Rake's Wager. Miranda Jarrett

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СКАЧАТЬ and his temper simmering at a disagreeable, disgruntled point. He should have no grounds for complaint: his rooms here at the Clarendon were the most lavish to be had in the hotel, the fire in the fireplace was burning at a pace to match any Caribbean afternoon, and the dinner sent upstairs to him on a tray had been prepared by one of the best kitchens in the city. He had spent the day getting exactly what he’d wanted, and the proof of it was sitting opposite from him, propped awkwardly across two sidechairs like an unwelcome relative.

      But the expensive rooms seemed as crowded and overwrought as the ones in an expensive brothel, the fire had made the room so close that he’d thrown open the windows, and the dinner lay ravished but abandoned on its tray, largely uneaten. Even the claret didn’t seem to help, which considering the extra guinea the bottle had added to the cost of the dinner, it damned well should have.

      He emptied his glass and refilled it, staring at the painting opposite him. A gentleman was supposed to collect rubbish like this, and take pride in the possessing as well as the possession, filling entire picture galleries with what they’d dragged home from the Continent.

      Yet the longer he studied The Fortune Teller, the more he thought instead of the woman he’d outbid for it. Damnation, he should have been a gallant. He should have either let her bid stand, or made her a pretty gift of it afterward. If for no other reason, he should have done it for the practice. How else would he be ready when the right high-bred lady did come along?

      And he had liked the young woman. She’d been full of fire to match the color of her hair, all spark and spit, and nothing like the sultry, languid women he’d known in the islands. Perhaps if she had been, he wouldn’t have made such an ass of himself.

      He heard the door from the bedchamber open, then the muted gurgle of wine as the glass in his hand was refilled.

      “No more, Neuf,” Richard said to his manservant, still holding the claret bottle. “I’m in a piss-poor humor as it is without dumping more claret down my gullet.”

      “As you wish, sir.” Neuf stepped back, cradling the bottle in his arms like a baby. He had taken care to stand with his back to the fire, as close as he dared without dipping the tails of his coat into the flames, and from the contented look in his heavy-lidded eyes, Richard knew he was relishing the warmth that reminded him of their old home on Barbados. “Are you done with your dinner, sir? Should I have it taken away?”

      “Done enough.” Richard twisted around in his chair, watching Neuf gather up the dishes he’d scattered about the room. “Tell me, Neuf. How should I entertain myself this evening, other than sitting here alone and drinking myself into oblivion?”

      “The theatre, sir? The opera, the pleasure gardens near the river?” His shrugged with morose resignation. He had been with Richard for nearly eight years, through good times and some very bad ones, and he had earned the small freedom of that shrug. “For a gentleman like yourself, London must offer every diversion.”

      “I said I wished to be entertained, Neuf, not lulled to sleep.” Richard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You know I’ve no patience for playacting or yowling singers.”

      Neuf refolded Richard’s napkin into precise quarters before he answered. “Then a ball, sir? A place where you’ll meet young ladies?”

      “Not yet, not yet.” Richard rose, crossing the room to stand at the window and gaze down at the street below. There’d be no balls or grand parties yet, not for an outsider like him. He had brought with him letters of introduction from the island’s royal governor to three noble families here in England, and he was determined not to squander them until the time was right. “I’m waiting until Greenwood is done and I’ve a grand home to offer a lady. What’s the use in setting the trap before the proper bait is ready?”

      He glanced back over his shoulder at the painting. He’d gone to the auction in search of old paintings to add respectable grandeur to his country house, and this was what he’d come away with—hardly the great work of fine art to impress a future father-in-law.

      Would that saucy chit in mourning have liked the painting as much if she’d realized its real subject? Or had she wanted it so badly only because he’d wanted it too, bidding from spite rather than genuine interest?

      “Now this, sir, this might catch your fancy.” Neuf was holding out the day’s news sheet, folded to highlight one article with the same precision as Neuf had shown with the napkin. “A new club for gentlemen, for dining and gaming.”

      Richard frowned down at the paper without taking it. “I don’t believe in begging fate to find me and strike me down, Neuf. You know I’m done with cards and playing deep.”

      “But this house is different, sir,” Neuf said. “Penny House, it’s called, and it’s said to be owned by the three beautiful daughters of a Sussex parson, and all the profits the bank earns will go to charity.”

      “What, hazard with the Methodists?” Richard laughed, the concept thoroughly preposterous. “Say a psalm, and throw the dice?”

      “But the ladies would be a curiosity, sir—”

      “Be reasonable, Neuf,” Richard scoffed. “Have you ever known a woman to combine piety with great beauty?”

      “They have the patronage of the Duke of Carlisle, sir,” Neuf said, consulting the article again. “Surely the hero of the Peninsular Wars wouldn’t give his endorsement lightly.”

      “He was a man before he was a hero,” Richard said, “and it’s likely more a case of what the sisters have given him first than the other way around. I’d wager a guinea that those three have been plucked from some high-priced brothel to front the house, and are no more country parson’s daughters than you or I.”

      “As you say, sir.” The manservant sighed with resignation, and turned the paper back so he could read it himself. “Besides, sir, this says that membership will be most exclusive. Unless a gentleman is already a member of Brook’s, White’s, or Boodles, then he will not be admitted to Penny House tonight unless he has received his invitation directly from the membership committee.”

      “Invitations to have your pockets emptied? Give that to me, Neuf.” He grabbed the paper from his manservant’s hands. “Even for London, that’s carrying it too damned far.”

      Neuf folded his now empty hands before him. “It’s true, sir. I did not invent it, nor could I.”

      “Who in blazes could?” Richard frowned as he scanned the page, feeling more and more as if it were a personal challenge to him rather than a simple scrap of society gossip. Not that any of these fine folk would know his past, or guess that they played at cards with a collier’s son. “They say it’s to ensure the ‘genteel air’ of the club. What’s genteel about drinking so much that you’re willing to toss away every last farthing to your name?”

      Neuf shrugged his narrow shoulders. “This is London, sir, and these are London ways.”

      “I’ll show them London ways.” Richard tossed the paper on the table, and tugged his shirt over his head, ready to dress for the evening. Walking through the door didn’t mean he’d have to play deep, or even play at all. “I’d like to see those three merry sisters try to keep me out of their precious gaming house because I don’t have the proper scrap of pasteboard.”

      Neuf caught Richard’s discarded shirt as it he tossed it toward a chair. “Then you are going to this Penny House, sir?”

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