Rake's Reward. Joanna Maitland

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.

      Marina suppressed a shudder. There must be a way out of this nightmare. Where on earth could Lady Luce have disappeared to?

      Kit watched with narrowed eyes as Lady Luce mounted the stairs to the galleried landing. Five years seemed to have changed her very little. She was as rude as ever, but he had expected nothing less. Did she suspect his intentions? Possibly. She was bound to know of the change in his circumstances. Society tabbies such as the Dowager made it a point of honour to know everyone’s business.

      He took out his gold snuff box and tapped it with a manicured fingernail. Mechanically, he opened it and took a minuscule pinch. His eyes were still on the landing above.

      Where was she? Would she dare to play when she knew he was here, watching, waiting his chance?

      Of course she would. Lady Luce was a soulless harridan but she was no coward. She might avoid Kit if she decently could but, faced with a direct challenge, she would never retreat. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. One day, it would come. Perhaps even tonight?

      With a little nod of satisfaction, Kit mounted the staircase. Unlike Lady Luce, he did not take the branch leading to the reception rooms. He had long ago made it his business to spy out the layout of Méchante’s labyrinth of a house. He knew precisely where the high-stakes games would be played. And, like a skilled hunter, he knew that the best tactic was to conceal himself and lie in wait for his prey.

      Marina was bewildered. She had made her way through room after room encountering only drunken gamblers with too ready hands. It seemed to have taken hours to come this far. Now she was back on the landing, but still there was no sign of Lady Luce.

      At the far side of the landing, a door opened. A slurring voice said, ‘So this is where you are. Don’t think you fool me by pretending to run away. I learnt the tricks of your trade before you were born. And I know exactly what you have in mind. Exactly.’

      Marina whirled round, took one look at the man weaving his way round the gallery towards her and instinctively backed away. Feeling a doorknob against her side, she quickly entered the room, leaning back against the door with a sigh of relief.