Four In Hand (Regencies 2)

———

Hugo scanned the room again, searching through the sea of people for Arabella. But the pink domino was nowhere in sight. He was as thoroughly disgruntled as only someone of a generally placid nature could become. Arabella had flirted outrageously with an unknown man. Admittedly him, but she had not known that. Here he had been worrying himself into a state over her getting herself stuck in a loveless marriage for no reason and underneath she was just a heartless flirt. A jade. Where the hell was she?

A small hand on his arm made him jump. But, contrary to the conviction of his senses, it was not Arabella but a lady in a brown domino with a brown mask fixed firmly in place. ‘”Ello, kind sir. You seem strangely lonely.”

Hugo blinked. The lady’s accent was heavily middle European, her tone seductively low.

“I’m all alone,” sighed the lady in brown. “And as you seemed also alone, I thought that maybe we could cheer one another up, no?”

In spite of himself, Hugo’s glance flickered over the lady. Her voice suggested a wealth of experience yet her skin, what he could see of it, was as delicate as a young girl’s. The heavy mask she wore covered most of her face, even shading her lips, though he could see these were full and ripe. The domino, as dominos did, concealed her figure. Exasperated, Hugo sent another searching glance about the room in vain. Then, he looked down and smiled into the lady’s hazel eyes. “What a very interesting idea, my dear. Shall we find somewhere to further develop our mutual acquaintance?”

He slipped an arm around the lady’s waist and found that it was indeed very neat. She seemed for one instant to stiffen under his arm but immediately relaxed. Damn Arabella! She had driven him mad. He would forget her existence and let this lovely lady restore his sanity. “What did you say your name was, my dear?”

The lady smiled up at him, a wickedly inviting smile. “Maria Pavlovska,” she said as she allowed him to lead her out of the ballroom.

They found a deserted anteroom without difficulty and, without waiting time in further, clearly unnecessary talk, Hugo drew Maria Pavlovska into his arms. She allowed him to kiss her and, to his surprise, raised no demur when he deepened the kiss. His senses were racing and her responses drove him wild. He let his hand wander and she merely chuckled softly, the sound suggesting that he had yet to reach her limit. He found a convenient armchair and pulled her on to his lap and let her drive him demented. She was the most satisfyingly responsive woman he had ever found. Bewildered by his good fortune, he smiled understandingly when she whispered she would leave him for a moment.

He sighed in anticipation and stretched his long legs in front of him as the door clicked shut.

As the minutes ticked by and Maria Pavlovska did not return, sanity slowly settled back into Hugo’s fevered brain. Where the hell was she? She’d deserted him. Just like Arabella. The thought hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. Just like Arabella? No, he was imagining things. True, Maria Pavlovska had aroused him in a way he had begun to think only Arabella could. Hell! She had even tasted like Arabella. But Arabella’s domino was pink. Maria Pavlovska’s domino was brown. And, now he came to think of it, it had been a few inches too short; he had been able to see her pink slippers and the pink hem of her dress. Arabella’s favourite colour was pink but pink was, after all, a very popular colour. Damn, where was she? Where were they? With a long-suffering sigh, Hugo rose and, forswearing all women, left to seek the comparative safety of White’s for the rest of the night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After returning to the ballroom with Caroline, Max found his temper unconducive to remaining at the ball. In short, he had a headache. His wards seemed to be behaving themselves, despite his premonitions, so there was little reason to remain at Penbright House. But the night was young and his interlude with Caroline had made it unlikely that sleep would come easily, so he excused himself to his eldest ward and his aunt, and left to seek entertainment of a different sort.

He had never got around to replacing Carmelita. There hardly seemed much point now. He doubted he would have much use for such women in future. He grinned to himself, then winced. Just at that moment, he regretted not having a replacement available. He would try his clubs—perhaps a little hazard might distract him.

The carriage had almost reached Delmere House when, on the spur of the moment, he redirected his coachman to a discreet house on Bolsover Street. Sending the carriage back to Penbright House, he entered the newest gaming hell in London. Naturally, the door was opened to His Grace of Twyford with an alacrity that brought a sardonic grin to His Grace’s face. But the play was entertaining enoughand the beverages varied and of a quality he could not fault.

The hell claimed to be at the forefront of fashion and consequently there were a number of women present, playing the green baize tables or, in some instances, merely accompanying their lovers. To his amusement, Max found a number of pairs of feminine eyes turned his way, but was too wise to evince an interest he did not, in truth, feel. Among the patrons he found more than a few refugees from the Penbright ball, among them Darcy Hamilton.

Darcy was leaning against the wall, watching the play at the hazard table. He glowered as Max approached. “I noticed both you and your eldest ward were absent from the festivities for an inordinately long time this evening. Examining etchings upstairs, I suppose?”

Max grinned. “We were upstairs, as it happens. But it wasn’t etchings I was examining.”

Darcy nearly choked

on his laughter. “Damn you, Max,” he said when he could speak. “So you’ve won through, have you?”

A shrug answered him. “Virtually. But I decided the ball was not the right venue.” The comment stunned Darcy but before he could phrase his next question Max continued. “Her sisters seem to be hatching some plot, though I’m dashed if I can see what it is. But when I left all seemed peaceful enough.” Max’s blue eyes went to his friend’s face. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to avoid thinking,” said Darcy succinctly.

Max grinned. “Oh. In that case, come and play a hand of piquet.”

The two were old adversaries who only occasionally found the time to play against each other. Their skills were well-matched and before long their game had resolved into an exciting tussle which drew an increasing crowd of spectators. The owners of the hell, finding their patrons leaving the tables to view the contest, from their point an unprofitable exercise, held an urgent conference. They concluded that the cachet associated with having hosted a contest between two such well-known players was worth the expense. Consequently, the two combatants found their glasses continually refilled with the finest brandy and new decks of cards made readily available.

Both Max and Darcy enjoyed the battle, and as both were able to stand the nonsense, whatever the outcome, they were perfectly willing to continue the play for however long their interest lasted. In truth, both found the exercise a welcome outlet for their frustrations of the past weeks.

The brandy they both consumed made absolutely no impression on their play or their demeanour. Egged on by a throng of spectators, all considerably more drunk than the principals, the game was still underway at the small table in the first parlour when Lord McCubbin, an ageing but rich Scottish peer, entered with Emma Mortland on his arm.

Drawn to investigate the cause of the excitement, Emma’s bright eyes fell on the elegant figure of the Duke of Twyford. An unpleasant smile crossed her sharp features. She hung on Lord McCubbin’s arm, pressing close to whisper to him.

“Eh? What? Oh, yes,” said his lordship, somewhat incoherently. He turned to address the occupants of the table in the middle of the crowd. “Twyford! There you are! Think you’ve lost rather more than money tonight, what?”

Max, his hand poised to select his discard, let his eyes rise to Lord McCubbin’s face. He frowned, an unwelcome premonition filling him as his lordship’s words sank in. “What, exactly, do you mean by that, my lord?” The words were even and precise and distinctly deadly.

But Lord McCubbin seemed not to notice. “Why, dear boy, you’ve lost one of your wards. Saw her, clear as daylight. The flighty one in the damned pink domino. Getting into a carriage with that chap Keighly outside the Penbright place. Well, if you don’t know, it’s probably too late anyway, don’t you know?”