Anne Barbour (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Zoe peered around the corner. Mina was consoling the gentleman who had lost two thousand pounds at whist by forgetting that the seven of hearts was in, her back turned to the door. Zoe scooted past the private parlor and hurried through the chamber where hazard reigned supreme. Some of the more serious gamblers had turned their coats inside-out for luck. Others wore eyeshades and leather guards around their cuffs. Few gentlemen with money in their pocket, it appeared, could resist temptation when seeing other gamesters dicing with Dame Fortune. They set their wits aside and entered into a state of trance. When winning, they didn’t want to stop; when losing, they continued to play in an attempt to recoup their loss.

Zoe derived some satisfaction from the knowledge she’d left Paolo with a debt of honor he was unable to pay.

She attracted no small notice as she passed through the rooms. Miss Loversall (as the patrons thought of her) was wearing the most demure of her gowns in an attempt to appear virginal, in startling contrast with the other females present, who put their assets on public display.

Zoe slipped into the first room of the gaming suite. Mindful of her promise, she didn’t flirt — or if she did, it was just a little bit — what harm in the flutter of an eyelash, a maidenly blush? And if she caused unease when she had said she wouldn’t, the person to whom that promise had been made was being positively dog in the mangerish, and so it didn’t count. Cousin Wilhelmina had no flair for flirtation, as proven by her response when someone tried to flirt with her — though why that someone should try and flirt with Mina when younger prettier females were in the room, Zoe couldn’t say. She positioned herself in a chair that provided her a clear view of both the rouge et noir
table and the entrance door.

As a result, when George Eames arrived at Moxley’s, the first thing he saw was Zoe. Though she was giving her best impression of an angel in a gaming hell, he was not deceived; as a solicitor, Mr. Eames had learned to peer below the surface and therefore recognized an imp from the nether realms.

Propriety demanded he acknowledge her, no matter that he doubted she understood the meaning of the word; she had risen from her chair to brazenly intercept his progress. “Good evening, Miss Loversall,” he said coolly, hoping she would understand he didn’t care to speak with her.

Zoe, however, couldn’t conceive that any gentleman might not care to speak with her. “It
is
a good evening, now you are here! Cousin Wilhelmina told me about Lady Anne. You should try and make her jealous. I will assist you.”

George blanched at the thought of his ladylove — who was most correct in her conduct, a model of good breeding, distinguished for her elegance and accomplishments and well-regulated mind — in conversation with this coquettish cabbagehead. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“Nonsense! It is no trouble. Lady Anne’s papa must be wonderfully stiff-necked. Although I have discovered there is no explaining what some people think. My own husband—” Zoe’s bright smile dimmed. “I shan’t speak of that! Save to say it is his fault that I ran away.”

Mr. Eames was, despite his association with the Loversalls, a conventional gentleman. He said, with disapproval, “A wife’s rightful place is at her husband’s side.”

Oh?” Zoe’s fine eyes flashed. “Even if her husband wagers her at play?”

“Even then.” George took a step backward. “You shouldn’t tell me more. I am sworn to uphold the law.”

Zoe might have sworn also, and at him, had her attention not been distracted by another newcomer. She turned away from Mr. Eames. He hastened on his way.

So might Lord Quinton have hastened, had he realized what awaited him, but Lord Quinton’s memory of his previous visit to Moxley’s was as vague as were his reasons for returning there. He stepped into the room and gazed around him with a vaguely puzzled air.

A delicious heat sizzled through Zoe. Those cynical eyes, that sinful smile — she assumed his smile was sinful; she hadn’t glimpsed it yet — how delicious, this anticipation of ravishment by a rakehell.

So what if he’d said she wasn’t young? Or rigidly virtuous? He had called her ‘my dear’ and that must count for something. “Good evening, Lord Quinton!” she said, as she neatly barred his way.

Lord Quinton’s gaze fell upon the golden-haired vision who’d popped up in front of him. Had he died of barrel fever, then? Granted, Quin had indulged generously in various alcoholic beverages, but he didn’t think he’d drunk
that
much.

Nor did he think celestial beings would usher him into his afterlife.

On second glance, that lovely face was vaguely familiar. He inquired, “Have we met?”

Zoe blinked. How could he have forgot her? But since he had—

She stepped closer. “My name is Zoe. I asked you to despoil me, and you said you would. My husband is a toad, you see. I should be grateful Paolo didn’t touch me more often, else I might have warts.”

Ah, the madwoman. Quin recognized her now. He supposed her astonishing beauty made most men willing to overlook what might in a less bedazzling creature have been extremely annoying quirks.

Quin was not most men. “I have no interest in intimate acquaintance with married women anxious to sully their reputations. As I told you before, only a virtuous female will do for me.”

Zoe was not susceptible to set-downs. In a manner that caught the attention of every male in her vicinity, she nibbled at her lip. “If I’m not a virgin, I’m the next best thing.”

Quin appreciated the novelty of a female trying to assure him of her virtue. Usually it was the reverse. “Virtue doesn’t necessarily have to do with virginity,” he idly remarked.

“Cousin Wilhelmina has told me the most amazing stories,” said Zoe, reclaiming his wandering attention. “You kidnapped Norwich’s betrothed and rode off with her to Gretna Green.”

Cousin Wilhelmina, reflected Quin, was hardly one to talk. Were gossip to be believed, which generally it wasn’t, she had done worse herself.

Mina would not care to see her cousin in conversation with the Black Baron? Then the Black Baron would converse. “We didn’t make it all the way to Gretna Green. The lady and I parted company in Penrith.”

 “You
left
her there? Why?”

“She was no longer a virgin by that time.” Zoe’s eyes widened. Quin added, “You cannot be so naïve as to think I was love-struck.”

 “Then why did you run off with her?” inquired Zoe, less shocked than intrigued.

Try as he might, which wasn’t very hard, Quin couldn’t recall.

“You ruined her reputation,” Zoe chided him. “Norwich married her anyway.
He
loved her, at least.”

Norwich loved the fortune the lady brought with her, Quin thought cynically. Zoe was still talking. She considered Norwich a coward because he failed to challenge Lord Quinton to a duel.

 “He dared not.” Quin explained.

“Why?”

 “Everyone wanted to avoid a public scandal. Too, I am a much better shot.”

“In my opinion,” Zoe announced, “the lady involved should have had more sense. You are
the Black Baron, after all.”

Cup-shot though he might be, Quin was far too wise to the ways of females to rise to this lure. Zoe Loversall had as queer a kick in her gallop as any other member of her family.

She had pursed her lips and widened her eyes, putting him in mind of a carp. Quin told her so. As she was still sputtering, he strolled away in search of his next drink.

Zoe stared after him, hands on her slim hips. First Mr. Eames did not admire her, and now Lord Quinton. How could they fail to admire her? Had everyone gone mad?

People were watching her, she realized. They had witnessed the conversation between the wicked Black Baron and her heavenly self, and were speculating about that conversation’s content.

 Among those spectators, she saw Devon Kincaid. Zoe waved. Mr. Kincaid looked as if he was not glad to see her, but of course that could not be the case.

One rakehell was much like another. Devon Kincaid was a friend of Beau’s. Embarking upon a liaison with him would be deliciously perverse.

And if Mina had a tendre, Mina should have said so. Zoe made her way to his side. “You are just the person I wished to speak with. Pray enlighten me. I have begun to wonder if gentlemen are capable of the finer feelings. Certainly my husband was not.”

In spite of his reputation, Devon Kincaid didn’t set out to break hearts. He stated clearly at the onset of each alliance that permanence was no part of the proposition, but nonetheless his paramours invariably tried to dissuade him from his bachelor status. He could only conclude he had a predilection for pea-geese.

The pea-goose who had for some time held his erratic attention, not that she seemed to consider it an honor, if she was even aware, had requested that he engage the affections of this ninnyhammer. Devon steeled himself. “I cannot speak for your husband,” he replied without enthusiasm, “but I am no gentleman. Neither is Lord Quinton. You should have nothing more to do with either one of us.”

Zoe dimpled as she tucked her arm through his. “You cannot mean that.”

Her father entered the room, then. “What the
devil?”
inquired Beau.

CHAPTER NINE

Weak morning sunlight filtered through leafy branches to illuminate the private walled garden behind Moxley House – or those leafy branches that lay beyond the reach of Romeo the goat, who had a taste for woody items (not to mention the occasional broad-leafed plant) and also an amazing ability to climb trees and any other impediment placed in his path.

At the moment Romeo was happily stripping foliage from a honeysuckle bush. He had already ingested morning glories and camellias and various shrubs; had consumed rambling roses and wisteria with equal enthusiasm, despite the presence of thorns; had knocked down a wooden fence to devour the contents of the vegetable patch, during which endeavor he displayed a marked fondness for runner beans.

Mina had not realized there were so many things that could be sniffed and nibbled and munched, including on one memorable occasion Cook’s wooden shoes.

Romeo was not her primary concern at the moment, however, though to turn one’s back on the goat was to invite being butted at the worst, and at the best having one’s hair chewed. Mina’s attention was all for Samson, who had just informed her that one of the customers had pocketed a two hundred pound banknote from the hazard table. “What did you do?”

Samson shrugged. “Invited him to leave. Told him I’d give him his bastings if he showed his face here again.”

Mina sank down on a shell-shaped bench. The thief would have been permitted to keep his pilfered note as a gesture of good will, disgruntled patrons being all-too-easily persuaded to lay information against the proprietor of a gambling house.

Moxley had spent a few hundred pounds, maybe even a few thousand, to smother actions and prosecutions, which was how Mina had met Mr. Eames, who had in his employ a lawyer who alternately prosecuted and defended keepers of gaming hells.

If an information was laid, and Mina prosecuted and fined, the cost would be less than Moxley’s could bring in during a good night.

Unfortunately, all nights weren’t good. A large staff was required to keep the rooms operating smoothly: dealers and croupiers and waiters; quietly unobtrusive guards; the porter who manned the strong iron-sheeted door; the link boys and chairmen who kept watch for approaching law officers.

Then there was the expense of maintaining the bank.

Plus the cost of wax candles and coal.

Romeo wearied of the honeysuckle and drifted closer, as Samson was explaining that one of the croupiers had been caught exercising a talent for cutting or turning whatever card she pleased. This practice was discouraged at Moxley’s, where the customers were allowed some chance to win, unlike certain other establishments whose patrons periodically flung themselves into the Thames.

He had already found a replacement. Gentlewomen fallen on hard times could make a better living at Moxley’s than by governessing, while keeping their self-respect (if not their reputations) intact.

Romeo expressed an interest in Samson’s waistcoat buttons. In much the manner he dealt with recalcitrant footmen, Samson thumped the goat on the brow. Romeo curled his upper lip then withdrew to inspect the remnants of an orange tree planted in a neoclassical urn.

“The guv would be melancholy as a gib cat,” said Samson, “was he to see his garden now.”

The guv, reflected Mina, would have never accepted a goat as surety on a debt. Samson must think she had more hair than wit — hair that was tumbling down her back, Romeo having removed her pins.

Samson returned to the house. Romeo grew bored with the orange tree and wandered to the bench. He was a handsome fellow, as goats went, short and sturdy, his brown coat striped dark along the back, his eyes yellow with horizontal slit-shaped pupils. He possessed a plump, prehensile upper lip and tongue and a tuft of hair on his chin; a fine set of backward slanting horns and dark ears that pointed out horizontally from his head; cloven hoofs and a short upturned tail; and a very pungent scent.

“I’m told goat meat tastes similar to mutton,” Mina informed him. “You had best behave yourself.”

Romeo leaned against her shoulder. Mina rubbed his chest.

Grace the cat came down the path, peering warily about to make sure no enfant terrible lurked behind a bush — or the remnants of a bush — to pounce on her and pull her tail. She arrived safely at the bench, leapt up, and settled in Mina’s lap. Romeo knelt so Mina could scratch the top of his head.

She surveyed the ruined garden and added the cost of fodder to her calculations. Romeo’s appetite was greater than his current surroundings could sustain.

Additionally, she had Zoe to consider, and Nell. Mr. Eames had discovered that the elder Abercorn had taken himself off to Bath, but for what reason he couldn’t say.

Mina had ceased scratching. Romeo nudged her knee. She frowned at him. He fluttered his sparse eyelashes in a manner absurdly reminiscent of Zoe.

Mina’s smile faded. She had practically served up Devon on a platter to Zoe, who would wrap him around her finger like she did all men, having learned the trick at her father’s knee, and then cast him heartlessly aside. Or perhaps she would keep him, and Mina would be invited to attend their wedding, and so what if Zoe already had a husband, because Mina had had five.

By the time footsteps crunched again on the gravel path, Mina’s spirits were as flattened as her wooden fence. She glanced up. Beau was looking like a thundercloud.

Romeo clambered upright, uttering a high-pitched “Neahh!” Mina grasped the leash and collar that some overly optimistic person had placed around the goat’s neck. “Hush! You must not butt or bite or nibble Beau. He is not half as handsome as you are, and you would not care for his taste.”

Beau wrinkled his nose. "Since when do you have a goat?”

“That is a long story,” Mina replied.

“Then I don’t care to hear it. Tell me, as you would not last night, why the
devil
you think it acceptable for Dev to canoodle with Zoe.”

Had there been canoodling? Mina hadn’t noticed. Which, considering the already dejected condition of her spirits, was probably a good thing. “Devon is paying Zoe his attentions at my request.”

Beau gaped at her. “You asked that profligate to seduce Zoe?”

Mina hadn’t asked Devon to seduce Zoe. Had she? Seduction was the usual end result of canoodling, was it not? “Profligate, indeed. Listen to yourself. Our own family has turned profligacy into a fine art.”

“I don’t deny that I’m a profligate,” responded Beau with dignity. “That doesn’t mean I will stand idly by while my daughter is defiled.”

Zoe defiled by Devon. Mina wondered how long it would take to banish that horrific vision from her mind. “I didn’t ask Devon to seduce her, just to distract her,” she protested.

Pushing Romeo aside — or attempting to; goats do not respond well to pushing, being much more amenable to a good pull — Beau sat down beside Mina. “You are a greenhead.”

Mina was still caught up in horrific visions. “I suppose if Zoe
was
going to have an intrigue, there would be no one better to have it with than Devon Kincaid.”

Beau eyed her suspiciously. “You sound as if you want to have an intrigue with him yourself.”

Mina draped an arm around Romeo’s neck and, ignoring his gamy odor, gave the goat a hug. “Don’t be absurd.”

Beau might in the general way of things focus his mind on selfish matters, but he was no slow-top. “Do
you want to have an intrigue with Dev?”

 “That is none of your affair.” Mina’s lap had grown crowded. Grace roused from her slumbers and batted the goat’s nose.

Romeo bared his teeth. Beau snatched up the cat. “By God, you truly
are
a greenhead.”

Mina’s cheeks bloomed as scarlet as the roses that until lately had climbed the garden wall. “You haven’t inquired why
I asked Devon to distract Zoe. She has developed an attraction I cannot like.”

Beau was much more interested in the attraction Mina had developed. “Zoe has been developing unsuitable attractions since she was in the cradle,” he said dismissively. “Most memorably with the butcher’s boy.”

“You will not be so sanguine when I tell you Zoe has set her cap at Quin.”

“Quin?” Beau sat up straighter on the bench.

Lord Quinton was a close acquaintance. Their paths, in the pursuit of profligacy, frequently crossed. Beau wondered if the fact that Zoe was his daughter would make the Black Baron more or less inclined to corrupt her — or to allow her to corrupt him.

He gazed around the decimated garden. “Where
is
Zoe?”

“At the park. I sent her there with Meg and Nell.”