The Bride Wore Pearls (14 page)

Anaïs looked down, gasping when she saw how perfectly the upholstery contrasted with the rug. Even to her untutored eye, it really was quite splendid. “Now
that,
” she said quietly, “is truly amazing.”

“Yes, yes, the very thing!” Kemble chortled, clutching the fabric to his breast as he glanced heavenward. “Oh, George! You are
still
the fairest of them all!”

Chapter 5

There is no vice so simple but assumes

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

William Shakespeare,
Merchant of Venice

A
nisha said little as Rance drove from Mayfair down to St. James. For the first time, she could sense a deep fissure between them. Rance sat ramrod stiff upon the cabriolet’s seat, his eyes focused straight ahead through the afternoon traffic, his jaw set hard—but no longer twitching from his temper.

It struck Anisha that she had never seen him quite so angry—or as tormented—as he had been in the garden. She saw no point in pressing him further; she had made her point. But it did strike her that he was behaving rather like the proverbial dog in the manger. Rance did not want her, yet it seemed he wanted no one else to have her.

Was that it?
Did
he want her?

Inwardly, she sighed. Of course he desired her, but sometimes lust was just lust. More likely he’d merely meant what he’d said. He felt accountable to her brother. And the fact that she might strike up anything remotely like friendship with Napier apparently struck Rance as a pure betrayal.

Still, she found Royden Napier to be a most intriguing man. And she was inordinately curious to see just what his late father had written about Rance all those years ago. No, she would not alter her plans merely to set Rance’s mind at ease. She had grown tired of trying to please the men around her and meant now to please herself.

The fact that she was pursuing Napier in order to help Rance, however . . .

Ah, well.
That
she would as soon not think about.

They turned into the environs of St. James Place, and, seeing the familiar carriage approach, a footman dashed down the steps of the St. James Society to take Lazonby’s reins. Across the street, Mr. Ringgold, the usual doorman, was nowhere to be seen, and the entrance to the Quartermaine Club was unmanned. It was, Anisha supposed, too early in the day for hardened gamesters, though she’d often seen disheveled, weary gentlemen trailing out of the club at an hour better suited to breakfast than dinner.

The door was answered by a portly servant who looked to have been roused from his luncheon, for he had a bit of cress stuck in his teeth. Anisha’s eyes roamed through the elegant entrance hall that looked much like the one across the street, with its broad marble staircase and ceilings vaulting two floors high. Indeed, the house was decorated almost as tastefully as the St. James Society, with silk-hung walls and a collection of fine French landscapes marching up the turn of the stairs.

Despite its beauty, however, the house felt cavernous and entirely empty.
Soulless,
Anisha thought, was the word.

Rance stated his business and, after cutting a curious glance at Anisha, the servant led them downstairs to the ground floor. The air in the stairwell was redolent of cigar smoke and, beneath it, a musky, citrusy scent that was decidedly male. Here, the décor became more subdued, and Anisha saw that the passageway below was lined with doors; the offices in which they counted their ill-got gains, no doubt.

Somewhere down the corridor a door opened on faintly squeaking hinges, then softly closed again, but there was no one to be seen. Anisha felt suddenly ill at ease for reasons she couldn’t explain, and was very glad she had come with Rance.

As if sensing her disquiet, he edged nearer to her side and set a hand almost possessively at the small of her back as they walked. She could feel the weight of his palm warming her through the fabric, and she was strangely comforted. It was always thus when she was with him, she realized. Even when they quarreled, she felt . . . safe, somehow. More at peace. And she wished, not for the first time, she understood why.

At the very end of the passageway, they were shown into a private chamber that could have been a gentleman’s study. Decorated in shades of dark green and cream, the room was large, high ceilinged, and comfortable without being ostentatious. Three French windows overlooked a small but lush rear garden, while books lined two walls.

A large walnut desk sat before the windows with a matching chest behind; a massive piece of furniture that held wide drawers covered by a pair of large doors. Anisha could see all this because the chest doors were thrown open, and a sort of leather-covered brushing slide was pulled out. A man who looked like a clerk stood there, his back to them as he counted out tall stacks of banknotes atop it.

The portly servant cleared his throat.

The man glanced over his shoulder as he put the last stack of money away. “Good afternoon,” he said, closing the slide.

“Peters, these people are here to see Mr. Quartermaine,” said the servant.

The clerk looked mildly surprised. “Certainly.” He shut both the doors, then locked them with a key that dangled like a fob from a chain at his waist. “I shall just see if he’s in.”

An odd smile played at one corner of Rance’s mouth. “You can tell him it’s Lazonby,” he said. “But I expect you knew that already.”

The man bowed. “Thank you, my lord. Yes, it is my business to know.”

With a stiffly polite gesture, he motioned them in the direction of the two tufted leather armchairs positioned opposite the desk, then vanished through a narrow passageway set into the wooden paneling beside the massive chest. Had one not seen it open, Anisha realized, the door would have been nearly invisible.

She cut an uncertain look at Rance. “Is that a secret passageway?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he said. “It probably runs between some of the gaming rooms, giving Ned a way to move about, and see without being seen.”

“None of this looks quite as I imagined,” she said, gazing about the room.

“Expected something more garish, eh?” Rance shot her a wink. “It’s just a gaming hell, Nish, not a brothel. And to the sort of clientele Ned attracts, gaming is a deadly serious business. They don’t welcome any distractions.”

“Ladies do come here, though, don’t they?” she said. “The more dashing ones?

Reaching across the distance, Rance laid a hand over hers. “Please, Nish,” he said quietly. “Don’t even think it. Not just now. I’ve had about all the change in you I can fathom for one day.”

Having utterly no interest in spending an evening in a gaming hell, she cut him a dark glance. “Really, Rance,” she muttered. “I sometimes wonder if you know me at—”

The rest of Anisha’s retort fell from her lips. The paneled door swung open, and Ned Quartermaine strode in.

A man of perhaps thirty years, he moved with grace and radiated sophistication—as well as something a little more sinister, she thought. Anisha had seen him at a distance, but as he approached she could see that his eyes were green, and very sharp.

His hair was golden brown, and he wore, to Anisha’s surprise, a pair of eyeglasses. Oddly, she found herself wondering if they were worn, perhaps, to disarm people.

“Lazonby.” He offered his hand but fairly bristled with displeasure.

“Quartermaine.” Rance shook it. “I think you’ve not met Lady Anisha Stafford?”

“No, but I believe I know the lady’s brothers.” With a tight smile, Quartermaine bowed over her hand. “How do you do, ma’am?”

After a short exchange about the weather, they settled back into their chairs and Quartermaine offered Anisha tea.

“Thank you, no,” she said. Despite his spectacles, Anisha could still see a guarded wariness lurking behind the man’s eyes as they shifted back and forth between them.

“Doubtless you are wondering what brings us here,” Rance added.

“There are surprisingly few things I wonder at anymore,” said Quartermaine, steepling his fingers almost pensively. “No, with Ruthveyn abroad and the two of you seated here, one can only conclude this has to do with certain monies owed this establishment by Lord Lucan Forsythe.”

“Now
that’s
not a bad guess,” said Rance almost admiringly. “But no.”

Anisha managed a smile. “My brother will be settling his account with you tonight, as it happens.”

“Ah.” With an almost silky gesture, Quartermaine touched the tips of his index fingers to his lips. “Then you wish me to give my word I’ll no longer allow him to sit at my tables?”

“That must be your choice,” Anisha replied, “and his, if he is fool enough to play.”

Quartermaine dropped his hands and arched one eyebrow. “Then you wish me to arrange for him to lose?” he murmured, his tone vaguely menacing. “Lose, that is to say, deeply enough and badly enough that he never dares venture into a gaming hell again? For I can assure you, ma’am, that is
not
my job. Nor is it in my best interests.”

Anisha lifted her chin a notch and refused to be intimidated. “Oh, I think we need not inconvenience you with Lucan’s tutelage,” she replied. “It has been my experience, sir, that one way or another young men eventually learn life’s lessons. He has already spent a stint in the sponging house. It remains to be seen if a turn in debtor’s prison will be required.”

At that, Quartermaine laughed, and some of the distrust fell from his eyes. “Well, he is not a bad player, if that helps you any.”

“Not remotely.” Anisha flashed an acidic smile. “In any case, I am here only as Ruthveyn’s representative, not Luc’s. It is Lazonby’s business that brings us.”

It was a thin excuse, she realized, but better than none. And Quartermaine did not seem to question it. “Lord Lazonby is not welcome at my tables under any circumstance,” he said smoothly. “But I believe he knows that already.”

Rance threw up a hand. “Pax, Ned, I no longer play,” he said. “I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“As did anyone who ever dared play with you, or so I hear,” said Quartermaine. Then he opened his hands expansively. “But there. We are neighbors. Let us be neighborly. How may I be of use to you?”

Rance shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “You came to London, I believe, some years past? From the army, was it?”

“I came from somewhere, yes, at some point in time.” Quartermaine’s smile was thin. “I cannot think it much matters where or when.”

“Not particularly.” Rance glanced at Anisha. “I was wondering, though, when you went into business, what you heard round Town about me. About my past.”

Quartermaine’s gaze shifted uneasily to Anisha then back again. “I read the newspapers, my lord,” he said, dropping his voice. “What more would you have me say?”

“Anything you wish,” said Rance. “I have no secrets from Lady Anisha or her elder brother. And what I am asking you is, from a professional standpoint, what do you know about my case? What rumors might you have heard about how and why I came to be convicted of murder?”

Quartermaine pulled off his eyeglasses and tossed them onto his desk. “I can’t think that matters, either,” he finally said.

Anisha leaned a little forward in her seat. “Sometimes, Mr. Quartermaine, the past is better viewed through more impartial eyes,” she said. “I believe Lazonby’s point is that perhaps you arrived in London after he was imprisoned, then spent those early years building your business. Surely, given your line of work, you heard rumors from your colleagues? And when he returned from North Africa and was exonerated, surely you were warned?”

Quartermaine laid both hands flat upon the well-polished surface of his desk. “Very well, if you wish to hear it,” he finally said. “I was near London, actually, at the time of your trial. It was said you’d come to Town a few months earlier and cut quite a swath, most of it through the hells and the whorehouses—your pardon, ma’am—and that you were nearly impossible to trounce at any card game of strategy, but that your odds were no better than any man’s when it came to games of pure chance. Still, a few concluded—even before your trial—that you were some sort of sharper, and quite a good one. So let’s just say the Crockfords of this town were glad to see the back of you, and none too happy at your return.”

“For the record,” said Lazonby coolly, “I never cheated.”

“Then you had uncommon good luck,” said Quartermaine. “It’s possible, but rare. And it is why I will not have you here, Lazonby. That uncommon good luck seems to be a
common
thread across the street, by the way. And I cannot help but wonder why that is.”

“I can’t think what you’re getting at,” said Rance tightly.

A little too casually, Quartermaine lifted one shoulder. “I hear, by the way, that your good doctor is working with St. Thomas’ Hospital now,” he said, dropping his voice, “and that he is conducting some interesting experiments having to do with memory and how electricity affects the brain.”

“I’m flattered you take an interest in our little scientific society and Dr. von Althausen’s work,” said Rance coolly. “As to cards and dice, we play only amongst ourselves nowadays. I think that need be your only concern.”

It was time to steer the conversation elsewhere. Anisha leaned forward in her chair. “Please, Mr. Quartermaine, do continue,” she said. “You were talking about the rumors?”

As if recalling her presence, he turned toward her. “Of course, where was I?” he said, his hard gaze softening. “Ah, yes. Some of the other young bucks took exception to your uncommon luck—Lord Percy Peveril in particular.”