The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting Page 2

  Hart snorted. Giles went on, “Anyway, I wouldn’t even go that far. He’s probably self-conscious, and one can’t blame the fellow. They’re provincials who came on holiday to London and now Miss Loxleigh is being courted by a marquess. I’d watch my words too, in his position. In fact, considering all that, I’d say he’s remarkably unaffected.”

  “You have talked yourself round to the very opposite of your first statement.”

  “It’s amazing how a little empathy can change one’s mind about someone,” Giles retorted. “Again, you should try it. The only conclusion I can offer is that I don’t know him. But I have met Miss Loxleigh several times and she’s wonderfully open. Delightful. Unaffected. She has such a frank enjoyment of everything, so unlike the tedious cynicism of all the world-weary folk in this room.”

  “Am I to take that remark personally?” Hart enquired.

  “Yes. Whereas unlike you, Miss Loxleigh is full of joy. Thoughtful, amusing but not frivolous. She lifts one’s heart.”

  Hart lifted his brow instead. Giles gave him an embarrassed smile. “Am I raving?”

  “You are, yes.”

  “She has that effect. I could only secure one dance with her tonight. There’s a host of admirers, Tachbrook at their head.”

  “Are you in the running?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  Giles was a third son—admittedly of an archbishop, of excellent family and holding a good post at the Foreign Office, but still a mere salaried man. Miss Loxleigh might be a wonder among women, but Hart would still put ten pounds that she’d plump for wealth and title, given the choice. She wasn’t fresh from the schoolroom and could clearly have her pick of men; she had doubtless come to London to secure a prize. Good luck to her. Hart just hoped Giles’s enthusiasm wasn’t too serious.

  “Has she a portion?” he asked.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Do they have any estate back in Nottinghamshire?”

  “I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask the brother?” Giles nodded to the door. Hart turned and saw that young Loxleigh had come into the gaming room.

  He took a moment to assess the man closer up. He might be perhaps twenty-five, a little older than he’d looked from a distance, a year or two his sister’s senior. There was no fault to be found with his tailoring, or his cravat, or his demeanour as he accepted a seat at the whist table, waved there by a man named Kinnard who was hail-fellow-well-met with anyone who’d play with him.

  Loxleigh’s eyes were hazel. Hart had rather expected them to be blue, like his own, and found himself oddly put out by that.

  He leaned back against the wall to watch. Loxleigh smiled and chatted to the people around him, and his expression remained relaxed and pleasant as he took up his cards, but Hart thought his eyes sharpened slightly.

  They played a few hands. Hart watched, ignoring Giles’s efforts to make conversation until his friend muttered a rude remark and went off to find someone more entertaining. He watched the young man’s face, and the casual set of his shoulders. He watched the ebb and flow of the game. He watched Loxleigh’s hands—well-used ones, not as smooth and pale as a gentleman’s hands were supposed to be, a little older-looking than his face—and then he pushed himself upright and sloped out of the room. He wanted to think.

  When he returned to the ballroom, Alice was sitting by the wall. He went to sit with her. “Enjoying the evening?”

  “Not really.”

  “Nor am I,” he assured her. “I loathe this sort of thing.”

  “I can’t decide if everyone is noticing me and I hate it, or nobody is noticing me and I hate it.”

  Hart threw back his head and laughed. “You’ve my entire sympathy.”

  “Well, thank you.” She made a face. “It’s not terrible. I have danced twice.”

  “I hope the gentleman was suitably appreciative.”

  “He was very pleasant.” Hart couldn’t tell if Alice was blushing: her colour was high anyway, given the oppressive heat of the crowded room. “A gentleman up from the country. I’ve made friends with his sister—”

  “The beautiful Miss Loxleigh? I met her.”

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Outstanding.”

  “And she’s lovely, too,” Alice said earnestly. “In character, I mean. We met in the park, and started chatting—they hardly knew anyone in London either—and we get on delightfully. So many people aren’t interested unless one is pretty or wealthy or well-born, and many of the belles are simply too busy to be kind. Marianne is always kind, and the best-looking woman of the Season, which just goes to show.”

  Hart nodded. There was quite a lot underpinning that speech, none of which made him happy. “And the brother is a gentleman?”

  “Oh yes. He has escorted us—Marianne and me—several times now. I know she is older than me but she doesn’t assume I’m a silly girl because of it. And Mr. Loxleigh is very respectful and pleasant.”

  “That is flattering attention.”

  Alice scuffed her shoe on the floor, the little movement making her seem terribly young. “I know he’s just being polite, but he does seem interested in what I say. It’s quite unusual to have someone interested in what I say.”

  Hart felt a stab of guilt. “I’m interested.”

  “Well, you aren’t really,” Alice pointed out without reproach. “We have different concerns in life. And I wasn’t complaining. It’s just—well, do you know when someone is truly listening to you, properly, not just exchanging remarks? And it feels like you’re talking to a friend, even if you haven’t known the person long at all?”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is,” Alice said. “Because to be quite honest, Uncle Hart, I didn’t in the slightest want a Season, and I haven’t liked it very much, and it’s costing Mama a great deal of money to do this for me. Making friends means I can honestly say I’m enjoying myself so she doesn’t feel she’s done the wrong thing. You aren’t to tell her that, of course.”

  Hart turned to look at her. “I hope Edwina realises how lucky she is in you.”

  “I’m very lucky in her, but I do wish she’d stop fretting about me. Look, it’s Giles.”

  Giles Verney was indeed approaching. He exchanged a few mild insults with Hart, and gave Alice his hand with the ease of long acquaintance. “Can I beg the next dance?”

  “If you like. I’m not in great demand. But I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “So am I,” Giles assured her. “To say I have two left feet is to understate things considerably. I have as many left feet as a centipede.”

  That was arrant nonsense since he was a superb dancer, but it made Alice giggle and she stood with a smile. Hart left them to it. Giles would give Alice a couple of dances, bring her an ice, and enliven her evening. It was the sort of thing he was very good at, having a bevy of sisters, cousins, and nieces, and he’d always extended that kindness to Alice as well. Hart, hopelessly lacking in grace, had long given up trying to imitate Giles’s charming manners. The effort had made him feel, and probably look, like a dancing bear.

  So he didn’t attempt to uproot any wallflowers, but merely strolled around the ballroom for a little while, chatting to acquaintances. He watched young Loxleigh return to the ballroom in company with a couple of other men, and saw him drift casually over towards Alice, then he returned to the card-room.

  Kinnard was still there, the seat next to him empty. Hart took it. “Evening. How are the cards running?”

  “Shocking,” Kinnard assured him. He had the look of a man caught in gambling fever, eyes bright but hollow. “I’ve just lost sixty pounds to a sprig from the country with the best luck I’ve ever seen. Want to let me make it up at your expense?”

  “No, but I’ll happily make things worse,” Hart assured him, and settled down to play, thinking hard.

  Chapter Two

  As an unmarried man who preferred the country, Hart didn’t trouble to maintain an establishment in L
ondon. He kept a set of rooms in Cursitor Street instead, unfashionably far east and thus both larger and more economical than gentlemen’s lodgings within a stone’s throw of St. James’s. He had his own entrance and three good-sized rooms; the married couple who lived upstairs cooked, cleaned, and valeted as required. What he lacked in convenience by not having a servant at shouting distance, he gained in privacy, and as a deeply private man he found that very much worthwhile.

  He spent the day on his own business, sent his sister a brief note telling her he would report back in due course, ate a simple meal at home, and set out that evening to visit as many gaming hells as he could.

  The third he tried was Lady Wintour’s house in Rupert Street, a place which teetered on the far edge of acceptability. Sir George Wintour had married a hostess from a faro den—some said while drunk, but that state had covered most of his adult life—and when his passing left his widow in dire straits, she had returned to her old profession. It was a very reputable place, in that the rooms were better lit and aired than those of the average hell, and the drinks less likely to leave you with a painful head. There was still a big man with a cudgel who watched out for the law and made sure you paid up, but at Lady Wintour’s he wore livery.

  Hart nodded to the big man in question as he was admitted. “Evening, Ned.”

  “Evening, Sir John. Herself is upstairs, she’ll be glad to see you.”

  Herself, or Lady Wintour, appeared at that moment. “Hey there, Ned— Why, John Hartlebury, as I live and breathe! Hello, Hart!”

  She came down the stairs in a rush and flung herself at him in a cloud of perfume, powder, and skirts. Hart caught her and lifted her off her feet, feeling corsets creak in his grip. She was his notorious affair—three months of self-delusion that she’d ended with some stinging home truths—but they’d parted on good terms for all that, and proved far better friends than lovers.

  “Evangeline.” Hart kissed her rouged cheek. She squeezed his arse, which she had always and loudly admired. “You’re looking well.”

  “I’m a haggard old woman. A wreck. More ruined than the Parthenon.”

  “The house is losing, I take it?”

  “I’m going to retire to the country and keep chickens.”

  “Before you do that, I could use your help,” Hart said. “I’m looking for a young man.”

  “Are you, now?”

  He glowered at her. “Yellow-brown hair. Handsome face. Goes by the name of Loxleigh.”

  Evangeline raised a plucked brow. “Him? He’s upstairs.”

  That was a stroke of luck; he’d been resigned to trying a dozen places. “Do you know anything about him?”

  She jerked her head and escorted him into a side room, to speak in private. “What are you after?”

  “I want to know more about him.” Her expression conveyed without words that information was to be exchanged, not merely given. Hart sighed. “He’s courting my niece.”

  “I didn’t know you had a niece.”

  “My sister’s stepdaughter.”

  “Did I know you had a sister?”

  “They live in Aylesbury. She’s here for the Season, making her come-out.”

  She nodded. “And why shouldn’t he court her?”

  “Perhaps he should. That’s what I want to find out.”

  Evangeline narrowed her eyes. “Has she got money?”

  “She’ll have a portion on her marriage.”

  “And you’ve come round the gaming houses to find out about him.”

  Hart grimaced. Evangeline nodded as though he’d spoken. “You’ve got a feeling about him, haven’t you? I know what you mean.”

  “You think there’s something wrong?”

  “He’s very pleasant,” she said. “Very modest, polite, never takes offence or crows about his winnings. He’s been here four times, and came out to the good all of them. Wins fifty or sixty pounds a night.”

  “That’s not huge.” It was vast amounts by normal standards, of course, entire sections of the annual accounts to John Hartlebury the prudent brewer, but mere tokens to a gaming baronet.

  “It’s not breaking the bank, no. It’s the kind of money you can win at a gaming hell without attracting too much attention. The question is how many gaming hells he’s winning sixty pounds a night at, and how often.”

  “You think he’s a sharp?”

  “I’ve never caught him at it and I’ve no grounds for saying it, which is why I haven’t had Ned throw him into the street and stamp on his fingers yet. I just have a feeling, that’s all. And my feeling is, he looks like a pigeon but he plays like a hawk, and I don’t like him.”

  That wasn’t a long way from Hart’s own feelings. “So why haven’t you warned him off?”

  “His sister’s hooked Tachbrook, that’s why. I’ve had enough trouble from that quarter. So have you.”

  The Marquess of Tachbrook had honoured Lady Wintour with his attentions after her widowing, although honour hadn’t been involved at any point. He’d pursued her solely as a matter of conquest, since she was too vulgar to become his acknowledged mistress. Evangeline had chosen to take offence at that, declined his approaches in a loud and public manner, and plunged into the affair with Hart instead: a mere baronet, tainted by trade, and a man with whom Tachbrook had a long-standing quarrel. It had caused a great deal of amusement in raffish circles. Tachbrook had not come out of the affair well, and he had not forgiven it.

  That was six or seven years ago. Evangeline was older, wiser, and drinking a lot less these days, and Hart could well understand why she had no interest in reigniting an old feud with a man so powerful, wealthy, and vindictive. “Very fair. Thank you, Evangeline. That’s helpful.”

  “You can pay me back by losing some money.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Hart said. “Or I might see if Mr. Loxleigh wants a game.”

  “Make sure you win.”

  Hart went up to the card room, which was busy but not crowded, with a hubbub of talk going on above the serious players. It smelled of tallow, tobacco, spilled drink, and the aggressive scent of men en masse. He had no trouble spotting Loxleigh’s dark honey hair in the crowd.

  His quarry was at a whist table with a few others, wearing an easy smile. The litter of coins and scraps of paper by his elbow showed his run of luck was continuing.

  Hart watched for a few moments. The play wasn’t fast and furious. Loxleigh wagered sensibly, and took his time as if he were thinking about his choices. He gave every impression of being a sensible gamester, just as he had when Hart had watched him before, except for the eyes.

  Loxleigh looked up then, as if he’d felt the observation. His gaze met Hart’s with a direct look of recognition. A practised smile curved his full lips, and he stood with a word of apology to the other players. “Sir John Hartlebury, I think.”

  “I am he.”

  “My name is Loxleigh. I have the honour of being acquainted with your sister, and with Miss Fenwick.”

  Hart bowed. “My sister has mentioned you, I think. I was introduced to Miss Loxleigh at Lady Beaumont’s ball. Are you playing?” He indicated the table.

  “We have just finished a game.”

  “Which you won, again,” grunted Tallant, one of the other players. “You want to watch this one, Hartlebury, he’ll have the coat off your back.”

  “Perhaps you’ll give me a hand or two,” Hart suggested.

  Loxleigh hesitated. “I live with my sister, who is at a soiree, and we have a pact to be home by midnight. I dare say that is a dreadful admission in masculine company.” He smiled. It was a wide, charming smile lit with rueful laughter at his own expense, and Hart couldn’t help thinking, Damn.

  “You sound henpecked,” Tallant said brutally.

  Loxleigh’s smile didn’t falter one whit. “I am domestic. There is only Marianne and myself, and responsibility comes before pleasure. That said, I have half an hour before I need leave, Sir John, so if you’d care to play...?”

/>   They took a table in the corner. “Whist?” Hart suggested. He played that only adequately, but no matter: he didn’t plan to put any significant money on the table.

  They set very low stakes. Hart handed Loxleigh the pack, watched him shuffle and deal, watched his capable, fluent hands.

  “You’re from Nottingham, I believe?”

  “Nottinghamshire. A village some way from the city—do you know the area?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then I shan’t bore you with specifics. It is a charming place. Quiet and safe, with kind neighbours and a slow rhythm of life. Very different to London, though we have found a great deal of kindness here too.”

  Hart picked up his cards. “Your sister said this was your first visit to Town.”

  “It is. We have been planning the trip for some time, and it’s been a remarkable experience. To see such monuments as St. Paul’s, and the Tower...” He expanded on the glories of London like a human guide-book while they played out the hand. He came across as earnest, honest, perhaps not very dashing, but a sturdy and reliable young man. He played like one too, considering his cards carefully, not taking a risk when one might have won him the hand.

  A slow and steady winner? Or a man making a particular effort to present himself as good husband material?

  “Do you play much in your village?” Hart asked abruptly.

  Loxleigh’s gaze flicked up. The smile followed a second later, and didn’t touch his eyes. Hart was beginning to dislike that smile. “Not like this, I assure you. We have a little group where we play for entertainment. The local squire, the landlord of our inn, the parson.” Another smile. “Who, I may add, has often warned me of the evils of gaming to excess, but he will like to hear of my adventures in London all the same.”

  “That seems very cosy.”

  “It’s a small society, but a friendly one.”

  It sounded delightful, just right for a woman like Alice, whose friendships were deep rather than wide. Hart didn’t believe a word of it. It was too pat, too much an unasked-for explanation of why a man who was so keen to show himself as steady and domestic spent so much time in gaming dens.