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

He huffed. ‘Elliot is the model of discretion. Did you assume he was my only source of information about your doings?’

She had not imagined he cared a fig about her doings since the night at Vauxhall, when he held her much less painfully than he did now.

She addressed him in a haughty tone. ‘Do take your hands off me, Sloane. I do not fancy having bruised arms.’

He released her so quickly she almost fell against him. He caught her again and only stepped back after she regained her balance. She rubbed where his hands had gripped her.

It suddenly felt as if walls were falling in on her, but she could not allow him to realise that. ‘I should like to know your source of information, if it was not Mr Elliot.’

‘Take your pick,’ he shot back. ‘The circle of those who know of you is widening rapidly. The floodgates are open, Morgana. It is time to cut and run.’

‘I have no notion of what that means,’ she snapped.

He glowered at her. ‘It means that your activities are in imminent danger of being revealed—’

‘And my reputation ruined?’ she finished for him. ‘Did I not tell you, Sloane, that I do not care?’

This was a lie. Her ruin and banishment from a society that heretofore had only grudgingly accepted her truly terrified her. Her father would disown her. How could he do otherwise when her shame might reflect on his new wife? The part of her fortune her father did not control was modest. What would happen to her?

She almost laughed. She knew too well what happened to young women with no money and no friends.

‘I care,’ he shouted. ‘I told you from the beginning I would not allow you to bring me down with you. Not after I have worked so hard to earn my good name. I’ll be damned if I allow you to ruin it.’

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Then you must prevent my discovery, must you not?’

He swung away and paced in front of her. ‘It is not only that, Morgana. This is a dangerous business. Deadly dangerous… Your altercation in the park was nothing compared to what could happen. That glove-shop proprietor is nipping at your heels, and, believe me, she will not stop until she is revenged upon you.’

Morgana’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’

He stopped pacing but did not answer right away. He finally turned to her and the look on his face made her shiver. ‘I have my means.’

They stood no more than three feet from each other, staring like two cats daring the other to pounce. The pause merely reminded Morgana of the weight of the responsibility she carried on her shoulders. She ought to have figured out another way to help the girls. She ought to have protected them all instead of bringing danger and ruin.

But she must not weaken now. She straightened her spine and gave Sloane a steady look. ‘I will see this through to the end, Sloane. I have no other choice.’

His angry expression changed to one more vulnerable, until he covered that over with no expression at all. It was like a cleaver chopping her in two. To save the girls she risked ruining him. And he had wanted nothing more than a good name.

He gave her a curt nod and, without another word, turned away from her and walked out the door.

Morgana dropped her face into her hands, giving in to the grief of knowing how she had wounded him. She could no longer pretend she did not love him. Even if she did not count the physical desires he aroused in her, she loved the man. Loved his strength. Loved the rakish side of him that mocked the very world for which he pined. She could weep for the pain of his family’s rejection and for his longing for friends such as the Marquess of Heronvale. She knew that sort of loneliness.

The agony was, she had put all he desired at risk. His association with her, the mere fact of living next to her, would most probably be his ruin.

Laughter came from the drawing room. She raised her head and squared her shoulders. She must make certain her plans succeeded, no matter how abhorrent they had become to her. She must successfully launch her girls into the world of the demi-rep and hope that they found protectors and ultimate wealth. She would lose them, too, as she’d lost Sloane.

Morgana set her chin. She still must deal with Harriette Wilson.

She returned to the drawing room, where Miss Wilson had the group enthralled.

‘First, always value yourselves very highly—’

‘That is what Miss Hart says, as well,’ Katy broke in.

‘And you must always remember that you choose the gentleman; the gentleman does not choose you…’

Madame Bisou saw Morgana enter and hurried over to her. ‘Miss Hart, Harriette has thought of the very thing to launch the girls. It is a splendid opportunity!’

Harriette interrupted her lecture. ‘It is indeed. Tomorrow night there is to be a masquerade ball at the Argyle Rooms to mark the end of the Season. It promises to be very merry. Your girls will attend. It will be the perfect place to show them off and tantalise potential clientele.’

‘Is it not brilliant?’ cried Madame Bisou.

Katy looked at Morgana as if daring her to refuse. Mary glanced around with frightened eyes. Lucy sat thin-lipped with resignation, and Rose, who was silently fingering the keys of the pianoforte, gave no indication of having heard the discussion at all.

‘I am not certain—’ Morgana began.

Madame Bisou cut her off again. ‘It is time, Miss Hart.’

She sounded so much like Sloane, Morgana thought she would laugh—or weep. As much as Morgana wanted to clutch them all to her bosom and never let them go, this provided her the best chance of making matters right for Sloane. She had no better alternative.

Perhaps they could all move to the country in a little cottage or something of which her father would approve. If she withdrew from society before the scandal hit—

No. What sort of life would that offer them all? The sheer boredom of it would drive Morgana mad, if not the rest of them with her. Except perhaps for Mary. She could offer Mary a chance not to be a courtesan.

‘Well, Morgana?’ asked Miss Moore. She seemed to be as excited about the prospect as Katy.

A masquerade? It seemed a safe enough place to begin. Like at Vauxhall, they could hide behind masks. No one need know who they were, unless they desired it.

‘We will attend.’ Morgana would go with them, she resolved. She would look out for them one last time.

After leaving Morgana’s house in a towering rage, Sloane paused in his hall long enough to pick up his hat, gloves and swordstick before rushing out again. Elliot, who’d heard his noisy entry, had dared try to ask him a question. Sloane had bellowed, ‘I am going out!’

He knew precisely where he was bound.

If Morgana would not end this foolishness, he must do his best to keep the leaking information from engulfing her. He had not needed Harriette Wilson to tell him that Mrs Rice was becoming more and more obsessed about discovering the courtesan school. He knew it from his own surveillance.

There was one leak he could plug and plug it he would.

Sloane strode off to Fenton’s Hotel, where he asked to be announced to Sir Reginald.

When Sloane was admitted into Sir Reginald’s rooms, the older man was still dressed in his dressing gown, although it was nearly noon. Sir Reginald put down the copy of the Morning Post that he’d held in his hand.

‘Good morning, Sloane.’ Sir Reginald gave a cordial smile and gestured for him to sit. ‘A bit early, eh? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Sloane sat and a servant appeared to pour tea. He waited until the servant scurried away into another room. ‘I’ll not mince words.’ He leaned towards the older man, who was just about to take a swallow. ‘You told Harriette Wilson about the courtesan school, did you not?’

Sir Reginald gulped and went into a spasm of coughing before replying. ‘I—I suppose I did. Saw her the other day at Covent Garden—some play or some such. Don’t rightly recall…’

Sloane gave Sir Reginald a menacing look. ‘No one must know of this. No one, do you understand?’

Sir Reginald gave a snort. ‘Cannot see why not. Capital idea, training young women. Imagine a lady doing so!’

‘What do you know of the lady?’ Sloane demanded.

The man sputtered. ‘A Miss Hart—’

Sloane seized him by the front of the robe and lifted him out of the chair. ‘You are never to speak her name to anyone.’

Sir Reginald’s eyes bulged. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’

‘Your word on it,’ Sloane demanded, shaking him.

Sir Reginald stuttered. ‘I… I… I give my word.’

Sloane released him and Sir Reginald landed back in his chair, breathing as hard as if he’d run the full length of Hyde Park.

Sloane rose from his chair.

Sir Reginald cowered as Sloane advanced on him one more time. ‘I shall take my leave. But, mind this, if you loose your tongue again, I will discover it. You will not wish to see what I will do to you.’

Sir Reginald nodded so vigorously the loose skin on his neck shook.

Sloane strode out of the room.

When the door shut behind him, Sir Reginald reached for his tea, the cup clattering in its saucer from his shaking hands.

His manservant crept out from behind the bedchamber door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’

‘No, of course I am not injured,’ Sir Reginald snapped.

‘What a terrifying man!’ His servant picked up Sloane’s tea cup.

‘He is indeed,’ agreed Sir Reginald.

As his man tidied the room, Sir Reginald stared at the Morning Post without seeing a word.

All he could hope was that Sloane never found out he had mentioned the courtesan school at the dolly shop where he tarried after leaving Covent Garden. Just in passing, mind. A harmless comment, no names mentioned. Except Madame Bisou’s.

He rubbed his face and lowered his forehead on to the tabletop with a groan.

That evening Madame Bisou walked through the game room of her establishment, checking that the tables were stocked with cards and other necessities.

She sighed and flung herself into a chair. Toying with a stack of counters, she recalled the look upon Robert’s face when he came to call upon Miss Hart and her girls that afternoon after Harriette Wilson had finished her interminable lesson. Robert acted like a besotted suitor. Was she to lose him? He was such a dear… so… so predictable.

She rued the day she brought him to Morgana Hart’s house so the girls could learn how to be with a man, if one could call Robert a man—a boy-man perhaps, a sweet, harmless thing. She supposed he would take his business to that Mary Phipps as soon as she was established. Some thanks that would be.

Cummings entered the room. ‘You have a caller, Madame.’

He always made everything sound like doom. ‘You know we are not open, Cummings.’ She had no wish to see anyone, even if they were open.

‘It is Mrs Rice,’ he intoned. ‘And she insists upon seeing you.’

‘Oh, that odious Fortuna Rice.’ Madame Bisou waved her hand. ‘Have her meet me in the supper room.’

She followed him out of the door and crossed the hall to the supper room, stepping into the back to bring out a bottle of Madeira wine. If she had to endure Fortuna Rice, it would be with liquid spirits.

She sat and downed one glass before the woman entered the room.

‘Come join me, Fortuna,’ she said, pouring two more glasses. ‘Have some wine.’

‘A choice bottle, I hope. You would not be serving me your cheap wine, would you, Penny?’ Mrs Rice sat across from her.

Madame Bisou bristled, but decided to let the catty comment pass. ‘Only the best for us, Fortuna. We have earned it.’

‘Which is why I am here.’

Leave it to Fortuna Rice to waste no time on niceties. ‘I have heard you are involved in a courtesan school. Is that so?’

Madame Bisou delayed answering, covering up the time it took to contrive an answer by taking a long sip of her wine. She decided the best tactic was avoidance. ‘Why do you ask, my dear?’

Mrs Rice frowned. ‘I have had two girls stolen from me and a third I was about to bring into the house. I want them back.’

Madame Bisou lifted her brows. ‘Careless of you to lose them, Fortuna. I treat my girls well and they stay of their own accord.’

‘I treat mine well, too,’ snapped Mrs Rice. ‘But I have been ill used and I want them back.’

‘I am certain you do.’ Madame Bisou took another sip.

‘Well, what do you know of it?’

Fortuna Rice was an unpleasant woman, the madam decided, and not too smart to have shown all her cards at once. Penny lounged in her chair. ‘I know nothing of it. I am sure I do not know why you supposed I would.’

‘Sir Reginald let something slip about it. Said you were showing off the girls at Vauxhall last night.’

Madame Bisou made herself laugh with great heartiness. ‘Oh, that is famous! What a buffoon!’ She pretended to wrest control of herself again and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she pulled from between her ample bosoms. ‘I was at Vauxhall with some of my girls, all masked! We told him a story and he believed it.’

Mrs Rice put both her palms flat on the table and glared at her. ‘This is not the first I’ve heard of a courtesan school. It was talked of in one of the pubs as well. It is said a man and a lady run it and they teach the girls to think themselves better than they ought.’

It was fortunate that Madame Bisou had nearly a lifetime of telling whatever she wished others to hear, gentlemen especially. She prided herself on sounding earnest and believable, whatever she said. ‘Why, I have heard the rumours myself, Fortuna. Now Sir Reginald thinks the courtesan school is mine. Is that not fun?’

Mrs Rice swallowed the contents of her glass and stood. ‘I do not believe you, Penny, but I make you a promise. I will find where my girls are and I will take them back and no one—I repeat, no one—will stop me.’

She flounced out of the room.

Madame Bisou poured another glass of wine and again downed it in one long, nervous swallow.

Chapter Fourteen

Morgana stared at the note once again.

Dear Niece,

At my particular request, your neighbour, Mr Sloane, has agreed to escort you to our dinner party tonight. Mr Sloane has been gracious enough to offer the use of his own carriage. Do not neglect to bring your maid with you for propriety’s sake.

Yours, etc. W.C.

She let her hand fall into her lap, wondering if there was still time to pretend a headache and beg off. In truth, her head had been pounding all day, especially after she and Sloane had crossed swords.

Amy entered the drawing room. ‘I have your shawl, Miss Hart. We are quite prepared now.’

Morgana set the note aside on the table and picked up her gloves. ‘I hope this will not be too tedious for you, Amy, since you are obliged to accompany me.’

‘I expect to have a jolly time, miss. My mother’s cousin is housekeeper there, you know, and it will be a treat to visit her.’ Amy carefully draped the shawl, the same deep green silk as Morgana’s evening dress, over her arm.

Morgana pushed her fingers one by one into her glove before smoothing the rest of the white kid up to her elbow. ‘Remember, not a word about the courtesan school, and do not let slip that you have been helping fashion costumes for the masquerade.’

‘I will be very careful, miss. There is enough news from home to keep us talking.’ Amy then looked critically at Morgana, as one would a vase of flowers to arrange. She fussed with the long curled feather that she’d fashioned to frame Morgana’s face, another clever means she employed to disguise her lady’s stick-straight hair. This night, Amy had twisted strands of Morgana’s hair into loops artfully cascading from the crown of her head. ‘It is good of Mr Sloane to drive you, is it not, Miss Hart? What a gentleman. We have seen so little of him of late.’

It had not been so long ago that Amy described him as a pirate. Indeed, much had happened since their first encounter, not the least of which was Morgana falling quite despairingly in love with him.

With Harriette Wilson’s unexpected arrival and then a flurry to plan costumes for the masquerade, Morgana barely had time to think of Sloane and how he’d stalked out after they quarrelled. Then the note had come from her aunt, unnecessarily managing the transportation. Cripps could have procured a hack for her easily enough. Now she and Sloane would be trapped together.

The knocker sounded and Morgana jumped, her heart pounding against her chest. Sloane had arrived and she would sit with him in the confines of the carriage for perhaps ten full minutes.

‘Mr Sloane, miss,’ Cripps announced.

Morgana clasped her hand to her throat. ‘We are ready.’

She and Amy followed Cripps to the hall, where Sloane waited, his hat in his hand, his white breeches gleaming against the deep blue of his coat.

He did not smile, but bowed formally. ‘Good evening, Miss Hart.’

‘Mr Sloane.’ She dropped into a graceful curtsy.

Amy hurried to hand her the shawl, but Sloane took it from her and draped it over Morgana’s shoulders. But even though his strong hands brushed against her, he paid more attention to her maid.

‘I hope you are well, Miss Jenkins,’ he said.

Amy also bobbed into a curtsy. ‘Very well, indeed, thank you, sir.’

At the carriage, Amy allowed Sloane only a mere touch of her hand as she scrambled inside. For Morgana, however, he held her elbow and guided her with a hand to her back. After she sat down, she still felt his touch upon her, though he sat as far from her as possible.

The silence in the carriage made it difficult for Morgana to breathe. She resisted taking big gulps of air. Instead, she forced herself to converse with him.

‘It is kind of you to transport me, Mr Sloane. I expect you would have simply walked the distance otherwise.’

He turned his eyes on her. ‘That is so.’

She glanced out of the carriage window. It was still light out. ‘It is a fine evening.’

He did not respond, but when she turned back to him, he still watched her. She felt the impulse to squirm under his scrutiny.

Morgana lifted her eyes and stared directly into Sloane’s. He did not look away. It was as if each of them were loathe to be first to break the contact. As a little girl, she’d played a similar game with her cat. This seemed so different.

They arrived at her aunt’s house just a few minutes later. Sloane put his hand to her waist to assist her from the carriage. She held his arm while they walked the few steps to the front door. Once inside she supposed he would avoid her.

Amy hurried off in search of the housekeeper, and Morgana and Sloane entered the hall. The Cowdlin town house was a bit grander than Morgana’s and furnished in the very latest bright colours and varied designs. From the Prussian blue hall where they were announced, to the primrose yellow drawing room with its stencilled wallpaper and Brussels-weave carpet.

Her aunt bustled up to them. ‘Dear Mr Sloane, how good of you to escort my niece. Do come in. Cowdlin will see you have some nice claret before dinner.’ She spared Morgana a quick glance. ‘Morgana, dear, so good of you to come.’

While Lady Cowdlin took charge of Sloane, Morgana greeted some of the other guests, whom she had met many times during the Season. She made her way to the corner of the room where David Sloane and Hannah were looking into a small tube aimed directly at the nearby lamp.

‘Is it some sort of telescope?’ Morgana asked.

David Sloane leapt to his feet and Hannah looked up at her. ‘Oh, Morgana! It is the most wonderful contraption. Come, look in it!’

Morgana sat and peered into the glass optic. Sparkles of colour appeared in symmetrical shapes on the inside. ‘Oh, it is lovely!’

‘Here, turn it,’ David instructed, and the colours changed shape before her very eyes. ‘It is called a kaleidoscope.’

‘It is quite new,’ said Hannah. ‘Mr Sloane—Mr David Sloane—brought it to me.’

Morgana marvelled as the colours formed a new pattern.

‘What is this?’ a familiar voice said.

Morgana did not stop looking into the device, but suddenly the changing shapes and colours garnered less of her attention.

‘Good evening, Uncle,’ David said.

‘Hello, David.’ Sloane added, ‘Lady Hannah, I hope you are well.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Hannah replied.

Morgana moved away from the kaleidoscope and rose from the chair.

‘You must look, Mr Sloane,’ insisted Hannah. ‘It is called a kaleidoscope and your nephew has brought it to show me.’

Sloane took the chair Morgana had vacated and Morgana backed away, nodding politely to other guests and exchanging a few words with them. She was not certain what she said to them, however. All her senses were attuned to one man, his voice, his scent, every move he made. She strolled to the other side of the room, hoping more distance from him would help, making herself look anywhere but at him. She watched Athenia Poltrop and her parents greet her aunt and uncle. Athenia’s gaze riveted upon her cousin Varney and his upon her.

Morgana settled in a chair at the corner farthest away from where Sloane had ceded his place at the kaleidoscope. Hannah called to Athenia to come and look at her new curiosity. Lord Cowdlin signalled Sloane over and handed him a glass of claret.

Morgana forced herself to watch Hannah and Athenia. Athenia glanced towards Varney and quickly looked away. She glanced at him again and twirled a lock of her hair in her finger. Varney excused himself from the gentleman with whom he had been conversing and quickly came to Athenia’s side.

That morning, Harriette Wilson had taught those exact techniques—how to manipulate a man’s interest by mere glances and the simplest of gestures. Athenia performed the exact steps just as if she’d been present at the lesson, summoning Varney to her side as effectively as if she’d shouted his name. Morgana stifled a laugh. Harriette’s tactics had worked! Where had Athenia learned them? Was snaring a man’s attention really so easily achieved? Could even Morgana make a gentleman approach her side merely by employing a few coquettish tricks?

Morgana glanced at Sloane, the only man she wished to draw to her side. If she could make Sloane come to her, Sloane, who wanted nothing to do with her, it would indeed prove the power of Harriette’s techniques. She strained to remember them.

Sloane happened to glance in her direction. Morgana gazed at him pointedly, then quickly averted her gaze. She glanced back. He was looking at her! Her heart skipped a beat. She felt for the lock of hair that escaped Amy’s efforts and now tickled the nape of her neck. She twisted it in her fingers and quickly averted her gaze. A second later she dared peek through her lowered lashes.

Sloane found his gaze naturally wandering to where Morgana sat, even though he’d resolved to avoid her. She was tinder to his senses. One little spark and they’d both go up in flames.

Still, catching sight of her was vastly preferable to enduring the sudden hospitality of Lord Cowdlin. There was not enough the toadying hypocrite could do to see to his comfort. A glance at Morgana had become like a rope tossed to a drowning man.

Finally another guest arrived to snare Cowdlin’s attention, and Sloane scanned the room for a place to hide, his eyes lighting on Morgana. She sat alone in a corner of the room, her lively ginger eyes taking in everything, even taking in him. Her eyes were particularly captivating this evening, set off by the dark green of her dress and the feather in her hair.

Damn him. He craved her company. They were two of a kind, he and Morgana. Both too ready to cross the bounds of correct behaviour, just the reason he should stay away.