Maggie MacKeever (7 page)

Whatever she had seen, or hadn’t, Kate must be located. Edmund was her next of kin. It was unlikely she had already made a will.

He turned to his companion, a friendly sort of fellow if unsettling in appearance, with pallid skin, pale eyes (one set off by a fading bruise) and colorless hair. They had met at the hazard table, where Edmund had gone down heavily, then spent the next hour matching each other drink for drink. “Thing is,” he confided, “I’m hunting a female.”

“What sort of female?” The pale-haired man, as it turned out, had vast knowledge of the prostitutes who plied their wares in nearby Covent Garden, including the details of their age and appearance, and the specialties for which each was known. One excelled at the game of schoolmistress, with the aid of a brace of youthful pupils; another was deemed a fluent linguist due to the agility of her tongue; a third was noted for her enthusiastic application of the amatory arts, which frequently resulted in teeth marks left on her admirers’ anatomy. Discipline, by means of green birch brooms and cutting rods, was a favorite overall.

Edmund filed away these details for later consideration. “Not
that
sort of female. What did you say your name was?”

Coffey hadn’t said, but saw no harm in it. “Charles Coffey, at your service,” he replied, not without some truth; he had already helped this greenhead part with a goodly portion of his coin, encouraging him to attempt to recover his gaming losses by doubling his stakes, a stroke of ill judgment which would not go unrewarded by the house. A man of Coffey’s standing didn’t receive a fixed income for luring young men of fortune into places such as this for the purpose of plundering them of their property, but instead from time to time was permitted to borrow large sums from the hell-keepers, it being understood on both sides the loans would never be repaid.

Coffey was, as Quin had so aptly put it, always on the hunt for pigeons ripe for plucking, with plump pockets and more hair than sense.

His current pigeon, Coffey suspected, hadn’t many feathers left.

Quin had himself been an excellent source of income until just recently; so inebriated in general, and so wealthy, that he hadn’t missed, or at least begrudged, the occasional pound or ten.

Today Coffey couldn’t pass through Quin’s front door. Damned if the Black Baron wasn’t turning into a dull stick.

Ah, well. A man couldn’t expect to win each hand. Coffey felt philosophical tonight, due to the ministrations of a medical student with an unfortunate addiction to vingt-et-un.

And speaking of doxies, as he had been so recently: Coffey watched Liliane enter the room and gaze around her with distaste. He raised his hand and beckoned. Liliane’s disdainful expression did not change.

She sauntered toward the table, ignoring the admiring glances cast in her direction. Damned if she wasn’t a fine saucy piece. She was also damned expensive, and proving less than helpful about matters at Moxley House.

Coffey pulled out a chair. Gingerly, Liliane sat down. “This place is not at all
comme il faut,
” she sniffed
.
“Me, I do not see why you insist I meet you here.”

Coffey raised his pale eyebrows. “If you would prefer a tête à tête—”

Edmund roused from ruminations involving scheming cousins and usurped inheritances. “Not this sort of female, either,” he protested. “A
particular
female. Thought I saw her in New Bond Street today but when I turned back she was gone.”

“What sort of female do you think I am?” Liliane indignantly inquired.

“Don’t mind him,” said Coffey, before Edmund could respond. “What have you found out?”

“Precious little. I can’t exactly search his lordship’s rooms.” Liliane eyed Edmund. “Who is this man?”

“Nobody,” said Coffey. “Otherwise known as Edmund Underhill.”

“It’s not as though she’s the sort of female as ordinarily catches the eye,” continued Edmund. “Dark-haired. Skinny. Walks with a limp.”

Coffey experienced a moment of that clarity which sometimes comes to persons who are under the influence of pharmaceutical substances. Damned if his ignominious expulsion from Moxley House hadn’t been witnessed by a skinny dark-haired female who walked with a limp. Casually he inquired, “What’s so important about this wench?”

Edmund’s face contorted. “She has something of mine and I mean to have it back.”

Coffey fell silent, mulling implications.

“Bugger!” muttered Liliane, under her breath.

Chapter Thirteen

Kate gazed with curiosity around the gaming rooms. Her previous experience with play had consisted of joining Aunt Dorothea at piquet. With no less interest did the gamesters inspect Kate. Inspired by the promise of largesse, Mme Dubois had exceeded all expectations. Kate was in possession of several gowns originally intended for someone else.

This particular gown was black, a lovely creation fashioned of bombazine silk with two bands of roses adorning the hem, puffed sleeves of a variety whose name she had forgotten, and a dramatically plunging neckline. Around Kate’s throat and wrists and dangling from her ears were exquisite jet beads, courtesy of Quin, and she was spending far too much time wondering where he’d come by the set. Her dark curls were fashioned in an intricate looped knot.

Beau drew her arm through his. He was almost as splendid as she. Dark trousers correct for evening wear, blue dress coat with gilt buttons, white marcella waistcoat, snow white stock— Beau Loversall had no need of padding to broaden shoulder or calf, or corset to nip in his waist. He escorted Kate through the chambers, relating scandalous on-dits about the people present, plying her with champagne. He always plied his women with champagne, Beau informed Kate when she protested at being presented with more of the effervescent beverage. People would think it odd she didn’t become mildly tipsy, he said, and winked.

“Rogue,” responded Kate, positioning her glass so as to partially prevent the nearby gentlemen from staring down her décolletage, as they were staring at every other female present, of which there were more than a few. If this was the way
filles de joie
normally went about, it was a marvel they didn’t all catch their deaths of cold.

Beau was explaining the various ways in which a gamester might influence the outcome of play. An experienced cardsharp could easily slip an old gentleman from the deck, an old gentleman being a card somewhat larger and thicker than the rest of the pack, while an old lady was a card broader than the rest. “To be used sparingly and with discretion,” he added. “A man has to take care not to become notorious for the regularity with which he wins. No one wins regularly at Moxley’s. Samson keeps close watch.”

Kate hoped Samson was on the alert for more than cardsharps. Quin had promised Kate would come to no harm beneath his roof.

Pointless to wonder who would keep her safe from him.

Where
was
Quin? Kate had not seen him for some time. It seemed almost as if he was avoiding her. And who could blame him, were that true? Kate either assaulted or insulted the man each time they met.

One of the dealers demonstrated how to make a deck of cards march up her arm and down again. Politely, Kate smiled.

“If you want people to believe you are my inamorata, you will have to do better,” Beau scolded. “My inamoratas are never bored.”

 That, Kate could well believe. “I am not used to being the cynosure of all eyes.”

“You may blame your neckline,” Beau said bluntly. “Not that the rest of you isn’t equally sublime. I myself was struck speechless. You are in high bloom.”

“I am unveiled, you mean.”

“You are bait. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! I was being thrown into a transport of passion. If not struck entirely speechless, at least head over heels.”

Despite her discomfort, Kate’s lips twitched. “You needn’t try and flimflam me.”

“But I must. It is expected.” Beau raised her hand to his lips. “To continue: I am smitten. I should have seen it before. But you have been hiding your light beneath a barrel.” His eyes twinkled. “As it were.”

Kate couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “What’s most shocking in all this is that I’m almost tempted to believe you.”

Beau grinned. “Well, yes. I
am
quite good.”

“You should laugh more often, Kate. It suits you,” said Quin, at her elbow. “However, I suggest you try and remember why you’re here.” Kate swung round to protest but he had turned from her and was strolling through the crowd.

“I’m good,” repeated Beau, reclaiming her attention, “but I beg you
won’t
believe me. Quin has killed his man three times in a duel. I do not care to make a fourth.”

Over which forgotten females had those duels been fought? There could be no question but that females had been involved. “I doubt he would feel compelled to defend my honor,” Kate replied, all amusement fled.

“I don’t think honor is a consideration, when it comes to Quin.” Raised voices broke into their conversation. Two women — one fair, one dark, wearing modish gowns and identical irate expressions — were bearing down on them.

“Mrs. Thwaite and Mrs. Ormsby,” sighed Beau. “I suspect they have heard I am dressing, and therefore most likely also undressing, another female; and have consequently suffered a revulsion of feeling so profound there is nothing for it but they must tell me so.” There was no time for further explanations. The ladies were upon them.

Beau was correct; they had much to say. ‘Curst rum touch’ was mentioned, and ‘coxcomb’ (to which Beau took exception), as well as ‘worm’ and ‘cur’. Mrs. Ormsby lamented that she had been treated in so cavalier a fashion; Mrs. Thwaite expressed great disappointment that the object of her affections should behave so shabbily; both ladies agreed that whatever Mr. Loversall may have been in his grasstime, he was a cod’s head now. Moreover, he was a worse profligate than even the Black Baron, because the Black Baron broke only one heart at a time.

Beau listened, politely, until they paused for breath, at which point he remarked the ladies had known from the beginning that he was the most faithless creature in creation, so why in Hades were they kicking up such a dust?

As Mrs. Thwaite and Mrs. Ormsby erupted with further indignation, Kate escaped to the supper room, where she sank down gratefully on a chair. After so long standing, her lame leg ached. There were two suppers served each evening — tonight’s fare a substantial repast of cold chicken, joint and salad; sherry, brandy, and the like — but the room was empty save for the servants passing through the discrete doorway that led to the nether realms of the house. Kate set down her champagne glass, hoping for a few uninterrupted moments in which to catch her breath.

She was not granted them. Liliane swept into the supper room, eye-catching in a crimson gown so low-cut that in comparison Kate felt positively demure.

Liliane pulled up another chair to the small table. “Aren’t you fine as fivepence? Mme Dubois makes all our gowns. Which brings to mind what I wish to say to you. Gentlemen are predictable creatures, in the nature of asses and geese. If one doesn’t want you, another will; and once the second does, the first will follow suit. And as to that, his lordship has many enemies.”

Kate didn’t doubt Quin had enemies. How could he not, after the life he’d lived? But she was not among them. “What’s that to do with me?”

“You can’t be so beetle-headed,” scolded Liliane. “It’s everything to do with you. I’ll admit I cast my eyes in his direction, but that was only cream-pot love.”

“You cast more than your eyes,” Kate retorted drily. “Or
my
eyes played me false.”

“His lordship probably
will
play you false, if he hasn’t already, but I’ll say as shouldn’t that you have the wrong sow by the ear.” The conversation degenerated into an incomprehensible jumble of ladybirds and lickspittles and females who tried to suicide themselves, interspersed with an occasional
Zut
and
Mon Dieu!

The sound of a throat clearing brought Liliane abruptly to her feet. “Me, I was just taking a breather,” she explained to Samson, who stood scowling in the doorway. “Until the contretemps died down.”

“Mr. Loversall has departed, and the ladies with him.” Samson jerked his head toward the door. Liliane muttered, “You’ll remember what I said.”

Alone again, Kate tried to decide what, precisely, Lilianne
had
said. That Quin clothed a harem? That he had enemies?

And how on earth were they to convince the world she was Beau’s latest flirt when he was always off flirting with some other female?

Or, in the current instance, more than flirting, she conjectured.

“Excuse me, miss!” came a voice from behind her. Kate turned to see a gaunt grey-haired woman hovering in the servants’ doorway. She was wearing a dark dress of the sort favored by upper servants.

Kate hadn’t known Quin had a housekeeper.

Obviously, she didn’t know a great many things about Quin.

“If you please, miss, his lordship says—” The woman’s words were slightly imprecise, as if she wore an ill-fitting set of false teeth. Her hands twisted in the fabric of her skirts. “Would you mind coming closer? Himself wouldn’t want this to be overheard.”

Kate wondered who might overhear conversation held in a deserted room. Still, the woman was clearly anxious, and so she stepped out into the passageway. “What is it his lordship says?”

“It’s not what he says now, but what he will.” The woman raised her hands. With one, she beckoned. In the other, she held a gun.

Chapter Fourteen

“What do you mean, Kate is missing?” demanded Quin.

Samson didn’t gulp, exactly, but he did swallow hard. “No one has seen Miss Manvers since she went into the supper room.”

Quin surveyed the supper room — filled with diners sitting down to the second serving — and cursed himself for not keeping closer watch on Kate. He had removed himself from her vicinity after discovering that watching patrons gape at her décolletage made him all out-of-reason cross. The owner of a successful gambling establishment didn’t go about breaking his customers’ heads.