Barbara Metzger (18 page)

It still came down to the money. Whether she owed a hardened libertine or hardened criminals, she was in one hard place. She was never going to be safe, one way or t’other, unless she paid them all back. But how?

* * * *

Lord Mayne placed guards around Sydney’s house, alerted the twins, and made sure his brother accompanied the young ladies whenever he could at night. Forrest had his men out searching for Randall, and he himself haunted low dives and gaming hells looking for Chester.

He was never going to find Chester, not unless he crawled under every bed in every row house in Chelsea.

* * * *

“He can’t be an outlaw,” Bella gasped as Sydney waved the vinaigrette under her nose. “He’s Lady Peaswell’s nephew.”

Sydney poured tea to calm the older woman’s nerves after her attack of the vapors. “I’m sorry, Mrs.
Ott, but for all your town bronze, you were taken in the same as I was. The man is a charlatan, a professional gambler, and a cheat.”

“Poor, poor Lady Peaswell,” Bella blubbered into her handkerchief.

“Yes, well, even noble families have their black sheep. You must not let titles and such affect your good judgment.”

Bella thought of Lord Whitlaw, Chester’s father, and blubbered some more. “How true, how true. And how foolish I have been, my dear, me with my simple, trusting nature. I fed the boy, took him to my hearth, introduced him to my friends! Oh, how could I have been so blind? And how can I ever make it up to you, dear Sydney? Tell Bella what I can do so you’ll forgive me for bringing a viper to your nest.”

“Well, I have this plan....”

Chapter 18

Hell and Beyond

A polite hell was not one in which the sinners helped lace each other’s ice skates.
That
was a cold day in hell, which was about when Miss Sydney Lattimore should have attended Lady Ambercroft’s salon.

Lady Ambercroft was a young widow making a splash in the ton and a small fortune for herself by turning her home into a genteel gaming establishment. A lady could play silver loo or dip into her pin money at the roulette table without rubbing elbows with the lower orders or sharing the table with her husband’s mistress. (Unless that mistress was another woman of birth and breeding on Lady Ambercroft’s select list of invitees.) There was, supposedly, no drinking to excess, rowdy behavior, or wagering beyond the house limits.

The elegant premises were visited by much of society—even Aunt Harriet considered going when she heard refreshments were free—and gossiped about by the rest.

Lady Ambercroft herself was a lively, attractive woman who had married a foul-breathed old man for his money, then celebrated his demise by spending her hard-earned inheritance. She still had her looks, she still had the house, she was still celebrating. She was also still on all but the highest sticklers’ guest lists, so Sydney had met her. Over braised duck at the Hopkins-Jones buffet two evenings before, Sydney asked Lady Ambercroft if she could attend one of her game nights. The widow had laughed gaily and said of course, whenever Miss Lattimore’s Aunt Harriet brought her. Which was right back to when hell froze over.

Sydney chose to consider that an invitation, as long as she was well chaperoned. She chose to accept. Lady Ambercroft was making money, she was not ruined in polite society, and, best of all, she lived right around the corner from the Lattimores!

* * * *

Sydney had no problem feigning illness to cry off Aunt Harriet’s musical entertainment planned for that evening; listening to Trixie and her friends torture the pianoforte and harp always gave her the headache. She just claimed one in advance.

Sydney had a little trouble convincing Mrs. Ott. “If you want to play cards, dearie, we can just go to my digs. That’ll be more the thing, don’t you know. My coach is right outside.”

It might be more
convenable,
but it would not serve Sydney’s purpose at all. It would serve Bella’s even less to see her thousand pounds slide into some other woman’s purse. She tried again: “His lordship ain’t going to like it.”

“He won’t know. We can slip out the back door and walk the half block. I intend to stay for only an hour.”

Bella revised her plans. In an hour even a cabbagehead like this gel would have rough going to lose a thousand pounds, but she sure as sin could lose her reputation.

As soon as Winifred left with Lord Mainwaring and Wally, and Annemarie as duenna, Sydney hurried into her most sophisticated evening gown, an amber silk with a lower neckline than usual and little puffed sleeves. She put a black domino over that, and pulled the hood up to cover her easily identifiable hair.

Ten minutes later she realized her mistake. She recognized no one in the place, she was by far the youngest female, the play was intense, and Lady Ambercroft was not happy to see her. The merry widow was not best pleased to see an unfledged deb in her establishment. Word that she was gulling innocents could ruin her. The old quiz with Miss Lattimore looked more like a procuress than a chaperone, furthermore, and Lady Ambercroft was having none of that type of thing in her house. Except in her own bedroom, of course.

She gave Bella a dirty look and pulled Sydney’s hood back up.

* * * *

The rooms were fairly thin of company this early in the evening, so there were a lot of dark corners for Sydney to stand in to watch the play. Bella took a seat at the
vingt et un
table, whispering that Lady Ambercroft would get in more of a pucker if they didn’t drop a little blunt her way. Sydney drifted from room to room, counting the number of tables, checking the spread at the refreshments area, noting how many servants waited on the players.

Some of the men at the craps table began to notice her, elbowing each other and pointing to the “phantom lady.” She moved on. At the roulette wheel she received suggestions that she stand behind this man or that to bring him luck. She shook her head and continued her survey, thankfully not understanding half of the comments that followed her.

In a short while Sydney felt she had all the information she needed. The only thing she was not sure of was whether the dealers were paid employees or guests. Foolishly, she asked the man standing next to her at the faro table. He threw his head back and brayed, reminding her of Old Jeb’s donkey back home, yellow teeth and all.

“The little lady don’t know the first thing about gaming, gents. What say we teach her?”

A weasel-faced man whose teeth were filed to sharp points grinned at her and got up so she could take his seat.

“No, no, I am only here to watch, gentlemen. My friend—”

“If your friend is that fat old beldam who was playing
vingt et un,
she took a fainting fit and got sent home in a hackney.”

Sydney jerked around. “Poor Bella, I have to—”

“She’s long gone. Message was, your footman would see you home.”

“But I didn’t bring a—”Sydney looked around at the leering faces. Oh, Lord, she was in the suds again “—a heavy purse.”

“That’s no problem, ghost lady,” an obese, sweating man wheezed at her. “I’ll stake you.” He pushed a column of colored chips her way.

“No, I’m sorry, I cannot—” she tried to say, tried to go. But a dark-skinned man with a scar under his eye said she had to play one round, it was a house rule. Donkey-laugh stood behind her so she could not run, and a scrawny old woman in a powdered wig from the last century put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her into the chair. Sydney tried to smile. She only had to wait for Lady Ambercroft to come into the room after all, or for Bella to send one of the Minch brothers back for her.

“Very well, gentlemen, my lady. One round it is.”

* * * *

Someone placed a drink in Sydney’s hand. She sipped, then pushed the glass aside. Whatever that was, she did not need it now. She needed some warm milk in her own kitchen.

Play began. Sydney did not know the rules or the worth of her markers. She didn’t know a shoe from a shovel, as far as cards went. Not to worry, her new associates were quick to reassure, they’d teach her fast enough. She tried to sort out the instructions, then decided it was wiser just to follow what the fat man did, since he had the highest columns of colored chips.

By the time the shoe or dealing box came her way, Sydney had a better idea what she was about, she thought. At least her stack of markers and coins had grown. Weasel kept leering at her, but Marie Antoinette was scowling. Her pile was dwindling, as was Scarface’s. Sydney did not want to upset these people by taking their money, not when she was a rank amateur, so she stood to leave.

“Surely one round has passed, and I really must be going.” She pushed the winnings in Fat Man’s direction. “Your stake, my lord, and thank you. It’s been an, ah, education.”

“Not so fast, Lady Incognita, not when you have all our blunt.” Scarface smiled at her, a horrid, twisted thing. She shuddered. Someone else, she could not tell who, said, “That’s not sporting,” and a third voice called, “That’s the rules of the house.”

The old lady laid a clawlike hand on Sydney’s shoulder. Dear heaven, where was Willy? Sydney prayed. Where was Lady Ambercroft?

* * * *

Lady Ambercroft was upstairs. Shortly after the unfortunate episode with Miss Lattimore’s dragon, a small, long-toothed gentleman with red hair entered the premises. Lady Ambercroft did not know him, but his credentials gleamed in the candlelight: rings, fobs, a diamond stickpin. Lord Othric Randolph, wearing the late Lord Winchester Whitlaw’s final bequest, looked around the rooms, nodded in satisfaction, then offered his hostess a private high-stakes game upstairs. One she couldn’t lose.

* * * *

Willy was at home in the butler’s pantry, throwing dice with Lord Mayne’s hired house-watcher. Lord Mayne was not happy about that either. Restless and edgy that no one had spotted Chester or Randall, the viscount had driven through a cold mist to Park Lane on his way to the clubs.

“Don’t fatch yourself, milord,” his paid guard told him, tossing the cubes from hand to hand. “I’m inside ‘cause it came on to drizzle, and the little lady’s safe as houses. Her and the sister went off with your brother”—a nod to Willy—”and your brother, milord, to her auntie’s. Be back around midnight, I ‘spect.”

Willy shook his head. “No, that was Annemarie who went with Miss Winifred and Wally. Miss Sydney is upstairs with the headache.”

Now the guard scratched his bald pate. “Iffen it was the maid who went with the others, who was it in the black cape what walked down the block with the old neighbor lady?”

A quick search had the viscount cursing and stomping around the entry hall. Willy tried to convince him that Miss Sydney had a good head on her shoulders; she’d do fine.

“Fine? She hasn’t done fine since I’ve known her! This time I am finished. Good riddance to bad baggage, I say. I told her, nothing dangerous, illegal, or scandalous. So what does she do? She skips off in the middle of the night going the devil knows where—for what? To rob the crown jewels, for all I know! To think I put a guard on the house to keep her safe! I should have chained the wench to the bed.” He crammed his beaver hat down on his head. “Well, no more. She can come home looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and those greenish eyes as innocent as a babe’s. It won’t work this time. I’m gone.”

He turned back when the guard chuckled. “And you’re fired. Pick up your check when you bring word that she’s home safe.”

* * * *

His club was nearly empty. Some older types were playing whist, and a group of dandies were tasting each other’s snuff mixtures in the bow window.

“Where is everybody?” Forrest asked a solitary gentleman sprawled in one of the leather chairs with a bottle by his side.

“Those who couldn’t avoid it are at Lady Windham’s musicale. Bunch of others are at the new production at Covent Garden. New chorus girls.” He poured himself another drink. “And those whose dibs are in tune,” he said with a grimace for the sneezes from across the room and the state of his own finances, “are at that new hell of Lady Ambercroft’s that’s all the rage.”

Now that was more the thing, the viscount decided, smiling fondly at memory of a romantic interlude with Rosalyn Ambercroft. Lady Eos was just what he needed to rid his mind of Sydney Lattimore once and for all, even if it meant going out into the damp night again.

Lady Ambercroft was unavailable, the butler informed him when he took the viscount’s hat, gloves, and cane. Perhaps if Lord Mayne visited the card rooms, her ladyship might be free later, the servant suggested with a wink.

And perhaps pigs would fly before Viscount Mayne stood in line for a doxie’s favor, no matter how highborn. Ah, well, he was already here. Forrest thought he may as well have a drink or two of Rosalyn’s finest cognac just to take the chill off, and see if there was any interesting play going on.

He put a coin down on red, even, at the wheel, then strolled away, not waiting to see if he won. He played a hand or two of
vingt et un,
decided he did not like the dealer’s lace cuffs, and moved on.

There seemed to be a stir around the faro table, so the viscount headed in that direction, stopping at the dice game to bet on his friend Collingwood’s nicking the main. Forrest jingled his winnings in one hand as he made his way to the faro table.

All seats were taken and spectators were two deep behind the players. The viscount moved around the side, where his height would let him view the action. He idly reached for another drink from a waiter’s tray, then turned back.

Coins rolled unnoticed to the thick carpet. The glass slipped through Lord Mayne’s fingers, spilling wine on his white Persian satin breeches. “Oh, hell.”

      
Chapter 19      

Reputation Roulette

It was dark, her hood was up. He couldn’t be sure. Then she turned and one of those blasted Pekingese-colored curls glimmered in the candlelight.