A Beginner's Guide to Rakes (2 page)

Kat sank back into the voluminous bedsheets. “Don’t you dare. You know I was teasing you. I may enjoy an intimate evening in your company, but you keep your scandals away from me. If you wish to give me a gift, do it privately, and make it very, very expensive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Of course she’d made light of it; she knew as well as anyone that he didn’t care for entanglements—in or out of bed. “Good evening, Kat.”

“Mm-hm.”

Most of Lady Katherine’s household knew he was there, but he nevertheless kept his boot steps quiet as he descended the main staircase and let himself out the front door. Habit, he supposed, as not all of his lovers were unmarried. Though whether their husbands were concerned or even surprised over his presence was another question entirely. And a husband’s possible reaction was one that Oliver always kept in mind. Not, however, tonight. With her status and connections, Lady Katherine likely thought as little of husbands as he did.

As he reached Regent Street, he slowed Brash, his gray thoroughbred. Adam House lay just out of sight past the tall hedgerows. Oliver clenched his jaw.
Damned woman. Damned, damned woman.
Yes, he’d thought the Season dull, but that hardly merited the dusting off of old morality lessons—the saying “be careful what you wish for” being foremost among them.

He supposed he could stop by some morning and pay his respects—well, not his respects, precisely, but make his presence known, at least—but Diane Benchley seemed to be in no hurry to reveal herself to her curious peers. Despite his desire to be strictly annoyed by her in general, that made him a touch curious as well. And all things considered, encountering her first in public would likely be wiser for both of them. The burning question seemed to be why she was waiting.

Rolling his shoulders, Oliver clucked at Brash and sent them trotting west to his rented town house on Oxford Street. He knew he was far past sentiment, and he’d never believed in allowing the passing of time to soften the hard edges of memories. And he never—
never
—let anyone else see an ounce of weakness. Not his own, anyway. Exposing that of others was so lamentably easy that on occasion he couldn’t restrain himself. If Lady Cameron knew what was best for her, she would take care to keep him well away from whatever she might be plotting.

Though if she truly had her own best interests at heart, she would never have returned to England in the first place.

Chapter Two

Diane Benchley, the Countess of Cameron, took the liveried footman’s proffered hand and stepped down from her rented black carriage. “All ready, Jenny?” she murmured.

The tall, willow-thin woman descending to the cobblestones after her, nodded. “Just as we rehearsed, yes?” Genevieve Martine returned in the same tone, her slight accent that intriguing mix of French and German and English finishing school.

Tonight the severe pull of Jenny’s blond bun made her look like a governess or some companion to an elderly noblewoman, but that was deliberate. Tonight all eyes would be fixed on Diane, and tongues would be muttering all nature of interesting things out of her hearing. But not out of Jenny’s; the woman was a marvel at going unnoticed.

“Yes. And I apologize for even asking; tonight has become more significant than I’d anticipated. You know I generally prefer more than four days to plot out the entirety of my—our—future.” Diane pretended to adjust one of her silky black elbow-length gloves, taking the moment to gaze up at the large town house before them. Candlelight glowed from every window, voices and the strains of a country dance spilling out to the street. “You’re certain Lord Cameron won’t be here?”

“His invitation never arrived at his residence,” Jenny affirmed, a brief smile softening her features. “Such a shame, I know.”

“Splendid. He’s an annoyance, but one I could do without this evening. I believe this party is going to be more than interesting enough without him.” Diane made her way around the crowd of arriving and departing vehicles.

As she walked, she glanced at the various coats of arms emblazoned on the passing doors. A duke here, an earl there, along with brothers, cousins, nephews, and sons—all of the wealthy and powerful together with those who envied and emulated them. And all at the Duke and Duchess of Hennessy’s grand ball. If not for the herd of other females fluttering about as well, she would very nearly have called the evening perfect.

No one would realize it, of course, but she’d planned her arrival in London to coincide with this soiree. Back then, however, she’d had only one goal for the night. Now she had two. At that thought, a red painted dragon twined about a bloody sword caught her gaze just in time to add the exclamation to her point. The quick breath she drew was entirely against her will.
Oliver Warren.

“Haybury?” Jenny asked, following her gaze. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

Diane leveled her shoulders. “No. I’m not. Ideally this wouldn’t be necessary, but as the ideal plan was just buried in York, necessity is what remains. Now that I’ve considered it, he’s the better choice, anyway.”

“Which is fortunate, since he is now the only choice.” Under her breath Jenny uttered something in German about Henry, Lord Blalock, and a deep pit of hell.

Silently Diane seconded the curse. Whatever Shakespeare wrote about best-laid plans, however, hers was not going to go astray. Some of the players might change, but she’d literally and figuratively journeyed too far to turn back now. “In all fairness, I don’t think Lord Blalock intended to expire,” she returned in the same low tone. “And certainly not from a broken neck.”

Jenny made a derisive sound. “What else does a sixty-year-old man expect when he rides after foxes? In the rain, yet?”

And that was the problem with several late aristocrats formerly of her acquaintance, Diane reflected. Despite all evidence to the contrary, they thought themselves invincible, untouchable, and immortal—until they fell. And they did fall, with rather alarming regularity. Diane shrugged out of her wrap as they reached the foyer. She could blame herself for being some sort of widow maker, she supposed, but then the one man of her acquaintances who most deserved to drop stone-dead had recently inherited a marquisdom and a great deal of money.

“How will you approach Haybury?” Jenny asked on the tail of that thought.

That very question had kept her awake most of last night. “I’ve an idea or two. Leave it to me.”

With a brief nod, Jenny slipped past the butler amid a group of giggling girls undoubtedly enjoying their very first Season in London. For a moment Diane watched them, uncertain whether she envied their naïveté or pitied them for it. But then she’d begun the same way and she’d learned her lessons. The price might have been a bit steep, but perhaps because of that fact she’d learned them very well indeed.

The party was lavish enough that the butler was announcing the newly arrived guests to the rest of the crowd. She’d anticipated that, as well, and she’d dressed accordingly. Black silk draped from her waist to the floor. Her bodice was of the same color, intricately embroidered and glittering with black glass beads. Black lace sleeves ended halfway to her elbows, and a swoop of more lace circled her low, curved neckline. Together with her black elbow-length gloves, the ensemble had cost several pretty pennies. And she knew it would be worth every shilling.

She handed the butler her invitation, listened to the murmurings already whispering behind her. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the fellow intoned from the top of the two shallow steps, “Diane Benchley, Lady Cameron.”

Diane lifted her chin just a fraction, the better to show off her glinting black teardrop necklace of onyx with its matching ear bobs. The bustle of conversation in the large ballroom faltered and then resumed, changing from the level hum of bees to the buzz of hornets. And there she was, deliberately stirring them up. Giving a slight, deliberately secretive smile, she descended to the marble floor.
Look,
she urged them all silently, inclining her head at the Duke and Duchess of Hennessy as they came forward to greet her.
Be intrigued.

By noon tomorrow anyone who hadn’t already heard about her and her return to London would know. And that was precisely what she planned. Because after that she would own them all. Or at least the bits and pieces of them she wanted.

“It’s so good to see you, Diane,” the duchess cooed. “You’ve been away for so long!”

“Thank you for inviting me this evening, Your Grace,” Diane returned, reflecting that she’d only met the Duchess of Hennessy once and that the woman had spent the entire time complaining about her husband’s gout.

“My condolences on Lord Cameron’s passing,” the previously gouty duke rumbled, with a marked glance at Diane’s all-black ensemble. “Two years now, isn’t it?”

“Just over that, yes.” She gestured at herself, the tips of her fingers lingering for just a moment at her neckline. “I do so adore wearing black. Once I donned it for Frederick, I simply never gave it up.” She smiled. “It’s a very underused color for females, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Hennessy returned, his gaze following her trailing fingers. “Very underused.”

The duchess cleared her throat. “Do enjoy yourself this evening, Lady Cameron.”

“Oh, I shall. Thank you.”

She did intend to enjoy herself, or she had when she’d originally planned her reentry into Society. The architecture of her plans up to the tiniest of details was to have been laid out by now, with only the pied piping to remain. Things had changed, things not even she could have foreseen, but she would make do. It would take more maneuvering than she’d anticipated, and it would mean involving that … man, but perhaps even that could be turned to her advantage.

At the least she chose to think that with a bit of strategically applied effort and perhaps a pinch of blackmail the end result would be what she wanted. What she required. And that hardly seemed too much to ask.

A tall fellow with a glittering emerald pin through his cravat approached her and bowed. “Are you dancing this evening, my lady?” he asked, his affected lisp reminding her why for a time she’d actually preferred Vienna.

“Introduce yourself, and I shall decide,” she returned, favoring him with the cool smile she’d perfected over the past year. The one that said she knew more than she was revealing. It had certainly served her well; in fact, she would place it just below money in the ranks of useful things to have.

“Ah, of course. I am Stewart Cavendish. Lord Stewart Cavendish. My father is the Marquis of Thanes. And you are ravishing.”

A second son or below, then. But still a lordling. “For that kind compliment, I shall grant you a quadrille.”

His own smile deepened. “And what would it take for me to earn a waltz?”

An inheritance and a title,
she thought to herself. “Better than one moment of acquaintance,” she said aloud. “We shall see how you manage the quadrille.”

He bowed again, reaching for her dance card until she took a step backward and inscribed his name on the thing herself. When they danced was her choice, not his. She ticked off the spaces with her forefinger.

“I shall see you for the fourth dance then, Lord Stewart, son of Lord Thanes.” She deepened her smile just a touch.

“And I shall be practicing the steps in anticipation.”

As he strolled away to regale his friends with their conversation, Diane turned, taking a heartbeat to sweep her gaze across the many pairs of eyes watching her. No sign yet of Oliver Warren, but he was likely in one of the gaming rooms. Which meant she needed to find her way there as well—no easy feat considering that ladies were discouraged from visiting the sites of such vices.

By the time she’d made her way across the room to the doorway of one of the three temporary gaming rooms set off the main ballroom, she had seven dances spoken for. Only the evening’s first dance and the two waltzes remained, just as she intended. Diane crossed the doorway, managing a surreptitious glance at the billiards table inside. A dozen gentlemen stood about, but not the one she sought.

A cool breeze brushed across her back. “You are making quite the impression,” Jenny’s soft voice came. “‘Where has she been?’ ‘Where did she find her wealth?’ ‘Why is no one escorting her?’ ‘Does she mean to remarry?’”

Diane gave a slight nod. “It doesn’t take long, does it?” she murmured from behind her dance card. “If I can find Lord Haybury, this next bit will be even more interesting.”

“I heard two women complaining that he was spending all evening in the card room and wouldn’t come out to dance,” her companion returned. “They are very disappointed.”

“Sometimes I think Bonaparte would have won the war if you’d been on his side, my dear.”

“Of course he would have.”

Diane caught the smile before it could touch her mouth. Instead she continued with her search, declining two more invitations as the music for the night’s first dance, a quadrille, began on the overlooking balcony. The dance floor filled, and the space around her opened. And then her pathway was blocked again.

“Diane.”

She looked up into pale gray eyes cooler than the fabled ice of the Arctic. “Oliver. There you are.” Before she could take the moment to consider just what she was about to do, she stepped forward, taking both his hands in hers. “So good to see you again.” She set her mouth into a deep smile, far more than she’d favored anyone else with that evening.

His hands felt warm even through her gloves—and thank God she was wearing them, or she would have been tempted to scratch out those lovely eyes with her nails. His fingers, though, remained in hers. And they were very still. A heartbeat later he withdrew them. “Yes, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, though the expression deep in his eyes was far more murderous.

“It has! Do call on me tomorrow. At ten o’clock. We’ll have tea. I do so want to announce the news of my new gaming club, you know.”

There.
Before she could even turn away she heard the echoes of her conversation spreading through the guests like a ripple of water in a pond. Or fire in a wheat field, more like. Yes, she’d just said she was opening a gaming club. Yes, Lord Haybury knew all about it—indeed, they were old friends.