Anne Barbour Read online

  Moxley, in some ways, had been a clever man. In others, he had not. Had Moxley been more clever, he would not have taken to eating oysters with pretty opera dancers, and as a result suffered a painfully unpleasant death.

  Mina could not blame him for it. It had been in Moxley’s nature to be tempted by a slender ankle, as it was in her own nature to marry reckless, feckless gentlemen who died young. Peebles had not been young, but Peebles was an aberration, Mina’s attempt to break her losing streak.

  She arrived at the first room, without glimpsing George Eames. Mina concluded he had nothing to report.

  As she was gazing at the door, and wondering if she should summon the solicitor, if for no better reason than to complain at him, a familiar tall figure entered the room. Mina’s spirits unaccountably lightened, and simultaneously sank.

  Devon made his way toward her. Since his progress was not rapid — Mr. Kincaid was almost as popular with his own sex as with demireps — Mina had ample time to admire the superb tailoring of his brown coat and waistcoat, the excellent fit of his pantaloons.

  He’d told her to come to him when next she felt dull. Instead she’d sent him to Zoe.

  Not that any of the various emotions she felt could be described as ‘dull’.

  Devon looked her over. “That color suits you. You are even lovelier than usual tonight.”

  “I don’t understand,” responded Mina, quelling a surge of pleasure, “why you must empty the butter dish over my head. The truth is that I am fast growing hagged.”

  “If you want truth—” He arched a brow. “I could suggest a little something to help you sleep.”

  Mina rolled her eyes. ‘A little something’, indeed.

  In truth, she wasn’t sleeping well, her dreams tormented by visions of funerals and weddings and informations laid, culminating with Zoe in her coffin, and Mina dangling from a scaffold for having put here there. “Are you avoiding us? Nell has been demanding to see her Uncle Dev.”

  “I would never avoid you,” Devon replied. “I confess to being less enthusiastic about certain other members of your household.”

  Mina could hardly quibble; she hadn’t recovered from the horror of learning her cousin had disappeared from the park, and her outrage when, hours later, Zoe strolled nonchalantly into the house.

  Pressed for explanations, Zoe had thrown a tantrum, which inspired Nell to throw a tantrum of her own. At some point during this drama, Mina’s favorite Dresden shepherdess was smashed to smithereens. She had been on the verge of locking Zoe in her room like Nell — or locking Zoe in her room with Nell — or tossing the pair of them out into the street — when Beau intervened.

  “Beau has taken Zoe to the theater. We have a number of disappointed customers as a result, gentlemen who like to ogle Zoe. Unfortunately, Zoe can’t be made to understand she shouldn’t ogle them back. It is only natural they prefer to ogle her, she tells me, because she is so much younger than I.”

  “She is lovely,” Devon remarked.

  Mina’s heart sank down to her toes. Devon was already half-wrapped around Zoe’s thumb.

  This was a disaster! Dared she tell Devon that she’d changed her mind? Could she persuade him to change his?

  Why should he change his? Zoe might be an abomination, but Devon thought her lovely.

  She was also, damn her, young.

  At this rate Mina would soon find herself among the Loversalls who had run mad. She said, a little grimly, “I no longer want you to flirt with Zoe.”

  Devon frowned. “First you don’t want me to flirt with you, and now you don’t want me to flirt with your cousin. I wish you would make up your mind.”

  “I didn’t realize what I was asking. That is—”

  “You think I’m not up to the challenge, perhaps.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Mina responded irritably.” You know full well that you could fix the interest of a saint.”

  Devon was less skilled at fixing interest than his companion seemed to think. He certainly hadn’t succeeded in fixing hers. “Since you bring up the subject – why are you so determined to never again gamble with your heart?”

  Mina glanced around the room. “I own a gaming hell. It rather takes the glamour out of play. Do you gamble with your heart? Shall we have a conversation about ganders and geese?”

  “I don’t advise it,” Devon snapped.

  He was cross with her, realized Mina. But Devon was seldom cross. Or he hadn’t been, before the advent of Zoe.

  A horrid notion struck her. Beau thought Mina wanted Devon. Had he told Dev so? Had they shared a laugh at her expense?

  She couldn’t bear the thought.

  Mina turned away from Devon, saw Lord Quinton standing in the doorway. He was, as usual, dressed in black.

  As she walked toward him, she remembered her first glimpse of the Black Baron. Chickester had recently died. Mina had been devastated — each time a husband died she was devastated, which was why she had vowed to have no more of them — and at the same time eager to confirm that she, at least, was still alive.

  Quin had obliged.

  Now, years later, here he was, his feet firmly set on the path to perdition, his beautiful face refined somehow by his dissipations. So must Lucifer have looked, when tempting foolish females to toss away their immortal souls. “Quin,” she said. “I wish to speak with you.”

  Lord Quinton surveyed his surroundings. He had no idea — again — why he had come to Moxley’s. He had set out with no direction and now here he stood, confronted by Mina Loversall.

  She smiled at him. Quin experienced an unfamiliar emotion. But then, to Quin, most emotions were unfamiliar. Mina added, “My cousin isn’t certain but she thinks you compared her to an insect. It has made her very cross.”

  “She called you antediluvian.” Quin’s attention strayed to the drinks table. “And I didn’t compare her to an insect, but a carp.”

  He was, Mina realized, not yet wholly foxed. “Quin, I beg you, don’t seduce Zoe.”

  It was not Lord Quinton’s custom to accede readily to female requests. He was the Black Baron, after all. “You misunderstand. I’m not to seduce her, but despoil her. It is an entirely different thing.” And then, because he was London’s most wicked profligate, Quin informed his companion that he wouldn’t despoil Zoe if she permitted him to debauch her instead. “Granted, you’re not rigidly virtuous, but I will make an exception in your case.”

  Mina was reminded why she had once reaffirmed herself with this man, and why she had assaulted him. “You already debauched me,” she protested.

  “Ah. That would explain the chamberpot,” said Quin.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The day was overcast, which was not unusual for London, and no great deterrent for anyone who wished to take the air. Devon Kincaid did not wish to take the air, but had been driven by a demon of perversity to call at Moxley House and inquire if Mistress Zoe wished to do just that. Mistress Zoe did indeed wish to, as — vociferously — did Mistress Nell. Since Devon had already been regretting his invitation, he immediately seized upon Nell’s presence to protect him from Zoe. As result, neither lady was content.

  Nor were either of them silent. Zoe was determined to tell Devon the story of her life — why she should think him interested, he had no notion — while Nell was so impressed with his matched team that she demanded to hold the reins. When Devon told her she could not, she pitched a fit. Devon being unable to control both the horses and the child, Nell ended up on Zoe’s lap. This also suited neither lady until Devon pointed out to Zoe how pretty a picture she presented with Nell perched on her knee. Nell, he consoled with the fable of the Clever Little Tailor, and the promise of a trip to Gunter’s for an ice.

  His tale told to her satisfaction, Devon drew up his curricle outside Gunter’s Tea Shop, centered on the east side of Berkeley Square. Customers often ate their confections in the square itself, the ladies remaining seated in their carriages beneath the shady maples, their escor
ts leaning against the Square’s railings, while waiters dashed to and fro across the road taking orders and carrying them back.

  Mr. Kincaid’s curricle garnered no little attention, gentlemen of his bent not prone to frequent establishments where painted pineapples hung above the door. That he had a lovely woman with him was not surprising; Mr. Kincaid generally had one woman or another or several attached; but none of the spectators present had seen him before with a brat in tow. This circumstance led to considerable conjecture concerning the brat’s parentage, and speculation that if Mr. Kincaid had one child that the world had not known about, then he might well have more, and in that case where had he been hiding them all this time?

  Mr. Kincaid was, happily, unaware of all this speculation. He was wholly occupied with Nell and her ice, a large amount of which almost immediately splattered his tightly fitting coat, buckskin breeches, Hessian boots, crisp high shirt collar, hitherto flawless cravat, and curly brimmed beaver hat. Zoe — who, since her escort didn’t require that she be virginal, had chosen a blue carriage dress and matching bonnet trimmed with plaited ribbon and white lace — was similarly bedecked.

  The confections disposed of, one way and another, Devon took up the reins. Nell having repeatedly expressed a desire for ducks, he directed his team toward the Park.

  Would Mina be annoyed that he had taken Zoe on an outing, he wondered, or pleased? Devon was uncertain which reaction had been his intent.

  Mina was turning out to be as mercurial as any other member of her sex. Did she or did she not want him to distract her cousin? Was she concerned with Zoe’s best interests, or her own?

  Devon scowled. He’d not soon forget the moment when Mina had turned away from him to go and talk with Quin.

  Really, reflected Zoe, flirting with Mr. Kincaid was very uphill work. He hadn’t even commented on how fine she was today. Zoe considered her veil an especially nice touch. She was incognita, was she not?

  She tightened her grip on Nell, who disliked to sit still, and gazed down the tree-lined avenue.

  Hyde Park consisted of over three hundred acres appropriated from the monks of Westminster when Henry VIII decided to extend his hunting grounds. James I had hunted here with Jowler and Jewel, his favorite hounds. Now the park was the hunting grounds of those lovely avaricious charmers referred to as Cyprians, or the Fashionably Impure.

  Mr. Kincaid was well acquainted with the Fashionably Impure. Or so rumor claimed. A person would never guess it from the way he was treating Zoe. Not that she was an impure. Yet.

  Perhaps, like the Black Baron, Mr. Kincaid considered her above his touch. Perhaps he felt he was too old. Well, he was too old, but nonetheless—

  Zoe glimpsed George Eames, standing in the shade of a distant beech tree. Impossible to clearly see the female to whom he spoke so earnestly, but she wore a sprigged muslin gown trimmed with a frill around the hem, a deep red shawl with a paisley patterned border, and a demure bonnet that boasted neither blossom nor plume. An older woman hovered nearby.

  “Stop the carriage!” Zoe demanded. Devon drew his curricle to a halt. Zoe thrust Nell at him, and stood. Pleased with her new perch, Nell reached for the reins. The groom leapt down from his seat behind the curricle’s main compartment and helped Zoe alight.

  Zoe tripped gracefully across the grass. “Hello!” she said, causing Mr. Eames to violently start and his companion to turn her head. Seen closer, the young woman had dark hair and eyes, a prim mouth and rosy cheeks set in a plump face. “I am Zoe Loversall. And you are—”

  From Mr. Eames’s direction came the sound of grinding teeth. “I am Lady Anne Stuart,” said his companion, before he could speak.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Anne. George speaks of you frequently. Are you having an assignation? Since your papa can’t approve? I wouldn’t let my papa dictate to me, particularly in matters of the heart, but you must know your business best.” Zoe cast George a reproachful glance. “We have missed you at Moxley House. It is one thing if you neglect the rest of us, but it is unconscionable in you to abandon Nell. The poor child has missed you desperately. ” Zoe waved at the curricle. Nell, for once obliging, waved back. The older woman gasped.

  Mr. Eames looked like he was about to have an apoplexy. Lady Anne looked stunned. Her companion looked like she couldn’t wait to spread fresh gossip all around.

  “But I shall say no more of that! I must return to my companions. We will see you soon, will we not, George?” Pleased with this good few moments’ work, Zoe bid her victims ciao and returned to the curricle, where Mr. Kincaid was entertaining Nell with the tale of Bluebeard, a violent nobleman with a nasty habit of murdering his wives, no fit tale for a tot, but she seemed to enjoy it well enough.

  He gazed suspiciously at Zoe. “What devilment are you about?”

  Zoe settled on the carriage seat. “Unfair! I was embarked on a good deed. You really don’t want me, do you? How very odd.”

  Mina didn’t want him, thought Devon. She valued him so little that she could hand him off to someone else.

  He plopped Nell on Zoe’s lap. “Your cousin will tell you I’m an odd duck.”

  “Duck!” demanded Nell.

  “Yes, poppet. We’re going to see ducks and geese and swans. Rabbits and squirrels. Cows and deer. We may even see a fox eat one of them. Would you like that?” Nell clapped her hands. Wildlife abounded along the banks of the Serpentine, an artificial lake created by the damming of the Westhaven River at the request of George II’s wife, and so called because of its sinuous shape.

  Numerous duels had been fought on these grounds. Devon hoped that, as result of this outing, Beau wouldn’t challenge him to pistols at dawn.

  “I am amazed,” said Zoe, who was nothing if not tenacious, “that you have so low an opinion of yourself, after all those women and all those intrigues. Although you are growing older. I have the impression from my father that as a man grows older his fleshly prowess declines. I do not mean to indicate that Beau’s prowess has declined, because I don’t believe it has, but the possibility that it might do so periodically plagues his mind. It is my opinion that when a gentleman’s imagination is thus being exercised, it is to the detriment of his—”

  Devon ground his teeth. “Never mind!”

  Zoe swiveled toward him on the seat, disarranging Nell, who squealed. “What is going on between you and Cousin Wilhelmina? Don’t say nothing, like she did, because I can tell the difference between chalk and cheese.”

  Mr. Kincaid wasn’t encouraged to hear his amatory efforts referred to as ‘nothing’. “What did Mina say?”

  “What does it matter what Mina says? You should be more sympathetic, because my heart has been broke.” Zoe scooted closer. “Or maybe my heart was not, because I seem to be recovering nicely. Maybe I have yet to meet my own true love.”

  Devon inched himself, and his reins, away from Nell’s grubby, grasping fingers. “‘Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but love.’ Shakespeare said that, I think.”

  “For someone who doesn’t believe in love, you know a lot about it,” Zoe huffed.

  “One can know about something without experiencing it first-hand.”

  “If something doesn’t exist, one can hardly know about it. You are a humbug, sir.”

  “Humbug,” echoed Nell. Having decided she liked this new word, she repeated it several more times.

  The poet Shelley’s pregnant wife Harriet drowned in the Serpentine. Devon was strongly tempted to introduce his passengers to a similar fate. “I am not a humbug.”

  “Yes you are!” insisted Zoe. “You lust after Mina, and she lusts after you, yet you both deny it, which makes no sense to me. Although Mina’s lovers don’t live long, so it may be for the best.”

  Mr. Kincaid muttered something beneath his breath. Zoe added, “You do not want her made unhappy, in any event. Mina would be made most unhappy were she to discover I went to Vauxhall without an escort.”

  CHAPTER THIR
TEEN

  All was quiet at Moxley House, neither Zoe nor Nell being on the premises. The remaining residents were enjoying this brief respite, each in his or her own way. Meg was in the scullery, cheerfully scouring pots. Samson was overseeing the army of servants who cleaned the gaming suite.

  Mina had taken refuge in the morning room. Grace the cat lay draped across her lap, while Romeo the goat sprawled at her feet. Romeo had tried to ingest a rhododendron bush and wasn’t feeling well. Mina kept firm hold on his leash lest he revive and try to eat the furniture.

  The room stank of goat.

  Mina wished people would start redeeming their pledges. The watches and rings she could dispose of, if at a fraction of their worth. An umbrella, in London, could always be put to good use. Romeo, she had come to consider a member of the household. As for Nell—

  She wondered what Devon was doing, and what Zoe was doing, and what Zoe was doing to Dev.

  And when Abercorn was going to reclaim his hell-born babe.

  Mina was annoyed with everyone. Devon, for taking Zoe up in his curricle. Zoe, for wanting to be ravished by every male she met. Beau, for playing least-in-sight. Moxley, for dying and leaving her in possession of his gaming hell. Quin for being Quin.

  Romeo raised his head and made a sound reminiscent of a creaking door. Mina rubbed the sole of her slipper along the goat’s back.

  She regretted her behavior. Were Devon speaking to her, she would apologize. But his manner, when he came for Zoe and Nell, had been cold as the Thames in winter, when the water turned to ice.