ‘Yes. Now I know.’

She stared at him, her bland face showing only a glimmer of confusion. Did it make it better or worse that she’d not known of her father’s tale about her? Perhaps it would have been some meagre comfort to think she’d deceived him as much as he’d deceived her.

Her distress convinced him. She was innocent. The villains in this sordid mess were her damnable knave of a father—and her husband. God help him, he resented her anyway, hated that blank expression on her face, despised the fact that he was saddled with her for life. If not for her, he could search for a genuine heiress. Marry his way out of this fix.

How would he now rebuild Annerley? How would he return its fields to planting, its tenants to prosperity instead of wasting away for lack of food and decent shelter? How would he provide for his mother? Would his elderly aunts end their days in a poorhouse, cold and hungry? What harm would befall his little sister, so blissfully unaware
of their troubles? How would he pay for her school? Find her a husband? The list was endless.

Waterloo had seemed like a walk in the park compared to the devastation he’d discovered when he returned home. Annerley House was a crumbling ruin. His brother had put a bullet through his own head, leaving a bloody mess and a mountain of debts. It had taken Guy months to sort through the disorder of the family finances. His father’s man of business had long abandoned the family as a lost cause, and his brother had continued in his father’s footsteps, raiding the capital and leaving nothing more than entailed property. Crumbling, rotting, fallow entailed property.

Emily’s fortune was supposed to settle the debts and turn Annerley around. The land would be prosperous again. All he needed was time.

Now what would he do? What would he
do
? She’d let him down, and now he had one more person to worry about. Two, if he considered her maid. He supposed the maid was also his responsibility. By God, he’d pensioned off his father’s valet and done without, but now he had an extra maid to support.

He glared at his wife, his penniless wife, aware of the injustice of his anger, but who else was there to vent his temper upon?

Her expression changed, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open, then closing into a thin, grim line. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice came out low and filled with suppressed emotion. ‘You married me to gain a fortune.’

Guy’s level of anxiety was so high he snapped back at her. ‘Of course I did. I needed the funds.’

She continued, her fingers clutching the book, her body
trembling. ‘And what of your story of asking my father’s permission to court me and he refusing?’

He was feeling perverse enough to tell the truth. Hang his vow to protect her from it. ‘I never asked your father. I wish to God I had.’

‘You lied to me?’ Her voice shook.

He met her eyes. ‘Yes.’

Then she did something he would never have anticipated. She threw the book at him, the action such a shock he barely had time to raise his arm to deflect it.

‘That is for lying to me!’ Her eyes flashed, and her face flushed with passion. Inexplicably, he felt a flash of carnal desire as unexpected as the book flying across the room.

‘Why did you need this fortune of mine?’ she cried. He’d not known her voice could have such volume, nor as much emotion.

‘I haven’t a feather to fly with, my dear,’ he said.

‘Do not call me that!’

He blinked. Her words struck him with nearly the same violence as the missile she’d thrown.

She paced back and forth in front of him, her arms folded across her chest. ‘Where did you meet my father?’ she demanded. ‘Where did you hear these tales of my fortune?’

He’d once seen a mechanical doll, one that moved after a key was turned in its back. She was like such a doll coming to life, suddenly filled with genuine animation. He almost forgot to answer her question. ‘At a card game.’

She twisted around as if to look for something else to throw at him.

‘I cannot believe it!’ she cried with a voice low and harsh and echoing his own rage. ‘You are like him.’

‘Like who?’ he couldn’t help but ask.

‘Like
him
.’ Her eyes shot daggers at him. ‘You are a liar and a gamester, and I cannot believe I have married a man like my father. I thought I had escaped him!’

Her words stung as sharply as if she’d slapped him in the face. He stooped down and picked up the book,
Modern Concepts in Agriculture, 1732,
hardly modern, but a book he thought might be useful should he ever again have crops to plant.

Words leapt to the tip of his tongue. He would tell her he was nothing like her father. He’d done it all to save his family and estate and all the people who depended upon him.

What was the use? He had lied to her. Manipulated her. Tried to take her money from her. He was too painfully like her father.

She brushed past him with a swish of skirts, leaving the room like a Fury of ancient Greek mythology. It felt like she sucked the air from the room as she left.

Guy sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. He could not spare a thought about what he had done to her. He needed to think his way out of this morass.

What else could he do to save them? He had to try to reverse his ill luck in some manner.

Nothing came immediately to mind. If one could no longer marry for money, where was one to win a fortune?

The answer reluctantly dawned, but he could only feel like a condemned man awakening to the day of execution.

He would become a gamester, haunting gentlemen’s clubs and gaming hells for the next big game. Just as she accused him, he would wager all their futures on a turn of the cards, exactly like his father and brother before him.

Exactly like her father as well.

A
week later, Emily walked into the Upper Assembly room on the arm of her husband, her first public appearance as his wife. She would have gladly forsaken the opportunity, but his mother pined for entertainment, and he had relented. Emily could hardly refuse her husband’s request she accompany them.

Only two tiers of seating had been set up on the sides of the large room, and perhaps a hundred guests filled it. Not a bad showing for early October, but not even approaching the numbers at the height of the Bath Season. She glanced nervously around.

Her mother sat on the opposite side of the room next to the ageing Lord Cranton, whom Emily knew to be her latest flirtation. She leaned over the gentleman, giving him an ample view of her generous bosom. He laughed and whispered something in her ear. Emily touched her cheek, hot with embarrassment. Even more mortifying, her mother-in-law and husband were also gazing in Lady Duprey’s direction. Her mother-in-law gave a disapproving huff.

Emily supposed she would have to greet her mother for propriety’s sake. She dearly hoped her mother would be
civil and return her greeting. Much depended upon how many glasses of wine her mother had consumed at dinner. On the other hand, if her father was present this evening, she hoped to avoid him altogether. He was bound to be in the card room, where her husband would certainly be headed.

Like a true gamester, her husband had been out every night since their arrival in Bath, coming home with the first glow of dawn. She knew because she was often still tossing and turning when he came in and could hear him moving about. Sometimes his step was light. A winning night, no doubt. Sometimes he moved like his feet were bound with irons. A losing streak. Only when the sounds from his room ceased could she sleep.

A dozen or so people looked towards the new Lord and Lady Keating, the ladies whispering behind their fans. Emily knew her marriage to Guy had been announced in the papers, because she’d read it there, but she and her husband had seen little of each other. They had conversed less, although he seemed inclined to put up a good front in the presence of his mother and the aunts.

‘You have made us the latest
on dit
, Guy,’ Lady Keating said in a petulant voice. ‘I confess, I thought it might be worse. I don’t suppose anyone will cut us, not that it would be of any consequence. Half of them are from the navy or the army, for goodness’ sake. I declare, Bath has been overrun by military men.’

‘You forget I was once a military man. Retired soldiers have to live somewhere,’ Guy said.

She sniffed. ‘Well, they are fair to ruining Bath. In any event, we ought to be at Annerley this time of year.’

‘You know we cannot be at Annerley,’ he said.

Emily wondered at the reason they could not go to the family property for the winter months. Was it rented like
Malvern? She would not be surprised, but she would not ask. She had decided to converse as little as possible with the man she married. Otherwise, she feared losing her temper again.

‘Let me find you some seats,’ he said.

Emily noted that he spoke more to his mother than he did to her, so perhaps he felt the same as she. He was angry with her for having no money, even though her father had been the real villain in this perfidy. Not Emily. She had not deceived Guy Keating. He had deceived her.

Was there ever a man who could be trusted? Even Lord Devlin had deceived her, making her think he would offer for her when he was living with her sister and in love with her. At least he’d done right by Madeleine. Their marriage had been announced months ago.

She sighed. She’d never truly believed Devlin meant to marry her anyway. But she’d thought Guy Keating to be different. Why? Simply because he’d shown such kindness to his great-aunts? It seemed an absurd notion now, to believe that one glimpse of his kindness meant he’d be kind to her.

Guy seated them near friends of his mother’s and very properly introduced her as his wife. Emily endured the ladies’ appraising looks, knowing they were dying to ask why this attractive man had married the very plain Emily Duprey, daughter of the shocking Baron and Baroness. Never mind. As was her custom, she would behave so properly no one would have a thing to say about her.

She chatted politely to Lady Keating’s friends, and within moments, her husband excused himself, promising to return in time for tea. Emily supposed he’d been eager to escape to his cards. He’d certainly not felt compelled to ask her to dance, though eight couples were at this moment forming the first set.

Her mother-in-law, having her friends to converse with, required nothing of her, so Emily occupied herself by watching the dancers perform their figures. The ladies’ dresses swirled prettily, like flower petals in a breeze. She found her toes itching to tap time to the music. She kept still, however, and tried to appear perfectly content.

Her mother glanced her way and gave her a halfhearted wave. Emily acknowledged the greeting with a nod of her head. She quickly continued to scan the room, lest she see her mother beckon her to walk over. Her eyes lit on an impeccably dressed gentleman, tall and elegant.

Mr Cyprian Sloane.

He caught her looking in his direction, and she could almost feel his steel grey eyes travelling over her in that manner that always made her think he knew what she looked like without her clothes. His full lips stretched into a knowing smile.

Oh, dear. He probably thought she’d been staring at him, but she never stared at gentlemen.

Not that Sloane was a gentleman precisely. By birth, perhaps, but he had the most shocking reputation as a rakehell. Ladies, from much younger than his thirty-odd years to much older, were said to throw themselves at him every bit as much as Caroline Lamb had at Lord Byron.

To Emily’s total dismay, Mr Sloane excused himself from the people he was with and crossed the room. He could not be coming to speak to her. He could not.

He walked directly to her. ‘Good evening, ladies.’

His white-toothed smile encompassed the whole group and brought their chatter to a sudden halt. Emily saw more than one set of raised eyebrows when he turned exclusively to her.

‘I understand I must wish you happy, Emily…Lady Keating.’ He spoke her Christian name as if she’d given
him permission. She most assuredly had not. He extended his hand. What could she do but raise her own hand to him? He lifted it to his lips.

Her cheeks burned. ‘Thank you.’

He held her hand a moment too long and she was forced to pull it from his grasp. He continued to discomfit her with the intensity of his gaze.

‘If your…husband has not otherwise engaged you, I wonder if I might have the pleasure of the next dance.’ His smooth voice paused significantly on the word
husband
.

Emily wished he would simply go away, but she could think of no excuse to refuse his request. Besides, she longed to dance. ‘Very well.’

He bowed and walked away, leaving her to endure the knowing looks of her mother-in-law’s cronies. The attention of Bath’s most notorious womaniser did her reputation no good at all.

Emily could never quite comprehend why Sloane had bothered to pay his addresses to someone as plain as she, but, in the weeks before her elopement, he’d begun to notice her. She’d been so relieved when Guy began courting her. She’d fancied Guy had plucked her from the salivating jaws of a veritable wolf.

That was nonsense, of course. She knew that now. Guy had been far more dangerous. She’d fallen for Viscount Keating—no, for his kindness. She’d fallen for his kindness. But he’d turned out every bit as false as Cyprian Sloane.

Her gaze lifted to the crystal chandelier above the dancers, and she pretended to blink from the brightness of the flickering candles. Suddenly all was as clear as those twinkling crystals. Sloane must have heard her father’s tale
about her being an heiress. That was why he’d given her the scant attention he had.

But she was married now. Why attend to her still?

When the musicians tuned up for the next set, Sloane appeared at her side and threaded her arm through his to lead her to the dance floor. Emily could hear the murmurings of her mother-in-law’s friends wafting behind her.

Sloane faced her in the set, his intense grey eyes riveted on her face. ‘Well, Emily, my dear, you have desolated me entirely.’

My dear.
What maggot entered these men’s brains to assume she’d believe herself
dear
to them?

‘I do not understand you, sir.’

They needed to complete the figure before he could speak to her again.

One corner of his well-defined mouth turned up. ‘You have eloped with Keating and quite broke my heart.’

The steps parted them and they had to thread through the other couples before coming close again.

Emily narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not speak nonsense to me.’

His brows shot up in surprise, but he retained the amusement in his countenance.

For the remainder of the set Emily endured more pretty words, more falsities. She pretended she did not hear them, but instead let herself keep step to the music. At the end of the dance, he bowed and she curtsied. He escorted her back to her seat.

To her astonishment, Guy stood there, a grim expression on his face.

‘I return your lovely bride to you,’ Sloane said to him with a wicked smirk.

Guy merely inclined his head, but when the man sauntered away, he gave her a stern look. She’d clearly displeased him by dancing with Sloane, but where had he been when the music started?

‘You are finished with cards so soon?’ she asked in a casual tone, determined to get her barb in first.

He did not appear to notice. ‘It is time for tea,’ he said, turning from her to his mother. ‘Shall I escort you both to the tea room?’

As a good husband ought, he fetched tea for her and sat next to her at a table shared by his mother and two of her friends.

As the older women engrossed themselves in their own gossip with words such as
that man
and
shocking
audible, Emily was left in Guy’s company.

He gave her a sombre look. ‘I do not wish to criticise you, my dear—’ those words again ‘—but Cyprian Sloane is not precisely the sort of company to keep.’

‘Indeed?’ she responded, having difficulty maintaining her precise standard of composure. ‘And, pray tell, how am I to fend him off without creating a scene and calling even more attention to myself?’

A flash of surprise lit his eyes. ‘I concede your point.’

She took a satisfying sip of tea, disguising it as an ordinary one.

The look he gave her next seemed almost…caring. ‘I…I would not wish your reputation to suffer. Sloane’s partiality cannot bring any good.’

He reached over and for a moment she thought he might touch her, but he did not.

‘I shall not behave with impropriety, I promise you.’ She kept her voice low. ‘But I cannot prevent him from seeking me out and I cannot stop those who wish to comment on it.’ Her insides were churning, but she was not
sure if it were because he sat so close that she could feel his breath on her face, or because he dared comment on her behaviour. After all, he had rushed off to wager sums at whist, leaving her to fend for herself.

‘True.’ His ready agreement unnerved her more than if he’d given her a good scold.

It was his turn to sip his tea and for her to wonder what thoughts ran through his head. It was inconceivable he took Sloane’s attentions seriously. She had never been the sort sought after by rakes. Or any other type of gentleman, for that matter.

He turned to his mother. ‘Mother, would you enjoy some cards this evening, or do you prefer to watch the dancing?’

‘I had hoped to play cards, I must confess,’ Lady Keating replied. ‘Are there other ladies in the card room?’

‘Several ladies,’ he said. He leaned towards Emily. ‘Perhaps if you came in the card room with me, Mr Sloane would not disturb you further.’

In spite of herself, her heart fluttered.

‘You can partner my mother,’ he added.

Ah, he did not desire her company after all. Emily lifted her cup to her lips again. After a fortifying sip, she said, ‘If your mother wishes it, I should be happy to partner her.’

Very shortly after, Emily found herself seated across from her mother-in-law at a whist table shared by an elderly gentleman and his wife, who were acquainted with the Keatings. Unfortunately, she was positioned so that her husband was in her view, seated in a corner with other black-coated men who hunched over their cards with grave, resolute expressions on their faces.

She’d seen an identical expression on her father’s face.
He was in the room this very moment. She’d seen him when she entered, but, to her relief, he was too engrossed in his play to notice her.

Emily picked up the cards to deal. As soon as the deck was in her hands, habit took over. The cards rippled rhythmically as she shuffled. She could almost deal the cards without looking. Such were skills honed in a household obsessed by card-playing. She, her sisters and brother had been weaned on whist and piquet and quadrille. When her father could find no one else to play cards, he sought out his children. It was the only time he sought them out. In those days Emily would play whist until night left her yawning and rubbing her eyes, if it meant having her father’s regard. Like a good father’s daughter, she’d prided herself on playing better than her sisters and brother. If she’d thought it would win her father’s respect, she’d been mistaken. When she won against him, he became furious.

The dealing done, Emily picked up her hand and spread the cards in a fan. A shiver ran up her spine. She felt the spades, diamonds, clubs and hearts call to her, as if beckoning her back into her father’s influence.

Lady Keating and the other couple appeared not to notice. They seemed rather to find great enjoyment from the game. Lady Keating turned out to be merely competent as a player, and their opponents not as skilled. Emily held herself back from getting pulled totally into the game. Instead, she let her gaze drift to where her husband sat. He was an effective distraction.