Anne Barbour (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

 Mina blanched. Grace scrambled off her lap and dove under a chair. Beau eyed the window as if in hope of a similar escape.

Mr. Kincaid rose from the sofa. “Poor poppet,” he said, as he went down on one knee. “Are you afraid we’ll eat you? But you are the merest morsel and hence beneath our interest. We are people who enjoy a hearty meal.”

The child ceased her wailing. “Poppet,” she repeated, and thrust her thumb into her mouth.

“That’s the ticket!” He scooped her up into his arms. “You are a very good girl.”

Mina squinted at the note. “Her name is Eleanor.”

“Eleanor is much too large a name for so wee a mite.” Devon reclaimed his spot on the sofa. “I shall call her Nell. Jelly belly Nellie.” The child chortled, removed her thumb from her mouth, and stuck it in his ear.

“Astonishing,” observed Mina, and dropped the missive on a table. “No female of any age is immune to you. What
am
I to do with her?”

“You give me too much credit,” countered Devon. “I have several sisters, and more nieces and nephews than I can count, and have in the interest of self-preservation learned to deal with them to the best effect. You might inquire whether any of your staff has experience with small people of this sort.” Mina nodded to Samson, who departed with unseemly haste, Figg hard on his heels.

Zoe wandered closer, curious about the diversion that had drawn all eyes. She disliked not having attention focused on herself. Nor had she a fondness for children, a circumstance Paolo should have understood, instead of demanding she produce one. “You can’t mean to keep it!” she protested.

Mina sat down beside Devon. “Nell is not an ‘it’. You would have me hand her to the rag-collector, I suppose?”

If Cousin Wilhelmina moved any closer to Mr. Kincaid, she would be on his lap. It was unbecoming conduct for a woman her age. “Not the rag-collector, goose. There are foundling hospitals and—” Zoe floundered, previously having had little occasion to exercise her mind about such things.

“She is hardly a foundling,” Mina objected. “Her father has entrusted me with her safety.”

Zoe regarded Nell, who possessed the usual assortment of features, including a rosebud mouth and button nose. Whereas cornflower blue eyes could never compare with sapphire, or cornsilk hair with red-gold, the brat might well grow into a beauty, a realization that made Zoe cross. “She must have a family. Perhaps they would like her back. “

Mina regarded this member of her own family. “And perhaps they would not.”

Before Zoe could respond, a gentleman entered the room. An attractive gentleman, Zoe noticed — she made it her habit to notice gentlemen — with regular features and nice grey eyes and close-cropped brown hair.

George Eames gazed at his surroundings. He had never before been admitted to this portion of Moxley House. The morning room was a pleasantly proportioned chamber with green and white foliate striped wallpaper and a plaster ceiling enriched by simple low relief ribs. Green linen draperies softened the sash windows. The floor was polished oak, the furnishings rosewood. The occupants of the room were arranged in various attitudes around and upon the sofa, where a fair-haired waif perched on Devon Kincaid’s lap.

“My apologies for interrupting, Mrs. Moxley. Your man seemed to think my presence was required. Is that Abercorn’s by— ah, daughter? Why is she here?”

Mina beckoned him toward the sofa. “Abercorn left Eleanor with us. I hope he may retrieve her soon.”

George frowned down at the subject of this conversation. “What was Abercorn thinking, to leave his child in a gaming hell?”

Nell thrust out her lower lip. Her eyes filled with tears. “There, there, princess,” Devon soothed. “Your papa will be back in the twinkling of an eye. In the meantime your Uncle Beau will tell you the story of the enchanted pig.”

Beau rose manfully to the occasion. Explained Mina, “Abercorn was probably thinking he owes me five thousand pounds.”

“Five thousand pounds!” echoed George.

Zoe was growing cross. Everybody seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.

She undulated toward the sofa. “Hello! Since no one has seen fit to make us known to one another, I shall introduce myself. I am the Contessa— That is, Prudence Loversall.”

“And I am rag-mannered,” acknowledged Mina. “Zoe— Prudence! Allow me to present Mr. George Eames.”

Mr. Eames wore an odd expression. Bedazzlement, Zoe supposed. “Dear sir, you cannot help but be stricken by the plight of this poor, poor mite!
My
heart quite goes out to her for I realize — none better! — what it is like to be wagered at play.” Nell grinned toothsomely first at Beau, who was leaning over the back of the sofa, and then at Devon, demonstrating a marked preference for rakehells.

 “This little miss wasn’t precisely wagered,” Beau pointed out. Nell chortled as he tickled her ribs.

Zoe spun on her heel. How very disappointing that her papa should be so undiscerning as to favor Mistress Nell. On the other hand, she
was
his daughter and therefore it would be shocking if he favored her — but he hardly favored Nell in
that
manner, and if he did, he was a worse reprobate than she had previously realized.

Zoe abandoned this somewhat muddled train of thought and again approached the sofa. “Ah, bah! Nell is here, as am I. Both victims of the whims of Fortune. Tossed about by the winds of Fate. Callously abandoned by those who should hold us most dear.”

“Bah!” echoed Nell. “Bah bah bah bah bah!”

Beau winced and said, unwisely, “Cut line, Zoe.”

Zoe pressed one hand to her forehead. “This exceeds all belief! How can you tell me to cut line when I have just discovered my true love has feet of clay? I
should
have shot him. Even if he wagered me
only for a night, I don’t like Cesare.”

Beau stared at her. “Who the devil is Cesare?”

Mina spoke apologetically to Mr. Eames, who was regarding Zoe as he might a human curiosity strayed from a neighborhood freak-show. “We Loversalls place considerable importance on true love,” she explained.

Devon glanced from Nell to Mina. “Did you find
your
true love? I have been meaning to ask.”

“I thought I had,” Mina replied. “Several times,”

Most
unbecoming conduct, Zoe reflected sullenly, as she took another turn around the room.

Beau kept a cautious eye on his daughter’s perambulations. “How do you know about Abercorn’s by-blow, Eames?”

George was uncomfortable speaking of by-blows in front of ladies. He reminded himself that the ladies were Loversalls. “Abercorn came to me for advice.”

“Why should he do that?” demanded Zoe, distracted from her sulks.

 “Because I am a solicitor.” George awarded her the merest glance. “Eleanor is the result of a youthful indiscretion. Her mother died in childbirth. The elder Abercorn washed his hands of the business. Abercorn the younger placed the child with a foster family here in Town. I can make further inquiries if you like.”

“I am beginning to develop a strong dislike for the elder Abercorn,” remarked Mina. “First he refuses to stand the reckoning and now he dumps his son’s bastard in my lap.”

 “She isn’t in your lap but mine,” Mr. Kincaid pointed out. “And Abercorn the younger is responsible for that. You can hardly blame the old man for encouraging his pup to grow up. Five thousand pounds is a significant sum.”

“I can blame him for not encouraging his pup to grow up sooner,” Mina retorted. “Preferably before he ever darkened my door.”

A distraction was due, decided Zoe, before her cousin took to ruminating further upon darkened doorways. She edged closer to the chair beneath which Grace was hiding, and stepped on the cat’s tail.

Grace shot out into the room, drawing everyone’s attention. “Kitty!” cried Nell. She squirmed mightily in an attempt to descend from Devon’s lap.

“Kitty it is,” agreed that gentleman, attempting to maintain his grip. “Why doesn’t Uncle Dev tell you the story of—”

“No!” howled Nell, and kicked him. “Want Kitty!”

“That may be,” interjected Mina, “but the kitty doesn’t want you. She is growing old, you see—”

Nell saw that these strangers meant to thwart her. “Kitty!” she shrieked. “Kitty, kitty, kitty! Now!”

Zoe clapped her hands over her ears. Really, the child might be even more spoilt than she was herself.

The door opened. Samson entered. Trailing close behind him was a young girl wearing a plain dark-colored dress. She was thin and carroty-haired and freckled, and her brown eyes were saucer-wide.

 “Meg has ten brothers and sisters, all younger,” said Samson. “She allows as she wouldn’t mind temporarily exchanging the scullery for the nursery. Make your curtsey, girl.”

Meg curtsied, awkwardly. She appeared terrified half out of her wits, perhaps because her prospective charge was shrieking loud enough to summon Beelzebub from hell. Mina said, “We are grateful to you, Meg. Come meet Nell.”

Meg bobbed another curtsey, and edged closer. “Yes, mum.”

Nell broke off howling to glare at this new person. Meg held out a sugarplum. Nell grabbed the sweet and popped it into her mouth.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was a quiet night at Moxley’s, save for the brief excitement when a brace of bosky young lordlings demanded entrance under the erroneous impression that within lay a house of civil reception where ladybirds eagerly awaited partners for the buttock ball; and the additional to-do when a luckless gamester attempted to cut off an ear and throw it on the table in lieu of funds.

The rouge et noir
table was doing a lackluster business, the pile of markers alarmingly small. Mina inspected the liquor buffet to insure it was well-stocked. Moxley’s functioned under the assumption that men played most recklessly when in their altitudes.

Before they could play recklessly, they must first be present. Mina reminded herself that it was mid-week. Moxley’s was seldom busy in the middle of the week.

She found Zoe at the E.O. table, surrounded by gentlemen, one of whom was attempting to explain the game. It was not, he said, difficult to understand. The circular table spun; the ball came to rest in a niche marked either E or O, or alternately in one of two bar holes, in which case the house won all the bets played on the opposite letter, and didn’t pay to that which it fell. The player had nineteen chances of winning, and one chance to break even on a bar, which was disregarded in figuring percentages.

Zoe, who had stopped listening at ‘bar hole’, said, “Gracious! How interesting.”

Mina grasped Zoe’s arm and drew her away, thereby disappointing the wolves who had been paying less attention to the cards than to the lamb in their midst. “You may also be interested to know that the player’s chances are nineteen in thirty-nine. It is the way of E.O. banks to frequently win. Macao more effectively relieves reckless gamesters of their fortunes than either whist or loo. To hazard goes the honors for the greatest amount won or lost in the shortest space of time.”

Zoe tried to wriggle free. Mina gripped her harder. Zoe demanded, “Let me go!”

They were the cynosure of all eyes, two Loversall females in one room together rousing more interest even than the low-cut necklines of the croupiers’ gowns, so much female magnificence being almost more than the senses could withstand. One Loversall was short, the other tall; the younger resembling an angel descended to earth and dressed in ivory silk moire with a tight bodice and elevated waist, small sleeves and froth of frills at the hem, courtesy (though the observers could not know it) of her notoriously nipfarthing father, who had been persuaded that a contessa should not appear in inferior garments, even
incognita,
the elder every bit as lovely but with something in her demeanor that suggested she might be deliciously flawed.

The ladies were moreover at odds, thereby presenting an excellent opportunity to lay wagers as to whether they would descend to fisticuffs and if so, which would win.

Zoe dimpled at the nearest gentleman. Mina propelled her into the chamber where a voluptuous dark-eyed brunette presided over Moxley’s faro bank.

 The players looked up from the table. Zoe lowered her lashes and allowed a becoming flush to delicately tinge her cheeks. The gentlemen were all so friendly, and eager to explain things to her, and if she had little interest in combinations and sequences, and even less understanding of the doctrine of probabilities as used in calculating odds, it did not prevent Zoe hanging on their lips.

She didn’t understand why Cousin Wilhelmina must grip her elbow in so odious a manner, as if she hoped to prevent something shocking taking place. Zoe had done nothing shocking in a very long time, save to run away from Paolo, and that didn’t count because she’d been sorely provoked.

“Are you afraid I’ll develop a taste for play? All I have to wager is myself, and Paolo has already done that.” Zoe eyed Mina’s gown of cotton muslin with its woven stripe pattern in graduated shades of yellow to brown. “You should have let me persuade my father to dress you also. I don’t mean Beau should
dress
you precisely — or undress you, either, unless he has already? I didn’t think he had; you
are
related, not that it would signify — but he would never suggest a gown so practical
as to have detachable lower sleeves for day wear. Not that I mean to criticize! I daresay in your position you must consider such stuff.”

Mina in that moment was considering strangling Zoe with her detached lower sleeves.

She glimpsed George Eames, coming toward them. He was dressed for evening in black kerseymere trousers, white waistcoat, and a coat of superfine. Mina released Zoe’s elbow. “Have you brought us news?”

Mr. Eames shook his head. “I have learned very little. Abercorn the elder has also left town. I did locate the woman who had the care of Nell. She isn’t especially eager to have the child returned.”

Mina sympathized. Nell’s disruptive abilities rivaled those of Romeo the goat, who was almost as terrified of her as was Grace the cat.

“If you will excuse me, I have a previous engagement,” continued Mr. Eames. “I merely wanted to acquaint you with what I have — or haven’t — learned.”

“You will continue to make inquiries?” asked Mina.

“If you wish.”

Mina watched him leave the room, reflecting unhappily on her five thousand pounds.

Zoe watched him also. She wondered where Mr. Eames was going, and where he had been. Perhaps he had attended the theater. Perhaps he would now present himself at a ball, or a soiree.

Why did Mr. Eames dislike her? Gentlemen did not generally dislike her on first sight. Were they previously acquainted? Could he have been among the legion of admirers once known as Zoe’s Zoo?

Zoe had allowed each of her admirers to think she might misbehave a little bit with him, when in truth she hadn’t meant to misbehave at all, or at least not very much, for she had been saving the exploration of her baser nature for her own true love.

If Mr. Eames had numbered among those misguided swains, Zoe supposed he might still be a little cross.

She wondered idly if he might be persuaded to admire her again.

Zoe nudged Mina. “Has Mr. Eames a wife?”

Mina linked arms and steered her cousin on another perambulation of the gaming rooms. “He does not. But you must not annoy— That is, seek to engage Mr. Eames. He is enamored of a lady whose papa discounts his standing in the world. Sir Ian is excessively high in the instep. Lady Anne isn’t so top-lofty, but she is shy.”

Lady Anne sounded dull as ditch-water, decided Zoe. To flirt with Mr. Eames would be to perform a public service, like the Good Samaritan assisting the poor traveller who had been left beaten, robbed, and half dead beside the road.

And if Paolo learned of her flirtation, he would be very cross, which was no more than he deserved.

She had been too long silent. Mina might be arriving at conclusions Zoe would rather she did not. “I have been wondering how I may best further my knowledge of the world. Or not my knowledge — Loversalls are born with knowledge — but the practical application thereof. It will require the assistance of a gentleman with vast experience. Such as Mr. Kincaid.”

The minx meant to set her cap at Devon? Mina said, “Have you gone mad?”

 “Oho! You want him yourself.”

 “Don’t be absurd.”

Zoe recognized a clanker when she heard one, and she believed she heard one now. “If you want Mr. Kincaid, why act like you do not?”

Mina felt a now-familiar throbbing behind her right eyelid. “Devon Kincaid is a rakehell. A wise woman avoids rakehells. You of all people should know that.”

Zoe did not dignify this comment with response. Naturally she knew about rakehells — how could she not when her own papa had been involved in various escapades and scandals since the moment she was born? Hitherto she
had
avoided rakehells, but now she thought: with whom better to have a grand affaire?

If Paolo was made cross by a flirtation, a grand affaire would surely drive him to an apoplexy, oh lovely thought.

Zoe did not share these ruminations. It was a foolish female who informed another of her romantical ambitions, consequently sparking competition where there hitherto was none.

Mina had fallen silent, marshaling further arguments. Zoe, facing the door, was first to see the man dressed in black. He was of above average stature, lean and devastatingly handsome in a deliciously wicked way, with wavy black hair worn unfashionably long and eyes as dark as sin, austere features upon which dissipation had left its paradoxical stamp.

He strolled into the room.

 “
Santo cielo!”
breathed Zoe.