Improper Ladies (4 page)

Justin noted the rather large pile of coins in front of his brother.

He frowned and would have started over to the table, but someone coming out of the dining room bumped into him. Champagne sloshed from the man’s glass onto the marble floor, just missing Justin’s shoe.

Justin turned around and came face-to-face with his old friend the Honorable Freddie Reed.

It had been only four years since Justin had seen him, on the morning of that fateful duel, but Freddie looked twenty years older. His eyes were bloodshot, underscored by bags and wrinkles. His skin was a grayish pallor, and his ample belly strained at his yellow brocade waistcoat.

Obviously, Freddie had continued on the pathway to dissipation he and Justin had started on so long ago. It was startling to realize that he himself might very well look like this if he had not gone out to India when he had.

Justin quickly concealed his astonishment behind a polite smile. “Freddie!” he said. “How are you, old man?”

“Eh?” Freddie squinted at him, then cried, “Justin! Dem me if it isn’t old Justin Seward. Back from India, are you? Must have been very recently—you’re as brown as a nut! Quite the pukka sahib.” He laughed uproariously at his own weak witticism.

“Quite,” Justin answered. “I only arrived in London today. I just came here to accompany Harry.”

“Ah, yes. Young Harry. He’s been following in his brother’s footsteps, so I hear. I often see him about.” Freddie turned to the woman at his side, a petite blonde in pink satin who was boldly unmasked. She was obviously as foxed as Freddie was, swaying unsteadily on her feet. “Meet Justin, m’dear. He used to be the boldest rogue in London. Now he’s an old, respectable nabob, just back from India, and an earl to boot.”

The woman giggled. “Pleased to meet’cha, I’m sure.”

“Run along and wait for me at the faro table, sweet,” Freddie told her. “I want to talk to Justin.” The woman, sped on her way by a tap on the bottom from Freddie, left in a cloud of more giggles. Then Freddie turned back to Justin. “I am glad to see you again, Justin. Town’s not been the same since old Larry Aldritch died and James Burne-Jones left. Not the same at all.”

“Oh? Where did James go to?”

“Didn’t you know? He left the day after your duel with Holmes, sent off to America by his father. I heard he married a rich widow in Boston.” Freddie shook his head mournfully. “No, it hasn’t been the same at all. But the Golden Feather is jolly good fun. Don’t you think?”

Justin looked back out at the crowded gaming room. Harry was still at the same table with the woman in the feathered mask speaking to him quietly. “Indeed.”

“I come here at least twice a week.”

“The play is that good, is it?”

“Oh, yes. Champagne’s not bad, either. And then there’s Mrs. Archer.” Freddie gave a blissful sigh.

“The owner?”

“Yes. She’s a real beauty. At least I think she must be.”

Was Freddie so drunk that he couldn’t even see the woman straight, then? Justin laughed. “You mean you’re not sure?”

“Well, she always wears a mask. But she has a beautiful voice. And a magnificent bosom. Though she is always so secretive; she will never give any man a second look, so they say. Ah, now see, you’ll be able to judge for yourself.”

A door at the top of a spiral staircase opened, and amid a sudden hush, a woman appeared on the landing there.

She was not especially tall, not above middling height, but she commanded the room just by standing still.

She wore a black silk mask that covered all her face except for her full red lips and an alabaster jawline. Her hair, a deep burgundy-red color, was piled atop her head in curls and whorls. The emeralds in her ears winked and dazzled in the light.

Mrs. Archer was very striking. And she did indeed have a magnificent bosom, its whiteness set off by the low bodice of her green satin gown.

Justin very much feared he was gaping, just as everyone else in the room was. But he couldn’t seem to help himself; she was such a terribly striking sight.

“You see?” Freddie sighed. “Beautiful.”

Then Mrs. Archer came down the stairs, her skirt held up daintily to reveal green heeled slippers and the tiniest amount of white silk stocking, and moved into the crowd.

Justin could see only the very top of her red head as she walked about, stopping to speak to various patrons and accept a glass of champagne from a footman.

He blinked and turned quickly away, feeling as if he were trapped in some bizarre, terribly attractive dream.

Caroline had never seen him before. She was sure of it. If she had, she would have remembered him.

He stood in the doorway between the dining room and the gaming room, surveying the crowd with a look of almost-boredom on his face. He did not look contemptuous or disdainful, only as if he wished he were anywhere else.

And he was handsome. Very handsome indeed. His hair, a sun-streaked light brown, was a little longer than was strictly fashionable and brushed back in neat waves from his face. Unlike most of the men who came to the Golden Feather, he radiated good health and vitality. His skin was dark, as if he spent a good deal of time outdoors, and his tall, lean figure obviously had no need of corsets or of padding in his coats.

Beside all the other men who flocked around the gaming room, he stood out sharply, as a beacon of things that were honest and decent. Things like a fresh morning breeze, a brisk ride down a country lane, or a good laugh.

Things Caroline hadn’t enjoyed for years.

She smiled wryly, mocking herself for such fanciful thoughts. A beacon of honesty, indeed! Here she had thought herself far beyond having her head turned by a pretty face. If he was here, he could scarcely be so decent as all that. No doubt he gambled terribly, just as Lawrence had. He was just a new patron, perhaps one who had recently come from the country.

Definitely one she should meet. After all, it was her job to make certain everyone who came to the Golden Feather enjoyed themselves.

Just her job.

Caroline made her way slowly across the room toward him, stopping to talk to people, to sip champagne, to check on the dealers at the various tables. All the while, she kept her eye on the stranger, where he stood talking to Lawrence’s old friend Freddie Reed.

As she came closer, she felt a most unusual sensation fluttering in her stomach, tightening her throat. Was it ... could it be nervousness? Nervousness at the thought of talking to a strange man?

Nonsense
, she told herself briskly. It was only the champagne.

At last she reached them, and came to a halt to smile up at Freddie. “Good evening, Mr. Reed,” she said. “So nice to see you here again.”

Freddie blushed at this special attention, and stammered out, “G-good evening, M-Mrs. Archer! You are looking stunning, as always.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Reed.” She glanced over at his companion, the handsome stranger, and tilted her head inquiringly.

“Oh!” said Freddie. “Mrs. Archer, I would like you to meet my friend, Lord Lyndon. He is just back from India and has never been to the Golden Feather before.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Archer?” Lord Lyndon said, bowing over her outstretched hand. His fingers were warm through her thin glove, his grip steady and sure.

“Welcome to the Golden Feather, Lord Lyndon,” she answered. “I do hope you are enjoying your first evening here.”

“Of course,” he said. “Who could help but enjoy themselves here? You have a lovely establishment, Mrs. Archer.” But his eyes, a vivid sky blue in his sun-browned face, still looked bored and perfectly, blandly polite. His gaze slid ever so briefly over her shoulder before focusing on her again.

“Thank you, Lord Lyndon,” she murmured, wondering what could possibly be so interesting behind her. Another woman, perhaps?

Her vanity was a bit piqued by this inattention. Unaccountably, she wanted this man’s attention; she wanted his gaze to fill with admiration when he looked at her. Usually she disliked male attention and longed to turn away from their flattery, their long, suggestive glances.

“This may be Lyndon’s first visit, but his brother is a regular patron,” Freddie said, interrupting her jumbled thoughts.

Caroline turned to him in relief, away from Lord Lyndon’s mesmerizing blue eyes. “Oh, yes? And who might that be?”

It was Lyndon who answered, in his deep, brandy-rich voice. “Mr. Harry Seward is my brother.” He gestured with his champagne glass toward a table.

Caroline looked back to where he pointed. So that was what had caught his attention. His brother, Mr. Seward, was quite familiar to her. He came to the Golden Feather several times a week, sometimes winning, more often losing. He was a bit of a mischief maker, but she had never had any serious trouble with him. Tonight he sat next to another regular patron, a woman who called herself Mrs. Scott, a bottle of champagne between them.

It was hard to believe that the feckless Mr. Seward was the brother of the serious, solemn man who stood before her.

“We do see Mr. Seward often,” she said.

“So I have heard,” he answered softly. Caroline had the distinct impression that he did not approve of his brother’s pastimes.

And that would mean he also disapproved of her.

Caroline glanced at Freddie and saw that his glass was almost empty. “You need more champagne!” she said, half turning to summon a footman. Then she sensed Lord Lyndon’s tall figure stiffening beside her.

She followed the direction of his now-cold gaze back to his brother’s table. Harry had risen from his chair to face another patron, a Lord Burleigh. They were speaking together, if speaking was the right word, their voices rising sharply. Harry’s face was red beneath his untidy shock of hair; his hands were curled into fists at his sides. Mrs. Scott laid her hand on his arm, trying to draw him away.

He shook her off impatiently and whipped back around to face Lord Burleigh. A small crowd was gathering, a hush settling over the room as people noticed the brewing quarrel.

This was not good at all. There was nothing more tiresome than a fight.

Caroline shifted her skirts so that she could better reach the small pistol tucked into her garter, and looked about for the footmen who doubled as guards. Before she could find them, she felt Lord Lyndon’s hand on her arm, moving her gently aside as started toward his brother.

“No, please, Lord Lyndon!” She caught his hand, stopping him from taking another step. “Let me handle this.”

His eyes were now a stormy gray as he looked down at her. “He is my brother.”

“I know. But I deal with this quite often, unfortunately. It will be easier if I speak to him.”

Lyndon’s jaw tightened, but he nodded shortly. “Damn,” he said, “but I knew something like this would happen.”

Caroline had just taken one step in Harry’s direction when a high-pitched shout erupted from Lord Burleigh followed by a great crash as one of them, Harry or Burleigh, sent the card table toppling. Coins, cards, and champagne flew. There were shrieks and screams as everyone scrambled out of their way. Mrs. Scott sobbed hysterically, stamping her feet and shaking her champagne-splattered skirts.

“Oh, no,” Caroline muttered. “This is just what I need on one of my last nights here.” She lifted her skirts above her ankles and waded into the fray, closely followed by Lord Lyndon.

It took only seconds for a full-fledged brawl to form. Other people with grievances, seemingly inspired by Harry and Burleigh, broke into smaller fights. Harry himself had knocked Lord Burleigh down and was now planting him a sound facer in the nose. Mrs. Scott was deeply in hysterics.

Caroline picked up a heavy crystal vase, emptied the flowers onto the floor, and tossed the cold water onto the pair of them. It hardly made an impression, but it did thoroughly soak Mrs. Scott’s gown, causing the woman to swoon.

It wasn’t so good for Caroline’s shoes, either.

Lyndon grabbed his brother by the coat collar and hauled him to his feet. Harry flailed helplessly for a moment but instantly stilled when Lyndon said, in tones of steely command, “Harold, you will cease this at once.”

Harry quit wriggling and wiped at his bloodied nose with his coat sleeve. “He called Mrs. Scott a-a—”

“It doesn’t matter what he said,” Lyndon growled. “You should have taken your differences outside. There is no excuse whatsoever for causing a public scene in a lady’s house.”

Caroline stared at him, more startled by his words than she had been by the whole silly fight. A
lady’s
house? She had never heard the Golden Feather—or herself—referred to in such a way.

She had the most unaccountable urge to give a pleased giggle.

“Now, apologize to Mrs. Archer, and we shall take our leave,” Lyndon said, giving his brother a shake.

Harry glanced shyly at Caroline, then looked quickly away. “I am sorry, Mrs. Archer. What I did was completely unforgivable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Seward,” Caroline said, a bit bewildered. “You are forgiven.”

“Freddie,” Lyndon called to his friend, who was still drinking champagne in the doorway where they had left him, “would you please escort Harry, Mrs. Scott, and your—friend to the carriage and wait with them for me?”

“Of course,” Freddie answered, coming forward to offer the sobbing and soaked Mrs. Scott his arm and taking firm hold of Harry with his other hand. “Glad to, Justin.”

When they had gone, winding their way through the other, deliciously scandalized patrons, Lyndon turned back to Caroline. He smiled at her ruefully, and suddenly he no longer seemed the remote, polite, bored gentleman. He looked like a young boy, his hair rumpled and his cravat askew.

He swept his hair back off his brow, and said, “I, too, wish to apologize, Mrs. Archer. I hope that my brother does not always behave like this.”