“There is a world of difference between taking advantage and behaving like a spoiled, petulant child,” Amariah said. “London isn’t the Havertown Assembly, and you can’t treat the gentlemen here the way you did with the ones at home. There will always be another lady who is prettier or more amusing, and London gentlemen won’t be nearly as indulgent with you if you lose your temper.”
“I wasn’t trying to be amusing,” Cassia protested. That wasn’t what had happened with the gentleman at Christie’s, and it didn’t deserve this kind of talk from her sister. “I was trying to buy a painting.”
“Yet I can imagine all too well what that gentleman must have thought.” Amariah reached out and took Cassia’s hand. “I know you are still our baby, Cassia, and that you’ve worked as hard as Bethany and I these last months—maybe even harder. And I know how set you can be on having your own way.”
Cassia shook her head, even as she thought again about the dark-haired gentleman. If she hadn’t turned so—so tart with him, then maybe they’d be in this room hanging The Fortune Teller now instead of staring at that empty space. “But I didn’t—”
“Hush, and listen to me,” Amariah said with a gentle shush. “We’ve come to London to honor Father’s memory by making Penny House a success, and his charities with it. That must always come first. Neither imagined slights, nor gentlemen who haven’t paid us as much attention as we’d wish. If you let your temper run away tonight, why, then the talk will begin about those disagreeable women at Penny House, and everything will be lost.”
“Not the women. Me.” Cassia sighed, her agitation slipping away. “You should have been with me at Christie’s today, Amariah. It’s simple for you. You are always so calm.”
“I hide the rest, that is all.” Her sister smiled, gently squeezing Cassia’s fingers. “You’ll have a fresh start this evening. Before you act or speak, think, then think again, and you’ll do fine.”
“I’ll try, Amariah,” she said, and she meant it. “For all our sakes, and for Father’s, too, I’ll try.”
A fresh start, thought Cassia. That was what they’d all needed, and why they’d come to London in the first place. Likely she would never see the dark gentleman—the thieving pirate—ever again, anyway. Likely all he’d ever be to her would be a warning, a reminder of how she must not behave.
And she swore to push aside forever that guilty twinge of surpreme satisfaction for having gotten the last word.
Chapter Three
R ichard sat sprawled in a plush-covered chair, his legs stretched out before him and a glass of claret from dinner in his hands, and his temper simmering at a disagreeable, disgruntled point. He should have no grounds for complaint: his rooms here at the Clarendon were the most lavish to be had in the hotel, the fire in the fireplace was burning at a pace to match any Caribbean afternoon, and the dinner sent upstairs to him on a tray had been prepared by one of the best kitchens in the city. He had spent the day getting exactly what he’d wanted, and the proof of it was sitting opposite from him, propped awkwardly across two sidechairs like an unwelcome relative.
But the expensive rooms seemed as crowded and overwrought as the ones in an expensive brothel, the fire had made the room so close that he’d thrown open the windows, and the dinner lay ravished but abandoned on its tray, largely uneaten. Even the claret didn’t seem to help, which considering the extra guinea the bottle had added to the cost of the dinner, it damned well should have.
He emptied his glass and refilled it, staring at the painting opposite him. A gentleman was supposed to collect rubbish like this, and take pride in the possessing as well as the possession, filling entire picture galleries with what they’d dragged home from the Continent.
Yet the longer he studied The Fortune Teller, the more he thought instead of the woman he’d outbid for it. Damnation, he should have been a gallant. He should have either let her bid stand, or made her a pretty gift of it afterward. If for no other reason, he should have done it for the practice. How else would he be ready when the right high-bred lady did come along?
And he had liked the young woman. She’d been full of fire to match the color of her hair, all spark and spit, and nothing like the sultry, languid women he’d known in the islands. Perhaps if she had been, he wouldn’t have made such an ass of himself.
He heard the door from the bedchamber open, then the muted gurgle of wine as the glass in his hand was refilled.
“No more, Neuf,” Richard said to his manservant, still holding the claret bottle. “I’m in a piss-poor humor as it is without dumping more claret down my gullet.”
“As you wish, sir.” Neuf stepped back, cradling the bottle in his arms like a baby. He had taken care to stand with his back to the fire, as close as he dared without dipping the tails of his coat into the flames, and from the contented look in his heavy-lidded eyes, Richard knew he was relishing the warmth that reminded him of their old home on Barbados. “Are you done with your dinner, sir? Should I have it taken away?”
“Done enough.” Richard twisted around in his chair, watching Neuf gather up the dishes he’d scattered about the room. “Tell me, Neuf. How should I entertain myself this evening, other than sitting here alone and drinking myself into oblivion?”
“The theatre, sir? The opera, the pleasure gardens near the river?” His shrugged with morose resignation. He had been with Richard for nearly eight years, through good times and some very bad ones, and he had earned the small freedom of that shrug. “For a gentleman like yourself, London must offer every diversion.”
“I said I wished to be entertained, Neuf, not lulled to sleep.” Richard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You know I’ve no patience for playacting or yowling singers.”
Neuf refolded Richard’s napkin into precise quarters before he answered. “Then a ball, sir? A place where you’ll meet young ladies?”
“Not yet, not yet.” Richard rose, crossing the room to stand at the window and gaze down at the street below. There’d be no balls or grand parties yet, not for an outsider like him. He had brought with him letters of introduction from the island’s royal governor to three noble families here in England, and he was determined not to squander them until the time was right. “I’m waiting until Greenwood is done and I’ve a grand home to offer a lady. What’s the use in setting the trap before the proper bait is ready?”
He glanced back over his shoulder at the painting. He’d gone to the auction in search of old paintings to add respectable grandeur to his country house, and this was what he’d come away with—hardly the great work of fine art to impress a future father-in-law.
Would that saucy chit in mourning have liked the painting as much if she’d realized its real subject? Or had she wanted it so badly only because he’d wanted it too, bidding from spite rather than genuine interest?
“Now this, sir, this might catch your fancy.” Neuf was holding out the day’s news sheet, folded to highlight one article with the same precision as Neuf had shown with the napkin. “A new club for gentlemen, for dining and gaming.”
Richard frowned down at the paper without taking it. “I don’t believe in begging fate to find me and strike me down, Neuf. You know I’m done with cards and playing deep.”
“But this house is different, sir,” Neuf said. “Penny House, it’s called, and it’s said to be owned by the three beautiful daughters of a Sussex parson, and all the profits the bank earns will go to charity.”
“What, hazard with the Methodists?” Richard laughed, the concept thoroughly preposterous. “Say a psalm, and throw the dice?”
“But the ladies would be a curiosity, sir—”
“Be reasonable, Neuf,” Richard scoffed. “Have you ever known a woman to combine piety with great beauty?”