Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart

It was good that Morgana’s father and his new wife had gone straight to his new post in Naples rather than travel with Morgana to England. Her father knew nothing of his mother’s failing memory, or of her increasing frailty. Morgana would withhold that information from him until he’d had more time to enjoy his newly wedded bliss, absent of family concerns.

In the meantime, Lady Hart made Morgana the very best sort of chaperon, giving the appearance of fulfilling the proprieties without any of its constraints. Morgana had become used to her independence. Had she been forced to reside with her mother’s sister in the company of her prosy uncle and frivolous cousin, she was certain she would have gone mad.

Lady Hart’s gaze drifted away, and Morgana realised she’d stopped following the conversation altogether. Dear Miss Moore filled in with interested questions. A few minutes later, Morgana kissed her grandmother goodnight and returned to her bedchamber.

Amy was already there, setting out Morgana’s new sea-green silk gown. As she helped Morgana with her corset, she asked, ‘Who do you think the gentleman was, miss?’

Amy must have had as much difficulty keeping from thinking of the gentleman as Morgana had. An image of him, sword in hand, came vividly into her mind. Morgana resisted a sigh. ‘I do not know. Perhaps we will never know.’

She sat at her dressing table. Amy removed the ribbon that tied back her hair and combed it all on top of Morgana’s head.

‘Do not even attempt to curl it,’ she told Amy, with exasperation.

Instead Amy plaited some strands with matching green ribbon and others with strings of pearls. She pinned the plaits in loops so that they resembled curls at the crown of Morgana’s head.

Morgana smiled, pleased at the effect. ‘It looks splendid!’

As she dabbed a droplet of French perfume behind each ear and on the underside of each wrist, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, now dressed in her grey maid’s uniform, her countenance still like a June thunderstorm.

Morgana’s brow wrinkled, but she tried to sound cheerful. ‘Ah, Lucy, you look yourself again. Come fetch my gown.’

With a cloudy expression, Lucy gathered up the sea-green silk and helped Morgana step into it. Soon she had the bodice fastened, and Morgana turned to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

The silk draped beautifully and the tiny, luminous pearls at the neckline gave it some elegance, as did the lace covering the bodice and trimming the bottom of the skirt.

Her aunt’s recommendation of Madame Emeraude’s new shop on Bond Street had been a good one. The dress was exquisitely understated, a style that might not be the current fashion but suited Morgana much better than lots of flounces, flowers and lace. She’d been so fortunate that all the Paris dresses her father’s new wife insisted she purchase had gone missing somewhere on her way to London. She hoped they were at the bottom of the Channel.

This dress had been worth the month she’d had to wait for a decent wardrobe. She turned to Lucy. ‘Does it not look splendid?’

Lucy merely nodded, and the restless look came back into her eyes.

Morgana frowned as she fastened the earrings to her ears. Amy stood poised with her pearl necklace. ‘Remember your promise to me, Lucy. No running away.’

The girl avoided Morgana’s gaze. ‘I remember.’

Before leaving the room, Morgana risked another quick glance in the mirror. Smiling, she reached for the paisley shawl that completed her outfit, with its deep greens and blues and long silky fringe.

With a quick goodbye to the maids, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling her gloves on as she went.

Cripps stood in the hall.

‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’

‘No sound of it yet, miss,’ he replied.

‘I am determined not to keep my uncle waiting.’ She again tried her friendly smile on him.

‘Very good, miss.’ He remained as stiff-backed as ever.

Morgana kept her smile in place, but it hid her disappointment. It would be so much easier if she knew she had Cripps’s loyalty as well as his excellent service. She did so want them all to rub well together. ‘I’ll wait in the drawing room.’

Expression as bland as ever, he preceded her across the hall and opened the drawing-room door.

She walked to the window with its view of the street. No sooner had she done so than her uncle’s carriage pulled up in front of the house. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror above the mantel, fussing a bit with the neckline of her dress, but, remembering that her uncle had been suffering from gout, she hurried to the hall.

‘I will meet them at the carriage,’ she told Cripps, fancying he looked disapproving of a lady going out the door unescorted.

‘I am ready,’ she called, as Cripps closed the door behind her.

A tall gentleman stood next to the carriage in the process of assisting her uncle to disembark. Seeing her, her uncle paused. ‘Come then,’ he replied and disappeared back into his seat.

The tall gentleman turned towards her. Morgana stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh!’

Standing before her, next to her uncle’s carriage, dressed in elegant evening attire, was the gentleman from the park.

He, too, froze, but his look of surprise was replaced by a lazy smile that seemed to take for ever to settle on his face. Just as slowly he tipped his hat and came to her side.

‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Hart.’ His dark grey eyes kindled with amusement.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to reply, pulling her shawl snug around her shoulders and accepting his arm.

‘It is a fine night, is it not?’ His voice was as smooth and low as a viola. They were only a few steps from the carriage. ‘A fine night for a walk in the park.’

‘Oh, say nothing of that, sir. I beg you,’ Morgana countered in a fierce whisper.

‘My lips, dear Miss Hart—’ the lips he referred to turned up at the corners ‘—are sealed.’

Chapter Two

Sloane handed Miss Hart into the carriage, to the cheerful greetings of her aunt, uncle and cousin. He climbed in after her and sat between the two young ladies, catching a whiff of Miss Hart’s perfume, a faint scent but distinctly French and expensive.

She settled herself closer to the carriage window, which somehow caused his blood to race, more so than Lady Hannah’s nearly imperceptible move closer to him.

Lady Cowdlin spoke. ‘We must do the introductions, mustn’t we? Morgana, may I present Mr Cyprian Sloane to you? This is my niece, Miss Morgana Hart. Her father is Baron Hart, you know.’

Sloane did know of Baron Hart, though the covert circumstances by which he was acquainted did not bear mentioning. It would cause more questions than he cared to answer.

He turned to the young lady. ‘Miss Hart, is it?’

She did not miss his attempt at humour. ‘Mr Sloane.’ A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Lady Cowdlin went on, ‘Morgana is my dear sister’s child, God rest her soul.’

‘Ah.’ He hoped the sound was appropriately sympathetic.

The carriage lurched forward and they were on their way.

When Lady Cowdlin requested that her niece be included in the party, she’d not given the niece’s name. Neither had Lady Hannah, though she’d chattered on about her cousin that very afternoon when, during the fashionable hour, he’d driven her in his curricle through Hyde Park. Lady Hannah had explained this was her cousin’s second London Season. Hannah’s mother had sponsored her years before, but the cousin ‘didn’t take.’ Sloane had only half-listened to her account, attending more to how many of the beau monde saw fit to greet him. More each day. Two years ago none of them would have dared acknowledge him in public.

‘Mr Sloane has been so good as to invite us to the King’s Theatre, Morgana,’ Lady Hannah said in a somewhat smug tone and unnecessarily, for Sloane was certain her cousin must have been told their destination ahead of time.

‘Yes.’ Miss Hart turned to him again so that their faces were very close. ‘It was good of you to include me, Mr Sloane.’

‘My pleasure.’ He smiled.

The irony of his scrapping Hyde Park virago being none other than Lady Hannah’s cousin made him want to laugh out loud. He contained the impulse, but found he liked sharing the secret with Miss Hart. It felt… wickedly intimate.

When she’d emerged from her town house, he’d first only been aware of a swish of green silk, then he’d recognised her. But instead of the look of an efficient governess, she’d had a regal air, as if her intricate hairstyle were a crown upon her head.

When he had offered her his arm, the torch at the doorway illuminated her face, and he at last discovered the secret of her eyes. They were light brown—no, that was not descriptive nough—they were ginger-coloured, ginger flecked with chocolate. With the frame of her dark brows and lashes, the effect was remarkable. What’s more, her eyes shone with alertness and intelligence, as if they could not get their fill of all there was to see. For that very brief moment he’d felt caught in them, as if they also had the capacity to set a trap.

Miss Hart was a decided contrast to the classically beautiful Lady Hannah with her abundance of blonde curls, liquid blue eyes and blushing pink complexion. Lady Hannah, fashionably petite and curvaceous, was like a sweet confection, while her taller, slimmer cousin brought to mind something with more spice—ginger, perhaps.

‘Mr Sloane is seeking to buy a property in Mayfair,’ Hannah continued to her cousin. ‘Will that not be splendid?’

‘Very nice,’ Miss Hart agreed.

‘We shall be neighbours!’ Lady Hannah laughed, lightly placing her hand on his arm.

‘Mayfair is a big place,’ intoned Lord Cowdlin.

Sloane knew Cowdlin was not at all happy about any proximity between Sloane and his daughter.

Lady Cowdlin piped up, ‘Not so very big. He’d be hard pressed to be farther than a few streets from our fine residence.’ She gave a toadying smile. ‘Why, we may be certain to see him often as we are out and about.’

Lady Cowdlin undoubtedly favoured his suit, but then she was probably not privy to tales told about him in the gentlemen’s clubs and gaming hells. Still, Sloane was confident his money would wear down Cowdlin’s reservations, as would his efforts to behave in an impeccably respectable fashion.

Lady Hannah leaned into his side. ‘That will be so lovely,’ she purred.

Lady Hannah also made no secret of favouring his suit, though the increasingly proprietary flavour of her flirtation, so gratifying that very afternoon when she had sat by his side in his curricle, suddenly irked him. He’d not yet proposed to her, he wanted to protest in front of her cool, ginger-eyed cousin.

‘Do you have a property in mind, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. It was the sort of polite question anyone might ask, but her gaze had flicked back and forth between him and her cousin.

‘I have hired a secretary to search for me. A very bright young man—’

‘Who is that, Sloane?’ Lord Cowdlin interrupted. ‘Someone known to me?’

Cowdlin probably thought he’d hired a man out of the rookery to handle his affairs. Sloane certainly knew such men, but he would be a fool indeed to mix that part of his life with his newly respectable one.

‘His name is Elliot. I doubt he would be known to you, but he is extremely efficient.’ Cowdlin would probably scowl in disapproval if he knew Elliot’s background: the son of a man who had run London’s most sophisticated smuggling operations. Now retired, he’d managed to get his son respectably educated. Working for Sloane was an opportunity for Elliot to join the respectable world. In that, he and Sloane had much in common.

‘Ah,’ responded Cowdlin without true interest.

The carriage soon drew up to the entrance of the King’s Theatre. There was a long line of carriages behind them, signalling a large crowd. Sloane assisted the ladies from the carriage, Lady Cowdlin an awkward bulk, Lady Hannah all soft and melting in his grasp, and Miss Hart a mere formality, relying on herself, not his hand, to alight.

Sloane predicted Hannah would some day be a warm and responsive bed partner; it was one of the qualities that had fostered his interest in her. But he could not imagine what sharing a bed with Miss Hart would be like. His senses flared with a sudden curiosity to find out.

Sloane mentally shook himself. He was thinking like a rake, not a gentleman. In a very gentlemanly manner, he offered each of the young ladies an arm and allowed Lord and Lady Cowdlin to precede them into the theatre and on to the box he’d rented for the Season. It had cost a pretty penny, as had the boxes he’d rented in all the important theatres. These were investments, he told himself, the necessary expenditures of a wealthy gentleman of the ton.

His investment was already paying off. Lord Cowdlin had given up his own subscription to the opera this year, more evidence of his dismal financial situation. Lady Cowdlin and her daughter had been in raptures when Sloane offered his box to them. They insisted he must be part of their group or they could not possibly accept his generosity. Lord Cowdlin had been less enthusiastic about this invitation. No doubt that gentleman would prefer to find a wealthy son-in-law who did not come encumbered with a rakehell’s reputation.

Sloane ushered Lady Cowdlin into the box. ‘My lady, I would be pleased for you to take the front seats. The view should be excellent.’

Lord Cowdlin snapped to attention. ‘What? What? You would sit in the back with my daughter?’

Sloane refrained from rolling his eyes. Did Cowdlin think him so big a fool? In such a public place, to sit in the dark with a maiden would surely compromise his efforts to raise his reputation from the depths it had sunk in the years he’d been on his own. Sloane was no fool. ‘You misunderstand me, sir. I meant the front seats for all the ladies of our party.’ He kept his voice deliberately bland. ‘I fancy you and I will be less interested than the ladies in either the performance or the audience.’

‘Oh,’ mumbled his lordship. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I will sit in the back, Papa.’ Lady Hannah batted her eyes. ‘I do not mind in the least.’

Apparently Lady Hannah had fewer scruples than he. Either that or she was impossibly naïve.

Sloane noticed Miss Hart watching this exchange with those lively eyes. What was she thinking? If he sat in the back with her, he could ask. He fancied she was the sort who would tell him.

Lady Cowdlin seized her husband’s arm with a dramatic flourish. ‘I will sit with my husband, Mr Sloane. You young people must sit in the front seats. I insist upon it.’

And Lady Hannah insisted that she sit in the middle chair, Miss Hart on one side, Sloane on the other, to which arrangement Miss Hart acquiesced without complaint. She took her seat and immediately scanned the theatre, somewhat methodically, Sloane noticed. She slowly examined the house left to right, eyes lingering longer on certain boxes, watching certain people on the floor.

The theatre was filling rapidly, the expensively clad patrons taking their seats in the boxes, the less fashionable packing the floor below. The din of voices melded with the orchestra tuning their instruments, creating a buzz of general anticipation.

‘Oh, look, Mr Sloane,’ Hannah cried. ‘There is Lady Castlereagh and her husband as well.’

Lord Castlereagh caught sight of Sloane as he took his seat. The gentleman acknowledged Sloane’s nod. Castlereagh was one of the few who knew of Sloane’s service during the war, when the government had needed a man to crawl around the city’s underbelly, to sniff out traitors more interested in profit than patriotism. Sloane was compensated for his deeds by a portion of the spoils seized from those who betrayed England for French gold. The bounty had been the seeds of his fortune. Skill at cards had done the rest.

He was compelled to remain silent on those years, and to endure from those who recruited him the belief he had done it only for the money. Still, when he had asked Castlereagh to use his influence with his wife, one of the patronesses of Almack’s, to issue him a voucher, the man had done so. Sloane’s mere appearance in those hallowed halls had gone a long way to giving him entrée into the ton.

Sloane had forgone serious card play and other gaming, his quest for respectability being a more challenging game. Admittance to Almack’s, however, had been like breaking a faro bank.

‘Oh, I also see one of my dearest friends from school,’ Lady Hannah exclaimed, her attention darting to the other side of the room. ‘And my brother is with her! How nice. I have high hopes in that quarter.’

Sloane dutifully glanced in that direction.

Hannah turned to her cousin. ‘Morgana, look, there is my brother Varney, and he is with Athenia Poltrop, my best bosom friend…’

Sloane no longer heeded Lady Hannah’s chatter. He no longer thought of her cousin. His vision was riveted upon another box, where the erect, silver-haired figure of the Earl of Dorton entered, followed by his son, Viscount Rawley and his Viscountess. Last entering the box was a fine-looking young man Sloane could only guess was his brother’s son.

What a friendly family party. How cosy for them all to attend the theatre together. Only one family member had been excluded from the familial tableau.

Sloane. The black sheep. The disreputable son.

He had no wish to be included in any of their activities, but one day they would not dare ignore him. One day he would have so much power and influence that his father would be forced to pay him respect.

‘Who is that, sir?’ Miss Hart’s sharp eyes were upon him, obviously noticing the direction of his gaze.

Hannah answered for him. ‘That is Lord Dorton and his son, Lord Rawley, and Lady Rawley. The young man is her son.’

‘My father and brother,’ Sloane finished for her.

Miss Hart’s eyebrows rose a notch.

Hannah leaned over to whisper into her ear, but not quietly enough for Sloane to miss the words. ‘They are estranged from Mr Sloane.’

Miss Hart darted a quick glance at him, one that did not linger.

The orchestra struck its opening chord, but the cacophony of voices from the audience did not subside one bit. The audience was too busy watching the spectacle of each other to bother with the opening of the curtain and the entrance of the first performers on the stage.

Morgana smiled to herself, taking in the disorder in the seats below, the ogling going on from box to box, the beautiful music and powerful, stirring voices. But all seemed mere background to the man who sat so near to her, Mr Cyprian Sloane.

Cyprian was an odd name, one she’d rarely heard except as another term for harlot. What would it have been like to grow up with such a name?

She stole another glance at him, pleased that her cousin sat between them so she could do so without him being aware. He’d said very little to any of them and still less to her, but she thought she perceived a hint of the man who fought with such restrained violence in the park. In a way, fighting in the park seemed a more fitting occupation for him than sitting in an opera box.

He was not quite focused on the stage, but still on the box where his father sat. There was a story there, she was certain. If she had the opportunity, she might ask him why he was estranged from his family. It was the sort of direct question she often later regretted. Such directness from a lady was not at all the thing.

She suspected it was one of the reasons she did not take with young men. It had been four years since she’d last been in a London theatre. She’d been nineteen, like Hannah, and it had been her come-out. But she’d ended that Season without a husband. She’d since decided she was glad of it.

Sloane shifted in his seat, and she stole another glance at him, seizing a few seconds to study his strong profile. His looks were faintly Latin, with his dark hair, strong nose and wide mouth.

She never would have guessed those gentlemen in the other box were related to him. She’d have more readily believed them related to Hannah. Lord Dorton, his son and grandson all shared the fair hair and complexion she saw so often in England and so rarely in Spain.

Sloane turned his head in her direction and she quickly averted her gaze, pretending she’d been watching the stage. She fancied she could feel his grey eyes upon her, and her pulse quickened.

For the first time in her life Morgana wished she were her frivolous cousin Hannah. She wished she’d been brought up in an English country house, with an English governess, attended an English girls’ school, and learned to be thrilled with ladylike pastimes and housewifely pursuits.

But even so, would Cyprian Sloane be sitting next to her instead of her cousin?

She forced her gaze back to the stage.

The opera was Penelope, and Morgana thought herself fortunate to be present at the soprano’s début performance in the King’s Theatre. Violante Camporese’s voice proved rich and full, and Morgana set herself to focus her attention on the performance.

She managed tolerably well, and believed herself in complete mastery of her thoughts when the interval came. A servant arrived with refreshment, but soon nothing would do for Hannah but that she be taken to her bosom friend’s box, and, because she could not go with Sloane alone, they all must go. So Morgana pushed herself through the crush of people all bent on calling upon someone else. She noticed one box with several gentlemen hovering at the door and made a mental note to figure out who was seated there.

When they knocked on the door to Miss Poltrop’s box and the young lady saw who’d come to visit her, there were squeals of welcome and hugs between the two friends. The rest packed themselves in and, for a moment, Morgana had to squeeze by Mr Sloane, very aware of where every part of his body touched hers.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in his deep smooth voice, as if he, too, had noticed the contact.

Introductions were made. Lady Poltrop and Morgana’s aunt were quickly deep in whispered conversation, and her uncle and Lord Poltrop just as quickly exited the box. While Hannah and her friend Athenia were giggling together, Morgana was momentarily at eye level with the knot in Mr Sloane’s neckcloth. The man had to stand at least six feet tall.

‘Do you enjoy the performance, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.

She had to tilt her head to look at him. ‘Oh, yes. The drama and intrigue. Who is seated with whom? Who is cut and who not? The conquest by man of woman.’

His eyes crinkled in puzzlement.

She smiled and deliberately fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You meant the performance on stage, perhaps? I was speaking of the entertainment in the boxes and on the floor.’

Then he did a marvellous thing that made her heart quite jump up and down in her throat. He laughed, a deep rumble of a laugh, complete with twinkling eyes and wide grin.

Hannah looked over. ‘Mr Sloane, come talk with me and Athenia. We have great need of your company.’

Morgana’s pulse still raced when he moved away without even a look back at her.

Her cousin Varney came to her side. ‘Glad to see you out, Morgana.’

She was grateful he’d come to distract her. ‘I am glad to be out at last.’

Varney glanced over to where Hannah stood clutching Sloane’s arm in a lively, giggling conversation with her friend. ‘What do you think of that?’ He bent his head in their direction.

Morgana raised her brows. ‘What am I to think? Are they to be engaged? Hannah has said she has hopes of it.’

Varney nodded. ‘Oh, she has hopes, all right. He’s flush enough, to be sure, but I still cannot like it.’