Joanna Maitland - Rake's Reward

Marina nodded dumbly and followed Lady Luce into the brightly lit entrance hall of Lady Marchant’s extravagant London house.

‘Why, Lady Luce, is it not? Good evening, ma’am.’

The Dowager stopped so suddenly that Marina almost collided with her. As it was, she stepped on the hem of her ladyship’s train and had to extricate herself carefully from the fine material. By the time Marina looked up once more, Lady Luce was staring coldly in the direction of the handsomest man Marina had ever seen. He had stationed himself between Lady Luce and the staircase and his presence seemed to fill the marble hallway. He was extremely tall and dark, with beautiful features that would not have looked out of place on a statue in a Greek temple. His exquisitely cut clothes seemed to have been moulded to his form, yet he wore them with an air of nonchalance.

‘Such a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am.’ The gentleman’s drawl had an unpleasant edge to it, Marina noticed, and his finely shaped mouth curled in disdain as he looked down at the tiny lady whose path he was blocking. ‘It must be…what?…all of five years? I look forward to making your acquaintance again. You do still play, I take it?’

‘Oh, I play, Mr Stratton, you may be sure of that.’ Lady Luce’s voice was acid. ‘I had not thought Méchante was quite so short of guests, however, as to need to invite just anyone to make up her numbers. I see that I shall have to take more care in deciding which invitations a lady should accept.’ With that, she marched forward, forcing her tormentor to make way for her. He did so with easy grace, Marina noticed, and he continued to watch with narrowed eyes as the Dowager mounted the elegant branching staircase to the reception rooms above. He spared not one glance for the grey companion.

By the time the Dowager reached her hostess’s drawing room, she was white with anger. Her thin lips were pressed tightly together as if to prevent her from speaking words that she might regret.

‘Ma’am—’

‘Have nothing to do with Kit Stratton, child,’ said Lady Luce sharply before Marina had time to begin her question. ‘He is dangerous. More dangerous than you could ever imagine.’

‘But—’

‘Good evening, Méchante.’ Lady Luce was holding out her claw-like hand to a voluptuous blonde dressed in a gown of diaphanous pink silk. It was doubtful whether Lady Marchant wore much by way of petticoats beneath her gown. It seemed to cling to her almost like a second skin.

Marina had never seen anything so brazen. She caught herself staring and forced herself to look away. Their hostess’s nickname was well deserved. She seemed to relish it, too. At Lady Luce’s impudent greeting, Lady Marchant smiled contentedly, accentuating her slanting green eyes. There was something remarkably feline about that look, Marina decided. She was probably devious, as well as wicked.

Marina longed to ask questions, but could not. Who was the haughty man in the hallway? His name seemed vaguely familiar, but she could not place it. What was between him and Lady Luce? Enmity, for sure, but why? Marina had no opportunity to say a word, far less ask a question, for Lady Luce and her hostess were already mingling with the throng of guests. There was no sign of the incredibly handsome Mr Kit Stratton.

Marina forced her thoughts back to practical matters. She must not stand alone in the doorway as if she were an outcast. She must heed the Dowager’s warning and blend into the background. The huge draped velvet curtains would provide just what she needed. They were far enough away from the candelabra to cast quite a deep shadow. In her grey gown, Marina would appear to be almost a shadow herself.

Safe in her dark corner, Marina surveyed the company. Almost all the guests were men. There were soldiers in scarlet coats, some of them quite senior, some of them so young that they still had the downy cheeks of a girl. Marina was forcibly reminded of her younger brother, Harry, and how very proud he had been on the first application of his cut-throat razors.

Of the non-military gentlemen, a few were dressed in expensive and well-cut coats, but most reminded her of Lord Luce. They looked well fed and well-upholstered and, in more than one case, well on the way to an early grave.

The ladies—no, that was too flattering a term—the women were few. Apart from Lady Marchant and Lady Luce, there were only three, none of them in the first blush of youth. They wore fine but slightly grubby gowns, all very low cut indeed. Two of the women had painted their faces. Lady Luce was right. Méchante’s house was one that no virtuous young lady should ever enter. Why then had she been so insistent that Marina should accompany her tonight?

The noise in the room was almost deafening. It seemed that all of the gentlemen were well into their cups and each was almost shouting to make himself heard above his fellows. Marina found herself shrinking somewhat into the velvet shadow and wishing that she had been able to avoid coming to this place.

Where was Lady Luce? She and her hostess seemed to have disappeared. Marina supposed they must have gone into an adjoining room. Should she follow her employer? Or should she stay here where, for the moment at least, she seemed to be relatively safe? She hesitated, but only for a moment. It was her duty to protect the Dowager, somehow, from her gambling folly. What if she were gambling in the very next room?

Marina straightened her shoulders. She must follow her employer and do her duty.

‘Well,’ said a male voice at her elbow.

Marina smelt the nauseating mix of stale alcohol and sweat even before she turned. Where had this man come from? She was being accosted—there was no other word for it—by a middle-aged man in a rusty-black evening coat. He was quite as raddled as the worst of those in the room. His skin was almost as grey as her gown; he had the eyes of a man who had not slept for days on end.

She gave him the look that had cowed many an upstart in Yorkshire and made to pass on. It was not to be. The man’s hand grabbed her arm and forcibly brought her to a halt.

‘Not so fast, missy,’ he said, in a drawl that sounded half drunk, half affected. ‘And who might you be?’

Marina tried to shake him off, but failed. ‘My name is of no moment, sir,’ she said in icy tones. ‘I will thank you to let go of my arm.’

‘Indeed?’ His red-lidded eyes narrowed nastily. He looked her up and down. ‘This one has her nose in the air,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t see why.’ His contempt was obvious from the set of his lips. ‘With looks like yours, you should be glad that any man deigns to take notice of you. Don’t reckon you’re worth a guinea of any man’s blunt.’

Marina gasped. She knew just what he thought her to be.

With a final, rather undignified wrench, she pulled her arm free and ran through the doorway, praying that her employer would be in the room beyond. She was disappointed. The adjoining room held only card tables where little groups of gentlemen were deeply engrossed in piquet and whist. At the table nearest the door, one of the gentlemen, clearly disturbed by her hurried entrance, indicated irritably that she should be silent.

Marina felt herself flushing. She halted her headlong dash. The man who had accosted her might not think her a lady, but she would try to behave as she had been taught. Even in a house such as this.

Head held high, she walked slowly and calmly through the room to the doorway on the other side.

It was another room for gambling, but considerably less decorous than the previous one. A noisy dice table stood near the door; on the far side, there was a roulette wheel, with a number of players clustered eagerly round it, including two more painted ladies.