Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart. Diane Gaston

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      So soon? Could he not wait for renovations or something equally time-consuming? No, he probably was in a rush to have a house to show off to a prospective young bride. Perhaps he would promise Hannah the pleasure of redecorating to her own tastes. Morgana closed her eyes and saw a horror of patterns, fringe and frills that no doubt her cousin would insist was all the rage.

      She opened her eyes and gave a stiff smile. ‘How splendid for you.’

      He laughed—not the pleasant, open laugh of the opera, but a mysterious one. He leaned forward so there was no more than an inch between their faces. His voice turned very low. ‘Does the prospect so displease you?’

      Morgana’s heart accelerated. ‘I am certain you will make a tolerable neighbour.’ She meant it as a jest, but the words came out stiff and prim. Why could she not possess her cousin’s natural ability to bat eyes and to utter flirtatious nonsense?

      His eyes became slits as he leaned back again. ‘I will refrain from orgies and other rakish activities—will that prove tolerable enough?’

      She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, ‘I merely ask the same of you. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever mischief you are planning in the future.’

      Lucy gave a pained squeak.

      ‘You be blamed?’ Morgana cried. ‘I assure you my affairs do not involve you.’

      One of his eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed? And is this not the second time I have pulled you out of a scrape?’

      Morgana felt her face grow hot. At least he could not see her blush through the netting.

      He gave her a level stare. ‘When there is trouble around me, I am usually blamed for it. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever wild scheme you are hatching at the moment.’

      Morgana resented his low opinion of her, even as she conceded the truth in it. She gave him her frostiest glare, although he would be unable to see it through the netting of her hat. ‘I shall endeavour to please you, sir.’

      That lazy smile slowly reappeared, and her heart lurched in spite of herself. ‘See that you do please me, Miss Hart,’ he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it.

      She glanced towards Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a shocked expression. Morgana did not trouble herself to speak with him further, but she was aware of each breath he took, each move of his muscles.

      When the hack pulled up to her town house, he jumped out to assist them from the vehicle. Lucy descended, mumbled, ‘Thank you, sir’, and hurried to the servants’ entrance below, leaving Morgana momentarily alone with Sloane.

      He gave his hand, still as strong and firm as before. He gripped her fingers, but let go as soon as her feet touched the pavement, stepping back as he did so.

      Morgana took a quick breath and composed her disordered emotions. No matter what he might think of her, he had been her rescuer once again.

      She looked up at him, his face shaded by his hat and the waning light. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sloane,’ she said softly. ‘I am truly grateful for your assistance.’

      He gave her a quizzical look, but eventually touched his hand to the brim of his hat and climbed back in the hackney coach.

      Two days later Sloane stood at the door of the grey brick house, its exterior looking identical to those on either side. By God, he’d better not arrive home too addled from drink. He was liable to enter the wrong house. It would not help the awkward situation of living next to Morgana Hart if he barged into her home drunk as an emperor.

      He glanced at her front door and pursed his lips, imagining stumbling up her stairway and flopping into her bed by mistake. No chance of that. He had long mastered control of vices such as gambling, womanising and drink. He might get foxed, but it would be in the privacy of his own home.

      His own home. Now that made him feel like dancing a jig.

      He wondered if the Earl had been informed that his scapegrace son had moved into Mayfair, his neighbourhood. Sloane wished he could have seen the Earl’s face when told of it. Perhaps David had given his grandfather the information. Sloane hoped the boy would not be so foolish.

      The more Sloane saw of his nephew, the more he liked him. He and David had engaged in a pleasant conversation the previous night at Lady Beltingham’s rout, where Lady Hannah and her parents had also been in attendance. And Miss Hart.

      He and Miss Hart had been civil to each other. She appeared to have conversed comfortably with other gentlemen. What might those men think if they knew she’d been parading near St James’s Street?

      She took too many risks. And she was brushing against elements of the underworld that could turn even nastier than they had already. The company of pimps and Paphians could become violent. And if she were on a quest of reformation, even merely the reformation of her maid, she was not likely to succeed. Once the underworld took hold, it was near impossible to escape. He ought to know.

      He started towards his door, when her front door opened and she appeared. On Miss Hart’s arm was an ancient-looking woman, all wrinkles and bones.

      Miss Hart saw him immediately. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Sloane.’

      She looked as bright as the day’s sunshine in a yellow dress and with a smile on her face.

      He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’

      She continued in this friendly manner. ‘Allow me to make you known to my grandmother.’

      The frail lady looked as if she would crumble like some antiquarian artefact as she came down the steps and hobbled towards him, and he quickly raced down his and ran over to her to save her the exertion.

      As if they were in the Prince Regent’s drawing room, Miss Hart said, ‘Grandmama, may I present Mr Sloane, who is to be our neighbour soon.’

      Miss Hart’s grandmother gave a toothy smile. ‘Oh, how lovely to see you, my dear. Is it not fine weather today?’

      Miss Hart continued. ‘The dowager Lady Hart, sir.’

      ‘A pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed.

      ‘Hmm?’ Lady Hart she smiled again. ‘It was so nice of you to call. You must do so again.’ She looked up at Morgana. ‘We are off to the shops.’

      Miss Hart must have seen a look of bewilderment on his face because she responded with amusement. ‘Yes, Grandmama. Off to the shops.’ She leaned towards Sloane and whispered, ‘We shall not make it further than the corner, you know.’

      His brow cleared. The old lady must be a bit senile, that was it.

      ‘Are you visiting your house, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. ‘You will be pleased, I think. I’ve never seen such a marshalling of mops and rags.’

      He could not help but return her smile. ‘That is Mr Elliot’s doing, no doubt. I’m afraid he approaches all tasks with great efficiency.’ He gave her a careful look, so as not to miss her reaction. ‘But I do not merely look at the house. I am taking residence at this moment.’

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