Improper Ladies Page 2

  “Well, I am leaving Town this afternoon, but I could not go without giving you this.” He thrust the parcel at her.

  Caroline reached out for it slowly. “What? . . .”

  “Oh, it is nothing improper at all, Mrs. Aldritch! It belonged to Larry. He left it with me for safe-keeping, shortly before ... before he died.”

  Died getting run down by a carriage, too foxed to look before he stepped into the street, Caroline thought wryly. The parcel was probably his watch, missing since he died, and maybe a few coins. “Thank you very much, Mr. Burne-Jones. It was kind of you to bring it to me.”

  “Anything for Larry’s widow! We were all so sorry when he died. He was a good ’un, was Larry.”

  “Indeed,” Caroline answered. Then she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She looked back to see her landlady, Mrs. Brown, watching her suspiciously from between the curtains of her front window.

  Caroline sighed. The very last thing she needed was to be tossed out of her already tenuous lodgings on suspicion of being a too-merry widow.

  She quickly took her leave of Mr. Burne-Jones and hurried inside the tall, narrow house, clutching the parcel. She sped past the closed door of Mrs. Brown’s sitting room and up the stairs, praying that she could avoid another confrontation about late rent payments for just a little longer. Just long enough so that she could think in peace.

  Once inside the small suite of two rooms, Caroline shut and locked the door behind her and leaned back wearily against the flimsy wood. It was not even noon yet, but, lud, it felt like this horrible day would go on forever!

  She took off her black bonnet and tossed it and her gloves onto the table. Then she sat down on the unmade bed and removed the paper wrappings from the parcel.

  It was a box, a small tin box with a little key in the lock. Caroline ran her hand over the cool metal lid and shook the box slightly, listening to the metallic echo.

  “Please, let there be enough here to pay the rent,” she whispered. Then she turned the key, lifted the lid—and gasped.

  Inside there were indeed some coins, along with a few banknotes. Quite enough to keep Mrs. Brown happy for a while longer. There was also a neatly folded piece of paper. Caroline pushed aside the money and took it out to read.

  It was a deed. To a gaming establishment called the Golden Feather. It was signed over to Lawrence by the owner, a Mr. Samuels, won the very night Lawrence died. Tucked inside the paper was a heavy key.

  How ironic. Poor Lawrence. He had possessed one of his few winning hands that night, but had not lived long enough to enjoy it.

  Caroline lifted her gaze from the deed and looked over at where Lawrence’s miniature portrait was propped on the narrow fireplace mantel.

  The picture had been painted some years before, and the image that looked back at her was not that of her weary, red-eyed husband. It was her young bridegroom, with his clear green eyes full of idealism and honesty.

  What hopes they’d had on their wedding day! How impatient they had been, how impulsive and in love. But they had been too young, only seventeen. And their love had not been able to survive their families’ obligations and the poverty that had overtaken them. Both the Aldritches and the Lanes had been good families of faded fortunes; they had hoped their children would marry well—not elope with someone equally faded.

  Caroline and Lawrence had loved each other once, or they thought they did. But not enough to sustain them through all their new and unexpected difficulties. Caroline had tried to make a home for them, but Lawrence had lost himself in the lures of gaming and drink. He had been convinced that if only his luck would turn, just once, if only he could win the next hand, he would be able to take care of them.

  Caroline looked down at the deed in her hand. Maybe now, in a strange way, he was taking care of her, at long last.

  But only if she had the courage to go out there and take care of herself.

  Caroline looked at the paper she was holding and then back up at the building. Yes, this was it. The Golden Feather. Lawrence’s legacy.

  She would never have known it was a gaming establishment from the exterior. It looked like any other nondescript, respectable town house in a row of town houses. Someone had been looking after it; the front steps were swept, the brass door knocker polished, and the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. The only indication of its true purpose was a small plate affixed beneath the knocker that read THE GOLDEN FEATHER—MEMBERS ONLY.

  Caroline took a deep breath, turned the key in the lock, and went inside.

  She had to pass through a small foyer, bare but for a desk and chair, to get to the main salon. She pulled back the window draperies of green velvet and looked about in surprised satisfaction. It was very grand indeed, with velvet and gilt chairs clustered about the card tables and the roulette wheel. Fine paintings hung on the silk-papered walls, and a thick green-and-gold carpet covered the floor.

  Through an arched doorway she saw a dining room, equally grand. In the corner, a spiral staircase ran up to another floor. Perhaps there were rooms there that could be made into a private apartment.

  How prosperous this Golden Feather must be, Caroline reflected, as she gave the roulette wheel an idle spin. She could just envision the crowds of well-dressed gamesters who would flock here, filling the gilt chairs, drinking champagne—spending their money.

  She had thought perhaps to sell the place, to pay for Phoebe’s remaining years at school from the proceeds. But if she could run it herself, just for a few years, how much more money they could have! Enough for a come-out and a fine dowry for Phoebe. Perhaps even a cozy country cottage for herself.

  It would be simple enough to say that Lawrence had lost the deed soon to some mystery lady after winning it. She had come to enough places like this with her husband to know the basics of how they were run. She would need help, of course, but she was a fast learner. It could be done. And then she would never have to marry again, never be at the mercy of a careless, irresponsible man again.

  But, oh, then she would have to live every day in a world she hated! A world she had blamed for ruining her husband, her marriage. Ruining the naive, romantic girl she had once been.

  Caroline sat down in one of the velvet chairs and propped her chin on her black-gloved hand. She did hate gaming, but what choice did she really have? If she did not make use of this place, she would be utterly ruined. She had no job skills and certainly no matrimonial prospects. She would starve in the streets. Worse yet, Phoebe, her dear Phoebe, would be ruined along with her.

  “It will not be forever,” she whispered fiercely, convincing herself. “It will not be forever!”

  Chapter One

  London, Four Years Later

  “Justin, you’re home! You’re home at last.”

  Justin, now the Earl of Lyndon on the deaths over a year ago of his father and older brother, barely had time to hand the butler his greatcoat when his mother came down the stairs. She enveloped him in her rose-scented embrace, holding him tightly.

  “It has been so long,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his shirtfront.

  Justin rested his cheek against her ruffled lace cap. “Yes, Mother. Too long.”

  He had thought so many times during the hot, endless days in India that he would surely never be in this place again. Never see his family, never be in his home, never feel the coolness of a sweet English breeze on his face. England had seemed an impossible dream, so distant from the sticky, dusty Indian reality.

  Yet here he was. Standing once again in the foyer of Seward House. It all looked the same. The same family portraits hung on the walls; the same faded Aubusson rug lined the floor. Richards was the same, trying to hide his undignified emotion behind a stolid facade. His mother even smelled the same, of roses and sugar cakes.

  But she did not look the same, Justin thought as he drew back a bit to look at her. Amelia had been pale and sickly when he left four years ago. Almost like a shadow. Now she
had gained some weight; her lavender silk gown lay smooth on her rounded shoulders. Her cheeks were a pale pink, her eyes sparkling with delight at her son’s homecoming. She must have ceased taking the “medicine” she used to have.

  “I started for home as soon as I received your letter about Father and Edward’s accident, Mother,” he said. “I’m sorry it has taken me so very long.”

  “I know, dear. It was so ... so very difficult, all alone without them,” Amelia said, with a rather watery smile. “You are here, though, and that is all that matters. I am certain all will be well now.”

  All would be well? “Mother, what? ...”

  Amelia shook her head. “Not now. I will tell you everything later, but right now you must be so tired. Come into the drawing room and have some tea. I want to hear all about your journey, and about India! How very brown you have become there, dear.”

  They were quickly settled in the elegant blue-and-silver drawing room, with a vast tray of tea, cakes, and sandwiches. Justin sat back and watched his mother pour out the tea, listening as she prattied happily about the Season just concluding and her plans for the summer ahead. When at last the final seedcake was eaten and Amelia had paused for breath, Justin said, “I suppose Harry is still at Cambridge, then.”

  Amelia’s bright smile faded, and her gaze fell away from his.

  A small chill touched Justin’s weary heart. He leaned toward her, reaching out to catch her hand and cease her sudden fussing with the tea things. “Mother? Is something wrong with Harry? Is he ill?”

  She shook her head. “No, he is not ill. It is just—oh, Justin! I am glad you are home. I simply don’t know what to do.”

  Justin released her hand and sank back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Mother, you must tell me, whatever it is.”

  “Harry has been sent down from Cambridge.”

  “Sent down! Well, surely there are appeals that can be made, people to speak to....”

  “It is the third time. They will not have him back.”

  Justin was appalled. Harry had been sent down from Cambridge three times? Even he himself, at the height of his mischief-making youth, had managed to stay at university.

  Harry must have done something very bad indeed.

  “When did this happen?” he asked quietly.

  “Not long before your father died. He was livid with Harry, absolutely livid!” Amelia shuddered. “I had never seen Walter so angry.”

  Justin could well imagine. His father had dealt with one wayward son, only to have another spring up in his place.

  He could only shake his head at the desperate foolishness of youth. Wisdom was so hard-won, especially in India. He hoped his brother could be spared a hard lesson like that. Perhaps his hopes were in vain; he knew how heedless a rakish youth could be.

  And now his mother was looking to him to solve all their difficulties.

  “What is Harry doing now?” he asked.

  Amelia shrugged. “Not very much of anything, I believe. I seldom see him. He is not interested in going to Almack’s with me, or to respectable balls and routs. I think ... I think he has become quite a rake.” Her cheeks flamed as she whispered the word. “I do hear such stories about him, though I am sure they cannot be true.”

  Justin groaned to himself. He had hoped that once he got home, once he left the strangeness of India behind, his life would be peaceful. That he could marry, raise a passle of brats, and be quiet and respectable at long last.

  That was obviously not to be.

  “The Season is over now, though,” Amelia continued. “Surely things will be better once we are back in the country, at Waring Castle. There will be no bad influences for him there.”

  Justin rubbed wearily at his jaw. “He has agreed to go to Waring for the summer, then?”

  “Not exactly. But I am sure that now you are home, you can persuade him.”

  Justin was not so sure. He remembered all too well the determination of a headstrong boy set on being a rake. He also knew the terrible consequences of such heedlessness.

  “I will see what I can do, Mother,” he said.

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied. “There is one more ball before absolutely everyone leaves Town, and I think we should attend. My friend Lady Bellweather has the loveliest daughter who just made her bow this Season. I am sure you would like her. . . .”

  Her words faded away as the drawing-room door flew open and Harry rushed in. His hair, a darker brown than Justin’s own sun-touched locks, fell in an untidy tangle over his brow, and he was in need of a shave. But it was really his clothes that made Justin’s brow raise. Harry wore canary-yellow breeches below a purple—purple!—waistcoat, and a bottle-green coat.

  And were those parrots embroidered on that waistcoat?

  Justin knew then that they had more trouble than his mother thought.

  “So you’re home at last, eh, Justin?” Harry said, sauntering over to drape himself across the chair next to his mother’s. He stuffed the last of the cucumber sandwiches into his mouth and chewed, grinning the whole time. “I see you were too wily for those old natives! Didn’t even get stepped on by an elephant.”

  “Indeed,” Justin answered slowly. “It is good to see you again, Harry.”

  Harry laughed. “I suppose Mother has been telling you all about those toads at Cambridge chucking me out.”

  “Something of the sort.”

  “Well, they had no business to do it, I can tell you! It was all a harmless hum. A misunderstanding.”

  “Your third misunderstanding, apparently.”

  “Yes, well, you know how it goes. These things happen. But it’s given me time for more ... edifying experiences, I can tell you!” He chuckled, leaving no doubt as to the nature of those “edifying” experiences.

  Amelia’s cheeks colored even further, and Justin longed to box his brother’s foolish ears for being such an improper dolt in front of her.

  But Harry seemed quite oblivious to any distress or discomfort. He went on. “I say, Justin! I’m going with some friends to the Golden Feather tonight. Why don’t you come? It will be a proper welcome home.”

  “And what might this Golden Feather be?” Justin asked with careful casualness. He knew how much Harry would enjoy disapproval.

  “It’s a jolly place! My friends and I go there three or four times a week. It’s a first-rate gaming hell, really top of the trees.”

  “A gaming hell!” Amelia cried. “Harry, really.”

  “Oh, Mother, it’s not like that,” Harry scoffed. “You can’t even really call it a hell. It’s perfectly respectable. Members only allowed, and the members are all good ton. Nothing havey-cavey. Mrs. Archer wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Mrs. Archer?” Justin said.

  “She owns the place. Very lovely, but very mysterious. She always wears a mask.” Harry’s face softened as he spoke of this mysterious Mrs. Archer. “You should come tonight, Justin. I have heard she means to sell the place soon, and it will never be the same without her.”

  It sounded a perfectly dismal evening. Justin wanted only a bath, a brandy, and his bed. “Harry, I hardly think ...” he began. Then he caught his mother’s eye. She gave him a little nod.

  She obviously thought that Harry could not get into trouble with Justin watching his every move. And perhaps she was right.

  So, even though his tired body was shrieking in protest, Justin nodded. “Thank you, Harry,” he said. “I would like very much to go with you tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  It was another busy evening at the Golden Feather.

  Caroline stood alone in her small office, peering through her secret peephole at the large gaming room. Every chair was filled, every champagne glass glistened, and every table was piled with coins, notes, and jewels. Laughter and the sweet scent of the many flower arrangements floated through the air to her.

  Even though the Season was winding to a close, the more daring of society still flocked to the Golden Fe
ather, just as they had every night for four years now.

  She gave a small smile. This was perfect. Perfect for one of her last nights in the gaming club. It would be a grand send-off, and no one in London would ever forget the mysterious Mrs. Archer.

  Letting the little peephole cover slide into place, she turned back to her office and went over to the desk. The polished mahogany surface was covered with ledgers and papers, but she ignored them and reached for a small, neatly folded letter. She had read it a dozen times since it had arrived a week ago, but it still never failed to make her smile.

  Phoebe was soon to finish her studies at Mrs. Medlock’s School for Young Ladies. Her excitement over her girlish plans seemed to spill from the carefully penned words. Caroline couldn’t help but feel a bit excited herself. And not just for Phoebe, but for herself as well.

  At long last, she was leaving the Golden Feather. The place had served its purpose well. She had a nice, tidy fortune tucked away, and stood to gain even more when she chose a buyer for the Golden Feather. She was a wealthy woman, and she and Phoebe would never have to worry about money again.

  And if her soul had shriveled a little more each night as she strolled through the opulent rooms, watching fools lose their money, listening to lechers’ suggestive whispers, it was worth it for that security.

  Was it not?

  Caroline carefully folded the letter and placed it in her locked drawer. Her only escape in these four years had been her annual holidays with Phoebe. Now they could be together all the time, be a true family again. That was worth anything, anything at all.

  She had already arranged to rent a house for the summer, at the seaside resort of Wycombe-on-Sea, where they had sometimes gone with their parents as little girls. There she could rest at last and wash away the past years in the clean seawater. She and Phoebe could plan how best to introduce Phoebe to some kind of good society. Surely their parents’ names still carried weight with someone....