Читать книгу Regency Affairs Part 1: Books 1-6 Of 12 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 61

‘I think the arrangement will be to your liking.’ Mercedes fixed the woman across from her with a confident stare over the rim of her teacup. The woman in question was none other than Mrs Booth, proprietress of Mrs Booth’s Discreet Club for Gentlemen, located just off Royal Victoria Park.

The attractive businesswoman smiled back. ‘Twenty per cent of whatever you make?’ she clarified the terms.

‘Twenty per cent.’ Mercedes nodded. There were only so many places in a town where a girl could make money, ‘discreet gentlemen’s clubs’ being one of them.

‘I have to ask: why here?’ Lucia Booth took a bite of lemon cake.

‘I like your clientele,’ Mercedes said easily. She’d done her research in the last week. Mrs Booth’s was a familiar destination for many of the husbands of her newfound friends. It would provide her a little leverage should she need it. Mercedes leaned forwards, giving the impression she was about to impart a juicier answer. She lowered her voice to complete the impression. ‘I’m going to play in the All England Billiards Championship, if I can raise the entrance fee.’ It was true, too. She’d made up her mind ages ago when the tournament was first announced, but she still had to raise the entry fee. There was no way to raise that money in Brighton where everyone knew her.

Mrs Booth arched her dark brows. ‘That would be something, to see a woman play.’

Mercedes caught the approval in the woman’s voice. She set down her teacup and rose, wanting to end the interview on a positive note. ‘I’ll start tonight. I’ll come in the back around nine o’clock.’

Mrs Booth rose with her. ‘I’ll be happy to have you. The men need a new distraction, but I want to be sure you understand.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You do know this is not your usual gentlemen’s club?’

Mercedes knew very well what she meant. Mrs Booth’s wasn’t a club like White’s or Boodles or even the subscription rooms. Mercedes smiled. She’d have to have been blind not to notice this club’s main attraction was its women. It was not so much a club as it was a brothel. Classy and elegant, it catered to rich gentlemen with discerning tastes. ‘I know very well what this place is.’

‘All right then, because I won’t be tolerating any trouble from an angry husband, father, or brother, who comes looking for you.’

Mercedes thought of the wig and gorgeously provocative gown she had stashed in her wardrobe, acquired from a ‘discreet’ modiste in town who probably catered to the employees of the ‘discreet gentlemen’s club’. ‘It will be as if I’m hardly here,’ she promised with the glimmer of a mischievous smile.

Mrs Booth smiled back and extended her hand. ‘Call me Lucia. I think we shall get along just fine.’

Indeed, one would have been hard pressed to recognise Mercedes when she arrived at Mrs Booth’s that night in a deep-red gown trimmed in jet beads and cut shockingly low. The gown was expensively done and Mercedes felt decidedly wicked in it. The wig, purchased from the theatre company, was a soft brown, much lighter than her usual dark tresses. It was styled with braided loops to give the impression that her hair was pinned up. Together, the wig and the gown created a most tantalising image of a proper lady behaving badly, a juxtaposition that was certain to distract the gentlemen, if not drive them a little mad.

And it did. The gentlemen flocked to the table, eager to play at first out of novelty, then, seeing her true skill, out of desire to prove themselves. They vied for her attentions, they bought her glasses of champagne, from which she sipped delicately, careful not to overindulge. As the night wore on, she recognised a great many of them as the spouses of her friends, who’d come to the charms of Mrs Booth’s establishment after having done their duty with their wives.

She’d known the nature of those society marriages, but encountering it first-hand was more difficult, especially when Lord Fairchild, well in his cups, made an inappropriate overture after losing a large sum to her at the table. Louisa would just die if she knew her husband had propositioned the billiards girl at Mrs Booth’s. Mercedes fended him off with a smile and turned her attention to the next game.

The first three nights had been easy. She was trading on novelty. But by the fourth night, word had got around about the ‘new feature’ at Mrs Booth’s and curiosity over the unknown had blossomed into interest. Everyone wanted to know who she was. She had a ready fiction to hand, of course, prepared for such an eventuality. She was Susannah Mason, a gambler’s widow from Shropshire, whose husband had met his death in a duel over cards.

‘Really?’ Mr Ogilvy, who’d become a shockingly regular customer and loser at her table, shook his head one night and studied her sharply. ‘I could have sworn you looked familiar.’

Mercedes placed a light hand on his arm and gave a throaty laugh. ‘Some people believe we all have a twin somewhere in the world. Perhaps you’ve met mine?’ The court gathered around the table laughed along with her.

‘Who is next, gentlemen?’ Mercedes called out, eager to play. Her nest egg for the entrance fee was coming along nicely. In a few more days she’d have it, which was well enough since her father didn’t plan to stay in Bath much longer. She won the break and began to play, bending low over the table, letting the gown do its job.

But Ogilvy was persistent, not nearly as distracted by her bosom as he usually was. ‘It’s the wrong-coloured hair, of course—the person I’m thinking of has dark hair. She’s a friend of my wife’s. I’ve met her a few times on outings,’ he mused out loud. His musings chilled her. When he didn’t stop, Mercedes fixed him with one of her hard stares. She needed him to stop before he figured out her secret.

‘Does your wife know you’re here, Mr Ogilvy?’ she asked pleasantly, taking time to chalk her cue.

He chuckled, as did the men around him. ‘She knows I’m at my club.’

‘Does she know what goes on here? Or does she think we sit around and talk politics all night?’ Mercedes blew chalk from the tip, deliberately seductive, a fleeting thought about Greer’s comments flitting through her mind.

The men laughed heartily. ‘No, she doesn’t know. That’s the best part.’ Ogilvy laughed loudly.

Mercedes silenced him with a look. ‘Then you’d better hope you’re mistaken about the resemblance, sir. I’d hate to tell her what you’ve been up to with her money.’ Helen Ogilvy had let it drop in a private moment on a picnic that Ogilvy had married her for her money to save his ailing estate. He was in line to inherit his uncle’s baronetcy later, but while he waited he hadn’t a feather to fly with.

Ogilvy looked properly chastised and there was no further comment about her appearance.

The evening had ended well. Mercedes had paid Mrs Booth her fee, put her wig and gown away at the club and headed home, tired but pleased. Plan B was working splendidly. She let herself into the house and stifled a scream as a large hand covered her mouth and an arm dragged her against the rock-solid wall of a man’s chest.

‘Where have you been?’ a voice growled in her ear. Then she could smell him, the familiar scent of oranges. Greer.

He dropped his hand.

‘Not in my bed, as you very well know. Been checking my room, have you?’

‘I was worried. I came home and you were gone.’

‘So you thought you’d scare me half to death. Fine idea,’ she scolded in a loud whisper before going on the offensive. ‘What are you doing home in the first place? Aren’t you supposed to be playing?’ She’d thought her father had arranged a private party at one of the subscription rooms tonight.

He wagged a finger at her in the darkness. ‘Unh, unh, unh. No questions from you just yet. You were supposed to be with Elise Sutton at Mrs Pomfrey’s musicale.’

‘I was.’ For a while. Until she’d claimed a headache and left for more lucrative climes. Musicales were not one of the places a girl could make money.

Greer danced her backwards towards a chair, both hands gripped her forearms. ‘What’s going on?’ He pressed her down into the chair and took the one across from it, pulling the chair up close.

‘Nothing is going on.’ Mercedes tried to sound outraged at the accusation. ‘Is my father home?’

Greer shook his head. ‘No, he decided to stay on with some old friends who’ve just arrived in town. Now, don’t try to change the subject. I know you’re up to something. Tell me what it is.’

Mercedes crossed her arms. ‘What makes you think I’m up to anything? I had a headache and came home. Later, I decided to go for a walk. I thought the fresh air might clear my head.’

Greer laughed, leaned forwards and took a deep breath. ‘Mercedes, you smell.’

She probably did smell of Mrs Booth’s. Mercedes seized the lapels of his evening wear and drew him close. ‘Nobody likes a nosy parker, Greer,’ she whispered low and throaty before she slanted her mouth over his. She’d meant to distract him, a game only. But it had been ages since she’d kissed him and it was like coming home. He tasted of brandy and wine, and his body was strong against her when she slid from her chair onto his lap. She kissed him slowly, tasting, drinking him. She was hungry for this man who was so handsome and good, a definite departure from the groping hands and crass innuendo of the supposed gentlemen at Mrs Booth’s. Surely he wouldn’t become like those other men, forsaking their wives for the momentary charms of expensive whores.

Her hands moved to his cravat, exquisitely tied as always. She yanked, rumpling all that perfection in a single pull. She tugged his shirt from his waistband, aware that her own skirts were high on her thighs, provocative and inviting as if she rode astride. She slid her hands under his shirt, moving up beneath the fabric to caress him, to trace the muscled contours of him. His hands tightened where they gripped her thighs, a groan escaping him.

‘Mercedes, be careful,’ came the hoarse warning, uttered with great effort. She was sure he was as uninterested in caution at the moment as she was.

‘Are you afraid?’ She reached a hand between them and cupped him through his trousers. God, he’d be magnificent. She would have slid to her knees and parted his thighs right then if he had not restrained her, his hands tight over hers in a halting gesture that kept her on his lap.

‘Damn right I’m afraid, Mercedes. If you had any sense, you’d be afraid too.’ He drew a ragged breath, one hand pushing back a strand of her hair that had come loose. His fingers skimmed her cheek. ‘What is this, my dear? Just when I think I have you figured out, have “us” figured out, and I’ve resigned myself to understanding this is a just a game to you, you go and make it feel real.’ He shook his head, his eyes holding hers. ‘I can’t be a game to you, Mercedes. And I don’t think it can be a game to you either, whether you know it or not.’

She rose from his lap and shook down her skirts. She turned away and focused her gaze out the window, gathering her thoughts. She wanted to shout at him, but what was there to accuse him of? The truth? Her hand closed over the star charm she wore at her neck. She hardly ever took it off. It was a way of keeping Greer close. He was right, he should be a game. But one could only imagine what would happen if she took anything with Greer seriously. A game was the only way she could have him and still protect herself.

She could feel him behind her, warm and near right before his hands closed gently over her shoulders. ‘Don’t mistake me, Mercedes. I would welcome you. I have only one rule: when you come to me, you need to mean it.’

‘Is that how a gentleman issues a proposition?’ Mercedes snapped, shaking off his hands. She was suddenly tired and irritable. She was not used to having her advances foiled. Most men fell at her feet for the merest tokens of affections and there’d been nothing ‘mere’ about what she’d been ready to offer Greer.

‘No, it’s how I tell you I’m perfectly aware you were using the sparks between us to distract me from the true purpose of our conversation.’

Good Lord, he was like a dog with a bone. She huffed and said nothing, but Greer moved away. She could hear his footsteps at the door, halting before he passed into the hall. ‘One more thing, Mercedes, your defence could use a little work.’

Her defence? Having her own words thrown back at her sat poorly. Mercedes stood at the window a while longer, staring at the empty street and letting his comment settle. He was right. She’d had only the dandies and the young, bright-eyed officers of Brighton to practise on for so long. She had to remember she was dealing with a man now and a suspicious one at that; possibly the very last thing she needed when she was so close to her goal. Well, he’d have to work fast if he meant to catch her. Two nights more, and Susannah Mason would disappear from Mrs Booth’s for good.

Greer lifted his champagne glass in yet another toast. The private room Lockhart had procured for the night was filled to bursting with gentlemen who’d come for one last party, one last chance to hobnob with the former billiards champion. It was time to go. The Bath Season would officially close in little less than a month, sending its society to the country for the summer or, for those who could afford it, on to London where they could join that season under full sail. Already, Greer could feel the social whirl slowing down in anticipation of that shift.

‘You’ll be in Brighton for the tournament, of course?’ Mr Ogilvy asked at his elbow.

‘Absolutely.’ Greer nodded. The tournament was on his mind a great deal more these days. The sojourn in Bath had been illuminating. For the first time he was starting to see the possibilities. If he could manage to win … he could what? Open his own billiards parlour? His family would cringe at the thought. But it would be a lucrative business, something he could support himself with, something he’d made from his own talent. He didn’t believe this would occur without risk. His family might very well shun him, but perhaps that would be their problem, not his.

‘It’ll be deuce quiet around here with you and Lockhart gone,’ Ogilvy said into his drink, looking mournful at the prospect.

Greer shrugged. ‘It’ll be quiet anyway. The Season’s closing down.’ But he knew Lockhart’s parties would be missed. They’d been lavish, male-only affairs that had promoted jovial camaraderie amongst men who’d been bored beyond words at the predictable social rounds of Bath, a predictable whirl that went on for eight months, October to June. Lockhart had chosen just the right time to show up. Greer wasn’t surprised. His arrival had been purposely calculated to draw maximum attention.

‘How about a game, one final opportunity for you to beat me?’ Greer gestured towards the table where the cues laid crossed like swords and waiting. Ogilvy was always up for a game.

Ogilvy shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I’m cleaned out.’

Greer raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Ogilvy was a fair player, the kind Lockhart hoped to see in Brighton. ‘Really? You were up a few games when you left here last night.’

Ogilvy shook his head again. ‘I went on to Mrs Booth’s, you know, the ole balls and stick.’

Greer laughed and clapped Ogilvy on the back good-naturedly. ‘You’re a fine billiards player, Mr O., but cards are not your thing. When are you going to learn?’ Not much of a card player himself, Greer had watched Ogilvy lose large sums on more than a few evenings.

‘Wasn’t at cards,’ Ogilvy mumbled, hastily taking a drink.

Greer elbowed him. ‘Do tell, Ogilvy. It sounds like there’s a great story there.’ They edged away from the crowd towards a potted palm decorating the room’s perimeter.

‘Well, it’s that billiards girl Mrs Booth’s got. Susannah Mason? Haven’t you heard of her yet? She’s only been there about three weeks.’ Ogilvy tossed a look towards the group beyond them. ‘Lots of the men have lost to her. Most are too embarrassed to mention it.’

‘That explains why I haven’t heard about her.’ Greer grinned. It was a good thing Mercedes didn’t know about her. Mercedes would be over at Mrs Booth’s with a challenge within minutes—another good reason he and the Lockharts were leaving. If Mercedes knew there was a woman playing somewhere, anywhere, she’d be impossible for Lockhart to manage. Greer could imagine the scene that would ensue.

‘I can’t figure out if it’s her skill or her gowns that make her so difficult to beat.’ Ogilvy was going on about Susannah Mason. ‘There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t place it. She’s a card player’s widow from Shropshire, said her husband was killed in a duel. It’s all very dramatic.’ Ogilvy gave a wave of his hand in dismissal, but Greer could see the man was quite taken with Susannah Mason.

Ogilvy put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Say, why you don’t come with me tonight? You can win my money back. I dare say you won’t be as distracted by her charms. Not when you’ve got Miss Lockhart’s attentions.’

It was on his lips to deny that he had Miss Lockhart’s attentions, but Ogilvy was already back to his favourite subject of Susannah Mason. ‘Then again, the way she blows chalk off her cue tip does all kinds of things to a man’s insides, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I do believe I know.’ Greer said slowly. His earlier thought returned. If Mercedes knew a woman was playing. There was no other woman, Greer would bet on it. It was her.

All the little oddities of the last weeks came together: Mercedes’s apparent acceptance that she should turn her efforts to more feminine pursuits, her absence last night which might have been one of many. Who really knew what she got up to after he and Lockhart left her in the care of the lovely but sharp-minded Elise Sutton? Elise and Mercedes were thick as thieves these days.

‘Shall we?’ Ogilvy said.

‘Yes,’ Greer said grimly. ‘Let’s go and win your money back.’