A Beginner's Guide to Rakes (5 page)

Chapter Four

When Oliver set down the pen, Diane tightened her grip on the pistol. Simply because it seemed as though the danger had passed didn’t mean it had. Especially where Oliver Warren was concerned.

Finally, though, he pushed his chair back and stood up. “When do I move my residence?” he asked.

“Just for your information,” she returned, standing as well so he wouldn’t loom over her, “if I had a choice, you and I would be on separate continents. Once I begin hiring employees, you may begin calling on me. I will, of course, be intrigued but cautious.”

“And ruined, once I move into your home.”

“You’re moving into a room above my club—not my home.”

“Semantics, Diane. No more invitations to Society events for you. No more teas with duchesses or luncheons for church charities.”

The odd thing was, a few years ago that might have hurt. “I have no doubt I’ll be invited to fewer events. As long as I remain a mystery and a curiosity, however, I shan’t lack for invitations.”

“Care to wager on that?”

Of course he’d chosen those words on purpose. “Still scratching about for weaknesses, are you, Oliver? Be cautious about with whom you choose to play. I have claws, too.”

He walked to the office door and pulled it open. “Yes, I know. I’ve felt them digging into my back.”

“These days I aim for the throat. And I’ll expect to receive the funds by the end of the day.”

“You’ll have them by noon. And I’ll be giving up my house at the end of the month. That gives you a fortnight, I believe.”

So he wanted to push at her already. Diane nodded. “I’ll be summoning you before then to instruct my employees.”

With a slight grin that looked much more predatory than cowed, the Marquis of Haybury left the room. A moment later she heard Juliet open and close the front door.

Heaving a deep sigh that shook along the edges, Diane dropped into her chair again. “Damn that man,” she muttered.

The side door leading from the adjoining sitting room opened, and Genevieve glided soundlessly into the room. “You weren’t exaggerating,” she said, taking the chair Oliver had just vacated. “That man is a terror.”

“No, he’s formidable. But so am I.”

“All the same, you might have compelled him to sign
all
the papers.”

Yes, she could have—but she doubted she or any portion of her reputation would have survived the resulting carnage. “Let him think he can still negotiate. I can do the same. By the end I’ll have him wishing he’d agreed to all my terms right from the beginning.”

“Blalock would have been easier to manage.”

“Haybury knows more about wagering than anyone else in the country, and he has more money, these days. I suppose I’ll trade compliance for knowledge.” She sent a glance at her companion. “Not that we have a choice in the matter. I refuse to go live in some rented cottage in the middle of nowhere because my late husband couldn’t stop with ruining his own life and had to drag me down with him.”

“You know you will always have my support, Diane, whatever happens.”

She drew a breath. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Jenny. That man does tend to make me wish to hit things.” Standing again, she brushed her palms down the front of her gown. She hadn’t so much as shaken his hand, but heat seemed to cling to her regardless. “You put the advertisement in the newspaper?”

“
Oui.
Beginning tomorrow. And I sent a note to Mr. Dunlevy. He will call at four o’clock today.”

“Good. Considering that we’ve relocated the club to these premises, we’ll have to alter the floor plans somewhat.” Drawing her arm around Jenny’s, she forced a smile. “And we will make certain to put a brick wall between the club residences and my part of Adam House.”

“A very thick brick wall,” her friend agreed.

That left Diane the remainder of the day to revisit her decorating plans and see to the removal of the last vestiges of the Benchley family remaining in the house. Thus far the sale of a pearl necklace, two old vases, and a portrait—of someone who looked enough like Frederick that it actually gave her a nightmare—had only earned her ten pounds. But considering that that was more than Frederick had left her when he’d died, she considered it a fair beginning.

*   *   *

“So all that nonsense about you not recalling who Lady Cameron was,” Jonathan Sutcliffe, Lord Manderlin, commented, whipping his rapier up and toward the ground again in a swift salute, “that was what, you having a laugh at the rest of us?”

Oliver adjusted his mask, flicked his own rapier sideways, and then lunged, digging the tip into the padded material covering Manderlin’s heart. “Perhaps.”

“Touché!” the referee called, and the two men resumed their original places.

“Good God, Haybury, do you have to go directly for the kill?”

Beneath the mask, Oliver grinned. “Your heart is a very small target, Jonathan. I doubt that blow would have been fatal.”

“Oh, very amusing. If my heart is small, yours must have turned to dust years ago.”

“Fence!”

This time Oliver feinted for a shoulder, waited for Manderlin to push his blade aside, then whipped the weapon down across the fine mesh of the viscount’s mask.

“Touché!”

“Are you attempting to dismember me, then? Generally you let me have a point or two to build my confidence before you destroy me.”

“Apologies. I’m not feeling particularly charitable this afternoon, my friend.” In fact, he was quite happily imagining Diane Benchley standing opposite him, in her hands a parasol or something equally useless as he poked and prodded her at will. Yes, it was likely sexual, but he could hardly blame himself for that. The woman had been a tigress in bed. A demon, ripping beneath his skin to places he’d thought completely invulnerable. Taking his—

“Touché!” jabbed into his ears a half second after Manderlin stabbed him in the gut. Oliver blinked.

“Ha! Not invincible, are you?” Jonathan danced back and forth, swatting the empty air with his weapon.

The half smile still on his face dropping into a scowl, Oliver backed to his beginning position. She was not allowed to make him weak. If it took living under her roof and playing her little game to prove that he’d moved well beyond whatever it was she’d nearly done to him, then so be it.

“What, no chitchat now?” Manderlin taunted. “No witty ripostes or insults to my manliness?”

Oliver jabbed a finger of his free hand at the referee, who swallowed. “Fence!”

A minute later, Viscount Manderlin was flat on his back, suffering from a triplet of blows to his face, chest, and gut. Before their referee could finish calling out points or the outcome of the set, Oliver pulled off his mask and tossed it at a servant.

“Oliver!” Jonathan called out as he struggled to his feet.

“I don’t like to lose,” Oliver replied, striding toward the private dressing room to change back into his clothes.

He knew Diane’s plans now. She’d already managed to pull him into her plot, and as long as she had that letter he hadn’t much hope of escaping unless she allowed him to do so. And if he knew anything, he knew how very unlikely that was. Therefore, he needed to discover every detail, rule, and flaw of her game. Because not only did he dislike losing, but he also had no intention of doing so.

Once he finished dressing he went to find Manderlin again. “Are you free for dinner?”

“That depends. Are you going to gloat?”

“No.
And
I’m buying.”

“Then we’re going to White’s.”

Forty minutes later a footman seated them on one side of White’s large dining room. Oliver spent several minutes doing something unusual for him—observing not the diners but the actual lay of the room. The number of tables, servers, the distance from the kitchen, the easily available liquor, and the enticing view into the closest of the gaming rooms.

The decor itself was overtly … stuffy, pretentious in a way that blatantly appealed to the wealthy and exclusive membership. Christ, there was a five-year waiting list for new member applicants. A prospective member had to have a sponsor, and even that was no guarantee for entry.

“I’m relieved that you’ve kept your word about not gloating,” Jonathan said around a mouthful of roast pheasant, “but some conversation would at least assure me you don’t mean to tip the table over on me or some such.”

“To how many clubs do you belong?” Oliver asked.

“That depends. You aren’t going to blackball me, are you?”

Oliver scowled. “Why are you so convinced I mean to maim you? I’ve never done so before.”

“Because something clearly has your spine in a twist, and I seem to be the handiest surrogate target. I’d ask you what might be troubling you, but I value your friendship. I am therefore sitting here quietly eating this very expensive dinner and waiting to be enlightened. Or for you to begin a fight with me. I’m generally more certain which I’m facing, but you’ve got me a bit on edge tonight.”

“That was long-winded. Why not just say, ‘Out with it’?”

Manderlin gazed at him for a heartbeat. “Out with it, Oliver.”

Oliver took a swallow of wine. “No.”

“Bastard.”

“For the moment, suffice it to say that if I were to confide in anyone, it would be you. I have a few things to decipher in my own mind first.”

With a nod, Jonathan returned to his meal. “Fair enough. And five.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Five clubs. White’s, the Society, The Army, the Tory, and Boodle’s.”

“The Tory? Really?”

“I inherited the membership from my father. I don’t think I’ve been above twice, but the fee’s reasonable.” Jonathan took a breath. “Is this by any chance about Lady Cameron announcing she’s going to open a gaming club?”

Of course word of that would have spread to every corner of Mayfair by now, damned chit.
But that was undoubtedly precisely what she’d intended. “If it was about that, what’s your opinion on it?”

“What’s
your
opinion?”

“I asked first. Don’t be such a coward.”

“Fine. My second thought was that she hasn’t been in Vienna for the past three years—she’s been in Bedlam.”

Oliver nodded. Jonathan was a more … decent man than he was, so the viscount’s opinion was likely that of the majority of Mayfair’s male residents. “But you said that was your second thought. What was your first?”

“That I want to see this club. I mean, she’s a countess who’s pretty enough to net another husband in five minutes. For her to be willing to risk her standing in Society it would have to be extraordinary. I know Cameron was a gambler—a poor one, from all accounts—but just what was the countess up to in Vienna?”

Now
that
was interesting, Oliver decided. Perhaps he’d weighed shock and dismay too heavily against curiosity and possible fodder for gossip. He did tend to misestimate propriety—one of the consequences of trampling it so often, he supposed.

“Now will you tell me your opinion?” Manderlin asked.

“I also admit to some curiosity.”

“And do you know anything more about it than you did when you pretended not to remember her name? Everyone up to and including my groom knows you were to meet with Lady Cameron this morning.”

Had she intended that, as well? That his involvement, unwilling or not, would help spread her chosen gossip? She had turned him into an investor, after all. “It’s to be called The Tantalus Club, and she means to employ only females. Apparently lovely and untouchable ones.”

“Saint George’s buttonholes!” came from behind him. “Chits?”

Oliver turned his head. “Henning. Didn’t see you lurking there.”

Francis Henning gulped down a mouthful of ham. “Employ only females? To bank at the tables and serve the drinks?”

“And to take hats and shuffle cards, apparently.”

“But chits can’t manage money or cards,” the rotund fellow continued. “She’ll have to close the doors in a month.”

“But what a month,” Lord Bentson broke in from opposite Henning. “I’ll be happy to take some of Lady Cameron’s blunt while it lasts.”

That seemed to be the consensus at the surrounding tables. Diane was a fool about to lose everything, and every man wanted to be a part of taking it from her. Which would have been his opinion as well, Oliver reflected, except for the fact that it was his blunt she would be using. And once he moved his residence to The Tantalus Club, it would be his reputation as well.

Very well. He could acknowledge that Diane Benchley had outmaneuvered him. This morning, however, had only been a skirmish. He had every intention of being declared the winner at the end of the war—once he figured out what a victory would entail.

*   *   *

“I can break out this wall,” Mr. Dunlevy grunted, slapping his broad hand against the salmon-colored blockade currently separating the downstairs sitting room from the library. “That gives you the most floor space.”

Diane looked up from the house’s floor plans. “If we close off the foyer, add entry doors, and tear down the hallway walls as well, I can use the entire front of the house as the main gaming room.”

The builder lifted one caterpillar of an eyebrow. “That much renovation ain’t inexpensive, my lady.”

“Can you do it?”

He looked more assessingly at their surroundings. “It’ll take a few pillars to bear the weight of the upstairs, but aye.”

“Then let’s get to it. I intend to open my doors in a month.”

“A mo— Yes, my lady.”

The money she’d given him this morning undoubtedly had a great deal to do with his enthusiasm, but she was more concerned with his speed. Making grand statements and piquing everyone’s interest had been the first step. Now she needed to follow through with the club’s opening before a new bit of scandal or gossip made her potential clientele lose interest.

Once she and Mr. Dunlevy agreed on the revised layout of her club, Diane made her way past what seemed like dozens of workmen already pulling down the terribly dated wallpaper, replacing carpet, and repairing stairway bannisters. The entire front of the house would belong to The Tantalus, with the large gaming room downstairs, the sitting rooms and private apartments upstairs, and the employees’ quarters in the large, renovated attic.