Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart. Diane Gaston
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‘Do let us drive by your new house!’ Hannah begged.
It was only a small detour, so Sloane turned down Park Street and was again on Culross Street. Lights blazed in the house next to Morgana Hart’s; through the windows, Sloane spied servants hard at work dusting and polishing.
What would those servants think if they had seen some of the places he’d lived over the years? Would they be so fastidious? Sloane had slept in dingy rooms listening to mice scurrying and scratching within the walls. He’d even slept on the streets of Rome, when, as a young man, he had temporarily run out of funds during his wanderings.
‘I think it will be lovely!’ cried Hannah. ‘Why, we might run into each other when I call upon my cousin. Would that not be a treat?’
‘Indeed,’ he said, keeping up the conversation. ‘Do you call upon Miss Hart often?’
Lady Hannah gave a deep laugh and wrapped her fingers around his arm. ‘I shall now,’ she murmured.
When she allowed such a peek at the woman she was bound to become, Sloane wondered what was keeping him from formally proposing marriage to her. Her girlish giggles would eventually disappear, and then this hint of a woman would truly flower.
He slowed the curricle in front of his new home. In the window of the house next door, a face appeared.
‘Oh, look! There is Morgana!’ Hannah waved energetically.
Miss Hart’s returning wave was less exuberant, and she peered at them with a puzzled expression.
Well, Sloane thought, she would know soon enough why his curricle had paused in front of her house.
Morgana stepped back from the window. No longer visible from the street, she still could see her cousin, blooming like a spring rose, seated next to the tall Cyprian Sloane, his fingers confidently holding the horse’s ribbons.
How could a person feel such a combination of thrill and dejection? She simply must get over this tendency to moon over Mr Sloane and to flame with jealousy every time her cousin put her arm through his.
He was a man spoken for, even if he was the most interesting man she’d ever met. It would be ill mannered in the extreme to place herself in competition with Hannah. Morgana had enough difficulty maintaining the docile, agreeable manners prized by society. She would not be judged a man-snatcher as well.
She gave an audible groan.
As if a man like Mr Sloane would want her to snatch him. Hannah was the sort men wished to marry, all delicate and biddable. Not a harridan who scrapped with men in the park. Or who all too often spoke her mind. Or one who must be asked to dance out of pity.
Morgana watched the curricle pull away, experiencing more conflicting emotions, this time relief and disappointment. For a few heart-pounding moments, she thought her cousin and Mr Sloane might call upon her.
‘Stop all this foolishness,’ she said aloud to herself.
She resolved again to tuck Cyprian Sloane away in her mind as merely a man with whom to engage in interesting conversation, a man she was bound to see often in her cousin’s company. When he made his offer to Hannah, as Hannah insisted he would, Morgana would wish them very happy.
That was settled. She gave a firm nod and turned her thoughts to her most pressing problem. How to find someone to tutor Lucy in the skills of a courtesan. It was not as if such a person would advertise in the Morning Post. Where were they to be found?
Morgana needed a woman who could teach Lucy how to conduct the business, how to set prices and mode of payment. Morgana had no knowledge of such matters.
That lack of knowledge paled in comparison to her ignorance of how such women lured men in the first place. How did they display their ‘wares’? She could not send Lucy to promenade outside Covent Garden. That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it.
She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off.
With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy.
A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure.
‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’
True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches.
‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’
‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on.
‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’
Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’
Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the ton’s new darling of dressmaking. They hurried to Madame Emeraude’s shop, which, if they had any luck, would be deserted at this hour. The ladies who might patronise the latest rage in dressmakers would more likely be proudly showing off the new creations in Hyde Park. Morgana lifted the veil from her face as they entered Madame Emeraude’s shop. No other customers were present.
Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’
Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’
Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this… unusual hour?’
Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no tonnish ladies walked through that door, a gentleman might, one escorting another sort of female to be dressed in fine clothes. ‘May we speak in one of your private dressing rooms?’
The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them.
Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations.
‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat.
‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’
Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform.
‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’
Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’
Morgana