Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart
- -
- 100%
- +
‘Why?’ Morgana could not help but ask.
Varney squirmed a little, glancing back at Sloane. ‘A lot of talk surrounds that fellow. Some people say he was a smuggler during the war, in it for his own profit. He has a reputation as a philanderer and a card player—and not always in gentlemen’s clubs.’
Morgana, too, directed her gaze at Sloane.
‘I cannot think he is the man for Hannah,’ Varney added in a gloomy tone.
Sloane looked every bit the part her cousin Varney described. She could more readily see Sloane at the helm of some smuggling vessel or seated at a green baize table staring at a hand of cards, than here chatting with two misses in their first Season. Morgana said what she was thinking. ‘Does your father know of this talk? Why would he allow Sloane to court her then?’
Varney grimaced. ‘Truth is, the family needs Hannah to make a good match. A wealthy one, that is. Sloane has been the best prospect thus far, and no one can complain of anything in his recent behaviour.’
‘He is reformed, do you say?’
‘I do not say it,’ he protested. ‘But others insist he is reformed. Castlereagh, for example. And the Marquess of Heronvale. Both are known to speak well of him.’
‘Indeed,’ she mused, more to herself than to him.
Lady Cowdlin roused herself from her conversation. ‘Mr Sloane, I believe the performance is due to start soon. We must return to the box before there is a mad rush.’
Sloane responded with great affability, ‘As you wish, my lady.’
Hannah clutched his arm, but spoke to her friend. ‘Athenia, do walk with us. You have not had a promenade yet this evening. You and your mother can walk with us and Varney can escort you back.’
Varney hurried to Athenia’s side, but Hannah insisted he escort the older ladies.
Sloane looked at Morgana. It appeared he was the only one who noticed she did not have a man’s arm to hang on to. In any event, she could certainly walk the short distance to the opera box without assistance.
The corridors were every bit as congested as they’d been at the start of the intermission. Morgana dived into the crowd, trying to keep up with Varney and Sloane and the ladies on their arms. Sloane looked back once to check on her. If he looked back again, she did not know it. She became separated from the group by several men who had left the box she’d been curious of before. One young man gave her a very appraising look, which Morgana returned with a cool repressive one, just before she spied her uncle and Athenia’s father coming out of the box as well.
Whose box was it who attracted her uncle and Lord Poltrop and all these other gentlemen? She pushed her way past, calculating that the box was five doors from Mr Sloane’s. She’d gone no more than a yard when he came towards her in the crowd.
He gave her his arm. ‘I ought not to have allowed you to proceed unescorted.’
She put her arm through his, thinking of how that arm so lethally had held a sword. ‘I assure you I only had one illicit encounter,’ she quipped. ‘However, I am well able to take care of myself.’
He again gave that devastating smile and leaned down to her ear. ‘I feared I would be compelled to break up another brawl.’
She could not help but laugh in return. ‘You might recall exactly who ended that first brawl.’
They reached the door to his box and halted, each smiling into the other’s eyes. ‘I recall it,’ he said, and for Morgana time seemed to stand still.
He opened the door, and the other ladies and Varney were crowded in the box saying their goodbyes. Sloane escorted Morgana to her chair and they were still standing next to each other when her uncle entered.
Morgana thought her uncle’s complexion in high colour. She turned to check the boxes, counting carefully to discover who it was he and half the gentlemen in the house visited.
In the fifth box over sat a brightly clad, auburn-haired woman holding court to several gentlemen who flocked around her. Her dress, while not scandalously low cut, none the less displayed to advantage her ample bosom. She looked the very paragon of fashion and gaiety. The woman caught Morgana’s eye and smiled.
‘Who is she?’ Morgana asked Sloane.
He frowned. ‘No one you should know, Miss Hart.’
Morgana glanced back at the woman. ‘Why not? Is she a demi-rep?’
He drew her from the edge of the box, making her turn away from the audience. ‘It would be best for you not to ask about such women.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I am not missish, Mr Sloane, as you well know. My uncle and Lord Poltrop visited that box. I saw them. I would like to know who she is.’
He shushed her again, something that always raised her hackles ever since she’d been a small child. She gave him a direct stare and waited.
He returned the stare, much too long for her to be comfortable. Finally, he spoke, ‘That is Harriette Wilson. She is a celebrated courtesan and not the sort of person a young lady of your station should know about.’
Morgana persisted, now more out of a desire to deflate his sudden prosiness than out of curiosity about the captivating Harriette Wilson. ‘Do you know her?’
He paused, their gazes still locked. ‘I am acquainted with her.’
She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, when Hannah hurried over. Her friend had left, and she’d undoubtedly noticed her gentleman-of-choice had engaged in a brief conversation with someone other than herself.
The orchestra sounded its first chords and they all took their seats, Morgana feeling more stimulated by the brief conversation with Mr Sloane than anything else of that evening. She consoled herself that, since Sloane was Hannah’s probable fiancé, she might have other opportunities to converse with him.
She peeked at him. He would make an interesting friend, and she could content herself with that. Her gaze wandered back to Harriette Wilson. No one in that box paid the least attention to the performance on stage. They were riveted on Miss Wilson, who exuded self-assurance and charm, as well as a frankly sensuous appearance.
Even Morgana could recognise her allure, though she could not explain it. Suffice to say the gentlemen flocked around her, even though she was not a young woman, perhaps even near her father’s age.
Miss Wilson looked in the direction of their box, but not at Morgana this time. At Sloane.
What precisely had Sloane meant by being ‘acquainted’ with the celebrated courtesan?
Chapter Three
By the next afternoon, Morgana had quite settled in her mind that these frequent thoughts of Cyprian Sloane were entirely due to a month of inactivity and near social isolation. With the delivery of several dresses and more to come, she would soon have additional things to think about.
This night she would attend Almack’s with Aunt Winnie and Hannah and was quite happy that her new peach muslin was finished and ready to wear.
Of course, Morgana wondered if Sloane would find it becoming on her. She squared her shoulders. She was thinking nonsense again. Besides, it was entirely possible he would not even attend Almack’s.
Morgana donned her bonnet and walked out to the small patch of garden behind the town house, where Lucy, on her knees, was pulling weeds.
‘Hello, Lucy.’
The girl gave her no more than a brief glance before turning back to tug at some raggedy green invader among a small patch of lavender. ‘Good afternoon, miss.’
Morgana sat on the stone bench near where Lucy worked. The afternoon was warm enough for the lightest wrap and the sky was overcast with milky white clouds. ‘I thought now might be a good time for us to chat.’
Lucy tugged at another weed. ‘If you say so, miss.’
Morgana sighed. She might be pulling teeth, not weeds, for how easy this would be. ‘I do wish you would tell me—explain if you can—why you went with that man yesterday.’
‘I met him when I was at the shops.’ Lucy patted the dirt where it had loosened around the violets, not answering the question at all.
‘Did he approach you? What did he say to you?’ Morgana could not believe any girl would be so foolish as to allow such a man to speak to her.
‘You have the wrong of it.’ Lucy sat back on her heels and looked up at Morgana. “Twas I spoke to him. I knew what he was. He’s been about before.’
‘You approached him?’
Lucy nodded. ‘You’ll want to know why, but I don’t think it proper to tell a lady, such as y’rself.’
Morgana tried not to frown. ‘I assure you, Lucy. I have lived in the world. You will not shock me.’
Lucy’s eyes flashed sceptically. ‘You’ll not tell my sister?’
Morgana shook her head. ‘I will not.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘I suppose it don’t matter if you do. You’ll be letting me go after you hear what I done and then I’ll be gone anyway and none of m’family will speak to me then.’
‘I’m not trying to discover a way to be rid of you, Lucy.’
The sceptical look returned, as well as another shrug. ‘Well, I’ll tell you and we’ll see.’ She changed positions, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the flower bed. ‘You were told us Jenkins girls was honest, clean girls and that’s true enough of Amy.’
‘But not of you?’ Morgana tried to sound accepting of whatever the story would be.
‘Nay, miss. I’m a bad girl.’ She stared directly in Morgana’s eyes. ‘I’ve done it with men, you know. You know. Fornicating.’
Morgana remained steady. ‘Go on.’
‘More than once, miss. A lot of times, since I became pretty, you know. This man, he said I was friendly-like. He said he could tell that about me.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t know how he meant that at first, but then he showed me.’
Oh, dear God. When had this happened? The girl was only eighteen.
‘He gave me money for it,’ Lucy added. ‘So I did it again.’
Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.
‘I won’t tell you who it was, miss, so don’t ask me,’ she blurted in unnecessary defiance. ‘Coming here didn’t seem right, you see, after all that. You thinkin’ I was a good girl and treating me and Amy so nice.’
Morgana reached out to the girl, touching her on the shoulder. ‘Of course I would treat you nicely.’
Lucy pulled away, fat tears filling her eyes. She rose to her feet. From under her wide-brimmed garden hat her smooth complexion turned a becoming shade of pink. A breeze blew her simple maid’s dress against her body, showing the lush shape of her figure. The bow of her mouth trembled and one tear slid slowly down her cheek.
Morgana could easily imagine what that man had seen in the girl. God help her, could Morgana witness another girl lost to such a life?
She could still see that young Portuguese girl who’d climbed over the wall into her father’s property. Morgana brought her food and spoke to her in her halting Portuguese. Morgana had been thirteen and the girl of a similar age. As two children in a garden would naturally do, they played together. The Portuguese girl carried a rag doll and Morgana ran to get her doll as well. They’d spent a pleasant hour, feeding and rocking their dolls. Morgana impulsively traded her fine china doll for the girl’s dirty rag doll, and she could still remember the light in the girl’s eyes as she looked upon the gift.
Morgana had made a friend, one her own age. It had been an event so rare she could scarcely recall any others.
Then the housekeeper had discovered them and chased the girl away. As she scrambled over the wall, the doll fell from her arms and shattered on the ground.
She’d seen the Portuguese girl a year later, leaning out of a window, her breasts almost bare, her eyes hard and empty, while another woman, dressed equally shockingly, called to the soldiers in the street to come to have a good time.
Morgana stood and again placed her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Lucy, please do not do anything rash. Do not go back to that man.’
Through her tears, Lucy gave her a rebellious look. ‘I already gave a boy a penny to take the dress back, but I dunno how long I can stay.’
‘You may stay as long as you like, Lucy,’ Morgana said quietly.
The girl shook her head fiercely. ‘You don’t understand, miss. I liked what the man done to me. I liked the money. Men pay lots of money. Why would I want to be hauling water and mucking out fireplaces and scrubbing and dusting all day when men give me more money for a few minutes of frolicking?’
It was true a maid’s life was not an easy one, but what would be the cost of Lucy selling herself for a man’s pleasure? ‘There is no future for you with a man like the one in the park. That is no good, Lucy.’
‘I won’t go with that man, miss. Not after what he done, with that knife and all, but more I cannot say.’
Morgana had to content herself with that. Lucy whirled around and ran back into the house while Morgana turned, crossing her arms over her chest.
A man’s face appeared through the bushes where the brick wall should be. She gave a startled cry.
‘The mortar,’ he said.
‘Mortar?’ Through a gap in the wall separating her garden from the one next to it, she saw a young man dressed in a dark brown coat and fawn trousers.
‘The mortar must have been inferior. This part of the wall has crumbled.’
That fact was obvious now. She’d not spent enough time in the garden to notice before.
He smiled apologetically. ‘I beg your pardon, miss. I… I did not mean to eavesdrop.’
‘You heard everything?’
‘I heard enough,’ he admitted, blushing scarlet.
‘Then I must ask for your silence.’ She stared at him, attempting to assess his character.
He bowed. ‘Aaron Elliot at your service, miss. I was examining the property. It is for sale. I must note the wall.’
Elliot? That was the name of Sloane’s secretary. Her curiosity increased.
She extended her hand through the wall. ‘I am Miss Morgana Hart.’
He shook her hand self-consciously, letting go quickly. ‘Will your maidservant be all right?’
Morgana shrugged. ‘I do not know. For the moment, I hope.’
‘Poor creature,’ he whispered, instantly endearing himself to her and leaving her certain he would not spread tales about Miss Morgana Hart’s maid.
‘I may rely on your silence, then?’ She was already sure of his response.
‘Indeed. You have my word upon it.’
She nodded. ‘I thank you, sir.’ She gave him a faint smile. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’ Then she turned and went back inside the house, entirely approving of Mr Sloane’s selection of secretary.
She’d always believed that the quality of the servant reflected the quality of the employer, though what it said about her that she would wish to hang on to a maid who’d admitted such a moral lapse as Lucy had done, she could not guess.
Another thought crept in, one that put completely out of her mind the intention of informing Cripps about the wall. What if Mr Sloane purchased the property next door?
That evening Sloane surveyed the unremarkable décor and the predictable company, and lamented the sacrifices he must make in his quest for respectability.
Almack’s. Was there any place so tedious?
Still, he crossed the room to pay his respects to the patronesses. Lady Castlereagh and Lady Jersey were keeping watch over their domain this night.
He bowed before Lady Castlereagh, not missing Lady Jersey’s disapproving frown. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ He turned to Lady Jersey. ‘And to you, ma’am. It is an honour to be here this evening.’
He hoped his deference to the great Lady Jersey, who was known for her high opinion of herself and arbitrary opinion of others, would inch him towards her approval. Her frown eased just a bit.
‘Good evening, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Castlereagh offered her hand and he raised it lightly to his lips. ‘I am so pleased you have come. Tell us, what do you think of our young ladies? Is there anyone to whom I might present you?’
Sloane gave his most polite, agreeable expression. ‘I would be honoured to be introduced to any young lady you think suitable.’
Lady Castlereagh turned to her companion. ‘Who do you suggest, Sally?’
Lady Jersey puffed up in importance. ‘You, sir, are acquainted with Lady Hannah, Cowdlin’s girl. She is an unexceptionable choice for you, but we might also introduce you to Miss Simpson, Lord Kettleton’s youngest. There is a tolerable dowry there, I am sure, though the family has launched three other daughters. Lady Kettleton is an annoying person, a bit common in her manner, but you could do worse in her daughter.’
‘The girl is a shy little thing,’ Lady Castlereagh added. ‘But a nice well-mannered girl.’
He could not think of a young lady who suited him less than a shy, nice, well-mannered girl. ‘If you both desire it, I shall be happy to make her acquaintance.’
Lady Jersey herself led him over to where Miss Simpson sat with her mother. Sloane saw the mother’s flash of disfavour and the daughter’s eye-widening fear as that notorious rake, Cyprian Sloane, approached her. The poor child had little to fear from him. He was reasonably certain he would make formal his interest in Lady Hannah, but to be respectable he must not appear to show favour until ready to declare himself. He was not certain precisely why he was not yet ready.
He bowed politely to Lady Kettleton and her daughter, and just as politely asked the girl to join him in the set that was at that moment forming.
With a frightened glance to her mother and Lady Jersey, Miss Simpson nodded and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
They took their places for the country dance near where the musicians played in the balcony. Sloane leaned towards his terrified partner. ‘I beg your assistance, Miss Simpson. Tell me if I make a misstep. I become a bit nervous in a crowd such as this.’
Her eyes widened even more. ‘You become nervous?’
No, truthfully, Sloane never became nervous. And he hardly ever turned the wrong way in a country dance or trod on a lady’s toes. He merely wished to put the girl at ease. If she saw him as less than an ogre—or less than a shocking rake—she might relax and at least enjoy the set.
‘Does not everyone become nervous around so many people?’ He tried to school his features into those of a self-conscious dancer.
Her eyes still mimicked saucers as the dance began, but she soon showed that she took his request very seriously. She quietly cued him on what step came next and complimented him when he made a correct figure. She was so absorbed in his performance, she appeared to have totally forgotten herself. As they moved down the line, the fear on her face had vanished, replaced by a rather sweet smile.
The set was long and boring, but Sloane congratulated himself on giving Miss Simpson a bit of confidence. When he finally returned her to her still-disapproving mother, she glanced around the room with more interest than fear. He bowed and bid her goodnight. As he turned from her, he saw Lady Hannah enter the room.
Rather he should say that he saw Miss Hart enter the room, accompanied by Lady Hannah and her mother, for it was Miss Hart who captured his gaze first. Because of her gown, he told himself. It was the colour of an evening sunset, the sort of soft orange that sometimes lights the horizon. Miss Hart’s gown caught the eye more readily than a white one festooned with pink ribbons, flounces and silk flowers.
It might cause talk if he immediately approached them, so he walked to a corner of the room and stood at the crowd’s edge. The two young ladies followed Lady Cowdlin to a bevy of dowagers and chaperons, obviously of Lady Cowdlin’s acquaintance. Miss Hart turned to survey the room. She caught sight of him, hesitating a moment as she did. Sloane experienced a spark of awareness, but he would not credit that. It would merely be due to the high drama of their first encounter, that was all. A memory of danger and excitement often was accompanied by the same surge of emotions the real incident created. Why, he could not go down to the docks without reliving the macabre thrill of battling the French spy he’d been tracking, of the viciousness of the fight, and ultimate victory when his sword plunged deeply into the man’s chest.
Blinking away that memory, Sloane nodded slightly to acknowledge Miss Hart. She smiled, and her gaze eventually travelled on.
A familiar young man he’d not noticed before walked over to him. ‘Good evening, sir.’
Sloane was momentarily without speech.
The young man smiled. ‘I am your nephew, David Sloane.’
Sloane shook his head, as if waking from a stupor. ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. I confess I am surprised…’
No member of his family had spoken to him or called on him or otherwise acknowledged his presence since he had arrived in town. He took a breath and extended his hand. ‘How do you do, David.’
The young man accepted the handshake warmly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Uncle.’
This nephew had been a mere lad, not even old enough for school, when Sloane, then a youth himself, had last seen him. It had been during a rare holiday from school that Sloane spent with the family. He recalled his father being in some towering rage, the reason escaping him. Perhaps he’d been caught downing ale with the field hands at the pub, or had it been the time he’d overturned his father’s new gig?
Did his nephew’s memories of Uncle Cyprian include hearing the Earl’s barrage of verbal abuse and his stinging lashes with a whip? If the young man were spared such memories, as Sloane was not, he was certain the Earl and David’s father would have supplied other evidence of Uncle Cyprian’s total moral collapse.
David smiled again. ‘I had wanted to make myself known to you before, but I’d not found the opportunity.’
Sloane gave him a grave look. ‘Your father and grandfather will not approve of your speaking to me.’
The young man laughed. ‘I dare say not, but I assure you, I am not in agreement with them. Frankly, I think it does our family discredit to cut you off without a word.’
Our family? Sloane was amused at his nephew’s words.
David’s father had been born to the Earl of Dorton’s first wife—the virtuous wife. Sloane’s mother was not virtuous. She’d had a fairly public liaison with a dashing but impoverished Italian count, and, though the Earl of Dorton had declared Sloane his son, it was widely bandied about that Sloane was the product of that rollicking affair.
Indeed, the Earl, the man he called father, had branded him with the name Cyprian lest anyone forget what his mother was.
What he was.
From the time Sloane was old enough to understand these matters, the Earl had made certain the boy knew how good the Earl had been to acknowledge him as his son, how hard the Earl had tried to keep Sloane’s mother on the country estate, how she ultimately left them both when Sloane was not yet three years old, running off to Paris with her count.
How she and the man who sired him got caught in the revolutionary upheaval there and, as titled persons, went to their deaths on the guillotine.
Sloane wrenched his thoughts back to this nephew. ‘Your grandfather will be angry, I dare say.’ And, like as not, would place the blame at Sloane’s feet.
His nephew’s eyes twinkled. ‘I shall plead an attack of Christian charity. Grandfather will not dare argue on that score.’
Sloane could not help but laugh. ‘I trust the Earl is in good health? And your father as well?’
The young man replied, ‘My father is quite robust. Grandfather fatigues easily, although he will never admit to any weakness. Otherwise he is much as he has always been.’
Trying to still the flood of painful memories that suddenly assaulted him, Sloane asked other polite questions about the health of other relations who would, like as not, cross a street to avoid having to greet him. David answered just as politely, with an open countenance that led Sloane to think his sentiments might be genuine. The young man’s looks were more poetic than manly, with features that in the father appeared weak, but in the son seemed kind. Sloane could not help but like him.