Anne Barbour (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mina was alone in the morning room, save for Grace the cat, who crept out from beneath the sofa to curl up in her lap. Beau had departed, along with Zoe and her Conte. Mr. Eames had taken his leave also, and gone to share these latest developments with his Lady Anne.

Mina surveyed the bloodstained carpet, the ink-stained wall. She was staring blankly into space when Figg appeared in the doorway and announced, “Mr. Kincaid.”

Devon strolled into the room, carelessly elegant in riding coat, breeches, and top boots. A casual observer might not have noticed the weary lines around his hazel eyes.

Mina was not a casual observer. “Loversalls cannot help our bad behavior. It is in our blood.”

“Is that an apology?” He glanced cautiously around. “Has Zoe really gone?”

 “She’s gone, but not with Beau. The Conte set out for London immediately upon discovering his wife had fled. Apparently — astonishing notion — he knows how she thinks. Meanwhile Mr. Eames had sent word that Zoe was here.” Mina related the events that had taken place earlier, including George’s suggestion Mr. Rizzoto be bought off to ensure he would trouble them no more.

Devon did not comment. Mina remained uncertain how he felt. “You said Zoe was lovely. I thought you wanted her.”

He picked up the empty inkwell. “I took Zoe driving in an attempt to annoy you. Or to please you. Or both. You had just left me to go and talk to Quin. No one seeing the two of you together could doubt there was something between you once.”

 “It’s true that I’m not rigidly virtuous,” Mina admitted. “And if you had intrigued with Zoe, I would have withdrawn from the world myself.”

“She is too young. Too slender. Too everything.” Devon set down the inkwell. “
Did
Quin debauch you?”

“Then or now?”

“Point taken. I’ve been a bloody fool. But in my defense, you were always getting married, and never seemed to either want or need my company.”

Mina put Grace aside, rose and moved to the window. “I am an excellent actress. A woman has to be, when she’s had as many husbands as I’ve had. As for Quin, you and I had quarreled. I feared Beau had told you— Well.”

“You feared Beau had told me what?”

“That I wish to have an affaire.”

Devon also moved toward the window. “You wish to have an affaire with Beau?”

 “Don’t act the innocent. Beau realized I wish to have an affaire with you.” She shrugged. “I am usually rather more subtle about such matters, but there it is.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I came here today to try and persuade you to gamble one last time.”

Mina leaned back against him. “This is truly terrifying. I find myself dithering like the greenest girl. And then I remind myself that you are faithless, and that I don’t want my heart broke.”

“I’m not the one who’s wed five times.” His breath was warm against her cheek. “I understood everyone but Peebles. He was almost thrice your age.”

Mina turned to face him. “I was trying to change my luck.”

“You of all people should realize that one must play the cards one’s dealt.” Devon caught her hand in his. He had removed his gloves.

“Is that what you’re doing?” she murmured. “Playing the cards you were dealt?”

He trailed his thumb along her wrist; clasped her fingers, kissed the tips and then the knuckles; pressed his lips against her palm. “I am.”

Truly, thought Mina, this business was much simpler when no troublesome emotions were involved. Simpler, and far less profound. She abandoned both finesse and common sense and threaded her fingers though Devon’s thick hair; kissed his chin, his jaw, his earlobe, and finally his mouth. Devon pulled her hard against his body and kissed her back, deeply and so thoroughly that her senses spun.

Her hands slid over his arms, his shoulders, found their way beneath his jacket. Devon picked her up, carried her across the room and tumbled her atop him on the sofa. Grace leapt hastily aside.

Mina yanked on his shirt, pulled it free from the waistband of his breeches. Devon laughed and then groaned as she raked her nails across his back.

His mouth claimed hers again. Pleasure curled through Mina as he explored her with his lips, tasted the curve of her cheek, the pulse-point in her throat, then moved lower, and lower still while his hands — oh, those skillful hands — stroked down her side to the swell of waist and hip and—

Mina gasped, “Maybe we should continue this upstairs.”

Devon drew back. “Reservations, my sweet?”

“We forgot to lock—”

The door swung open. Romeo ambled into the room. Dangling from his jaws were the remnants of a high-crowned beaver hat.

Devon rose, held out his hand to Mina. She stayed seated on the sofa. “Are you certain, Dev? I have believed for some time that I must love you, but—”

She was tall and lush and tousled from his kisses. Devon had never seen a more glorious sight. “I am glad to hear it, because I have believed for some time that I must love you too.” Horrified, he saw a teardrop brim in her blue eyes, trickle slowly down her cheek. “Don’t weep, my darling. I promise I won’t break your heart.”

“It’s not that!” cried Mina, as a second tear followed the first. “Must I remind you: Moxley, Olmstead, Chickester, Peebles, Ward? People say I am to blame. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”

Devon offered her his handkerchief. “Moxley ate spoiled oysters, Olmstead came to grief beneath the hoofs of a half-broke horse, Chickester swallowed a fatal dose of laudanum after unsuccessfully speculating on the Stock Exchange, Ward overturned his carriage driving at a breakneck speed along the Bath Road. I suppose you may be fairly said to have some responsibility for Peebles succumbing to a spasm of the heart; having married a gentleman so elderly, you probably should have tried to dissuade him from engaging in amatory acrobatics. However, that also was his choice. People say a great many excessively stupid things, my sweet peagoose. You are not the kiss of death.”

Mina was immensely cheered, whether by his comments or his endearments she couldn’t say. She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. “I have asked Mr. Eames to find a buyer for Moxley’s. I want to be well away before some other member of my family decides to take refuge here.”

Devon grasped her hands and drew her to her feet. “Where will you go?”

Mina’s heart beat faster. “I had thought that I might travel, but I do not care to encounter Zoe, which rules out Italy and France. Perhaps I will retire to the country, where Romeo may have sufficient room to forage, and a female goat or two for company.”

Devon glanced at the goat, which had ingested not only his hat but his cast-off leather gloves and was currently looking about for a postprandial snack. “I concede, my darling. You have brought me to my knees.”

 “Your knees, is it?”

“I am quite at Point Non Plus.”

“And that means?”

“I own a home in the country.” Ruefully, he smiled. “I also own a herd of goats.”

EPILOGUE

Moxley’s was doing a brisk business. The supper room was crowded. Lord Quinton set aside the remnants of his pickled salmon, swallowed the last of his iced champagne.

He strolled through the rooms, eyeing the thick carpets and marble fireplaces, the rich upholstery and comfortable furnishings; listening to the rattle of the dice, the clatter of the roulette wheel and ball, the murmurs of players and croupiers. Faro, E.O., hazard, rouge et noir— Punters gathered around the tables, laying stakes against the bank. The private alcoves were filled. Overseeing the evening’s business were Samson and his sharp-eyed guards.

Quin paused by the E.O. table, mentally tallied the piles of markers by the bank. He had frequented hells beyond counting without considering, for example, the astronomical cost of wax candles and green peas.

He left the gaming suite behind and entered the private portion of the house. In the morning room, he poured himself a liberal splash of brandy from a decanter sitting on the desk.

The chamber still stank faintly of goat.

The items Mrs. Moxley had held in pawn were no longer on the premises. The umbrella had been redeemed by its owner, the watches and rings sold.

Though their mistress had departed, the household staff remained. As did the gaming room employees, among them a number of virtuous young women ripe to be introduced to depravity.

Samson had sternly informed Quin that the females were off-limits. Quin had suggested Samson also inform them.

Hazard was a game well named. It made a man or undid him in the twinkling of an eye. George Eames had approached Quin one evening when he was drunk as a wheelbarrow and playing for high stakes. Owning a gaming hell, Mr. Eames suggested, was an excellent way to lose a fortune. Or to gain one, or both. That Lord Quinton should purchase Moxley’s, George informed him, had been Mina’s idea.

All London was still reeling. Following a whirlwind courtship during which both parties conducted themselves in an outrageously moonstruck manner, Mina Loversall-Chickester-Ward-Olmstead-Peebles-Moxley had added Kincaid to her string of names.

Quin had not yet decided if Mina had done him a favor, or the opposite, in saddling him with Moxley’s. However, one thing was clear: whether or not the Contessa de Borghini contrived to continue the Loversall tradition, her cousin was engaged in loving fully, with complete abandon, and great style.