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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Morgana’s spirits to sink. They had come to the banks of the Serpentine, where two graceful-necked swans glided through the water.
Morgana stole a glance at the lady’s companion in her dark grey dress that matched the hair peeping out from her black bonnet. Miss Moore followed the swans with her eyes, but made no comment on the shocking tale.
Morgana blurted out, ‘Oh, I know it is scandalous, and I know you must be wondering if I belong in Bedlam, but, please, Miss Moore, say something!’
Miss Moore continued watching the swans. ‘I was a girl once, Miss Hart. As hard as that might be for you to believe.’
‘Of course.’ Morgana had no idea where this was leading.
‘There were soldiers billeted in my town when I was young and green and foolish. When they sailed to the Colonies, I discovered I was with child. I was only eighteen.’
Lucy’s age, Morgana thought.
‘My parents would have nothing to do with me. They sent me away. If it had not been for your grandmother taking pity on me, I do not know what I should have done. She took care of me and made me her companion.’
Morgana’s heart had thoroughly melted. ‘What happened to your baby?’
Miss Moore’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I… I had had very little to eat. Sometimes I didn’t have a roof over my head. Lady Hart found me at my lowest. She did what she could do, but the baby did not survive his birth.’
Morgana reached over and grasped the older woman’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’
Miss Moore gave an embarrassed smile and blinked her tears away. ‘It was a long time ago, but I well know what those girls of yours are facing. If you can give them a better life, a way to survive on their own, I shall help you!’
Morgana impulsively wrapped Miss Moore in a hug, blinking away tears of her own. ‘I promise you, Miss Moore, you shall not regret it. You shall have a pension for life, I guarantee it!’
Miss Moore gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, your grandmother arranged that years ago, before she became… feeble.’
Morgana wished she could have known the woman her grandmother had been. At this moment she was fiercely proud to be her granddaughter.
With the footman still oblivious, Morgana and Miss Moore walked back, arm in arm, quietly hatching plans of how to transform a maid, a harlot and a very ordinary girl into sirens of Greek legend. Rose O’Keefe, Morgana explained, would have no difficulty.
Sloane saw the two women from a distance. There was no mistaking Miss Hart’s graceful posture and purposeful stride. He did not think he knew the other lady, but, if he kept to his course, his trajectory would put him on their path.
For a brief moment he considered turning the corner to avoid them, but he did not. He had little to do that morning. He had little to do almost every morning, thanks to the very efficient Mr Elliot. And Sloane was a man easily bored. At least Miss Hart would provide a diversion. She never bored him.
The woman who accompanied her was older than she and no one he recognised. When they came close enough, Miss Hart met his eye with a friendly smile. Sloane quickened his step.
‘Good morning, Mr Sloane.’ She was in high colour and he sensed an air of excitement about her, as if she were about to explode with good news.
Glowing as she did like a sparkling morning sun brightened his own mood—as well as bringing some baser senses to life. He touched his hand to his hat. ‘Miss Hart.’
She introduced the lady with her as Miss Moore, her grandmother’s companion. Miss Moore’s face was nearly as flushed with excitement as Miss Hart’s.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She was up to something. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What are you about, Miss Hart?’
She responded with great exuberance. ‘We have had a delightful morning walk in the park.’
He glanced from one lady to the other. ‘That is all?’
Miss Moore averted her gaze and hid a smile. Miss Hart fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. ‘That is all,’ she said brightly.
Fustian, he said to himself.
‘Do you attend the musicale this evening, Mr Sloane?’ she asked.
It was the sort of chitchat that made for conversation among the Mayfair set, but Sloane was not fooled. She was changing the subject.
He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile. ‘You presume I was invited?’
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks gained even more colour than the brisk morning air had given them. ‘I confess I did presume. It was bad of me to ask, I know. It smacks of lording it over another person who might not have received an invitation. I dislike that above all things—’
He laughed. ‘Enough, Miss Hart. I am among those whose presence is requested.’
Her eyes danced with merriment. ‘I did not know you were a jester, Mr Sloane.’
Her eyes, sparkling like the finest topaz, entrapped him. It took a moment for him to respond. ‘I am many things, Miss Hart.’
She lowered her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. ‘Well! I suppose we must not detain you, must we? I do hope you have a good day.’
Miss Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’
He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart.
‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back.
Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed.
‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths.
‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart.
Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’
‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’
‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’
‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’
Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her.
Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry.
By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical.
She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending.
‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’
‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room.
Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’
Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their