The Spinster and the Rake (7 page)

“Not if our parents have their way,” Bertie said gloomily. “Your father’s been dropping all sorts of hints since I’ve come to stay, and my parents have been after me since Christmas.”

Shock made Felicity sink to the sofa beside her aunt. “How simply ghastly. I had no idea.”

Bertie sat down beside the two of them, sunk in companionable gloom. “Thought you didn’t. But you know what our parents are like when they’ve got a maggot in their brains. I’ve been counting on Gilly to keep ‘em in line, but I’m not sure that she can hold out much longer.”

Felicity turned her great blue eyes toward her aunt. “Do you think they can make us? We should make a horrid pair, you know. Besides, I love Liam.”

“And I have no intention of getting married for a good long time,” Bertie added.

“They may very well try,” Gillian conceded, swirling the dregs of her champagne and slopping just a tiny bit on her green silk skirt. “But I have little doubt you two are more than a match for them. If worse comes to worse you will simply have to elope with your vicar, Felicity.”

“Gilly, you’re drunk!”

“Heavens, no, child,” she said sweetly, moving over to the table on skittering feet and pouring herself another glass. “Merely very happy. And right now I think every member of the illustrious Redfern family can go to the devil. Present company excepted, of course. I fail to see why you should sacrifice your happiness on the altar of family duty. One is enough.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

“Oh, Gilly, do you feel you’ve been sacrificed?” Felicity questioned with tearful and champagne-induced sympathy.

“What else are virgins for?” Gillian inquired with simplicity.

“I say, Gilly, you ought to watch your language.” Bertie’s shirt points seemed to have grown suddenly tighter. “You never know who might hear you.”

“No one will hear me,” she said sadly. “Look, even Felicity has gone to sleep.”

Bertie looked at his cousin’s sleeping form with disgust. “Can’t hold her wine,” he pronounced.

“Ah, but
I
can, dearest Bertie,” Gillian announced. “And I think we must be careful not to wake her up. We should leave.”

“Leave?” Bertie echoed.

“Absolutely. All this finery shouldn’t be wasted on a nephew. Where can we go?”

“I have no idea,” he said uneasily, sobering a bit.

“Where did Derwent and Letty go? We could follow them.”

“Good God, no! We weren’t invited.”

“I wouldn’t think that would matter on my birthday,” she said soulfully.

“Well, I wouldn’t think so either, but you never can tell. We might go to the opera,” he suggested rather wildly.

She shook her head. “Too late. It’s almost eleven. Now where can we possibly go where it won’t be too late for . . . Bertie!”

Her nephew jumped guiltily. “I think we should stay home.”

“I know where we can go. Gaming salons are just beginning to be lively right about now, aren’t they? And I have a great deal of money. We shall go and gamble. I am bound to be in luck on my birthday.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Bertie said weakly.

“And I know exactly where we should go. Lord Marlowe’s establishment. I’m certain he’ll be delighted to see us.”

Bertie’s complexion was an alarming combination of pale horror and rosy embarrassment, with a touch of green around the gills. “I don’t know where it is.”

“Now don’t prevaricate, Bertie. You were the one who told Felicity about it. You needn’t worry—Lord Marlowe and I are old friends. He’s scarcely likely to turn us away from the door. Is he?”

“He doesn’t turn anyone of good ton from the door. And some of bad ton are just as welcome. Though I sometimes think that’s more Vivian Peacock’s doing,” he added darkly.

“And women are allowed?”

“With someone like Marlowe?” Bertie scoffed. “Women are encouraged. But not your sort of woman, Gilly.”

“Lightskirts?” she questioned knowledgeably, handing a fresh bottle of champagne to Bertie to open.

“Nooo. But ladies who are not really top-drawer. There’s Lady Kempton, of course, and Sally Jersey can be seen there any number of evenings. Of course, she always had a weak spot for a handsome man, no matter what his reputation.”

“Well, that settles it. If a patroness of Almack’s may go there with impunity, then a Redfern need not blush to be seen there also. We’ll finish this bottle, Bertie, and then be off. Cheers!”

Chapter Seven

THE WEEKS SINCE Ronan Patrick Blakely, Lord Marlowe, the marquis of Herrington, had returned to his native shores had been busy ones. His lordship had been greatly amused to discover that what was completely unacceptable in an impoverished younger son was lauded as being delightfully original in a wealthy marquis. Even young Ronan Blakely’s final escapade, which involved attempting to elope with a married woman of impeccable lineage, was now looked upon twenty years later as an amusing prank.

One of the strangest aspects of his re-entry into society was the attitude of mothers. The gentlemen accepted him, which was only to be expected. Marlowe was a man’s man, with easy, charming manners around his peers that had always made him universally well liked, despite his predilection for the petticoat line. But unlike his youth, when the mothers of husband-hunting daughters would refuse to allow their precious offspring to stand up with such a rake, nowadays he was considered an extremely eligible parti. How often, one matron with a gangly, bracket-faced daughter demanded of another with an equally unfortunate child, does a handsome, wealthy,
titled
gentleman of excellent lineage come along? What had put him beyond the pale before were now dismissed as youthful peccadilloes; what had caused mothers to snub him outright were now treated as entertaining eccentricities.

It was little wonder that a man of Marlowe’s cynical nature would endeavor to discover just how far his pardon extended. Would the proper Miss Chansforth care for a stroll in the deserted garden? Miss Chansforth would be delighted. But wouldn’t her mother mind? Oh, no, Mama told her that Lord Marlowe was to be deferred to in all matters. Whatever would give him pleasure. Whatever, Miss Chansforth?

Such sport soon paled for Marlowe. For one thing, the majority of the ladies, though extremely pretty, were idiots, with nothing to say for themselves. Strumpets, out to sell their bodies to the highest bidder who came complete with wedding license, yet lacking the easygoing honesty of their less legal-minded sisters. And besides, they were all so damnably
young.
By the time he met Gillian Redfern, women, that is, proper ladies, had been relegated to a very minor position in his scheme of things.

“You can’t do that, old man,” protested Vivian Peacock. “Got to get leg-shackled sometime. And you’ve been raising hopes in several breasts. They won’t like it that you’ve lost interest.”

“Well, I can’t very well marry both Miss Chansforth and Miss Waterford,” replied Marlowe amiably. “I think I’d best forget about the weaker sex altogether for now. They can be damnably disrupting.”

“Does that include forgetting about Miss Redfern?” Vivian toyed idly with his brandy glass, an absorbed expression on his puffy face.

Marlowe cocked an eye at him. “We have a wager on, do we not? A gentleman never forgets a wager. Besides, I have the suspicion that Gillian Redfern is a great deal more interesting than these misses just out of the schoolroom. Have we set a time limit on that wager?”

“Not yet. How long do you think it would take you to bring her around? It wouldn’t do to overestimate your powers,” said Viv with just a hint of malice. “I want to win, but I want it to be fair. It’s late March now—what do you say to the end of the season? Late May?”

“More than enough time.”

“It may not be as easy as you think,” Peacock cautioned.

“It may not be as difficult,” retorted Marlowe. “She’s already unwillingly fascinated by the first rake she’s ever met in her sheltered life. Once I set my mind to it, it shouldn’t take much time at all.”

“You’re forgetting that damnably starched-up family.”

Marlowe dismissed them with an airy wave of his hand. “I expect them to prove more a help than a hindrance. Gillian Redfern is not going to like being ordered about by her cod’s head of a brother.”

“She has for her entire life. Why should she change?”

Marlowe smiled slowly. “I’m going to introduce her to a few things far more pleasurable. Derwent Redfern should pale in comparison.”

Vivian eyed his friend warily. “Is this quite kind of us?” he inquired casually. “After all, you wouldn’t want to step too far beyond the line of what is pleasing. If Sally Jersey were to hear of this she might consider it too much.”

“Why, Viv, I never knew you had a conscience. After all, this was your idea,” Marlowe said lazily. “And I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I intend to see to it that Gillian Redfern’s heart is bruised but not broken. When we part she’ll be more than ready to fall in love with someone a great deal more eligible, and will never again take the easy way out by burying herself among her demanding family.” He lit a cheroot with a practiced air and surveyed the smoke with a faint smile of satisfaction. “I consider this an errand of mercy.”

“You would,” Vivian scoffed.

BUT THERE HADN’T been much time for the furtherance of their schemes. The problem of finding a suitable residence for his gaming hell, decorating and outfitting and staffing it took up all his spare time. The thousands of decisions involved in setting up a gaming house proved to be quite overwhelming. There were servants to hire, including the French chef whose duty was to provide the elegant champagne suppers
de rigueur
for all gamesters. There were a thousand wax candles to order, and a thousand greasy tallow ones for the kitchens. There were invitations and bribes to be offered, and all manner of tedious detail to fill Marlowe’s usually indolent days. The first of which was the proper piece of real estate.

“I still don’t see why your own house wouldn’t do,” Vivian had protested as they chased around for a residence large enough, with a properly elegant location. “Blakely House would have been perfect.”

“I realize you think I’m lost to every vestige of propriety, Viv,” he’d replied easily, “but my ancestors would spin in their graves if I were to turn the old place into a den of iniquity. Not that I owe them that much, but I suppose there must be one or two situations where I can be traditional. Besides, were I to have a gaming hell in my own home, how could I ever escape from the noise and intrusion? There are times when I need my privacy. No, a largish house somewhere near St. James’s Street will do very well. I’ll have private apartments there, of course, but Blakely House must be kept separate.”

“But, Ronan, have you considered the cost? You may have forgotten that I helped your cousin manage his affairs the last few years, and I am aware that he was none too plump in the pocket. He could hardly have left you enough for such a grandiose scheme. And frankly, dear boy, I don’t think I could afford to invest that kind of capital. Things haven’t been going that well on the ‘Change recently. I know I promised I’d be a full partner, but I’m afraid if it involves buying a place I can’t . . .”

“Vivian, your excellent advice will be more than enough contribution to our little enterprise,” he soothed. “And although Cousin Beowulf didn’t leave me much except the title, the houses, and a number of debts, my years abroad were not wasted. Vienna was remunerative, and my years in India were positively absurd. At this point I can live quite lavishly on income alone. So you see, you needn’t worry. I’m afraid I’m a regular Golden Ball.”

Nothing but surprised pleasure showed in Vivian’s dissipated countenance. “How splendid, Ronan! I had no idea you were so full of juice. In that case, I happened to hear of a cozy little house just off St. James’s that could be turned into something quite special, provided there’s a small outlay of cash to put it in order. I could arrange for us to see it tomorrow.”

The house was duly seen, purchased, and the small outlay of cash required to turn it into a fashionable gaming hell began to reach staggering levels. Marlowe paid the bills without blinking, his mind on other things, his trust entirely on his old friend Vivian.

There was no way a gambling hell owned by society’s newest and most outrageous darling could fail, although Vivian was doubtless gratified to find that it succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. Every night the place was an absolute crush, with baccarat, piquet, faro, dice, and even an e.o. table offered by the most elegant and charming of dealers. Marlowe would survey it all with his customary unruffled amusement, tiring of the entire thing before it even started. But it kept Vivian occupied, and provided a decent place to go for a hand or two of piquet when one was bored, as one too frequently was in the stultified London air. He wondered whether he ought to try the countryside.

The night of March twenty-sixth was some improvement. It was past eleven, with the evening’s play just beginning to heat up, when there was a stunned lull in the
conversation. Marlowe looked up from a hand of piquet to see Bertram Talmadge, a far too frequent
habitué
of these rooms, escort a very pretty lady in nile green into the room. The lady was staring about her in open fascination, and it was with a shock that Marlowe recognized Gillian Redfern.