Almost a Gentleman (16 page)

Energy was high at Vivien's the next Monday. The earl of Linseley had never been known to gamble. "Too rich, wellborn, and stuffy for it," was the word among the
ton
. "Too humorless, too stiffly noble and high-minded," added his enemies in Parliament.

"Serves him right for all that tiresome prattle about the common lands and the rabble who work it. And then getting into debt, in this crusade to stifle the Progress of Industry. I hope Marston leaves him without a pair of boots to call his own."

"Indeed, let the honest yeomen he champions lend him the ten thousand he needs."

News of Linseley's disastrous confrontation with Marston had circulated about the clubs as if through the ether on Mount Olympus.

"He said that Marston promised it to him and then went back on his word."

"Marston, of course, denied the story. Said that he'd offered Linseley ten thousand for the pattern of the knot in his cravat. But then he figured it out for himself. Spent a whole night in front of his mirror working it out. Linseley flew into a rage when he realized what happened."

"Marston
would
say something like that. Well, it promises to be a diverting evening. Will you bet on it?"

"Wouldn't be gentlemanly to refuse. Five hundred on the earl. The odds on him are tantalizingly short."

Lord Linseley and Admiral Wolfe, Messrs. Marston and FitzWallace, having seated themselves for whist, the club's management sent over a bottle of champagne. Not unexpectedly, Marston pronounced the vintage "vulgar" and demanded the prior year. A murmur of appreciative laughter swept through the room.

Marston sipped his champagne, watching coolly as Lord Linseley quickly tossed back a glassful and immediately poured himself another. He looked flushed and rather confused, as though barely attending when Mr. Vivien announced that the pair who took the first seven tricks would be the winners, with the highest scorer getting all the money.

The admiral dealt the first hand and took the first trick. FitzWallace took the next and Marston the next three.

He was looking unusually handsome that evening. His dress was impeccable and his color was high. "I don't usually get the opportunity to ruin such a noble gentleman," he'd been heard to remark upon entering the room. "Or such a handsome one," he'd added. "Desperation quite becomes him. Rather loosens him up, eh?"

He joked between tricks and stared provocatively at his opponent. A few gentlemen with an eye for such things found his manner more than provocative.

"Indecent, I'd call it," whispered Baron Bunbury to a young companion. "I hope the earl teaches the obnoxious Marston a lesson with those big fists of his, and I think I'll advise him to do so. About time
somebody
did, anyway."

"I think you'd be pleased to see him do anything at all with those big fists," his companion whispered back. Bunbury glared.

Linseley and Wolfe played their remaining cards capably enough but their opponents won the hand and scored the first point.

Marston dealt next, the earl seemed quite mesmerized by the sight of his slender hands on the deck.

Almost despite himself, Linseley took the first trick. Wolfe pressed their advantage and they won the hand. The score was tied.

"Marston gave them that point," someone whispered rather too loudly, "to make it more interesting for himself."

Linseley was clearly disconcerted to hear it. He played erratically, wasting some high trumps and causing even his partner to raise his eyebrows. His side lost the next hand. And the next as well. Four points to one now.

"Only one more and Phizz wins the ten thousand."

"Which will ruin utterly our fine Lord Linseley. He'll have to sell some of that land he bought so recklessly."

The admiral dealt. The gentlemen surveyed their cards.

Ten tricks played. Four for Marston, two for FitzWallace. Three for the admiral, one for the earl.

Linseley's hand trembled. Another moment and it seemed he might drop his cards. A murmur accompanied his play: queen of diamonds.

Diamonds were trump.

And Marston had the ace.

"Sorry, my lord. It's all over, don't you know? And I'll take it in cash, if you don't mind."

There was a furious crash as Lord Linseley rose from his chair. "You'll take my cheque, you vile puppy. Are you insulting my word?"

"Oh no, not your word, my lord. Merely your credit. And your sobriety."

Polite Society would have a laugh over that tomorrow, as they would when they recounted how a furious and confused Lord Linseley pelted the young man with banknotes. "And he might have done a good deal more," they'd say, "if Admiral Wolfe and Baron Bunbury hadn't hustled him out of there and into his carriage."

"Fine-looking carriage. Wonder if he'll sell it."

"This is madness, David," the admiral said once the carriage had rolled away.

"I thought it went rather well." Lord Linseley fanned himself calmly with his top hat. "Stifling hot in there though. All those absurd dandies with nothing better to do of an evening."

"And
you've
involved yourself with the most absurd and scandalous of them all."

"Except that he isn't.
She
isn't. She's something special. She's something… extraordinary."

"Extraordinarily handsome young man is what she is, to my way of seeing. If one didn't know the truth, one wouldn't suspect it for a moment. You're quite
sure
, David?"

"
Of course
I'm sure."

Admiral Wolfe put up a conciliatory hand. "Yes, yes, don't take offense. Of course you're sure."

David hadn't told Wolfe any of the physical details of his encounter with the lady, but he supposed his friend had guessed that
something
had transpired. Good of John Wolfe not to pry, he thought.

"The point though," the admiral continued, "is that she's putting herself into a deuced dangerous situation and has been for some time. Why? What's in it for her?"

"If I knew
that
, I might be able to play her game halfway decently—whatever
real
game it is she's playing, you know. If I even knew her
name
, for that matter…"

He'd already done what he could for her safety by hiring Stokes to follow her about through Town. He'd informed her of it by post, too, after a bit of deliberation, when he'd realized that she was too clever not to pick Stokes out in the shadows.

His note to her had been terse, perhaps a bit self-righteous. "For your own safety… I hope you understand the wisdom…"

She'd written back just as tersely, thanking him for his concern, protesting that she needed no protection in the streets, and adding that she'd try not to succumb to the temptation of leading Mr. Stokes through dark alleyways and losing him there. "Respectfully as always," she'd signed herself, "PM."

It was the name that rankled
. He wanted to call her something besides "Mr. Marston." He wanted a woman's name he could whisper in his dreams.

But he supposed that would all have to wait. Until after next week's dinner engagement with Smythe-Cochrane. And—
ah yes, he'd forgotten the bit of paper Bunbury had
—
too obviously
—
slipped into his pocket
. Coal Hole Tavern. Fountain Court. Dusk. Tomorrow. Tell no one.

Two out of four wasn't bad, he thought. He'd inform her of his progress next week at the Almack New Year's Ball.

But it was Crashaw he was betting on. Had his performance at the gambling table been convincing enough to lure Crashaw into an alliance?

He settled back into the carriage's velvet upholstery and continued to fan himself. He was still flushed from the champagne. And from pretending to be drunker than he was. Or
had
he been pretending? His head was certainly swimming now; perhaps he truly
was
as besotted as he'd seemed. But not merely on champagne. It was
she
who'd made him so drunk. As she'd promised, she'd been "smug, insolent, arrogant, and entirely insulting." And irresistible; in David's eyes at least, her behavior had been an inducement to ravishment atop a green baize gambling table.

He relaxed into the darkness and let a slow smile steal over his face. Just wait, my young gentleman, he found himself thinking, just wait until I get you alone.

"Don't say a word." Phoebe held up a finely gloved hand. "I
know
that I was scandalously visible last Monday night and that you heartily disapprove. But do wait, Lady Kate, to hear the whole story before you pass judgement upon your humble servant."

Lady Kate Beverredge was receiving Mr. Marston in the splendidly refurbished salon of her house in Park Lane. The fresh paint and wallpaper fairly glistened, and the drop cloths had been removed from the new upholstery just the day before. Marston took an appreciative breath of the lemon oil had been rubbed patiently into the wood of the Hepplewhite tables. "The room is exquisite, my lady. And
you
are looking equally well today."

It was true. Kate looked serene and relaxed, a lady of impeccable breeding at home in her impeccable surroundings. She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge her guest's compliment. And then shook it to signal that she was in no mood for cajolery.

"I'm delighted that we meet your standards, sir. And I hope the garden does as well. Will you take a turn with me?"

"Of course." Marston took the mink-lined pelisse from the arm of a waiting servant and swept it over his hostess's shoulders.

"I'll give you a cup of
tea
when we've finished our conversation." Lady Kate Beverredge's voice and gestures were as severe as Mr. Marston's were expansive.

Barely suppressing a grin, Marston waved a hand toward the double doors that opened onto the terrace. "After you, my lady."

The garden was bleak and wintry, its yew hedges still in need of trimming. But it was an enviably large space, set with graceful gravel paths.

"It'll be lovely in the spring, with roses all along this east walk." Phoebe took her friend's arm. "Will you be planting any of the new varieties?"

"Yes, I like the look of those new moss roses, interspersed with the big, round, old-fashioned kind. But don't you dare distract me: we're not here to discuss roses, you bad girl. We're here to assess the danger you've put yourself in by making yourself the object of all the Town gossip. Don't you remember the promise you made, when you began this mad masquerade three years ago?"

"I do indeed. I said I'd live as austerely and privately as it was possible for a gentleman of fashion to do, but Kate…"

"An absurdly liberal promise, I see now. We should have been stricter with you, held you to higher standards."

"Oh but Kate…"

"Because you simply don't understand how Jonathan and Emily and I worry over you. And poor Mr. Simms—
especially
Mr. Simms—how
could
you be so inconsiderate of someone so devoted to your welfare? He came to see me all in a dither yesterday, about a fight… a
physical
scuffle with Lord Linseley. In your
home
, Phoebe, what
were
you thinking?"

"I do apologize most heartily for the… scuffle, and for worrying dear Mr. Simms. You're right, of course; I must take him into my confidence about these matters, but…"

"I fail to see how your behavior is covered by
any
'if,' 'and,' or 'but.' Or
any
exception to
any
rule of behavior, gentlemanly, ladylike, or otherwise."

It is impossible to speculate how long Lady Kate might have continued in this vein, had she not been interrupted by a most unexpected sound.

Giggles. A cascade of helpless, uncontrollable, delicious, feminine giggles.

A chagrined Mr. Marston lifted his hand to his mouth, trying to pretend that he'd been overcome by a coughing fit. But to no avail. The happy laughter wouldn't be stopped.

Kate stared in wonder. "Oh my dear."

The two friends stood face to face under a ramshackle arbor, its shaky wooden frame entwined with bare, leggy vines in winter slumber.

Phoebe gradually regained her composure, though her cheeks remained scarlet as berries.

"Unusually warm day for December," she murmured.

"Quite."

"He
knows
, Kate. He was
there
, don't you remember, atop the hilltop at Rowen-on-Close? There were two big men watching us from the hill, Mrs. Grainger told us later that she sent them off to the Lake District. He saw us… he saw
me
… dressed as a lady. And he knew immediately. He seems to… to know me."

"Ah."

"He's a good man, Kate. We can trust him. And he's pledged to help."

"To help deal with the threatening letters, I take it?"

"They've gotten worse. I received one this morning, informing me that AN UNNATURAL WOMAN WILL MEET AN UNNATURAL END. I informed Lord Linseley of it by post today. But now you can see why he and I have had to pretend to be enemies; it's so that he may gain credibility with the scoundrel who wishes me ill."