A Wicked Gentleman (8 page)

“I don't want to know,” Harry said, holding up his hands. “I'll untangle the odds on a horse for you, but I'm not entering the territory of the deity.” He looked around the salon and encountered the fixed glare of an elderly man in an armchair by the fire.

The man, in an old-fashioned coat of plum-colored velvet, wearing a wig tied neatly at his nape, was florid of complexion. One hand held a glass resting on a substantial embonpoint, the other hand was fastened tightly around the silver knob of a cane.

“Don't mind Grafton, Harry,” Nick murmured. “It's over.”

Harry had gone very still, but his eyes didn't drop the older man's gaze. “Not for him,” he responded distantly. He rose slowly and crossed the room, aware as he did so of eyes swiveling to follow his progress. The old scandal still had legs enough to engage the voyeur.

He stopped in front of the old man and bowed. “Your Grace.” He waited, a thin smile hovering on his lips. Waited for the cut he knew was coming. The duke of Grafton turned his head and his shoulders towards the fire. He raised his glass and drank, then threw the goblet into the hearth, the sound of the shattering glass resounding in the dead silence of the salon.

Harry bowed again, turned, and walked back to his friends in the bay window.

“Why d'you do it, Harry?” Nick demanded in an undertone. “Why d'you let him do that to you?”

Harry shrugged and drained the contents of his goblet. “He thinks he has the right…maybe he has.”

“I don't understand you, Harry. The inquest—”

“Oh, enough, Nick.” Harry raised a hand in protest. “I give the old man a little satisfaction once in a while. You could say it was the least I owed him. Let's play cards.” He rose and walked briskly towards the card rooms, and Nick, after a minute, followed.

They walked through the series of candlelit card rooms, where groom porters called the odds softly, and the slap of cards, the rattle of dice were the only noticeable sounds. Harry paused at a macao table.

“Bonham, where've you been the last week? I swear it's been an age since we saw you.” A gentleman in an impeccably cut black coat raised his quizzing glass and regarded the new arrival. “D'you care to take a hand?”

“Family matters,” Harry said, pulling out a chair at the table. “And, yes, I will, thank you.”

“Petersham?” The gentleman in black gestured to a second chair.

Nick shook his head with a laugh. “Oh, no, not I. Play with Harry, oh, no. I prefer to pluck chickens, not to be plucked.” Waving, he went on his way.

“Calumny,” Harry observed, genially taking up his cards. “As if I've ever plucked anything.”

“Maybe not, but you're the devil's own player,” the man who held the bank observed. “Hate playing with you, Bonham, though it pains me to say it.”

The remark drew laughter. Harry merely smiled and played his cards. He was contemplating the odds of a five card onto his fifteen points when someone at a table behind said, “Dagenham, do you play?”

Harry continued to contemplate his odds, while he listened. A youngish voice answered the question in the affirmative. Harry played two more hands, then excused himself.

“Premature for you, Bonham,” the banker observed. “You don't usually leave the table until you've decimated the bank.”

“Oh, the quality of mercy, Wetherby,” Harry said. “Mustn't strain it.” He wandered off in a seemingly random direction, but he was fairly confident that the young voice had come from the hazard table immediately behind him. He took a glass of Madeira from a waiter and strolled around the room, observing the play. At the hazard table he paused, sipping his drink.

“Care to join us, Bonham?”

He shook his head. “No, I thank you. I've had enough for one morning.” He moved a little to one side, his eyes still on the table. He knew five of the seven players. The other two were both considerably younger than his own coterie. And they each bore the ravages of youthful excess in shadowed, red-rimmed eyes, drawn cheeks, and a grayish pallor.

It was common enough for young men of means in their first season to burn the candle at both ends and ordinarily Harry would have barely noticed these two, or if he had he would have merely cast a somewhat amused glance in their direction with the rueful memory of his own youthful indiscretions. These two would learn their lesson as had he and a thousand others. But one of them interested him mightily. One of them had some relationship with Viscountess Dagenham.

They both played lamentably, and he quickly identified the one who interested him. He seemed even more inexpert than his friend. There was no physical resemblance between this young man, who he reckoned must be in his very early twenties, and the viscountess, but that was hardly surprising since her title would have derived from her late husband.

After a while he tired of watching him lose hand after hand, the IOUs mounting beside the banker. He moved to the sideboard to refill his glass from the array of decanters. Petersham came up beside him.

“Tired of the play already, Harry?”

“My heart's not in it this morning,” Harry responded, leaning back against the sideboard and surveying the room over the lip of his glass. “Who's the cub playing at Elliot's table?”

Nick's gaze followed his. “Which one?”

“The one in that absurd canary yellow waistcoat.”

Nick frowned. “Dagenham, I think. He was only put up for the club about four days ago. If you ask me, the fellow who put him up was doing him no favors. Coltrain, I believe it was, the man with Dagenham is the marquess's son. Doesn't look as if either of the young fools knows what he's doing, but Coltrain's heir at least has good family credit. I only hope Dagenham's father has deep pockets. I doubt Markby will bail him out.”

“Markby?”

“Mmm. Dagenham's a member of the junior branch of the family. You're probably not familiar with them. They none of them come up to town much, in fact I'm surprised this one's here. From what I hear, Markby holds the family purse strings mighty tight…rules the entire clan with a rod of iron. His son, Viscount Dagenham, died at sea…may even have been at Trafalgar…”

Nick frowned in thought. “Aye, that's it. It was Trafalgar.” He beamed triumphantly. “Anyway, the present heir's no more than a babe in arms.”

The child of Viscountess Dagenham,
Harry reflected, absently stroking his mouth with two fingers. That explained the presence of children in Cavendish Square.

The hazard table was breaking up, and he watched as the banker stuffed IOUs into his coat pocket. Young Dagenham was watching the banker too, with a fixed expression akin to the desperation a rabbit might feel as the shadow of the hawk's wings darkened the ground ahead of him. Then he turned and walked away towards the salon.

Harry followed him. The young man stood at the sideboard filling a glass. He drained the contents in one, then refilled it. Harry strolled across to him.

“Drowning your losses, eh?” he observed with a light laugh. “That's one tried-and-true way to oblivion.” He refilled his own glass and smiled at the young man. “I don't believe we've been introduced.” He held out his hand. “Bonham, at your service.”

“Dagenham…Nigel Dagenham,” the youth said, taking the extended hand. His smile was forced and did nothing to alleviate the strain around his eyes. “Your servant, sir.”

“I haven't seen you here before,” Harry observed, glancing idly around the room.

“No, sir, I'm newly put up,” Nigel said, wondering what it was about this gentleman that made him feel very young and unsophisticated. There could be nothing wrong with his waistcoat, the color was all the rage he'd been told, and the snowy folds of his starched cravat tied high enough to support his chin were beyond reproach. And yet there was a subdued elegance to Bonham's green coat, plain waistcoat, and doeskin britches that made Nigel feel almost like a country bumpkin.

“Well, I look forward to furthering our acquaintance,” Harry said, nodded pleasantly and strolled off to where a group of his own friends were gathered.
What a stupid thing to say.
He had no interest in a callow youth who was floundering in deep waters. It was never his practice to cultivate the ingénu crowd of either sex. The young women bored him to tears, not that their mamas would ever allow them to have a tête-à-tête with Viscount Bonham…not anymore…and as for the young bucks, the greatest service he could do any of them was to snub them sufficiently to ensure that eventually they would acquire some town polish.

So what the devil did he think he was doing furthering an acquaintance with young Dagenham?

Addlepated was the only answer that sprang to mind.

W
HAT DO YOU THINK
of this straw-colored satin for the dining room chairs, Nell?” Livia fingered a bolt of material at a draper's warehouse on Goodge Street. “It's not hideously expensive.”

Cornelia abandoned the crimson-striped damask that she'd been considering and came over to Livia. “I like it,” she declared. “It will set off the cream wallpaper beautifully.” She glanced around. “Where's Ellie?”

Livia looked up, frowning as she peered around the cavernous warehouse with its long tables, bolts of material, and bustling attendants flourishing draper's shears. “She's over there.” She pointed. “She's talking to someone. She must have met someone she knows.”

“I can't think who,” Cornelia said with a note of surprise, then exclaimed, “It's Letitia Oglethorpe. I'd know that nose anywhere.”

Livia stared and gave a little chuckle. “Oh, I see what you mean…Cyrano would be proud of it. Who is she?”

“We were all debutantes together,” Cornelia informed her. “Letitia became engaged to Oglethorpe halfway through the season.” She shook her head with a rueful laugh. “My mother said she'd done very well for herself, considering the size of her nose. It was very clear she was comparing Letitia's unlikely success on the marriage mart with my own lamentable failure to make a match. Ellie's mother said much the same to her.”

“Should we go over?”

“I think we have to.” Cornelia didn't sound too enthusiastic, but she could hardly leave Aurelia to hold the fort alone. Letitia had always been supremely irritating and unnecessarily condescending. She was bound to be even worse now since she'd have some cause. She was dressed to the nines, and enviably warmly, in a fur-trimmed velvet pelisse with a gypsy bonnet perched on top of her high-piled hair. Privately, Cornelia thought the bonnet a mistake. Its flat style accentuated the nose rather than diminished it. The catty reflection did nothing to lessen Cornelia's sense of their own outmoded dress, which approached shabbiness when compared with Letitia's outfit.

She sighed. “I'd hoped we'd be able to smarten ourselves up a little before making contact with the outside world. But needs must when the devil drives.” She led the way between the tables.

“Cornelia…oh, goodness, I would never have recognized you,” Letitia trilled, as they approached. “My dear, you look so…so mature.” She tittered. “We've all changed, I'm sure. I was just telling Aurelia, I wouldn't have recognized her either.” She took Cornelia's proffered hand in a limp hold before turning her gaze inquiringly on Livia.

“May I introduce Lady Livia Lacey, Letitia,” Cornelia said smoothly. “She's just inherited a house on Cavendish Square, and we're doing some refurbishment.” She gestured around the warehouse. “Liv, this is Lady Oglethorpe. An old acquaintance of ours.”

Letitia's pale eyes had sharpened as she took Livia's hand. “Cavendish Square…why, my dear, such a good address. I was unaware there was any property for sale there. It so rarely comes on the open market.”

Her gaze moved pointedly over Livia's cloth pelisse and down to her plain brown boots. “I take it this is your first visit to town?” She didn't wait for a response, but continued smoothly, “Aurelia was telling me you've been immured in the country for years, Cornelia. It shows, my dear. You won't mind my saying that, I'm sure. Such old friends as we are. You must be so glad for the opportunity to do a little shopping now. Why, I shall so enjoy bringing you up to date on all the fashions, I can tell you just how to go on…just who to go to…it's very different these days, and you'll be so out of touch with modes and such like.” She waved an all-embracing hand.

“How kind of you, Letitia,” Cornelia said, trying to avoid catching Aurelia's eye. Her sister-in-law was standing just behind Letitia and was struggling with laughter. “We shall be most grateful, I'm sure, of any little pointers you can give us. Won't we, Liv?” She winked at Livia, who was looking more than a little bemused.

“Well, no time like the present,” Letitia declared. “You must all come at once to Berkeley Square…Oglethorpe has given me carte blanche for a complete redecoration of the house, and I can't wait to show you all my improvements. It will give you some ideas for your own refurbishment, Lady Livia. Everything in the best of taste, of course…now where's my maid…wretched girl, she's always wandering off…oh, there you are. Take my reticule, girl. It gets in the way. And don't forget those bandboxes…Come, ladies. My barouche is outside, plenty of room for four of us.”

Aurelia cast Cornelia a desperate glance. How were they to prevent this kidnapping? Cornelia shrugged slightly and shook her head. It occurred to her that it would do Livia no harm to have news of her ownership of the house on Cavendish Square pass into the gossip stream, and Letitia would be the perfect conduit.

They followed Lady Oglethorpe out of the warehouse, attendants scurrying with packages and boxes in their wake. A handsome barouche stood at the curb, and the driver jumped down from the box to let down the footstep. He handed the ladies in and arranged his mistress's purchases in every available space before settling lap rugs over his passengers.

“Hetty, you must walk,” Letitia declared to the maid, smoothing the rug over her knees. “There's no room for you with all these packages.”

“Why don't you have the warehouse deliver them?” Livia asked bluntly. It was a bitterly cold morning and a long walk from Goodge Street to Berkeley Square.

Letitia looked at her in surprise. “Why on earth would I do that, Lady Livia? An unnecessary expense…they'd need to hire a hackney.”

“Of course,” Livia murmured, reflecting that now, thanks to this overbearing lady, her own purchase of the straw-colored satin would have to be made another day, necessitating another expensive hackney ride that they, unlike the countess, could ill afford.

Letitia prattled merrily as they drove to Berkeley Square, and her three companions, snug beneath their rugs, allowed the stream to flow over them. It was certainly a pleasanter method of travel than an ill-smelling, drafty hackney carriage.

The barouche drew up outside the handsome Oglethorpe mansion on Berkeley Square. The double doors opened before the ladies had set foot on the pavement, and both butler and footman stood in the hall as they ascended the short flight of steps.

“Have the boxes taken to my sitting room, Walter,” the countess instructed, shrugging out of her fur-trimmed pelisse as she sailed towards the stairs. The butler caught it with practiced skill as it slipped from her shoulders. “I wish to see just how well the material will look on the window seat. And serve a nuncheon in the yellow room in half an hour. There will be four of us.”

“Letitia, I'm afraid we cannot stay above an hour,” Cornelia stated firmly as they followed their hostess. “It's very kind of you…”

“Nonsense,” the lady interrupted, speaking over her shoulder. “There's so much I have to tell you about London these days. It's so changed, and you wouldn't want to be putting a foot wrong. Social disaster, my dear. Just for a start I have to tell you whom you may receive and whom you must not.”

As they reached the upstairs hall, a footman hurried to throw open the doors to an apartment to the right of the landing. Cornelia stopped dead on the threshold. “God in heaven,” she murmured in awestruck tones.

“Isn't it wonderful,” Letitia declared, flinging her arms wide. “The
dernier cri
I assure you. Absolutely up to the minute. I dare swear no lady in London has a sitting room to match it.”

Aurelia, who had come up short behind Cornelia, almost bumping into her, stared over her sister-in-law's shoulder in awed silence. “I wouldn't think so,” she said finally, blinking as if to dispel the amazing riot of colors.

“Now, I have to tell you, the Indian style is all the rage,” Letitia said, dropping her voice conspiratorially as if she were imparting some precious secret. She drew off her gloves, tossing them carelessly towards a drum table. They missed and fell unheeded to the turquoise rug.

“Believe me, Lady Livia, you won't go wrong if you choose an Indian motif for your drawing room. Don't you just adore the wallpaper?” She clasped her hands against her bosom, gazing in rapture at the vivid gold-and-crimson flock that adorned the walls. Gold leaf adorned the molding, the mantel, the curtain rails, and the ornate mahogany scrollwork on the sofas and tables.

“Please, sit down all of you.” She deposited herself gracefully onto a peacock embroidered daybed and gestured to the sofa opposite. “Walter will bring coffee.”

Cornelia moved to an overstuffed gold velvet chair, debating what to do with an artfully draped length of silk embroidered with glittering beads that lay across the seat. It appeared to have no visible purpose. With an inner shrug she sat on it. Her gaze immediately fell on a pair of stuffed peacocks regarding her with dark beady eyes from alongside the fireplace. There has to be an elephant somewhere in here, she thought, her eyes darting surreptitiously. Ah, there it was. Not just one but a whole string of brass elephants marching along a shelf of the bookcase. A few urn-shaped lamps that looked as if they'd be more at home in the
Arabian Nights
were scattered around the room in apparently random fashion.

She studiously avoided looking at either Aurelia or Livia. “Do you have children, Letitia?”

“Oh, yes, two of them. Dear little things,” the countess responded somewhat vaguely. “They're in the country. Oglethorpe thinks the country air is better for them, and I'm sure he's right. Besides, they make such a noise in town…Ah, thank you, Walter.” She took a cup from the butler, who had slipped soundlessly into the room with the coffee tray.

Once he'd served them all and left, she leaned forward, and said, “So, I heard you had lost your husbands. How tragic for you both. But I could never understand why you were both so happy to retire to the country. How could you bear to live without the season?” She sipped her coffee.

“But now, I suppose, you're free to spread your wings a little…hmm?” A somewhat salacious smile licked at her lips. “I could perhaps put you both in the way of an eligible
parti
…there are a few suitable unattached gentlemen in town…not quite top drawer, of course, but…” She let a smile finish her thought for her.

But good enough for two dowdy widows who'd made less-than-stellar matches first time round, Cornelia thought. She said only, “I don't think Aurelia and I are in the market, but thank you for the thought, Letitia.”

“Oh, just you wait and see,” the countess said comfortably. “Once you start going out and about…once you've visited a dressmaker, of course. I must give you the name of mine, she can't be bettered…and Signor Salvatore…he's the genius behind the décor in this room, Lady Livia, I know you'll enjoy discussing your needs with him.”

“You're very kind,” Livia said faintly, taking a macaroon from a silver salver.

“So, now you must tell me. Whom have you seen since you arrived in town?” Letitia leaned forward again in her confidential manner.

“No one, actually,” Cornelia said.

“Oh, that's not entirely true, Nell,” Aurelia corrected, finally managing to find her voice. She was growing tired of accepting the picture of friendless, pathetic drudges, and out-of-fashion country widows that Letitia seemed determined to paint. “We have been visited on several occasions by Viscount Bonham.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“Oh, so you know Lord Bonham.” Letitia's eyes widened. “Quite the charmer, isn't he? And such a prominent family. How do you know him?”

“We don't really know him,” said Livia, who always had problems with gilding the truth. “We met him because he was interested in buying my house.”

“Oh, I see. Just business then.” Letitia couldn't hide her disappointment. Then she perked up. “I can't think why he'd want another house, though. He has a perfectly satisfactory town house on Mount Street. Very mysterious.” She leaned forward again. “A word of advice though. He's very charming, but you'd do well to keep him at arm's length.”

“Oh?” Cornelia hid a flicker of interest. “And why's that, Letitia?”

The countess's eyes gleamed and she licked her lips. “Well, there was some trouble, a scandal—” She broke off as the door opened to admit the butler.

“My lady, Lord Oglethorpe wonders if you would do him the honor of joining him in his book room,” the butler intoned.

Cornelia seized the opportunity offered by Letitia's momentary hesitation. She jumped to her feet. “Indeed, one must not keep one's husband waiting, Letitia, and we really must be going. It's been delightful. Thank you so much for your hospitality…and of course the good advice. You may be sure we'll heed it.”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Aurelia, gathering her shawl about her as she too rose to her feet. “Signor Salvatore, wasn't it? You must remember the name, Liv.”

“Oh, I have no intention of forgetting it, believe me,” her friend said firmly as she made her own farewells.