Page 8 of Hazard a Guest (Ladies’ Revenge Club #3)

T he trip down the pebbled approach to Blackcove had been a truly glorious affair.

From the arched, gothic flair of the revival portcullis, built for romance rather than function, to the sprawling grandeur of the frosty, bare trees lining the dormant gardens, it was somehow every grandiose thing that Joe had imagined on the way here.

He felt a little humbled by it, truth be told.

He had thought without a doubt that all of Freddy’s grandiose proselytizing about the beauty of the place had been a bit of bluster.

After all, it sounded exaggerated when a man known for his dramatics started waxing poetic, lovingly describing an estate built by Queen Elizabeth’s second -favorite privateer at the height of her conflict with Spain.

“Imagine a sand castle, Cresson,” Freddy had said, miming the action of dripping a handful of wet sand into a precarious, tapering tower, “but built of slate and granite. It looks like something out of a child’s story, built by new money to satirize old money, and accidentally becoming legendary in the process! ”

Cresson had imagined it. He just hadn’t really expected his imagination to be made manifest by the towering work of art that was apparently a home and a history and a hallmark of Cornish ne’er-do-well legacy.

It was dusk. Already the heavy glow of the gibbous moon was complicit in the drama. The glimmer of torches in the distance, each flame flickering higher by the breath as they drew nearer, cast shadows on the walls of Blackcove in flickering impressions of ghostly shape.

Even the sound of all the pebbles under the wheels of the carriage felt otherworldly. Cresson could swear it was sparkling as they grew nearer to the light.

“It’s quartz,” Freddy said excitedly, as though he could hear Cresson’s wonder crackling through the air.

“Can you imagine it, Cresson? Pale and even transparent sometimes, worn smooth like pearls, glimmering like a pirate’s treasure all up and down the coast. It’s white and green and pink sometimes, each a perfect gemstone, sometimes smaller than a speck of dust.”

Even Miss Donnelly looked a bit taken with it, leaning against the window with a wistful smile on her face as she observed the full effect of their approach.

Though, of course, perhaps she was just happy to have finally made her way to this party.

Joe frowned. He wished he knew, of course. She hadn’t talked to him very much on the way here.

He supposed he hadn’t talked to her much either. He’d never been much good at thinking of things to say at the best of times. Opposite this particular woman, it was hopeless.

Freddy threw open the door as soon as they came to a halt, likely compounding the annoyance of the driver from the many other times he had done the same thing over the last several days.

Freddy, of course, was completely oblivious, standing akimbo and gazing up at the big manor house like he’d built it himself.

“Bentley?” a voice called from the house. “Is that you, you dog? I thought you’d died!”

“Not yet!” Freddy called back, arguably without possibly having identified who was accusing him of having died. He sounded pleased with himself.

A man was striding across the lawn, tailed by two servants whose matching crimson uniforms looked positively macabre in the low flicker of the lamps. The man himself was old enough to have hair and a beard that had gone entirely white, a waxed and curling mustache serving as the focal point.

“You haven’t graced us with your presence in … what is it? At least five years now!” the man boomed, his voice echoing through the empty drive and towering stone at his back. “I hope you brought those ivory dice!”

Freddy stiffened but did not drop his smile, his arms dropping to his sides and his knees sagging as the gentleman finished crossing the lawn.

“Evening, Lord Penrose,” Ember called from next to Cresson, dropping her cherrywood valise at her toes. “What a pleasure to finally see this grand estate in person.”

Penrose paused, his arm partially outstretched to shake Freddy’s hand as his gaze fell on Joe and Ember behind him. “Ah,” he said softly. “You’ve brought your mistress.”

“Afraid not,” said Ember, giving the man a sharp and easy smile as she strode forward, her hips swinging to make the sumptuous layers of her winter skirt sway. “My contract with Lord Bentley ended some time ago. I’m here as the proprietress of Brigid’s Forge and Lord Bentley’s own guest.”

“I see,” said Penrose in a voice that implied he did not see. “And who is this other fellow? Hello there!”

“Ah, meet Joseph Cresson,” Freddy said, snapping out of his momentary fugue to tug Joe into the fray. “He is a dear friend and a crack shot with dice of his own if the spirit moves him. Isn’t that right, Joseph?”

Joe startled a little at being called by his Christian name, and accepted the handshake from the baron. “I suppose it must be true,” he managed to say, “if Lord Bentley says it’s so.”

“Ha!” said the baron. “Well, come in, all of you. Let’s get out of the cold.”

He snapped his fingers and sent the two crimson-coated servants to collect their bags. “Miss Donnelly, I’m afraid we are short on ladies’ quarters. You may have to share.”

Ember adjusted her posture just the slightest tic, a tilting of her curly head at the slight, but she did not protest as they crossed the threshold into the house.

It seemed they had arrived just after dinner, Joe realized as his eyes adjusted to the flood of candlelight in the foyer. A flurry of people were drifting about, cigar smoke and the tang of poured spirits hovering in the air.

He supposed that for events like this one, the whole house served as the drawing room. There was no need to cloister or sequester if everyone was present for the same flavors of vice. Though it did surprise him that there were evidently other ladies present.

He spotted a few after some scanning of the crowd, mostly in middle age or older, perhaps the wives of some of the gamblers or scandalous widows with enough wealth to merit an invitation.

In fact, there was only one young woman that he saw in the melee, and she was crouched off to the side of the rest, watching with wide-eyed fascination like she’d wandered into this scene quite by accident, her bright ginger hair blazing like a lighthouse beacon opposite the ocean of age, wealth, and experience.

Ember, apparently, saw her too.

“What in the blazes of hades,” she gasped, coming to a complete halt for half a second. She looked over her shoulder at Penrose with an expression like she was considering the best option between an open-handed slap or a full punch to the face. “What is little Hannah Lazarus doing here, my lord ?”

“Who?” said Penrose, looking genuinely confused. “Oh. Lazarus? My banker?”

“That young woman is your banker?” Ember pressed, her eyes glittering dangerously.

“What?” Penrose was frowning, only evident by a drooping of his sculpted mustachio. “No. The man brought his daughter. She’s got the seal.”

“She’s got the…” Ember trailed off. “Which one is her father?”

“Bald fellow, just there,” said Penrose, “but Miss Donnelly, if you’ll just allow a moment, I can introduce you!”

She was already gone, marching across the room with her fists balled at her sides.

“There she goes,” said Freddy with a sigh.

“Indeed,” agreed Penrose, mirroring the sound. “Well, it’s for the best. That lass is to be her boarding mate tonight.”

Cresson could only stare.

Ember parted the crowd without so much as a raised arm or an uttered syllable. People just naturally moved apart to cut a path for her, seemingly without even realizing it themselves.

Only the girl noticed, her head coming up and her eyes widening as something like joy lit over her face.

Joe couldn’t hear her from this distance, but he was certain her lips made the shapes of Ember’s name, and Ember gave her a dutiful if disapproving embrace upon reaching her at the back of the room.

They were instantly joined by a man with a shiny bald head and a deep plum suit, who looked both pleased and surprised by this occurrence.

“He’s not a Rothschild,” sniffed Penrose to Cresson, “but let it not be said that I don’t have a member of the Tribe here to oversee the larger wagers.”

“Tribe?” Cresson repeated without any real interest, distracted by the unfolding interrogation scene as Ember greeted the bald man.

“Jews, of course,” Penrose announced with a self-satisfied chuckle. “No peer worth his salt banks with anyone else.”

It was, somehow, enough to distract Cresson momentarily, though all he could think to do was stare at the man.

Freddy cleared his throat, looking similarly discomfited.

“Of course, I didn’t realize he’d bring his daughter,” Penrose continued, either oblivious or unbothered by the lack of response. “Pretty little thing at least, sure to get into trouble in this particular den of vipers.”

“Do vipers have dens?” Cresson replied, a tartness in his tone that went completely unobserved. “I thought they preferred the dirt.”

Ember had apparently finished holding court and was marching back to them, looking completely unmollified, though in the background, both of the Lazaruses looked happy with whatever had happened during their interaction.

She huffed as she returned to their circle, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

“Your man thought the lass might find her footing in a place like this,” she said, disbelief drenching her tone.

“He thought a display of competence here might land her a husband better than attempting to waltz next Season.”

Penrose shrugged. “It might work. Who can say? And if it doesn’t, Lazarus just has to find someone nursing a lost wager and offer to make it go away with a nice, fat dowry. I’ve seen worse approaches.”

Cresson wondered what it would feel like to punch this man. He felt his fingers flexing at just the thought of it.

“Now then!” Penrose boomed. “Let’s get you to your rooms, eh? I’ll have some plates sent up and a couple of hot baths, and we’ll get you three to the tables before the strike of midnight!”

“Grand,” said Ember.

“Fine,” said Cresson.

Freddy didn’t say anything.