The Rake of Hearts by Emily Windsor
This hell hath no fury like Mrs Locke
“Aunt?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Is this…a gambling hell?”
From the gas-lit street of Pall Mall, Aunt Beatrice tilted her head to peer through the ornate doorway and past the rather broad shoulders of a black-clad doorman.
So Hebe followed suit.
Sinful shades of scarlet, ebony and gold scalded her eyes while a solo violin struggled to be heard above the drift of raucous laughter and clink of glasses.
“Why, yes. I do believe it is a gambling hell, Hebe dear.” Rouged lips curved. “Now come along. Don’t dally.”
The doorman perused Aunt’s crimson-embossed invitation before a graceful twirl of hand ushered them forth to the vestibule where a maid divested them of their silk cloaks.
“But, Aunt, is this not rather…” Hebe’s voice dipped to a whisper. “Scandalous?”
“I do hope so.” Aunt’s lips tipped. “But us widows can be forgiven much, although Lady Marberry may withdraw her soiree invitation.”
“She never sent one this year.”
“No loss there. She waters down the champagne.” Aunt adjusted Hebe’s curls to best advantage before they followed the scent of tuberose perfume and musky cigars.
Four crystal chandeliers cast their faceted glow over a cavernous room, packed with green-baize tables, crimson-furnished chairs and what looked to be half of London society’s upper echelons. A scattering of women sauntered in elegant gowns, and she recognised a notorious duchess, but they were outnumbered by the gentlemen who lounged with nonchalance, tossing coin as though bread to the ducks, whilst herds of young bucks flung dice, jostling for status.
No wonder she received no art commissions, for this was where deals were brokered, exclusive clubs that thronged with the male of the species…
“’Tis said that only the most disreputable of ladies are summoned by the Prince, so it is quite an honour to receive this invite, Hebe. I wonder if he’s hereabouts?” Aunt’s turban swung this way and that, the eye of its peacock feather better able to see over the many heads.
“But I thought for our night out in London we’d go see a sedate play or attend the ballet?”
Aunt scrunched her nose. “The countryside might be splendid for horses, my dear niece, but it could be said to lack certain…pleasures.” She linked arms with Hebe and hustled her to an oval table with a spinning wheel of gold. “So, I thought we’d take our fill tonight.”
Having delved in her reticule, Aunt arched forward to throw a guinea upon one of the red squares etched onto the baize. With lace fan clasped to her chest, she watched as the croupier dropped a small ball onto the wheel, her hazel eyes oozing with the joy of life, a satin evening gown of coquelicot matching her lips.
The ball leaped, hopped and…
“Botheration. Perhaps we should try the hazard ta–” Aunt’s eyes flashed, lashes fluttered and she…pouted. “There he is,” she hissed.
“Who? The Prince Regent? The Sultan of El-Djazair?” Hebe swung her head around. “Or Byron?”
“More impressive than them, and to tell you the truth, the sultan fell short of expectations. No, it’s the Prince, owner of this sumptuous establishment. Don’t look!” She grabbed Hebe’s shoulders. “I’ve been thinking. You need a lover.”
“What!”
“Hmm.” Hebe was summarily turned. “So how about him?”
Even amongst the rabble of lords, it was evident who her proposed paramour was to be.
A man of vertiginous height and swarthy complexion angled across a card table to speak to the croupier before he straightened with brutal grace and glared over his domain, one hand still brushing the baize. An aura of danger and darkness clung to him, but also…
Hebe identified with a certain sense of aloneness – he was in the room and yet not. She knew how that felt.
Often she would stand within a crowded ballroom and yet feel so detached from the laughter and life that paraded before her. She could not reach out to it, could not feel it or taste it. Her mortal being may be there, dancing and conversing, but her emotions remained frozen beneath ice.
The finest scarlet jacket clad the Prince’s broad frame, a raven-black feather adorned his lapel, cravat immaculate, breeches tight and a swordstick slapped his thigh. His aspect was attractive despite a slashing scar below one cheek, but his lips were thinned as though sick of the world and all those who inhabited it.
Hebe shivered. “I don’t think…”
“They say he can kill with merely a touch.” Aunt leaned in, voice a whisper. “And steal a woman’s heart with merely a glance from those obsidian eyes.” She sighed. “We all like a bad boy, don’t we, dear?”
Hebe bit her lip. “To be honest, no.” Her deceased husband had stolen her young heart with merely a glance. And then stomped on it till it had bled all over the Aubusson rug.
“Oh. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Hebe.”
“No, ’tis fine. But–”
The Prince swirled and those obsidian eyes latched upon hers.
Hebe swallowed, no longer frozen but…
Terrified.
His fingers slid from the baize before he languidly moved in their direction, the rabble of lords parting like the sea for Moses before he halted before Aunt.
“Mrs Cassell. Welcome to my…hell.” He bowed with a flourish, the scent of leather gusting, and Hebe noted the vicious facial scar looked to be the handiwork of a knife and that similar welts marked his knuckles in pathways of bygone pain. “And Mrs Locke, I do believe? I was acquainted with your husband. My felicitations on his demise.”
With a frown, Hebe curtseyed. “Condolences, surely you mean, sir?”
One coal brow raised in silence, eyes as black as the devil’s toenails.
She tamped down the whimper which rose in her throat. How could this man possibly know of… “Was my husband a member here?”
His lips may have twitched; it was hard to say. “Until he was barred for debts.”
Oh. Of course.
Tobias Locke had spent her initial dowry and pawned all her inherited jewellery within three months. Only Father’s savvy had saved her from the poorhouse.
“I can pay whatever he owe–”
Hebe stilled as he slanted close and a scorched whisper curled in her ear. “Never fear, Mrs Locke, for I…recovered what was owed to me.” He reared. “I wish you both a successful evening.”
And with a swish of scarlet, he strode away.
“Lawks,” her aunt whispered, fanning herself. “He causes certain parts of me to thrum rather alarmingly.”
A breath gusted from Hebe. “I agree. He gives me the tremors.”
Aunt cast an askew glance. “Not quite what I meant, dear. But you are correct. He’s not for you.”
“I-I do not believe anyone is, Aunt.” Hebe gave a slight shrug, lips attempting nonchalance. “I’m rather…broken, I think.”
“Oh, Hebe, no.” A gloved palm brushed her cheek. “You are whole and stronger with each day that passes. Not all men are like your husband and you’re still so young. One day you may meet a decent, kind gentleman, perchance even here tonight… So I think you should endeavour to enjoy yourself with all that you are. Promise me?” She patted her arm. “And…how shall I put this? Perhaps, try to be…agreeable?”
“Of course,” Hebe replied with a frown. “Am I not always?”
Aunt narrowed her hazel eyes. “That includes rakes.”
“Oh, Aunt, no. Surely not. They are a distinct sub-species of vermin – irritating and proliferate.”
“Promise, Hebe? For me.”
Aunt tilted her head, then beseechingly smiled, and Hebe’s stubbornness dwindled. She knew she would do anything for this lady who had forever imparted sage advice, endless affection and the address of a decent modiste.
“Very well. But if a rake does assume any form of unwarranted closeness, all promises are void.”
“Agreed.” Aunt surveyed the room. “So, how about…. Ah ha. Him.”
Hebe followed the lace tip of Aunt’s fan.
“Isn’t he delectable?” her aunt chattered. “That smile? Those flashing eyes? That Byronic hair? That viripotent pose and cravat which–”
“Needs straightening. That’s the infamous Lord Ernest from the papers, Aunt. How could you suggest such a thing?” Hebe thinned her lips. She might have guessed that a debauched rake such as he would haunt the gaming tables of a night. “And in any case, you are too late. I was hardly effusive after his gallantry in Hyde Park and before that I insulted him at the Plymtrees’ ball.”
“Oh, Hebe.” Aunt Beatrice lifted a palm to forehead in despair – which contradicted the twinkle in her eye. “To what degree?”
“I inferred he was a repulsive creature from the shadows.”
“Inferring is not insulting.”
“Then called him a gambling, licentious, profligate rake.”
“Oh.”
“But, Aunt, he’s the very duplicate of Tobias. All golden charm and white-toothed smile. He’s as shallow as a puddle.”
Hebe glared at the gilded vision and endeavoured to assess him from an unbiased and purely amorous female point of view – so her aunt’s then.
Artfully dishevelled blond hair lapped his collar for attention, a masculine chin with a cleft in it, for heaven’s sake, held firm despite his reputed dissipations, and eyes of light sapphire gleamed with innate sensuality. Added to that he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, one assumed in order to appear intelligent.
Yet it was his lips that drew a woman’s attention. Not because they were sculptured to a perfect shape, which, of course, they were. No, it was the easy smile and mischievous tilt that drew feminine sighs at every ball and soiree.
Lord Ernest leaned forward at a card table, glass in one white-gloved hand and his spectacles now dangling from the other. He chuckled, a carefree ease emanating from him, and Hebe felt so…so empty and envious.
Maybe she was better off with dangerous and dark; it was all she knew, after all.
“Another.”
The dealer slid a card face down across the green baize and Ernest lifted the corner.
Damn.
He flipped his cards for the other players to view and then paid his stake of two guineas to the dealer.
Of course, that two guinea loss at Vingt-et-un had not been entirely his fault as his attention had kept straying to the two ladies as they stared over.
Shame it was with such disdain upon Mrs Locke’s part.
Never would he have expected to encounter that most proper lady in a Pall Mall gambling hell – even this most fashionable one – and such delicate beauty would tempt every damn lusty guts in this room to try their luck.
With all casualness, Ernest began to turn in her direction, and hence by pure coincidence catch her eye, but upon completion of his practised manoeuvre her slender back met his gaze as she flung coins to the roulette table, her low laughter mocking his inflated conceit.
He perused her emerald-green silk gown with gold embroidery which displayed her wand-like figure to such advantage, one fat coil of hair trailing all the way down her spine. He admired the silken skin of her cheek, imagined brushing his lips upon–
“Lord Ernest?”
“Hmm?”
“Another card?”
He twisted and focused on the baize to discover a new hand had been dealt, three players having already folded, and he idly lifted the corners of his two cards. Some months ago, he would have been found at the hazard table losing a bundle, but of late he stuck to a lower risk game of cards.
“I’ll stand at two.” And his attention drifted once more…
“Don’t bother with that harridan Ace of Spades over there, Lord Ernest,” declared an opponent sat aside him.
“Excuse me?”
“Another,” his opponent thrice requested of the dealer before twisting in his seat. “I was just saying don’t bother with that harridan of a Locke woman you keep staring at. Don’t even know what she’s doing here. Bit disreputable for that hoity-toity type.”
Ernest was vaguely acquainted with Lathbury, a third son to a marquess and notorious on the gambling and wenching circuit.
“You’ve met Mrs Locke?”
“Gobbett tried his luck at Townsend’s garden party. She called him a putrid pesky poltroon.” He glugged his brandy as though France had closed its ports. “You’d think she’d be grateful for the attention what with being an artist or somesuch. Draws horses and all their gubbins, you know. Not seemly or natural for a lady.”
Frowning, Ernest reclined in his seat. “But horses are as natural as you can get, are they not?”
A dark grimace met his words. “It’ll come to no good, I tell you. They’ll be wanting to ride astride next. Are you attending the Cyprians’ ball next week?”
“No, I’m travelling to the estate on the morrow.”
“Yes, of course, I heard you work at your brother’s stables.” He peered at Ernest as though he’d the ague. “I can’t understand you, Lord Ernest. You’re a second son and heir with no need to do anything. You could have it good being bone idle.”
“I enjoy it.”
Lathbury scoffed. “Well, since you earn a wage… Care to up the stakes as it’s only us left?”
Ernest contemplated his cards, stared at the rears of Lathbury’s and speculated he’d a five-card trick to suggest such a rise, and for a moment, a familiar thrill ran through him.
To meet the stakes.
Then up them.
To suggest they triple them and…
He shook his head.
“Shame.” Lathbury flipped his five cards over.
Twenty-one.
Ernest leaned forward and did the same to show his two cards. An unbeatable ace of spades and jack of hearts snuggled together – the beautiful widow and her rakish lover.
“Shame, indeed, Lathbury.” And with a nod, he pocketed his winnings, gathered his glass of liquor, bid his adieu, and took himself to an alcove from where he could surreptitiously observe Mrs Locke.
Ever since the Plymtrees’ ball, he’d been intrigued by this woman – her enticing figure, contemptuous rebuffs and lake-blue eyes.
With blond curls swaying she played the roulette table with gusto, her manner towards her female companion attentive, and when she genuinely smiled – which wasn’t often – it lit her face with an alabaster glow, her tense deportment softening.
A few scoundrels circled like pirate ships around a Spanish galleon and he wondered what it would take to woo such a woman?
For he so yearned to witness those eyes burn with fire, not ice…
So Ernest plonked down his empty brandy glass, made fashionably crooked his cravat and sauntered over.
“Mrs Locke?What a pleasant surprise. It seems we cannot be parted.”
“Lord Ernest, what a…” A hiss in Hebe’s ear reminded of her promise to be agreeable to the sub-species. “Delight.”
With an elegant bow, his insufferable perfect lips curved. “And who is your beautiful companion?”
Fluttering her eyelashes, Aunt proffered a silk-gloved hand while Hebe fixed a minimal smile in place to make the introductions, wondering why she’d ever made such a daft promise.
Lord Ernest did the pretty, bussing knuckles and exclaiming over mutual acquaintances, but Hebe’s patience this night had been worn to a thread. How many more times must she feign agreeableness with an ardent gentleman? This Golden Hell had more rakes than a gardener’s shack.
“And, if I might say…” Lord Ernest was still waffling on. “What a thrill to hear the three of us will all be together this summer.”
Hebe’s minimal smile dropped. Quicker than a gallows trapdoor. “T-together?”
“Indeed.” He angled his head in her direction. “A mishap at the castle stables has necessitated my immediate return so I shall be in residence for the month of August to host and entertain you both.”
Hebe’s mouth gaped, blood running chill. “I…”
“Oh, how delightful!” cried Aunt. “Isn’t it, my dearest agreeable niece?”
“I-I…I can hardly believe it true.”
“Fortune,” the rake drawled, “has indeed smiled upon us for I can picture it now – the picnics, song, dance and laughter. What do you say to that, Mrs Locke?”
With indescribable effort, Hebe curved her lips. “Such heights of anticipation will cause me to weep upon my pillow tonight, Lord Ernest.”
A splutter came from Aunt.
“How…rousing for a host to incite such eagerness.” The rake’s blue gaze danced with blatant mirth. “Yet I cannot help but notice a certain…placidness in you tonight, Mrs Locke. I do hope you are not sickening?”
“Oh, not at all, Lord Ernest. I am simply overwhelmed by this news and beneath it all, I’m…bubbling with emotion.”
“Splendid.” He pulled his cuffs. “And I hear from my brother that you are also an artist of fine talent, so perhaps I could sit for you? It would be no trouble, though I imagine a portrait must take hours? Days even of being closeted in one room together.” And the rake peered up over his golden spectacles.
He was goading her. Hebe knew it.
Enough was enough.
After all, Aunt had never stipulated that Hebe could not be the one to assume unwarranted closeness and hence void her promise.
So she stepped forward to yank that irritating skew-whiff cravat vaguely straight.
“Oh, no, Lord Ernest,” she purred, “I’m sure it would take no time at all. For ’tis said that the aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance, but the inward significance.” She patted flat his collar. “So a half-hour at most.”
The rake adjusted his spectacles before claiming her gloved hand.
She shivered…in distaste as his lips brushed the silk. “No matter, Mrs Locke, for you’d be surprised at what I can achieve in a half-hour.”
And the doubly insufferable rake winked.