Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart

In the meantime, Lady Hart made Morgana the very best sort of chaperon, giving the appearance of fulfilling the proprieties without any of its constraints. Morgana had become used to her independence. Had she been forced to reside with her mother’s sister in the company of her prosy uncle and frivolous cousin, she was certain she would have gone mad.

Lady Hart’s gaze drifted away, and Morgana realised she’d stopped following the conversation altogether. Dear Miss Moore filled in with interested questions. A few minutes later, Morgana kissed her grandmother goodnight and returned to her bedchamber.

Amy was already there, setting out Morgana’s new sea-green silk gown. As she helped Morgana with her corset, she asked, ‘Who do you think the gentleman was, miss?’

Amy must have had as much difficulty keeping from thinking of the gentleman as Morgana had. An image of him, sword in hand, came vividly into her mind. Morgana resisted a sigh. ‘I do not know. Perhaps we will never know.’

She sat at her dressing table. Amy removed the ribbon that tied back her hair and combed it all on top of Morgana’s head.

‘Do not even attempt to curl it,’ she told Amy, with exasperation.

Instead Amy plaited some strands with matching green ribbon and others with strings of pearls. She pinned the plaits in loops so that they resembled curls at the crown of Morgana’s head.

Morgana smiled, pleased at the effect. ‘It looks splendid!’

As she dabbed a droplet of French perfume behind each ear and on the underside of each wrist, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, now dressed in her grey maid’s uniform, her countenance still like a June thunderstorm.

Morgana’s brow wrinkled, but she tried to sound cheerful. ‘Ah, Lucy, you look yourself again. Come fetch my gown.’

With a cloudy expression, Lucy gathered up the sea-green silk and helped Morgana step into it. Soon she had the bodice fastened, and Morgana turned to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

The silk draped beautifully and the tiny, luminous pearls at the neckline gave it some elegance, as did the lace covering the bodice and trimming the bottom of the skirt.

Her aunt’s recommendation of Madame Emeraude’s new shop on Bond Street had been a good one. The dress was exquisitely understated, a style that might not be the current fashion but suited Morgana much better than lots of flounces, flowers and lace. She’d been so fortunate that all the Paris dresses her father’s new wife insisted she purchase had gone missing somewhere on her way to London. She hoped they were at the bottom of the Channel.

This dress had been worth the month she’d had to wait for a decent wardrobe. She turned to Lucy. ‘Does it not look splendid?’

Lucy merely nodded, and the restless look came back into her eyes.

Morgana frowned as she fastened the earrings to her ears. Amy stood poised with her pearl necklace. ‘Remember your promise to me, Lucy. No running away.’

The girl avoided Morgana’s gaze. ‘I remember.’

Before leaving the room, Morgana risked another quick glance in the mirror. Smiling, she reached for the paisley shawl that completed her outfit, with its deep greens and blues and long silky fringe.

With a quick goodbye to the maids, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling her gloves on as she went.

Cripps stood in the hall.

‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’

‘No sound of it yet, miss,’ he replied.

‘I am determined not to keep my uncle waiting.’ She again tried her friendly smile on him.

‘Very good, miss.’ He remained as stiff-backed as ever.

Morgana kept her smile in place, but it hid her disappointment. It would be so much easier if she knew she had Cripps’s loyalty as well as his excellent service. She did so want them all to rub well together. ‘I’ll wait in the drawing room.’

Expression as bland as ever, he preceded her across the hall and opened the drawing-room door.

She walked to the window with its view of the street. No sooner had she done so than her uncle’s carriage pulled up in front of the house. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror above the mantel, fussing a bit with the neckline of her dress, but, remembering that her uncle had been suffering from gout, she hurried to the hall.

‘I will meet them at the carriage,’ she told Cripps, fancying he looked disapproving of a lady going out the door unescorted.

‘I am ready,’ she called, as Cripps closed the door behind her.

A tall gentleman stood next to the carriage in the process of assisting her uncle to disembark. Seeing her, her uncle paused. ‘Come then,’ he replied and disappeared back into his seat.

The tall gentleman turned towards her. Morgana stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh!’

Standing before her, next to her uncle’s carriage, dressed in elegant evening attire, was the gentleman from the park.

He, too, froze, but his look of surprise was replaced by a lazy smile that seemed to take for ever to settle on his face. Just as slowly he tipped his hat and came to her side.

‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Hart.’ His dark grey eyes kindled with amusement.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to reply, pulling her shawl snug around her shoulders and accepting his arm.

‘It is a fine night, is it not?’ His voice was as smooth and low as a viola. They were only a few steps from the carriage. ‘A fine night for a walk in the park.’

‘Oh, say nothing of that, sir. I beg you,’ Morgana countered in a fierce whisper.

‘My lips, dear Miss Hart—’ the lips he referred to turned up at the corners ‘—are sealed.’

Chapter Two

Sloane handed Miss Hart into the carriage, to the cheerful greetings of her aunt, uncle and cousin. He climbed in after her and sat between the two young ladies, catching a whiff of Miss Hart’s perfume, a faint scent but distinctly French and expensive.

She settled herself closer to the carriage window, which somehow caused his blood to race, more so than Lady Hannah’s nearly imperceptible move closer to him.

Lady Cowdlin spoke. ‘We must do the introductions, mustn’t we? Morgana, may I present Mr Cyprian Sloane to you? This is my niece, Miss Morgana Hart. Her father is Baron Hart, you know.’

Sloane did know of Baron Hart, though the covert circumstances by which he was acquainted did not bear mentioning. It would cause more questions than he cared to answer.

He turned to the young lady. ‘Miss Hart, is it?’

She did not miss his attempt at humour. ‘Mr Sloane.’ A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Lady Cowdlin went on, ‘Morgana is my dear sister’s child, God rest her soul.’

‘Ah.’ He hoped the sound was appropriately sympathetic.

The carriage lurched forward and they were on their way.

When Lady Cowdlin requested that her niece be included in the party, she’d not given the niece’s name. Neither had Lady Hannah, though she’d chattered on about her cousin that very afternoon when, during the fashionable hour, he’d driven her in his curricle through Hyde Park. Lady Hannah had explained this was her cousin’s second London Season. Hannah’s mother had sponsored her years before, but the cousin ‘didn’t take.’ Sloane had only half-listened to her account, attending more to how many of the beau monde saw fit to greet him. More each day. Two years ago none of them would have dared acknowledge him in public.

‘Mr Sloane has been so good as to invite us to the King’s Theatre, Morgana,’ Lady Hannah said in a somewhat smug tone and unnecessarily, for Sloane was certain her cousin must have been told their destination ahead of time.