Chapter 16
Sixteen
She’d left him. Rafe shook his head as if unable to contain the thought.
He’d been gone for less than two hours and when he returned, the shop girl had primly informed him that the lady in question had left in a hackney shortly after he had departed.
Unwilling to cause a scene in the dress shop, he had stood dumbfounded outside Madame Guenard’s.
How could she have gone, without a word, without a note?
He’d scanned the street as if he might catch sight of her, as if, he thought with rising annoyance, she might have changed her mind and come running back to him.
He could guess where she’d gone, haring off after her mother.
Though how Alix thought she’d find the comtesse without a proper address was beyond him.
Unless, the unpleasant thought crossed his mind, she’d gone to Lady Melbourne’s.
His lips tightened at the prospect. One couldn’t walk into Lady Melbourne’s drawing room without stumbling over half a dozen leading politicians, a smattering of playwrights and poets, and the devil alone knew who else her ladyship found entertaining.
He could just imagine the reaction should he storm into Melbourne House demanding they hand over his wife.
He’d be the butt of the season’s jokes, a column in half the broadsheets in town and probable inspiration for some new, interminable play.
And for all he knew, Alix might very well deny they’d ever been married.
Women, he thought, as he started down the street, were outrageous, irrational, incomprehensible creatures.
How was it that they found their way under a man’s skin, winding their way around his brain and his heart until he could no longer think straight nor function without them?
As he strode along, it seemed the streets were filled with women, ladies, maids, servants, and shop girls, everywhere chatting and strolling, going about their business.
They looked so innocent, so inviting, who knew what havoc they could wreak on a man’s life?
As he turned the corner, he knew where he was headed, a bastion, a haven, a place where no woman ever stepped foot—White’s.
Rafe swept up the marble staircase of White’s and stepped into the gaming room.
The murmur of deep voices, the rattle of dice, and the shuffling of cards was like a soothing balm.
He surveyed the occupants of the green baize tables with grim satisfaction.
Groups of men clustered about the room sporting all manner of odd gambling dress.
Some wore straw hats or leather visors to protect their hair from the candle flames, many had their lace cuffs tied back, and a few wore their coats turned inside out for luck.
Rafe’s lips tightened in a parody of a smile.
Not a woman in sight.
It was well after three in the morning when Cole Davenport found him.
His dark eyes flitted restlessly from table to table, narrowing as they came to rest on Rafe, coat cast aside, sleeves rolled back, deeply engaged in a game of solo whist. From the detritus on the table, Cole surmised the game had been going on for some time; the candlesticks were thick with wax and empty bottles of wine and half-filled glasses were scattered about the table.
Cole was not surprised to see an unused glass at Rafe’s place and a large pile of notes and coins spilled carelessly at his elbow.
Rafe, he knew, never played cards unless he was stone cold sober and extremely angry.
From the pile of winnings at his elbow, Cole judged his friend’s mood was black, indeed.
Rafe looked distant, almost bored, and his long fingers drummed softly on the baize tabletop.
A single man, whom Cole recognized as Viscount Fallsworth, was continuing to play against Rafe, while the other men at the table, having folded their hands, leaned back in their chairs and watched intently.
Fallsworth was vainly striving to emulate Rafe’s bored expression, but his mouth looked tense and the candlelight picked out glittering beads of sweat just beneath the crown of his gray wig.
Cole saw him surreptitiously wipe his palm against his buff-colored britches.
Fallsworth forced a laugh and then spread his cards on the table.
“I’m done in, Moreham,” he said. “The play’s too deep for me. ”
Rafe didn’t reply, simply swept the viscount’s losses into his pile and raised a brow inquiringly at the two men to his right and left to see whether they were interested in another round.
Cole strolled over to the table, bent low, and murmured into his friend’s ear.
“My, my, aren’t we in a foul mood.” Rafe stiffened but didn’t look up.
He folded Rafe’s hand and placed the cards down on the table.
“Gentleman,” he said, “I believe this game is over.” Cole could have sworn he heard a collective sigh of relief from the earl’s gaming companions.
“I could call you out for that,” Rafe said dryly.
“Indeed, you could,” Cole agreed pleasantly.
“But you won’t. Besides the fact that I am the better shot, dueling is far too impulsive, and you, Moreham are never impulsive.
” He motioned for a servant to collect up Rafe’s winnings and bring a bottle of brandy to a table in the corner.
“Come, stop fleecing the lambs and have a drink with me.”
Rafe glanced at the servant sweeping his winnings onto a silver tray. As he stood up to follow Cole, he paused and plucked a note from off the top. Tossing it back across the table he said, “Take this back Fallsworth. I never play for a man’s home, particularly when his family’s still in it.”
The viscount paled. Mumbling his thanks, he awkwardly stuffed the note into his pocket.
Cole poured several fingers of brandy into a snifter and slid it across the table as Rafe joined him. Rafe accepted the glass but did not drink. Casting Cole a curious glance he said, “What brings you here?”
“Jervis suggested you might be in need of company,” Cole responded, pouring himself a brandy.
Rafe swirled the liquor for a moment before raising it to his lips. “Did he now? And what exactly did he tell you?”
“Nothing more than that. When it comes to your personal affairs, Jones is remarkably tight-lipped.” Cole sipped his drink. “So would you care to tell me what is going on?”
Rafe drummed his fingers lightly against the glass. “I don’t think so.”
Cole nodded amiably. “I see. Then I suppose I will have to guess why the Earl of Moreham, who abhors gambling, is wreaking havoc at the gaming tables.” He frowned.
“Let me see, the ton is buzzing with the news that you’re preparing to offer for Anne Dinsmore.
So, I would surmise, you offered and are now having second thoughts. ”
Rafe, sipping his brandy, shook his head slightly.
The furrow between Cole’s dark brows deepened. “Don’t tell me she turned you down?”
Rafe shook his head again.
“Well, then,” Cole said smoothly, “I am prepared to stay by your side until I have it out. For the good of the lambs, you understand.”
“Don’t you have a wife who is likely to come seeking you?’
“Phoebe trusts me implicitly,” Cole answered with a smile. “I am all yours until you decide to talk.”
Rafe glared at him.
Cole ignored his friend’s hostile response.
“I know it’s not Elizabeth. She’s safely tucked away in the country.
And Louisa never angers anyone. So,” he said tapping his lips with his finger.
“What could it be?” He glanced at Rafe. “I suppose I could take you over to Gentleman Jackson’s and pound it out of you over the course of several rounds. ”
Rafe’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “It would be my pleasure. Though I suggest that all you would gain for your troubles would be bruises.”
“That may very well be,” Cole responded.
“Though I doubt you would come off completely unscathed. Moreover, I shall be soothed by Phoebe’s gentle ministrations, while you shall be forced to put up with one of Jervis’s ghastly colonial remedies.
” He cast an agreeable smile at Rafe. As he did so, he caught the merest flicker of pain in his friend’s eyes.
He ceased his teasing and said softly, “It’s a woman, isn’t it?
And you can’t tell me Anne Dinsmore stirs this depth of feeling in you. Who is she, Moreham?”
They sat in silence for several moments sipping their brandy. Finally, Rafe said in a low tone, “My wife.”
Cole leaned more closely over the table. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I could have sworn you just said your wife.”
“I did.”
Cole let out a whoop of laughter and several tables turned to see what had occasioned his outburst. “Forgive me,” he gasped, “but that’s rich.
Anne will be irate. She’s got tradesmen all over town extending her credit in anticipation of spending your money.
So, when do Phoebe and I get to meet the lady who’s swept you off your feet? ”
“You don’t,” Rafe said acidly. “She’s gone.”
Cole stifled another laugh. “You’re here destroying the fortunes of the British peerage because you’ve lost your bride?”
Rafe glared at him and Cole fell silent. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I can see that my humor is misplaced. Would you care to tell me about it?”
Rafe drummed his fingers on the table, pain and anger warring in his expression. “Very well,” he said finally and proceeded to explain how he had met and married Alix.
When he had finished, Cole shook his head wonderingly. “She left you without a word? Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”
Rafe answered tersely, “Lady Melbourne’s.”
Cole whistled softly. “You have got a devil of a problem.”
Rafe nodded. “I hadn’t planned on a major scandal for my sister’s first season.” He briefly considered telling Cole about the conversation he’d overheard between Anne and James Dinsmore, then dismissed it. He had enough problems already; he’d deal with the Dinsmores later.
“Do you know if the marriage is binding?”