Authors: Caroline Richards
The Darkest Sin (8 page)
Galveston, annoyed at the tapping of her lorgnette on his shoulder, turned to his wife. She pointed somewhere into the sea of theater patrons, but he could not hear her words over the soaring voice of the soprano. No matter. He nodded in any case, following her gloved hand as she discreetly pointed in the direction of the Duke and Duchess of Osborne. But it was not the Duchess's bejeweled diadem that caught his attention.
The Baron Sebastian, sleek as an otter in his evening clothes, sat in the adjacent loggia, his dark eyes finding him like a bullet homing in on its mark. Galveston ran a finger around the stiff collar beneath his cravat. The crush of people, the cacophony of voices onstage, and the Baron's gaze closed in upon him to a distressing degree. Excusing himself abruptly to a startled Lucinda, Galveston exited their box, his mind already on a night at the gaming tables, always soothing to unexpectedly frayed nerves. The last images of Felicity Clarence flashed through his mind. Uncharacteristically disturbed, he shook off the vision with impatience, standing on the steps of the theater, summoning his carriage with a flick of his gold-handled cane.
Chapter 6
I
t had been surprisingly straightforward to storm the citadel that was Crockford's Club. Rowena had simply swept the major domo who attended the door up and down with an imperious stare and demanded that he make way for Lord Rushford's mistress, Miss Frances Warren. Accustomed to the irregular behaviors of a demanding clientele, the major domo had summoned Hastings, the establishment's manager, who came onto the scene with great alacrity and a barely raised brow before sweeping the winsome and confident Miss Warren inside the notorious town house.
t had been surprisingly straightforward to storm the citadel that was Crockford's Club. Rowena had simply swept the major domo who attended the door up and down with an imperious stare and demanded that he make way for Lord Rushford's mistress, Miss Frances Warren. Accustomed to the irregular behaviors of a demanding clientele, the major domo had summoned Hastings, the establishment's manager, who came onto the scene with great alacrity and a barely raised brow before sweeping the winsome and confident Miss Warren inside the notorious town house.
The club was, as Rowena had expected, extravagantly decorated, the heavy greens and golds meant to suggest the vastness of distant ducal palaces despite the reality of the narrow confines of a warren of salons, which encouraged intimate tête-à -têtes and hushed conversation. An abandoned gallery ran high along one side of the tight hall, its gilt arches pointing toward a rollicking gallery of cavorting mythological figures. Rowena wandered for a few minutes, trying to take the measure of the place while avoiding any specific invitations to join a circle.
She had met with cursory interest in her entrance, but in red velvet and fair curls, she passed scrutiny in what was regarded as a thoroughly dissolute circle that devoted itself to gambling and other barely reputable pastimes. Allowing a half smile to appear on her lips, she assessed the small crowd, mostly men and a few women, in the atrium and the adjoining salons. The laughter trilled a little too loudly and the colors of the silks and satin shone too brightly for decorum, but the club was known for its eclectic mix of high brow and low. Rowena stood on the threshold of one of the salons, a glass of champagne spirited into her hand by a passing servant, her attention captured by a man with heavy white mutton chops leaning over the décolletage of a red-haired woman.
“I shouldn't be surprised if a few fortunes are overturned this evening,” he said, the turquoise satin of his waistcoat catching the gaslight.
The redhead, the jeweled combs in her hair flashing, placed a plump hand to her bosom. “Do you believe so?” she asked in a breathless voice schooled to flirtatious perfection. “Lord Rushford is a difficult man to intimidate across a card table.”
Rowena took a sip of her champagne, fixing her eyes on a painting of a clutch of cherubs above the mantel, pretending to study the brush strokes closely as she eavesdropped from a modest distance.
The man's brow lifted in amusement. “I shouldn't try, my dear Constance, as I don't have a fortune to lose. My dear and careless father made certain of that some time ago, alas.”
The red-haired woman made a moue of disappointment. “Do not tell me that I am wasting my time, Cecil, darling. I simply could not bear it. The House of Braemore in straitened circumstances! Only imagine . . .” She ended the sentence with a girlish giggle.
It was Cecil's turn to laugh. “You always were refreshingly direct, my dear,” he said, reaching out playfully to stroke her hand in its silk glove, “but If you are looking for an engagement, perhaps you should try Lord Rushford. The man clearly has deep pockets and remains stubbornly solitary.”
“Deep pockets perhaps,” Constance mused, a curve to her rouged lips, playfulness still in her tone despite her companion's disappointing confession. “Much as I find the concept appealing, you and I both know that Rushford is reluctant to, shall we say,
engage.
Since the scandal.” She paused significantly, looking at Lord Braemore as though she had secreted a priceless gem away in the bodice of her gown. “Not that I don't relish a challenge,” she continued, lowering her voice further, “although I sensed there was something different about him this evening. I did snag him by the lapel of his jacket for the briefest moment earlier,” she added. “I couldn't say precisely what struck me as unusual.” She narrowed her feline eyes contemplatively.
engage.
Since the scandal.” She paused significantly, looking at Lord Braemore as though she had secreted a priceless gem away in the bodice of her gown. “Not that I don't relish a challenge,” she continued, lowering her voice further, “although I sensed there was something different about him this evening. I did snag him by the lapel of his jacket for the briefest moment earlier,” she added. “I couldn't say precisely what struck me as unusual.” She narrowed her feline eyes contemplatively.
“He seemed as indifferent to the world about him as ever when I last espied him in the library.” Cecil sniffed. “Cold water for blood, that one.”
Constance shivered dramatically, the silk tassels on her bodice keeping time. “I shouldn't be too sure of that. I hear he does have a fearsome temper. Albeit rarely on display.”
Cecil's brow inched higher. “Now do not tell me that you have frequented the boxing club, eh?”
“I'll never tell,” Constance said archly. “Except to say Rushford is quite the specimen of a man, particularly in full bout. Little wonder the late Duchess lost her head over him. Sacrificed everything.” She shook her head. “Rumor has it that it required five men to hold him back from killing the Earl. Of course, he was distraught.” She wagged a finger at Lord Braemore. “And you believe he has ice water running through his veins. I should love to prove otherwise.”
Rowena was overcome by a sensation so physical that it threatened to bend her body in two. How strange, she forced herself to observe, that she should be so affected by the thought of Rushford with a woman.
She startled at a hand on her elbow. Turning away from the couple whose heads were bent closer in conversation, she prepared a bright smile for the gentleman who sought her attention. Fixed squarely in a shaft of light slanting from a tableside candelabra, he looked as though he had simply materialized there, a tall man of middling age with an imposing physique.
“I trust I am not interrupting,” he said. The light cast his features in sharp relief, revealing eyes both inquiring and intelligent. Rather too inquiring and intelligent, thought Rowena, extending a gloved hand.
“Not at all,” she said, lying, attempting to school her mind and emotions into a semblance of order. “I was merely admiring the delightful painting,” she said, gesturing to the canvas over the mantel.
“Rather unfortunate, isn't it?” the gentleman asked rhetorically, a grin lighting his stern features, his eyes glinting over the prow of a bold nose. “I don't think I've ever seen a cherub quite that shade of pink.”
Rowena shook her head, unable to stop a widening smile. “Indeed. Although I shouldn't think that the club is much concerned about the selection of paintings for these walls.”
The gentleman relinquished her hand with an abbreviated bow, admiration in his gaze. “You are honest in your estimations, madam. And now that we have established the fact that we share impeccable taste in art, if I might be permitted to introduce myself? Lord Richard Archer.”
His humor gave Rowena a false sense of courage. “Miss Warren,” she said briefly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” That she was an unaccompanied female did not seem to matter to Lord Archer, who merely crossed his arms, a ghost of a smile tugging at one side of his mouth as he regarded her with frank interest.
“Pleasure,” he said. “I noticed your entrance earlier in the evening, when you caused a ripple among the men, like a new species swimming into the pool. And yet, you seem to have spent most of the evening attempting to hide in full sight, Miss Warren.”
Rowena took another sip of her champagne. “I wasn't hiding,” she countered.
“Merely eavesdropping?” Lord Archer rewarded her with a speculative glance, nodding discreetly toward the couple still posed under the painting. “Rushford finds himself at the center of conversation more often than not. Particularly recently.”
An inner voice warned her to retreat, but she ignored it. She straightened her shoulders, unaccustomed to the low drape of her bodice and a stranger's scrutiny. “From what I could glean, he's quite the unusual man,” she said neutrally.
“And a close friend,” Archer said with an appealing frankness. “So you will hear no gossip from me, Miss Warren.”
“I am relieved,” she replied, reining in her strong curiosity. Somehow she had not considered Lord Rushford as having friends. He seemed a man disposed instead to isolation, shuttered away in his town house save for the few excursions and unorthodox pursuits he permitted himself. Lord Archer was observing her like a scientist intent upon discovery and made no effort to disguise the fact of his interest. She lifted her chin defiantly, aware that there was no use in holding off the inevitable. “Lord Rushford is a friend of mine as well.”
Archer's dark brows snapped together. “My, my,” he said. “Rush has been keeping secrets. But then he is a man who plays his cards close to his chest. How do you know himâor is it prudent to ask, Miss Warren?”
The lie was outrageous, she knew, but entirely necessary. The pause lengthened as he waited for her to offer elaboration. A small twinge of conscience was defiantly repressed. “I am,” she said slowly, suddenly all too aware of her borrowed costume and hastily conferred identity, “Lord Rushford's mistress.”
Archer's brows shot up, his keen gaze quickly taking in her ensemble, from the improbable tint of her hair to the crushed velvet of her red dress, missing no details Rowena feared. A burst of laughter, followed by a volley of raised voices, prevented whatever he was going to say next. The knot of people in the salon craned their heads in the direction of the hallway to see what the commotion was about.
“You will excuse me, Lord Archer,” Rowena murmured, turning toward the threshold, “I believe I should hasten to Lord Rushford's side. In the library,” she added with a tilt of her head in farewell before she began threading her way through the melee heading toward what she hoped was the library.
“This could get very exciting.” The woman named Constance was behind Rowena, the scent of gardenias wafting along with her wide skirts. “From my vast experience in these matters, Cecil, it appears as though someone is on the precipice of winning a great sum.”
“It's been some time since a great fortune was lost,” Lord Braemore murmured in return. “Crockford's is losing its edge, I fear.”
Rowena walked on, relieved to have left Lord Archer behind in the melee, quickly relinquishing her glass of champagne on a sideboard. She stood on her toes to peer into what was clearly the gambling room, painted a more somber green and gold but with none of the bookshelves one would expect in a library. Instead, two tables dominated the space, with only one currently occupied. All the other players had presumably abandoned their games to stand on the sidelines and watch the contest of vingt-et-un that was unfolding.
The cards were being shuffled, signaling the beginning of the end for one of the two men. Lord Rushford, in contrast to the prevailing mood, sat at the table with unconscionable disinterest, dressed simply in a black evening coat, his cravat a subdued cream silk, directing his gaze to the skillful hands of the dealer rather than on his opponent, whose complexion had taken on the grayish cast of a November sky. Rowena watched Rushford closely, noting there was nothing aggressive about his posture or movements, nothing to indicate that he cared a whit about the game's outcome. Yet, with his height and distinctly unfashionable athletic build, he dominated the room and his opponent, an aggrieved looking gentleman with a retreating hairline, matching chin, and ashen cast.
Behind Rowena, Constance whispered to her companion. “Dear Lord. The amount on the table is frightening. Too much money for Galveston to lose.” The pile of chits, and tension as tight as piano wire, proved the truth of the declaration.
“Galveston's wife's family will absorb the losses,” came Cecil's reply. “Although Ambrose appears to be having second thoughts. I suppose it's a big enough sum to toss.”
The club's dealer, as gaunt and serious as an undertaker, oversaw the proceedings. A king for the man named Galveston, who called for another card with a sharp rap of his knuckles on the table.
Rushford drew a queen, followed by a six of hearts, with the nonchalance of a leisurely Sunday ride in Hyde Park. The hush in the library deepened.
Rowena knew little of gambling, save for whist and chess, which she and Julia had played as children. However, the tension in the library, already as tight as a bow string, was difficult to ignore. Even Rowena sensed that the pile of chits on the table was fearsome. Perspiration gathered under the wig and velvet dress.
Galveston nodded abruptly for his last card.
An eight of clubs snapped onto the table, and Galveston's face hardened into a mask of disappointment. The onlookers released their collective sigh in one breath, punctuated by polite applause, and a few outstretched necks waited for Rushford to collect his winnings. Rushford did not relax farther into his chair, however, nor did he reach for the chits at the center of the table. Instead, with the steadiest of hands, he signaled for the dealer to draw another card.
Over a collective hiss of surprise, Rushford said, “We can do better than this, can't we, Galveston?”
“I play by gentlemen's rules, Rushford,” Galveston replied with a distinct whiff of desperation. “Although I shouldn't expect you to understand.”
A soft murmur went through the crowd. The dealer's hand hovered over the deck. Behind Rowena, Cecil whispered, “Whatever is going on between those two?”
“From what I understand,” Constance said, her voice thick with secrets, “Ambrose cannot forgive Rushford for his involvement in the Cruikshank murders. A betrayal of his class and whatnot.”
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