Anne Barbour Read online

  A brief spark of curiosity flared in the alcohol-soaked recesses of Quin’s brain. “Paolo?”

  Not-Prudence leaned closer. “Never mind. Under the circumstances, perhaps you should call me Zoe.”

  She paused, expectantly. The woman sounded quite mad.

  Loversalls, in Quin’s experience, were all a little bit mad.

  The madwoman wanted him to rid her of her virtue. He could not count how many times he had been confronted by females hoping he would rid them of their virtue.

  No wonder he was bored.

  Quin detached himself. “I believe that I should not.”

  She pouted. “Oh, but why?”

  Quin smoothed away the creases left by her fingers on his sleeve. “Because, my dear, you are neither rigidly virtuous nor young.” Leaving the lady with her mouth hanging unflatteringly agape, he walked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sunlight streamed through the linen-draped windows of the morning room, which was in disarray, not unlike its owner, who was wearing scuffed slippers and a dove-grey morning dress, her curls escaping already from an untidy chignon. The window hangings dangled askew, and the furnishings were disarranged.

  Grace the cat had taken refuge under the sofa upon which Mrs. Moxley sat, with Nell on her lap, and jam on her nose. The merest tip of the cat’s tail protruded. Periodically, it twitched.

  “Sit still!” said Mina, as she tried once more to connect the slice of bread and jam she held with Nell’s open mouth. “You said you were hungry. You specifically asked for jam.”

  “Bah!” retorted Nell, who at her tender age had already discovered the peculiarly feminine pleasure of changing her mind. “Bah bah bah bah bah!”

  “There is my good girl,” said Mr. Kincaid, as he strolled into the room. “Shall I tell you about the ogress, the prince, and the pot of peas?”

  “Peas!” echoed Nell.

  “Very well.” Devon leaned over the sofa. “Since you said please.”

  She chortled. “Peas!”

  Nell held up her arms. Devon lifted the child. Mina took a bite of bread and jam. Nell shrieked indignantly.

  Some few moments passed before order was restored, at which point jam adorned not only Mrs. Moxley’s nose and Mr. Kincaid’s shoulder but also the sofa and the oil painting — Bacchanalian children playing with apples and grapes, fruit and flowers and some drunken-looking bees — that hung on one striped wall.

  Zoe wafted through the doorway, wearing a long-sleeved high-necked morning dress of white French lawn. “Good gracious, what a rumpus! Oh I see, it’s Nell. She is monstrous grubby. Is that jam in her hair?” She beamed at Devon. “I am going to have an amour.”

  “How nice for you,” responded Mr. Kincaid. Grace retreated further beneath the sofa. Nell thrust out her lower lip.

  Zoe dimpled. “I haven’t decided with whom. It will not pose a difficulty, because I am a Loversall. Love is our obsession and our downfall. We gamble with our hearts as freely as others gamble with their money. Just one more romance, one more throw of the dice.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Mina. “I no longer gamble with my heart.”

  Devon smiled at her. “One hopes you will relent, my pet.”

  Mina regarded him with exasperation. “I am not your pet.”

  He sat beside her on the sofa. “No, Nellie is my pet, aren’t you, poppet? Would you like to hear about the donkey cabbages?”

  “Fustian, Cousin Wilhelmina!” Zoe had been watching this byplay. “How can you say you don’t gamble with your heart, after all those husbands you have had? But maybe it is for the best that you don’t do it any more, since they invariably seem to die.”

  “‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love’,” quoth Devon. “As You Like It, Act IV, Scene I.”

  “If you have not wished to die for love, it is because you have not met the right woman.” Demurely, Zoe lowered her lashes. “Or do not realize you have met her. I have noticed before that gentlemen frequently do not see what is right under their noses.”

  What was right under Devon’s nose was Zoe. Mina perfectly understood the Conte de Borghini’s willingness to wager his wife. “Considering the vast number of women Devon has tumbled, he may have good reason to be skeptical,” she remarked.

  “Don’t fret, poppet,” Devon said to Nell, who had begun to fuss. “I don’t mind if the pretty lady insults me. We are old friends.” Zoe decided Mr. Kincaid’s eyesight must be deficient, because if anyone in the room should be called ‘pretty’, it was she. Mina rang for a footman, requested tea and a damp cloth and Meg.

  Nell was squirming. Devon set her down. She made a bee-line for Grace’s twitching tail. The cat took refuge atop the writing desk — fitted with beaded drawers, tapering square legs, and a tooled leather writing surface upon which sat two silver candlesticks and an inkwell — that sat in a far corner. In her efforts to reach the cat, Nell overturned both the candlestick and the inkwell. Grace escaped to the opposite corner of the room, and clawed her way up the long case clock. There she settled, and refused to come down. Nell flung herself, shrieking on the floor. At this point, the footman returned, bringing with him tea, warm water, cloth and Meg, who wished nothing more than to return to her duties in the scullery and had additionally decided to forego offspring.

  “Gracious!” exclaimed Zoe. “What an ill-behaved child.” The footman, she realized, was not unhandsome. She awarded him a smile.

  Nell glimpsed Meg and shrieked louder. Meg held out a piece of toffee. Nell ceased screaming long enough to pop the candy into her mouth. While the child was preoccupied with chewing, Meg removed her from the room. The footman removed himself soon thereafter. Zoe followed. Mina sank back on the sofa with a heartfelt groan.

  Devon sat down beside her. “You have the look of a slightly demented Madonna. It suits you.” Mina reflected upon the simple pleasure of being near an attractive rogue.

  The rogue was considerably less dapper than when he first arrived. She dipped the washcloth in water, wrung it out, and dabbed at his sticky sleeve. “I fear this coat is ruined. You must send me your tailor bill.”

  “Better I should send it to Abercorn.” Devon took the cloth and removed the jam from Mina’s nose. “Have you slept at all?”

  “I have not, and thank you for remarking on it. Next you will tell me I am grown quite hagged. You would not sleep either, if you had Zoe and Nell—” Mina paused, struck by his expression. “Oh. I’ve kept you from your bed.”

  Devon contemplated his bed, and his companion, and wondered if he would ever succeed in wedding the two. “I am unaccustomed to trysting at such an early hour. However, I am prepared to make an exception in your case.”

  Mina, tired and jam-smeared and bedeviled, was in no mood for teasing. “Do be serious!” she snapped.

  “Rather surprisingly, I am serious,” said Devon. “But since that is not the service you require of me, what may I do for you?”

  Ah, what he might do for her. Mina wrenched her mind away from tangled sheets and sweat-dampened bodies and shuddering sighs. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Devon stretched out his long legs, noted the ink stain on one boot. “In my experience, which as you have observed is not inconsiderable, there are only two things that prompt a female to summon me at so ungodly an hour. You have ruled out assignation, have you not? Yes, I thought you had. Then I must conclude some new catastrophe has taken place.”

  Mina hesitated. She knew what she must do, could think of nothing else to do, but was reluctant to say the words. “I had hoped to speak with you while Zoe was abed.”

  “Am I to conclude that the new catastrophe involves Zoe?”

  The new catastrophe was Zoe. Mina watched as Grace climbed down the clock, padded across the room, hopped gingerly onto the sofa and stretched out across Devon’s thighs. He threaded his fingers through her fur.

  Things had come to a sorry pass, reflected Mina, when she was jealous
of a cat. “I want you to engage Zoe.”

  Devon raised an eyebrow. “By ‘engage’, I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean, because if you do mean it, the answer is a resounding no.”

  Mina touched his arm. “Pray hear me out. Zoe needs to be taught a lesson — no, not that sort of lesson! — and at the same time you may prevent someone less principled from doing her real harm.”

  Devon didn’t immediately answer, but regarded her with an unreadable expression. “What are you thinking?” Mina asked.

  “I am deciding whether I should be insulted.”

  “By my request that you distract my cousin?”

  “By your suggestion that I have principles. What has inspired this bizarre request?”

  Mina drew back her hand. “Zoe has set her sights on Quin.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Zoe peered around the corner. Mina was consoling the gentleman who had lost two thousand pounds at whist by forgetting that the seven of hearts was in, her back turned to the door. Zoe scooted past the private parlor and hurried through the chamber where hazard reigned supreme. Some of the more serious gamblers had turned their coats inside-out for luck. Others wore eyeshades and leather guards around their cuffs. Few gentlemen with money in their pocket, it appeared, could resist temptation when seeing other gamesters dicing with Dame Fortune. They set their wits aside and entered into a state of trance. When winning, they didn’t want to stop; when losing, they continued to play in an attempt to recoup their loss.

  Zoe derived some satisfaction from the knowledge she’d left Paolo with a debt of honor he was unable to pay.

  She attracted no small notice as she passed through the rooms. Miss Loversall (as the patrons thought of her) was wearing the most demure of her gowns in an attempt to appear virginal, in startling contrast with the other females present, who put their assets on public display.

  Zoe slipped into the first room of the gaming suite. Mindful of her promise, she didn’t flirt — or if she did, it was just a little bit — what harm in the flutter of an eyelash, a maidenly blush? And if she caused unease when she had said she wouldn’t, the person to whom that promise had been made was being positively dog in the mangerish, and so it didn’t count. Cousin Wilhelmina had no flair for flirtation, as proven by her response when someone tried to flirt with her — though why that someone should try and flirt with Mina when younger prettier females were in the room, Zoe couldn’t say. She positioned herself in a chair that provided her a clear view of both the rouge et noir table and the entrance door.

  As a result, when George Eames arrived at Moxley’s, the first thing he saw was Zoe. Though she was giving her best impression of an angel in a gaming hell, he was not deceived; as a solicitor, Mr. Eames had learned to peer below the surface and therefore recognized an imp from the nether realms.

  Propriety demanded he acknowledge her, no matter that he doubted she understood the meaning of the word; she had risen from her chair to brazenly intercept his progress. “Good evening, Miss Loversall,” he said coolly, hoping she would understand he didn’t care to speak with her.

  Zoe, however, couldn’t conceive that any gentleman might not care to speak with her. “It is a good evening, now you are here! Cousin Wilhelmina told me about Lady Anne. You should try and make her jealous. I will assist you.”

  George blanched at the thought of his ladylove — who was most correct in her conduct, a model of good breeding, distinguished for her elegance and accomplishments and well-regulated mind — in conversation with this coquettish cabbagehead. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “Nonsense! It is no trouble. Lady Anne’s papa must be wonderfully stiff-necked. Although I have discovered there is no explaining what some people think. My own husband—” Zoe’s bright smile dimmed. “I shan’t speak of that! Save to say it is his fault that I ran away.”

  Mr. Eames was, despite his association with the Loversalls, a conventional gentleman. He said, with disapproval, “A wife’s rightful place is at her husband’s side.”

  Oh?” Zoe’s fine eyes flashed. “Even if her husband wagers her at play?”

  “Even then.” George took a step backward. “You shouldn’t tell me more. I am sworn to uphold the law.”

  Zoe might have sworn also, and at him, had her attention not been distracted by another newcomer. She turned away from Mr. Eames. He hastened on his way.

  So might Lord Quinton have hastened, had he realized what awaited him, but Lord Quinton’s memory of his previous visit to Moxley’s was as vague as were his reasons for returning there. He stepped into the room and gazed around him with a vaguely puzzled air.

  A delicious heat sizzled through Zoe. Those cynical eyes, that sinful smile — she assumed his smile was sinful; she hadn’t glimpsed it yet — how delicious, this anticipation of ravishment by a rakehell.

  So what if he’d said she wasn’t young? Or rigidly virtuous? He had called her ‘my dear’ and that must count for something. “Good evening, Lord Quinton!” she said, as she neatly barred his way.

  Lord Quinton’s gaze fell upon the golden-haired vision who’d popped up in front of him. Had he died of barrel fever, then? Granted, Quin had indulged generously in various alcoholic beverages, but he didn’t think he’d drunk that much.

  Nor did he think celestial beings would usher him into his afterlife.

  On second glance, that lovely face was vaguely familiar. He inquired, “Have we met?”

  Zoe blinked. How could he have forgot her? But since he had—

  She stepped closer. “My name is Zoe. I asked you to despoil me, and you said you would. My husband is a toad, you see. I should be grateful Paolo didn’t touch me more often, else I might have warts.”

  Ah, the madwoman. Quin recognized her now. He supposed her astonishing beauty made most men willing to overlook what might in a less bedazzling creature have been extremely annoying quirks.

  Quin was not most men. “I have no interest in intimate acquaintance with married women anxious to sully their reputations. As I told you before, only a virtuous female will do for me.”

  Zoe was not susceptible to set-downs. In a manner that caught the attention of every male in her vicinity, she nibbled at her lip. “If I’m not a virgin, I’m the next best thing.”

  Quin appreciated the novelty of a female trying to assure him of her virtue. Usually it was the reverse. “Virtue doesn’t necessarily have to do with virginity,” he idly remarked.

  “Cousin Wilhelmina has told me the most amazing stories,” said Zoe, reclaiming his wandering attention. “You kidnapped Norwich’s betrothed and rode off with her to Gretna Green.”

  Cousin Wilhelmina, reflected Quin, was hardly one to talk. Were gossip to be believed, which generally it wasn’t, she had done worse herself.

  Mina would not care to see her cousin in conversation with the Black Baron? Then the Black Baron would converse. “We didn’t make it all the way to Gretna Green. The lady and I parted company in Penrith.”

  “You left her there? Why?”

  “She was no longer a virgin by that time.” Zoe’s eyes widened. Quin added, “You cannot be so naïve as to think I was love-struck.”

  “Then why did you run off with her?” inquired Zoe, less shocked than intrigued.

  Try as he might, which wasn’t very hard, Quin couldn’t recall.

  “You ruined her reputation,” Zoe chided him. “Norwich married her anyway. He loved her, at least.”

  Norwich loved the fortune the lady brought with her, Quin thought cynically. Zoe was still talking. She considered Norwich a coward because he failed to challenge Lord Quinton to a duel.

  “He dared not.” Quin explained.

  “Why?”

  “Everyone wanted to avoid a public scandal. Too, I am a much better shot.”

  “In my opinion,” Zoe announced, “the lady involved should have had more sense. You are the Black Baron, after all.”

  Cup-shot though he might be, Quin was far too wise to the ways of
females to rise to this lure. Zoe Loversall had as queer a kick in her gallop as any other member of her family.

  She had pursed her lips and widened her eyes, putting him in mind of a carp. Quin told her so. As she was still sputtering, he strolled away in search of his next drink.

  Zoe stared after him, hands on her slim hips. First Mr. Eames did not admire her, and now Lord Quinton. How could they fail to admire her? Had everyone gone mad?

  People were watching her, she realized. They had witnessed the conversation between the wicked Black Baron and her heavenly self, and were speculating about that conversation’s content.

  Among those spectators, she saw Devon Kincaid. Zoe waved. Mr. Kincaid looked as if he was not glad to see her, but of course that could not be the case.

  One rakehell was much like another. Devon Kincaid was a friend of Beau’s. Embarking upon a liaison with him would be deliciously perverse.

  And if Mina had a tendre, Mina should have said so. Zoe made her way to his side. “You are just the person I wished to speak with. Pray enlighten me. I have begun to wonder if gentlemen are capable of the finer feelings. Certainly my husband was not.”

  In spite of his reputation, Devon Kincaid didn’t set out to break hearts. He stated clearly at the onset of each alliance that permanence was no part of the proposition, but nonetheless his paramours invariably tried to dissuade him from his bachelor status. He could only conclude he had a predilection for pea-geese.

  The pea-goose who had for some time held his erratic attention, not that she seemed to consider it an honor, if she was even aware, had requested that he engage the affections of this ninnyhammer. Devon steeled himself. “I cannot speak for your husband,” he replied without enthusiasm, “but I am no gentleman. Neither is Lord Quinton. You should have nothing more to do with either one of us.”

  Zoe dimpled as she tucked her arm through his. “You cannot mean that.”