Читать книгу Rake's Reward - Joanna Maitland - Страница 7

‘Good gad! I thought you said you had an evening gown. Is that the best you can do?’

Face flaming, Marina stood rigid as the Dowager’s sharp little eyes travelled over every detail of her drab appearance. She was wearing the best of her meagre Yorkshire wardrobe, a dove-grey gown made high to the neck, but relieved with a tiny ruff of precious lace. It was plain, and not in the least fashionable, but it was clean and neat. And, unlike most of Marina’s other gowns, it bore no visible evidence of mending.

Lady Luce’s distaste was manifest in the narrowing of her eyes and the slight thinning of her lips. She rose from her chair, shaking out her wide silken skirts. The fall of fine lace at her bosom quivered indignantly. ‘I suppose that is your evening gown?’ she said in withering tones.

‘You are correct, ma’am,’ replied Marina, refusing to drop her gaze. She would not be made to feel ashamed of her appearance. Her dress was perfectly adequate for a near-servant. ‘This is quite my best gown,’ she added daringly, remembering the lesson she had learnt when she first arrived. The Dowager relished a sharp opponent.

Lady Luce gave a snort which might have been suppressed laughter. With a tiny shake of her powdered head, she said, ‘We shall see to your wardrobe tomorrow, as I promised. Don’t suppose it will matter much tonight. Shouldn’t be taking you to Méchante’s in the first place, of course, not a gel like you.’ She turned for the door, talking all the while. ‘Too prim and proper by half. Just what I’d expect from William.’

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ began Marina, daring at last to interrupt her ladyship’s meanderings, ‘but who is Méchante and why—?’

‘Why should you not go there?’ Lady Luce spun round to face Marina. She seemed remarkably nimble for her years. Her eyes were full of wicked laughter. ‘My dear, Méchante—Lady Marchant—is not a proper person for a lady to know. She is the daughter of a Cit, and her history is…ah…more than a little colourful, besides. Most of the company at her card party tonight will be male. As to the ladies you may meet there…’ She chuckled. ‘Suffice it to say that you would do best to pretend never to have set eyes on them. You would be wise to make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. Try to blend into the background.’ She looked Marina up and down once more. ‘In that gown, it should not be difficult.’

Marina stared, but Lady Luce was already making for the door which opened, as if by magic, just as she reached it. The butler stood in the hall, waiting. No doubt he had been listening to every single word. Before morning, Marina’s plight would be the talk of the servants’ hall. She could feel herself flushing yet again as she followed Lady Luce to the door, head held high and eyes fixed on the Dowager’s ramrod-straight back. The servants might mock in private, but they would never detect the slightest sign of weakness in Marina’s outward behaviour.

Throughout the short journey through the still-bustling streets, Marina worried at the information about the dubious Lady Marchant and her card party. Méchante— Marina knew it meant naughty, or wicked, in French. If the lady’s past was as colourful as the Dowager had hinted, she probably deserved her nickname.

Marina quailed inwardly at the thought of this first test. Why did it have to come quite so soon? She began to rack her brains for ideas to stop the Dowager’s gambling but came up with nothing practicable. If she claimed she was ill, the Dowager would simply send her home. If she tried to intervene in the game itself, the Dowager might well dismiss her on the spot. And if she betrayed the Earl’s instructions, the Dowager would probably stake every penny she had, and more, just to spite him, for she had made no secret of the fact that she despised him. Marina chewed at her bottom lip. It did not help.

‘Pull yourself together, child,’ said the Dowager sharply. ‘Méchante won’t eat you, you know. You might even enjoy yourself…get rid of that Friday face. You do play cards, I take it?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Marina quickly. As a companion, she might be lacking in many ways, but she could certainly hold her own at the card table. Her father had delighted in teaching her how to play cards, and she had been an apt pupil, but she had never yet had an opportunity to discover whether she had inherited his appalling luck. Nor did she wish to. Captain Beaumont’s gambling losses had been the major cause of his family’s poverty. ‘However, I never gamble. I believe that—’

‘What you believe is of no importance. You will soon discover that everyone gambles, whether they can afford it or not.’ She stared hard at Marina for a second. ‘I collect that you have no money?’

‘I believe that gambling is wrong, whether one has money or not,’ said Marina stoutly. ‘It ruins too many lives.’

The Dowager continued to stare, narrowing her eyes assessingly, but she said nothing until they had reached their destination and were preparing to alight. ‘Do not share your puritanical opinions with the guests tonight, Marina,’ she said. ‘It would do no good. And it could do you a great deal of harm.’

Marina nodded dumbly and followed Lady Luce into the brightly lit entrance hall of Lady Marchant’s extravagant London house.

‘Why, Lady Luce, is it not? Good evening, ma’am.’

The Dowager stopped so suddenly that Marina almost collided with her. As it was, she stepped on the hem of her ladyship’s train and had to extricate herself carefully from the fine material. By the time Marina looked up once more, Lady Luce was staring coldly in the direction of the handsomest man Marina had ever seen. He had stationed himself between Lady Luce and the staircase and his presence seemed to fill the marble hallway. He was extremely tall and dark, with beautiful features that would not have looked out of place on a statue in a Greek temple. His exquisitely cut clothes seemed to have been moulded to his form, yet he wore them with an air of nonchalance.

‘Such a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am.’ The gentleman’s drawl had an unpleasant edge to it, Marina noticed, and his finely shaped mouth curled in disdain as he looked down at the tiny lady whose path he was blocking. ‘It must be…what?…all of five years? I look forward to making your acquaintance again. You do still play, I take it?’

‘Oh, I play, Mr Stratton, you may be sure of that.’ Lady Luce’s voice was acid. ‘I had not thought Méchante was quite so short of guests, however, as to need to invite just anyone to make up her numbers. I see that I shall have to take more care in deciding which invitations a lady should accept.’ With that, she marched forward, forcing her tormentor to make way for her. He did so with easy grace, Marina noticed, and he continued to watch with narrowed eyes as the Dowager mounted the elegant branching staircase to the reception rooms above. He spared not one glance for the grey companion.

By the time the Dowager reached her hostess’s drawing room, she was white with anger. Her thin lips were pressed tightly together as if to prevent her from speaking words that she might regret.

‘Ma’am—’

‘Have nothing to do with Kit Stratton, child,’ said Lady Luce sharply before Marina had time to begin her question. ‘He is dangerous. More dangerous than you could ever imagine.’

‘But—’

‘Good evening, Méchante.’ Lady Luce was holding out her claw-like hand to a voluptuous blonde dressed in a gown of diaphanous pink silk. It was doubtful whether Lady Marchant wore much by way of petticoats beneath her gown. It seemed to cling to her almost like a second skin.

Marina had never seen anything so brazen. She caught herself staring and forced herself to look away. Their hostess’s nickname was well deserved. She seemed to relish it, too. At Lady Luce’s impudent greeting, Lady Marchant smiled contentedly, accentuating her slanting green eyes. There was something remarkably feline about that look, Marina decided. She was probably devious, as well as wicked.

Marina longed to ask questions, but could not. Who was the haughty man in the hallway? His name seemed vaguely familiar, but she could not place it. What was between him and Lady Luce? Enmity, for sure, but why? Marina had no opportunity to say a word, far less ask a question, for Lady Luce and her hostess were already mingling with the throng of guests. There was no sign of the incredibly handsome Mr Kit Stratton.

Marina forced her thoughts back to practical matters. She must not stand alone in the doorway as if she were an outcast. She must heed the Dowager’s warning and blend into the background. The huge draped velvet curtains would provide just what she needed. They were far enough away from the candelabra to cast quite a deep shadow. In her grey gown, Marina would appear to be almost a shadow herself.

Safe in her dark corner, Marina surveyed the company. Almost all the guests were men. There were soldiers in scarlet coats, some of them quite senior, some of them so young that they still had the downy cheeks of a girl. Marina was forcibly reminded of her younger brother, Harry, and how very proud he had been on the first application of his cut-throat razors.

Of the non-military gentlemen, a few were dressed in expensive and well-cut coats, but most reminded her of Lord Luce. They looked well fed and well-upholstered and, in more than one case, well on the way to an early grave.

The ladies—no, that was too flattering a term—the women were few. Apart from Lady Marchant and Lady Luce, there were only three, none of them in the first blush of youth. They wore fine but slightly grubby gowns, all very low cut indeed. Two of the women had painted their faces. Lady Luce was right. Méchante’s house was one that no virtuous young lady should ever enter. Why then had she been so insistent that Marina should accompany her tonight?

The noise in the room was almost deafening. It seemed that all of the gentlemen were well into their cups and each was almost shouting to make himself heard above his fellows. Marina found herself shrinking somewhat into the velvet shadow and wishing that she had been able to avoid coming to this place.

Where was Lady Luce? She and her hostess seemed to have disappeared. Marina supposed they must have gone into an adjoining room. Should she follow her employer? Or should she stay here where, for the moment at least, she seemed to be relatively safe? She hesitated, but only for a moment. It was her duty to protect the Dowager, somehow, from her gambling folly. What if she were gambling in the very next room?

Marina straightened her shoulders. She must follow her employer and do her duty.

‘Well,’ said a male voice at her elbow.

Marina smelt the nauseating mix of stale alcohol and sweat even before she turned. Where had this man come from? She was being accosted—there was no other word for it—by a middle-aged man in a rusty-black evening coat. He was quite as raddled as the worst of those in the room. His skin was almost as grey as her gown; he had the eyes of a man who had not slept for days on end.

She gave him the look that had cowed many an upstart in Yorkshire and made to pass on. It was not to be. The man’s hand grabbed her arm and forcibly brought her to a halt.

‘Not so fast, missy,’ he said, in a drawl that sounded half drunk, half affected. ‘And who might you be?’

Marina tried to shake him off, but failed. ‘My name is of no moment, sir,’ she said in icy tones. ‘I will thank you to let go of my arm.’

‘Indeed?’ His red-lidded eyes narrowed nastily. He looked her up and down. ‘This one has her nose in the air,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t see why.’ His contempt was obvious from the set of his lips. ‘With looks like yours, you should be glad that any man deigns to take notice of you. Don’t reckon you’re worth a guinea of any man’s blunt.’

Marina gasped. She knew just what he thought her to be.

With a final, rather undignified wrench, she pulled her arm free and ran through the doorway, praying that her employer would be in the room beyond. She was disappointed. The adjoining room held only card tables where little groups of gentlemen were deeply engrossed in piquet and whist. At the table nearest the door, one of the gentlemen, clearly disturbed by her hurried entrance, indicated irritably that she should be silent.

Marina felt herself flushing. She halted her headlong dash. The man who had accosted her might not think her a lady, but she would try to behave as she had been taught. Even in a house such as this.

Head held high, she walked slowly and calmly through the room to the doorway on the other side.

It was another room for gambling, but considerably less decorous than the previous one. A noisy dice table stood near the door; on the far side, there was a roulette wheel, with a number of players clustered eagerly round it, including two more painted ladies.

Marina suppressed a shudder. There must be a way out of this nightmare. Where on earth could Lady Luce have disappeared to?

Kit watched with narrowed eyes as Lady Luce mounted the stairs to the galleried landing. Five years seemed to have changed her very little. She was as rude as ever, but he had expected nothing less. Did she suspect his intentions? Possibly. She was bound to know of the change in his circumstances. Society tabbies such as the Dowager made it a point of honour to know everyone’s business.

He took out his gold snuff box and tapped it with a manicured fingernail. Mechanically, he opened it and took a minuscule pinch. His eyes were still on the landing above.

Where was she? Would she dare to play when she knew he was here, watching, waiting his chance?

Of course she would. Lady Luce was a soulless harridan but she was no coward. She might avoid Kit if she decently could but, faced with a direct challenge, she would never retreat. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. One day, it would come. Perhaps even tonight?

With a little nod of satisfaction, Kit mounted the staircase. Unlike Lady Luce, he did not take the branch leading to the reception rooms. He had long ago made it his business to spy out the layout of Méchante’s labyrinth of a house. He knew precisely where the high-stakes games would be played. And, like a skilled hunter, he knew that the best tactic was to conceal himself and lie in wait for his prey.

Marina was bewildered. She had made her way through room after room encountering only drunken gamblers with too ready hands. It seemed to have taken hours to come this far. Now she was back on the landing, but still there was no sign of Lady Luce.

At the far side of the landing, a door opened. A slurring voice said, ‘So this is where you are. Don’t think you fool me by pretending to run away. I learnt the tricks of your trade before you were born. And I know exactly what you have in mind. Exactly.’

Marina whirled round, took one look at the man weaving his way round the gallery towards her and instinctively backed away. Feeling a doorknob against her side, she quickly entered the room, leaning back against the door with a sigh of relief.

Here was yet another gambling room. This one was much smaller than the others and was generously hung with deep blue damask. A pointed archway in the wall led through to the adjoining room, also blue. In each, there was a large oval table where a group of gamblers was playing in complete silence. Marina looked in horror at the piles of coin, notes and vowels heaped on the green baize. The guests here were playing for very high stakes.

From her position by the door, Marina could not see any sign of Lady Luce. Perhaps she was not gambling, after all?

At the table in front of Marina, Lady Marchant was acting as banker. Marina took half a step forward, but stopped when Lady Marchant gave her a slight shake of the head. Obviously, Marina’s presence was unwelcome here.

What was she to do?

Behind her, someone tried vainly to open the door. A second later, it was pushed sharply into Marina’s back. Surprised, she stumbled forward.

Lady Marchant frowned and shook her head angrily at the interruption, motioning to Marina to leave the room immediately. Unjust though it was, Marina knew better than to protest. She turned to do as she was bid. What choice did she have?

She stopped abruptly. There in the doorway, propping himself up against the jamb, was her drunken pursuer, the man she had been trying so hard to avoid. He was leering at her, waiting.

He thinks he has me now, Marina thought. But I will not allow myself to be used like a common street-walker.

She pulled herself up to her full height—which was a little taller than the drunk—and stared haughtily down at him. Her flashing eyes dared him to approach her. But in his befuddled state, would he heed her warning?

Through the archway, there came a cry of triumph. It was Lady Luce’s voice. She was in the very next room!

Marina spun on her heel and cried out as she collided with a man directly behind her. He must have risen from Lady Marchant’s table just as Marina turned.

For a split second, Marina felt herself falling, but then strong arms gripped her and held her upright. She found she was staring at a gold cravat pin in the shape of a swooping bird of prey, its cruel head set off by a blood-red ruby eye. She could not move. She was standing transfixed in a man’s arms while the warmth of him invaded her limbs. Her mind was refusing to function. She could think of nothing but the obvious fact that he was even taller than her father.

Then she glanced up into his face.

It was Kit Stratton. And he had the hardest eyes she had ever seen.