Anne Barbour Read online

  Pity the poor nuns. “You haven’t explained why you came to me.”

  “You might be more sympathetic!” cried Zoe. “My heart has been broke. I can’t go to Beau, because Paolo will expect me to do just that. He’d never expect me to take up residence in a gaming hell. And if he should discover I have taken up residence in a gaming hell, he won’t like it above half.”

  Mina’s own heart had been first bruised by a fickle Frenchman. Many years had passed since she recalled the perfidious Pierre. Since she was recalling him now, it took a moment for her companion’s words to sink in.

  Zoe, here at Moxley House? Heaven forfend! “What about the nunnery? I thought—”

  “You haven’t thought!” Zoe said sternly. “Or you wouldn’t expect me to turn my back on the world without first understanding what I’m giving up. You may find this difficult to believe, but I haven’t had a single affaire de coeur.”

  Mina’s eyelid twitch was fast developing into a throb. “You had Paolo.”

  “I was married to Paolo! Paolo doesn’t count.”

  “You can’t remain here!” Mina protested. “Your reputation would be ruined. The polite world considers it scandalous that I run a gaming house.”

  “The polite world considers you scandalous altogether.” It occurred to Zoe that she might be a bit more conciliatory toward the lady beneath whose roof she wished to dwell. “They would consider you scandalous whatever you did, because you are a Loversall. I will be even further beyond the pale than you, once I am divorced.”

  Divorced? Despite their various misadventures, no Loversall had ever been divorced. “Was your marriage so bad?”

  “It was worse than bad.” Zoe plucked at the fabric of her gown. “I am no more to Paolo than a pretty trinket who is supposed to provide him heirs. Well, there are no heirs, and it serves him right! I spent ten miserable years being chaste — and as you are well aware, Loversalls are not noted for being chaste — and I’m sure I needn’t have been, because men flock to me like bees to the honeypot. Paolo was not equally devoted. He was not even discrete! I cannot count the hours I passed tormenting myself with visions of what he might be doing, and who it might be doing it with.”

  Inside all this drama was — surely — a kernel of genuine distress. “One doesn’t expect a husband to be faithful,” Mina pointed out.

  “I did! And you needn’t say I should have known better, because of course I should. I daresay your husbands weren’t faithful, either. And you had five of them, poor thing!” Zoe dropped to her knees in front of the sofa. “Do say I may stay. I can help you in the gaming rooms.”

  Mina gazed down into the vivid little face turned so pleadingly up to hers. It was an enchantingly heart-shaped face, with big blue eyes and a perfect little nose, lush lips, and a dimple in each cheek. “You are obviously a Loversall, even wearing that horrid wig.”

  Zoe pulled off the wig and flung it over her shoulder, revealing a matted mop of red-gold curls. “We can say I am a distant relative. I will call myself Prudence, since prudent is what I have been. Oh, Mina! You cannot be so cruel as to turn me away.”

  Alas, Mina could not. “Very well. But there is to be no flirting with the customers.”

  Zoe enveloped Mina’s knees in a bone-crushing hug. “Best of all my cousins! I promise I shan’t cause you a moment’s unease.”

  Mina laid a wager with herself as to how long this resolution would last. Grace took exception to the interruption of her slumbers, and batted at the interloper’s cheek.

  “Ouch!” cried Zoe, springing to her feet.

  Mina stroked a soothing hand over Grace’s soft fur. “You have not told me what the conte did that was so bad. Perhaps this is merely a misunderstanding and—”

  “Col cazzo!” interrupted Zoe, cheeks flushed with temper. “Paolo wagered me at play.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Wagered you?” Beau stared at his daughter, whose appearance had been greatly improved by a bath and a good night’s sleep. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Yes you have,” said Devon Kincaid. “There was that high-flyer Montcrief had in his keeping not so long ago.”

  Beau turned an irate eye on his friend. “I’ll thank you not to be so busy about my affairs.”

  “The point is, I think, that it was your affair,” remarked Mina. “Dev, come sit by me.”

  Mr. Kincaid left the window where he’d been lounging. He was tall, with hazel eyes and sun-darkened skin and thick auburn hair, a rebellious lock of which had tumbled forward on his brow; an athletic physique that showed to advantage in excellently fitting unmentionables and bottle green coat; and the easy assurance of a man who had charmed his way into — and out of — more boudoirs than he could count.

  Zoe watched as he joined Mina on the sofa. If one was going to explore one’s baser nature, there would be no better guide than a notorious rakehell.

  Currently she was more concerned with the rakehell who had sired her, who was looking as appalled as it was possible for a profligate to be. Beau possessed the unmistakable Loversall features, the red-gold curls and sapphire eyes. His hair was tousled, as if he’d but recently risen from his – or someone’s – bed, which was no doubt the case: it had taken Cousin Wilhelmina’s footman half the day to track him down. “Did you wager a high-flyer, Beau?”

  “I didn’t wager her, I won her,” Beau protested.

  Mina turned to Devon. “And to think I was recently feeling so dull I almost walked across the street to inspect the mechanical figures at Week’s Museum.”

  He smiled his careless smile. “Come to me the next time you feel dull. I can recommend a great many more interesting activities.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do those activities involve you?”

  “They do.”

  A dalliance with Dev, mused Mina; unthinkable, but still a pleasant thought. Mr. Kincaid must by this time be an expert in the amatory arts. He was an easy, entertaining companion, and possessed a comfortable inheritance that allowed him to do as he pleased.

  He was also a long-time friend of Beau’s, and cut from the same faithless cloth.

  Grace was curled up on Mina’s lap. Devon reached out to tickle her chin. The cat opened one eye, contemplated him, then rolled over on her back.

  He rubbed her belly. Grace curled around his hand and nipped his wrist, as if to say ‘more’. “Hussy,” Mina remarked.

  Devon raised an eyebrow. “I assume you refer to the cat.”

  She smiled. “Ah no, I shan’t rise to that bait.”

  “Is there bait you will rise to?” inquired Mr. Kincaid. “Shall I try and find out what it is?”

  Mina laughed.

  Beau glanced at the sofa, where Mina and Dev were having a pleasant coze. He had been having a pleasant coze — or, more specifically, a tryst — when interrupted by a footman who insisted Beau accompany him posthaste. Beau had been unable to imagine what might be so urgent, but was fond of Mina, and so had obliged. Now he wished he’d stayed in bed.

  He adored his daughter; she was the apple of his eye; but life had been more peaceful when she dwelt a couple continents away. Or as peaceful as life could be for a man with as many mistresses as Beau.

  Zoe hadn’t fallen silent. “You are as bad as Paolo. I was prepared to give my all for love. I was not prepared for my love to give me away as if I were of no more importance than an old boot. Although I should have been prepared, now that I think on our wedding night. Don’t look so disapproving! No daughter of yours could go to her marriage bed without an excellent notion of what to expect there.”

  “How glad I am that I encountered Beau in St. James’s,” murmured Devon. “When did she arrive?”

  “Last night,” confided Mina, in equally low tones. “She hasn’t stopped complaining yet. Zoe has realized she married not the figure of her fantasies but a young gentleman as spoiled as she, and it has put her out of sorts. It makes me think of divine justice and the Hand of Fate.”

/>   Beau studied his daughter. “You swore de Borghini was your true love.”

  “One’s true love doesn’t put one up as stakes at chemin de fer,” retorted Zoe. “Especially when he has no luck with the cards.”

  Devon left off rubbing Grace’s belly to instead tickle her chin. “Speaking of ill-luck, is it true young Abercorn went down last night to the tune of five thousand pounds?”

  Mina was intent on the drama playing out before her. “Hush!”

  Beau wore an expression of extreme discomfort. “You didn’t— That is, ah!”

  Zoe’s pretty features puckered. “I most definitely did not! Oh, how can you be so heartless?” She flung herself, weeping, at her papa.

  “Good God!” muttered Dev.

  Mina regarded Grace, sprawled now across Devon’s lap. “We are to call her Prudence. She is posing as a distant relative. I’m told Mme. Villiers induced you to drink champagne from her slipper. She probably thinks she’s brought you to heel, poor thing.”

  “You of all people should know better than to believe all you hear.” Devon leaned closer and added, “It wasn’t her slipper — but it was indeed champagne.”

  Mina wondered from what article — or orifice — Mr. Kincaid had sipped the beverage. She flushed. He grinned.

  “As Paolo’s wife, you are his property. He can do anything he wishes with and to you.” Beau grasped Zoe’s shoulders and gave her a little shake. In Italy, where divorce was impossible, murder was a time-honored way of ridding oneself of an unwanted spouse. Not that shedding a spouse was much easier in England, where an act of Parliament was required. “Mark my words, this will turn out to be a tempest in a teapot. Your toad will come to fetch you home.”

  “Not right away he won’t. I have laid a false trail.” A perfect tear trickled down Zoe’s cheek. “And though I may call the rat a toad, you may not!”

  Beau offered her his handkerchief. “What a clever puss you are.’”

  “Aren’t I just?” Zoe snatched the handkerchief from him, and briskly blew her nose.

  Mr. Kincaid looked revolted. Mina said, “I had thought five-and-forty a good age for a man: you are no longer wet behind the ears, but don’t yet have one foot in the grave. Now I begin to wonder. You do not seem to admire our Zoe.”

  Devon eyed her lazily. “I prefer a female I can embrace without worrying about breaking her bones.”

  “Piqued and repiqued,” acknowledged Mina, who was no longer as slender as once she had been.

  Zoe wadded up the handkerchief. “By the time Paolo locates me, I shall have determined how to secure my revenge. Shooting him doesn’t seem a viable solution, tempting as it is. I would prefer not to hang.”

  Beau also preferred that his daughter didn’t hang. Cautiously, he suggested Zoe stay out of sight. In response, she flopped into a nearby chair.

  The door opened, admitting Samson, who brought Mina a note. She broke the wafer and scanned the crossed and re-crossed lines. The recent loser of five thousand pounds regretted to inform her that he had unexpectedly been called from town. Additionally, to his regret, his hitherto-indulgent father refused to pay his debt. Mr. Abercorn promised to redeem his vowels immediately he returned, and in the interim was leaving his most precious possession in her care.

  “His ‘most precious possession’,” said Mr. Kincaid, reading over Mina’s shoulder. “The words have an oddly familiar ring.”

  Mina folded the letter. She had, since Moxley’s came into her possession, allowed more than one unlucky gambler to turn her up sweet. As a result, in lieu of monies owed, she was in temporary possession of watches and rings; a fine umbrella, little used; and a goat named Romeo who was busily eating his way through the kitchen garden while the cook threatened to turn him into a stew. “I may be too softhearted for this business, as my late spouse more than once pointed out, but no gamester will depart Moxley’s and put a bullet in his brain.”

  “No, but you may put a bullet in yours,” said Samson. “Figg!”

  The footman approached. By one hand, he led a fair-haired urchin. The child looked around, opened her mouth, and let out a horrific howl.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mina blanched. Grace scrambled off her lap and dove under a chair. Beau eyed the window as if in hope of a similar escape.

  Mr. Kincaid rose from the sofa. “Poor poppet,” he said, as he went down on one knee. “Are you afraid we’ll eat you? But you are the merest morsel and hence beneath our interest. We are people who enjoy a hearty meal.”

  The child ceased her wailing. “Poppet,” she repeated, and thrust her thumb into her mouth.

  “That’s the ticket!” He scooped her up into his arms. “You are a very good girl.”

  Mina squinted at the note. “Her name is Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor is much too large a name for so wee a mite.” Devon reclaimed his spot on the sofa. “I shall call her Nell. Jelly belly Nellie.” The child chortled, removed her thumb from her mouth, and stuck it in his ear.

  “Astonishing,” observed Mina, and dropped the missive on a table. “No female of any age is immune to you. What am I to do with her?”

  “You give me too much credit,” countered Devon. “I have several sisters, and more nieces and nephews than I can count, and have in the interest of self-preservation learned to deal with them to the best effect. You might inquire whether any of your staff has experience with small people of this sort.” Mina nodded to Samson, who departed with unseemly haste, Figg hard on his heels.

  Zoe wandered closer, curious about the diversion that had drawn all eyes. She disliked not having attention focused on herself. Nor had she a fondness for children, a circumstance Paolo should have understood, instead of demanding she produce one. “You can’t mean to keep it!” she protested.

  Mina sat down beside Devon. “Nell is not an ‘it’. You would have me hand her to the rag-collector, I suppose?”

  If Cousin Wilhelmina moved any closer to Mr. Kincaid, she would be on his lap. It was unbecoming conduct for a woman her age. “Not the rag-collector, goose. There are foundling hospitals and—” Zoe floundered, previously having had little occasion to exercise her mind about such things.

  “She is hardly a foundling,” Mina objected. “Her father has entrusted me with her safety.”

  Zoe regarded Nell, who possessed the usual assortment of features, including a rosebud mouth and button nose. Whereas cornflower blue eyes could never compare with sapphire, or cornsilk hair with red-gold, the brat might well grow into a beauty, a realization that made Zoe cross. “She must have a family. Perhaps they would like her back. “

  Mina regarded this member of her own family. “And perhaps they would not.”

  Before Zoe could respond, a gentleman entered the room. An attractive gentleman, Zoe noticed — she made it her habit to notice gentlemen — with regular features and nice grey eyes and close-cropped brown hair.

  George Eames gazed at his surroundings. He had never before been admitted to this portion of Moxley House. The morning room was a pleasantly proportioned chamber with green and white foliate striped wallpaper and a plaster ceiling enriched by simple low relief ribs. Green linen draperies softened the sash windows. The floor was polished oak, the furnishings rosewood. The occupants of the room were arranged in various attitudes around and upon the sofa, where a fair-haired waif perched on Devon Kincaid’s lap.

  “My apologies for interrupting, Mrs. Moxley. Your man seemed to think my presence was required. Is that Abercorn’s by— ah, daughter? Why is she here?”

  Mina beckoned him toward the sofa. “Abercorn left Eleanor with us. I hope he may retrieve her soon.”

  George frowned down at the subject of this conversation. “What was Abercorn thinking, to leave his child in a gaming hell?”

  Nell thrust out her lower lip. Her eyes filled with tears. “There, there, princess,” Devon soothed. “Your papa will be back in the twinkling of an eye. In the meantime your Uncle Beau will tell you the story of the enchant
ed pig.”

  Beau rose manfully to the occasion. Explained Mina, “Abercorn was probably thinking he owes me five thousand pounds.”

  “Five thousand pounds!” echoed George.

  Zoe was growing cross. Everybody seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.

  She undulated toward the sofa. “Hello! Since no one has seen fit to make us known to one another, I shall introduce myself. I am the Contessa— That is, Prudence Loversall.”

  “And I am rag-mannered,” acknowledged Mina. “Zoe— Prudence! Allow me to present Mr. George Eames.”

  Mr. Eames wore an odd expression. Bedazzlement, Zoe supposed. “Dear sir, you cannot help but be stricken by the plight of this poor, poor mite! My heart quite goes out to her for I realize — none better! — what it is like to be wagered at play.” Nell grinned toothsomely first at Beau, who was leaning over the back of the sofa, and then at Devon, demonstrating a marked preference for rakehells.

  “This little miss wasn’t precisely wagered,” Beau pointed out. Nell chortled as he tickled her ribs.

  Zoe spun on her heel. How very disappointing that her papa should be so undiscerning as to favor Mistress Nell. On the other hand, she was his daughter and therefore it would be shocking if he favored her — but he hardly favored Nell in that manner, and if he did, he was a worse reprobate than she had previously realized.

  Zoe abandoned this somewhat muddled train of thought and again approached the sofa. “Ah, bah! Nell is here, as am I. Both victims of the whims of Fortune. Tossed about by the winds of Fate. Callously abandoned by those who should hold us most dear.”

  “Bah!” echoed Nell. “Bah bah bah bah bah!”

  Beau winced and said, unwisely, “Cut line, Zoe.”

  Zoe pressed one hand to her forehead. “This exceeds all belief! How can you tell me to cut line when I have just discovered my true love has feet of clay? I should have shot him. Even if he wagered me only for a night, I don’t like Cesare.”

  Beau stared at her. “Who the devil is Cesare?”