matters at Moxley House.
Coffey pulled out a chair. Gingerly, Liliane sat down. “This place is not at all comme il faut, ” she sniffed . “Me, I do not see why you insist I meet you here.”
Coffey raised his pale eyebrows. “If you would prefer a tête à tête—”
Edmund roused from ruminations involving scheming cousins and usurped inheritances. “Not this sort of female, either,” he protested. “A particular female. Thought I saw her in New Bond Street today but when I turned back she was gone.”
“What sort of female do you think I am?” Liliane indignantly inquired.
“Don’t mind him,” said Coffey, before Edmund could respond. “What have you found out?”
“Precious little. I can’t exactly search his lordship’s rooms.” Liliane eyed Edmund. “Who is this man?”
“Nobody,” said Coffey. “Otherwise known as Edmund Underhill.”
“It’s not as though she’s the sort of female as ordinarily catches the eye,” continued Edmund. “Dark-haired. Skinny. Walks with a limp.”
Coffey experienced a moment of that clarity which sometimes comes to persons who are under the influence of pharmaceutical substances. Damned if his ignominious expulsion from Moxley House hadn’t been witnessed by a skinny dark-haired female who walked with a limp. Casually he inquired, “What’s so important about this wench?”
Edmund’s face contorted. “She has something of mine and I mean to have it back.”
Coffey fell silent, mulling implications.
“Bugger!” muttered Liliane, under her breath.
Chapter Thirteen
Kate gazed with curiosity around the gaming rooms. Her previous experience with play had consisted of joining Aunt Dorothea at piquet. With no less interest did the gamesters inspect Kate. Inspired by the promise of largesse, Mme Dubois had exceeded all expectations. Kate was in possession of several gowns originally intended for someone else.
This particular gown was black, a lovely creation fashioned of bombazine silk with two bands of roses adorning the hem, puffed sleeves of a variety whose name she had forgotten, and a dramatically plunging neckline. Around Kate’s throat and wrists and dangling from her ears were exquisite jet beads, courtesy of Quin, and she was spending far too much time wondering where he’d come by the set. Her dark curls were fashioned in an intricate looped knot.
Beau drew her arm through his. He was almost as splendid as she. Dark trousers correct for evening wear, blue dress coat with gilt buttons, white marcella waistcoat, snow white stock— Beau Loversall had no need of padding to broaden shoulder or calf, or corset to nip in his waist. He escorted Kate through the chambers, relating scandalous on-dits about the people present, plying her with champagne. He always plied his women with champagne, Beau informed Kate when she protested at being presented with more of the effervescent beverage. People would think it odd she didn’t become mildly tipsy, he said, and winked.
“Rogue,” responded Kate, positioning her glass so as to partially prevent the nearby gentlemen from staring down her décolletage, as they were staring at every other female present, of which there were more than a few. If this was the way filles de joie normally went about, it was a marvel they didn’t all catch their deaths of cold.
Beau was explaining the various ways in which a gamester might influence the outcome of play. An experienced cardsharp could easily slip an old gentleman from the deck, an old gentleman being a card somewhat larger and thicker than the rest of the pack, while an old lady was a card broader than the rest. “To be used sparingly and with discretion,” he added. “A man has to take care not to become notorious for the regularity with which he wins. No one wins regularly at Moxley’s. Samson keeps close watch.”
Kate hoped Samson was on the alert for more than cardsharps. Quin had promised Kate would come to no harm beneath his
Coffey pulled out a chair. Gingerly, Liliane sat down. “This place is not at all comme il faut, ” she sniffed . “Me, I do not see why you insist I meet you here.”
Coffey raised his pale eyebrows. “If you would prefer a tête à tête—”
Edmund roused from ruminations involving scheming cousins and usurped inheritances. “Not this sort of female, either,” he protested. “A particular female. Thought I saw her in New Bond Street today but when I turned back she was gone.”
“What sort of female do you think I am?” Liliane indignantly inquired.
“Don’t mind him,” said Coffey, before Edmund could respond. “What have you found out?”
“Precious little. I can’t exactly search his lordship’s rooms.” Liliane eyed Edmund. “Who is this man?”
“Nobody,” said Coffey. “Otherwise known as Edmund Underhill.”
“It’s not as though she’s the sort of female as ordinarily catches the eye,” continued Edmund. “Dark-haired. Skinny. Walks with a limp.”
Coffey experienced a moment of that clarity which sometimes comes to persons who are under the influence of pharmaceutical substances. Damned if his ignominious expulsion from Moxley House hadn’t been witnessed by a skinny dark-haired female who walked with a limp. Casually he inquired, “What’s so important about this wench?”
Edmund’s face contorted. “She has something of mine and I mean to have it back.”
Coffey fell silent, mulling implications.
“Bugger!” muttered Liliane, under her breath.
Chapter Thirteen
Kate gazed with curiosity around the gaming rooms. Her previous experience with play had consisted of joining Aunt Dorothea at piquet. With no less interest did the gamesters inspect Kate. Inspired by the promise of largesse, Mme Dubois had exceeded all expectations. Kate was in possession of several gowns originally intended for someone else.
This particular gown was black, a lovely creation fashioned of bombazine silk with two bands of roses adorning the hem, puffed sleeves of a variety whose name she had forgotten, and a dramatically plunging neckline. Around Kate’s throat and wrists and dangling from her ears were exquisite jet beads, courtesy of Quin, and she was spending far too much time wondering where he’d come by the set. Her dark curls were fashioned in an intricate looped knot.
Beau drew her arm through his. He was almost as splendid as she. Dark trousers correct for evening wear, blue dress coat with gilt buttons, white marcella waistcoat, snow white stock— Beau Loversall had no need of padding to broaden shoulder or calf, or corset to nip in his waist. He escorted Kate through the chambers, relating scandalous on-dits about the people present, plying her with champagne. He always plied his women with champagne, Beau informed Kate when she protested at being presented with more of the effervescent beverage. People would think it odd she didn’t become mildly tipsy, he said, and winked.
“Rogue,” responded Kate, positioning her glass so as to partially prevent the nearby gentlemen from staring down her décolletage, as they were staring at every other female present, of which there were more than a few. If this was the way filles de joie normally went about, it was a marvel they didn’t all catch their deaths of cold.
Beau was explaining the various ways in which a gamester might influence the outcome of play. An experienced cardsharp could easily slip an old gentleman from the deck, an old gentleman being a card somewhat larger and thicker than the rest of the pack, while an old lady was a card broader than the rest. “To be used sparingly and with discretion,” he added. “A man has to take care not to become notorious for the regularity with which he wins. No one wins regularly at Moxley’s. Samson keeps close watch.”
Kate hoped Samson was on the alert for more than cardsharps. Quin had promised Kate would come to no harm beneath his
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