September 1799 #2
He refused to humor her. He turned his attention to the ballroom that served as a gaming hall in this Mayfair home.
Mrs. Burton ran the most polite place in London aside from gentlemen’s clubs in which to gamble away fortunes, and perhaps the only establishment that ladies could visit alone without raising eyebrows.
There had been some official moves against other gaming salons run by well-bred women in their homes, but Mrs. Burton’s aristocratic clientele afforded her a special dispensation.
“Speaking of lovely girls,” his aunt said while the dealer slid away her money. “Did I mention that Lady Barrowton’s niece is coming up to town? Her beauty is said to be celebrated.”
“Said to be? Has no one seen for certain?” Only a corner of his mind heeded the conversation, since the rest already knew what it would hear. Most of his attention had riveted on the entrance to the ballroom. A dark-haired, soulful-eyed woman had just arrived. Lydia Alfreton.
That was odd. He was certain Southwaite had mentioned that his sister would be at that little dinner party being held tonight at Ambury’s house. Yet here she was, ready to press her considerable luck at the tables instead.
The green dress she wore flattered her dark hair and very pale skin. She appeared happy. She only looked like that when she gambled, unfortunately. If one met her during the day, her eyes stared right through you, opaque and unseeing, and her face remained expressionless.
“Of course some have seen her niece. Otherwise she could not be celebrated. However, she has never been to town before. She is coming for her final finishing prior to coming out.”
“A child then. All children are lovely. Sweet too. And boring.”
“Hardly a child. A fresh, innocent girl. I would like to introduce you.”
“I am not interested, but thank you.”
The proximity of the dealer suddenly discomforted her.
She dismissed him in an imperious tone that had him backing away at once, leaving a good deal of money unattended.
She turned her whole body. She angled her gray head so her next words would not be missed.
“You must marry eventually, and this girl sounds perfect.”
“I told you long ago that I would not be managed in this. If you think I will be more amenable because you raise the matter in a public place instead of at the house, you are mistaken. And, surely by now you know that I will have no inclination to marry a fresh, innocent girl when the day comes that I marry at all.”
She heaved a sigh of forbearance. “I have never understood your preference for older women.”
“Haven’t you?”
She flushed and looked away to avoid acknowledging the question. Something distracted her. Her brow furrowed. “I suppose I should bow to your preferences, since your instincts proved so wise regarding that one there. Her poor mother must be turning over in her grave.”
He did not have to look to know she spoke of Lydia Alfreton. He did anyway, in time to see Mrs. Burton greet Lady Lydia and escort her to the hazard table.
“I had no instincts regarding her. I had an understandable annoyance at you and Lady Southwaite deciding whom I would marry before the girl was one day old. Such prearranged pacts are antiquated, lack any legality, and are not to be tolerated.” Upon inheriting at age fifteen, disavowing their ridiculous arrangement had been among the first things he did.
No one but his aunt spoke of it anymore.
He doubted anyone else even remembered it.
“Celeste was my dearest friend, and so sweet and good. Whoever expected her daughter to—well, to turn out like that.” Her hand gestured at Lydia, who had just won a throw.
People had gathered around to watch her.
Perhaps her reputation for winning drew them.
Maybe her vivacious excitement did. Eyes afire with lights that normally the world never saw in her, she raised her gaze and her arms upward while she laughed after each win, as if thanking Providence for once more favoring her wagers.
His aunt clucked her tongue. “During the day she is a sphinx, and unknowable. Here at night she is like a bacchante drunk on wine. She is going to ruin Southwaite if he does not rein her in. Everyone says so. She will ruin herself, and him, and that whole family.”
“She wins. If she keeps at it, she is more likely to double the family fortune than ruin it.” That was the problem. Southwaite was sure that if she would lose even once, big, that would end it.
“I am not talking about the gambling.”
That got his attention. “You cannot be talking about men.”
“Can I not?”
“She has no interest in them. Gambling, yes. Horses, yes. Art and literature, yes. But if there are rumors about that other kind of ruin, they are not accurate.”
“You heard this from Southwaite, no doubt. As if he would know!” Her eyes narrowed on the other side of the chamber.
“She has befriended a number of men while she games, and is hardly demure in her conversations with them, I am told. Her aunt Amelia is most distressed about it.” She shook her head.
“My dear, dear Celeste. Perhaps it is just as well she did not live to see it.”
He swallowed the inclination to repeat that the gossip was inaccurate by a mile. In the end, what did he know? Southwaite certainly worried about his sister. If more than her gambling had become a problem for the family, Penthurst did not expect to be informed.
As if to underline his aunt’s whispers, a man approached the hazard table.
He squeezed himself through the crowd so as to stand by Lydia’s elbow.
Penthurst angled his head to have a better look at the fellow’s face.
He could not prevent a laugh from escaping once he recognized the man.
Algernon Trilby? Trilby and Lady Lydia? He did not think that likely.
“What is so amusing?” his aunt demanded.
“I am chewing over what you just told me, and could not suppress my reaction.”
“Laugh all you want. The on dit is rarely wrong on such things.” She beckoned the dealer and returned to her cards.
Their conversation turned once more to his introduction to the sweet, innocent niece of Lady Barrowton.
He sidestepped any commitments to meet her.
While they carefully placed their feet in their dance of interference and resistance, he found himself looking on occasion to where Lydia seemed to be winning nicely with the dice.
She appeared to know Trilby. She spoke to him several times. Whatever she said had the man flushing. Finally Trilby peeled away and went to watch the faro play. Lady Lydia appeared to know how to shed unwelcome attention with grace but finality.
He almost pointed that out to his aunt, so she might spare his friend’s sister unnecessary gossip.
Just as he was about to speak, however, Lydia herself left the table.
No longer bright-eyed, but wearing the aloof, blank expression that caused his aunt to call her a sphinx, she walked directly to the terrace doors and slipped outside.
Twenty steps behind, Algernon Trilby followed.
“You must excuse me. I think I will retreat for a short spell, then you can take me home.” His aunt held out her hand so he might help her to stand.
“I will come and find you in a few minutes,” he said.
“Not too few. The best gossip will be in the retiring room.”
“I will wait until you have your fill.”
She sallied forth. She left thirty pounds on the table, as if returning them to her reticule were too much a bother. For a woman supported her whole life by dukes, it probably was. He gestured for cards.
With his aunt’s removal, others came to use the table. Spirited play ensued. During the fourth round, he looked around the chamber and realized that neither Lydia nor Trilby had yet returned.
There had been no indication that Lydia had planned an assignation, but with each passing minute more people would assume that to be the case. He pictured Trilby out there now, annoying her at best and importuning her at worst.
He threw in his cards, stood, and walked toward the doors. If she were his sister, he would expect Southwaite to keep one eye on her, after all.