Lady Iona's Rebellion (10 page)

Although the cards were played fast and sharp, the stakes were relatively tame compared to the gambling hells in London.

“I believe I could work something out.” He would enlist the aid of some friends to make the game exciting without putting Iona at risk of losing her money or reputation. “The card room at the Upper Assembly Rooms always seems to have space for a new player. Do you know the rules for faro?”

“If I wished to waste my time playing cards at the Upper Assembly Rooms, do you think I would be asking you for help? The players who congregate there are more timid than I am.” She stopped in the middle of the path and placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she rose up on the tips of her toes, leaning in close to him.

“I am looking for a truly dangerous adventure,” she whispered a hairsbreadth from his lips. “I have heard of a place in Bath where I can find it. Goldsmith’s. I believe it is the only gambling establishment in town worth visiting.”

Nathan stepped away from her teasing lips and grabbed her wrist. “You can’t be serious. Goldsmith’s? Are you sure that is the name you have heard?”

How in blazes would a young lady even learn the name of such a notorious establishment? Certainly she didn’t understand what kind of place she was asking to visit.

“I understand there is a back room where the worst sort of cutthroat gambling can be found. A man might be shot outright for winning too many hands. And the ladies who are allowed entrance are not the least bit interested in the action on the tables, nor can they be considered ladies, can they?”

Ah, she did understand what sort of place she was asking him to take her to.

“Do you know the place?” she asked. A spark of innocent excitement shined brightly in her cornflower blue eyes.

“Yes, I know of the blasted place.”

“Good.” She slipped from his grasp and latched onto his arm. “Then you will take me there.”

“I would sooner impale myself with a sword!” he protested.

She gave him a hard look that made him suspect she was determined to attempt to breach the Goldsmith’s establishment and carry out her latest madcap idea with or without his cooperation.

“It cannot be done,” he said. “It would be impossible. Goldsmith’s doesn’t admit ladies…only women of a certain sort. And the establishment certainly would not allow a woman to play cards at any of the tables.”

“Do not speak so loudly,” she said in a very proper, very prim tone. “People will hear you.”

“So what if they hear me? Nothing you can say will convince me to help you with this…this…madness.” He wanted to throw his hands in the air and march away from her. If he could guarantee that she wouldn’t go running to Talbot or Harlow, he might have done just that.

Instead he lowered his voice. “If you dare try and do something so foolish, I will go straight to your father and tell him all about this budding rebellious streak of yours.”

“You wouldn’t—” she breathed.

“Don’t tempt me.”

She tilted her head up so he could clearly see her face. Her determination appeared unwavering. It was almost as if he could watch her calculating thoughts flowing through her clever head.

“Goldsmith’s is not a place a lady needs to visit,” he said, softening his voice. “Believe me, it is not because I believe you lacking in any way. It is not that at all. Most gentlemen are wise enough to stay far away from such a den of thieves.”

“I see,” she said tightly.

He had a feeling she didn’t though. For she appeared to be quite set on this ruinous course.

No doubt, his refusal to help her while threatening to go to her father would only drive her to be more secretive, or worse. He could very well be pushing her into a life-threatening situation.

There were too many unsavory characters roaming Bath’s dark alleyways. Like lone wolves, they lay waiting for a sheep to stray from the safety of the pack. One misstep into the wrong area of town at the wrong time of night and Iona would be swiftly torn to pieces. He’d be left with nothing but the memory of how she’d once shimmered like a siren in the moonlight.

He shuddered at the thought.

He should go straight to the Duke and demand he lock his daughter in a tower. But would a doting father do something so severe based solely on the word of a scoundrel?

He doubted it.

But what else could he do to dissuade her—besides make love to her until she didn’t have any energy left over for mischief? For such a seemingly biddable young lady, Iona was fast turning into one of the most stubborn creatures he’d ever met.

“Very well,” he found himself saying and cursing himself for saying it. What kind of man would bring his future fiancée to such a disreputable establishment? He must have lost his mind, he decided. That was it. Spending time with Iona was driving him straight to Bedlam.

But what else could he do but obey her wishes? “I have a strong suspicion you will hie yourself to Goldsmith’s with or without my help. So—against my better judgment, mind you—I will escort you in this folly. You will not however attempt to interact with any of the so-called gentlemen you might encounter when inside.”

Her cheeks brightened. A smile captured the corners of her heart-shaped mouth. “Oh, thank you, Lord Nathan,” she said and impulsively planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “This will be great fun, you will see. I will have to find a pair of inexpressibles and a man’s coat.” She eyed him critically. “You are much larger than me. Your garments would surely swallow me up.”

Lord, it wasn’t his garments that were about to swallow her up right then and there. He did his best to tamp down a desire to toss her slender body over his shoulder and carry her off to his apartment so he could teach her exactly why young innocents should be wary of rakes and rogues.

Perhaps he could lure her into a secluded spot for a bit—conceivably back to the grotto—so he could cover her with kisses and stroke her until she cried out his name and—

“When and where shall we meet tonight?” Iona asked, breaking into his straying thoughts. “I have plans to attend a musicale but I could fall victim to another megrim, if need be.”

“No, not tonight.”
Never, actually
. “I need time to make plans. I will send a note.”

“I do not wish to wait long,” she warned and slipped away, leaving him standing alone alongside the canal.

Her hasty departure suddenly dampened his cheerful mood. It felt as if a dark cloud had descended between him and the bright sun.

He’d wanted her to leave, to run back to her family, hadn’t he? Already a few heartbeats into his loneliness, he wasn’t sure. Her antics would eventually lead both of them into ruin.

But for the moment, Nathan couldn’t seem to care.

C
hapter Seven

Iona had tried to sketch all afternoon. Yet whenever she touched her graphite point to the page, no matter what lines she drew, they formed the same image. With an angry scribble, she scratched out the laughing eyes that stared up at her from her sketchbook and tried to turn her thoughts to something else.

Anything else.

She pressed her nose to the drawing room window. Was that Lord Nathan riding by on a chestnut-colored horse?

“Why the sudden fascination with the outdoors, Iona?” Lillian asked, glancing up from the letter she was penning.

Amelia, who was seated opposite of Lillian at a small gold and ebony writing table with growling lions at the base of its feet, looked up and smiled.

“Your sister is lovesick,” she offered not unkindly. “Has he truly not tried to contact you since the fancy dress ball?”

“Pish-posh,” Lillian said, “my sister would be foolish to have a real interest in a bounder like Lord Nathan. Have you heard what they are saying about him now?”

“I will not listen to idle gossip, especially not about him,” Iona said, turning her attention to the sketchbook on her lap. “Lord Nathan is a dear friend. And with all due respect, Amelia, I am not lovesick.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Amelia said and returned to write in her diary.

Two letters had arrived for Iona in the morning post. They sat open on the cushion next to her. One was from her dearest friend, the former May Sheffers, now Viscountess Evers. May, once an independent spinster, gushed for several paragraphs over the joys of marriage and pleasures of motherhood. Now over a year into her marriage and few months after the birth of her first son, May’s letters were glowing testaments to the bonds of matrimony—a stark contrast to her original scorn of that singular institution.

Iona sighed. May had also written in her letter that she wouldn’t be able to visit until the end of the summer. Unfortunately Iona needed her friend’s advice now.

She needed it most desperately thanks to the second letter. It was from her cousin, Byron Lovington. Though addressed to her father, Byron had included a few short, very business-like paragraphs to Iona in which he asked her to write to him and describe her wishes for their wedding day.

Her fingers ached with a wicked need to write him back, telling him in very clear language that since she didn’t wish to marry anyone, her only plan for her wedding day was to run as far and fast away from him as possible.

A delightful fantasy…

As delightful as her recent hunt to find herself.

It was depressing to realize that no one else had ever bothered to look. Even her cousin, Lord Lovington, seemed more interested in earning her father’s regard than pursuing hers. Beyond his brief inquiries regarding her wishes for the wedding, he hadn’t expressed any curiosity regarding her views or interests. Or whether she wished to marry him in the first place.

He was like all the others, only enthralled with her family name—not
her
.

Iona pressed her nose to the window again. Was that Lord Nathan? The gentleman on the chestnut horse had pulled to a halt in front the Marquess of Portfry’s rented townhouse and hadn’t moved. He simply sat there, hesitating a long moment before swinging his leg to the ground.

Why hadn’t he sent for her? It had been nearly three full days since their meeting in the garden. Just yesterday, she’d sent him a note, urging him to write her.

In May’s absence, Nathan was the closest thing she had to a trusted friend. Perhaps she should open up to him and tell him the truth about her cousin. He could offer her some advice. Besides her ears ached for the soothing sound of his voice. Nothing seemed to upset his cheerful nature for long. And she could dearly use a dose of that for herself right now.

Her cousin Byron was due to arrive in Bath in a week’s time. Upon his arrival, their betrothal would be announced.

Soon she’d be tied to a man before ever having much of an opportunity to stretch her wings and test out her newly found independence.

What was keeping Nathan from sending for her?

“Have you heard anything about Lord Nathan from your brother?” Lillian asked Amelia in a voice loud enough for Iona to clearly hear. “Miss Frances Cuthbert told me that she heard from her brother how Lord Nathan has been flirting shamelessly with an actress.” Lillian lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “It is said he spends his nights with her as well.”

It couldn’t be true. Iona pressed her fingers to her lips. He wouldn’t do something like that to her. He was her friend. He wouldn’t betray her by running off to some strumpet’s bed.

“Oh my,” Amelia said. She flicked a worried look in Iona’s direction. “I had not heard. James is overly protective sometimes. He rarely tells me anything important.”

“You should press your brother to share this gossip with you,” Lillian said. “Frances says this actress has a by-blow that is the image of Lord Nathan. I would dearly like to see the child for myself. Wouldn’t you?”

Iona rose from the window seat. The steadying breath she drew shuddered in her chest.

“I understand you don’t approve of Lord Nathan, Lillian.” Iona managed to keep the budding quiver of tears from her voice as she spoke. “I also understand you do not want me to associate with him for fear of what others might think. But know this, the gossip surrounding him is untrue. He has always acted the part of honorable gentleman around me. Confoundingly honorable.”

“You call luring you away from the Lower Assembly Rooms in order to do heaven knows what to you, honorable? You are lucky you still have your—”

“Lillian!” Amelia gasped.

“Reputation,” Lillian finished. “I was only going to say she is lucky she still has her reputation. What? What is the matter, Amelia?”

Amelia had turned white as a sheet. She was covering her mouth with both hands and staring wide-eyed at the parlor door.

Iona’s heart leapt up to her throat as she turned around slowly. It was useless to do otherwise. Sooner or later, she would have to face whoever was standing at the door.

“Mama,” Lillian said and rose from her velvet chair. Smiling benignly, she clasped her hands in front of her chest. “How is Mrs. Buckley? Is her temper as foul as usual? You have returned earlier than usual.”

Their mother compressed her lips tightly together. Surely it was her mother’s dove gray gown overlain with a sleeveless black lace zephyr cloak that made her expression look unduly severe.

“Amelia, Lillian, please finish your correspondences later. I wish to speak with Iona alone.”

The two young ladies rushed to gather up their pens, inks and papers. With their arms full, they scampered quietly from the room. The Duchess’s gaze followed as they disappeared down the hall.

“Please, take a seat,” the Duchess said to Iona. She entered the room and closed the parlor door behind her with a snap.

Iona did as she was bid, perching on the edge of an orange velvet sofa. “I do not wish to marry Byron,” she said before her mother could scold her. “I am not pleased with the match you and Papa have made for me and, dash it all, I believe I am of an age to be making these kinds of important decisions on my own.”

The Duchess’s lips thinned further, nearly disappearing from her face. “Instead of dreaming of marriage, you imagine yourself becoming a sculptress? Oh, do not look so surprised, Iona. I have noticed your growing interests in the arts these past few seasons. Hardly a day goes by that you have not visited some obscure art gallery or perused a thick volume of the great masterpieces, or scribbled in one of your battered sketchbooks.”

With the grace of a queen, the Duchess settled in a lace-covered armchair. The tense silence that filled the room threatened to bring tears to Iona’s eyes. She wished her mother would shout, wail, scream. The Duchess almost never favored stony silences over horridly dramatic displays.

Seeing her do so now was frightening.