The Chaperon's Seduction

‘I won’t bet against him either,’ grumbled a thin, sour-faced gentleman in a green coat. ‘Luck, d’ye call it? His throwing is too consistent by half.’

At his words a tense silence fell over the table. Richard scooped up the dice and weighed them in his hand, fixing his gaze upon the speaker.

‘What are you trying to say, Tesford?’ he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

Fullingham gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, he doesn’t mean anything, Arrandale. It’s just the drink talking.’

Richard glanced around. They had been playing for some hours with the wine flowing freely. Tesford’s face was flushed and his eyes fever-bright. He was glaring belligerently across the table and for a moment Richard considered pressing the man, forcing a confrontation. After all, the fellow was questioning his honour. And a duel might alleviate his current ennui.

‘Well, I ain’t afraid to place a bet,’ declared Fullingham cheerfully. ‘Come along, Arrandale, throw again, we’re all waiting!’

The murmur of assent went around the table. Wagers were being placed and Richard shrugged. Everyone was drinking heavily and it would be bad form to call out Tesford when it was clear he was in his cups. He cast the dice again.

‘Deuce!’ Fullingham laughed, a measure of relief in his voice. ‘He’s thrown out.’

Richard smiled and signalled to the hovering servant to fill his glass once more. Hazard was a game for those who could calculate the odds and he was good at that, but it was inevitable that sometimes the dice would fall against him. He did not like losing, but he was philosophical about it.

* * *

However, after another hour’s play he was considerably richer than when he had arrived.

He was a gambler, but he knew when to stop and he was just gathering up his winnings when a noisy group of young bucks burst into the room. At their centre was a fashionably dressed gentleman, slightly older than his companions, whom Richard recognised as Sir Charles Urmston.

‘They’ll have come from the Assembly Rooms,’ observed Cromby, looking round. He raised his hand and hailed the party. ‘What news, my lads? I see young Peterson isn’t with you, has he breached the defences of the fair Lady Heston?’

‘Aye,’ replied Sir Charles. ‘He is escorting her home.’

‘We won’t be seeing him again before dawn then.’ Cromby chuckled.

‘And there’s more news,’ declared a red-faced young man coming closer to the table. ‘A new heiress is coming to Bath!’

‘And are you looking to this heiress to restore your fortunes, Naismith?’ drawled Sir Charles. ‘I doubt she would even look at you.’

Young Mr Naismith’s face flushed an even deeper crimson.

‘At least I’d make her an honest husband, Urmston,’ he retorted. ‘Everyone knows you played your late wife false.’

There was general laughter at that, but Richard saw the shadow of annoyance flicker across the older man’s face.

‘So who is this new heiress?’ demanded Fullingham. ‘Is she young, old, a beauty?’

‘Young, definitely, but as for looks no one knows,’ responded Mr Naismith. ‘She is the daughter of the late Sir Evelyn Tatham and she is coming to live with her stepmama, Lady Phyllida Tatham, until her come-out next year.’

‘A virgin, fresh from the schoolroom,’ murmured Sir Charles. ‘A plum, ripe for the plucking.’

Cromby frowned, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘I remember old Tatham,’ he said. ‘He was a nabob, bought his knighthood after he made his fortune in India.’

Mr Naismith waved one hand dismissively. ‘No one cares about that now. The thing is, Miss Tatham is his only child and she inherits everything!’

‘Then she may look like old Tom’s prize sow and she would still attract suitors,’ put in Tesford, draining his glass.

Sir Charles called to the waiter to bring them more wine.

‘It seems a pity to have such a prize in Bath without making some attempt to win it,’ he drawled.

Cromby grinned. ‘Aye, by Gad. If I were not a married man I think I’d be making a push myself.’

‘If the girl is so rich she will be well protected,’ said Fullingham. ‘Her guardians will be looking out for fortune-hunters.’

‘There are ways to persuade a guardian,’ put in Sir Charles, polishing his eyeglass. ‘If the heiress was to lose her virtue, for example...’

‘Of course,’ exclaimed young Naismith. ‘They’d want her married with all speed if that were to happen.’

‘So shall we have a little wager as to which one of us will marry the heiress?’

Cromby banged on the table, looking up with a bleary eye. ‘No, no, Urmston, that is unfair on those of us who are already leg-shackled.’

Sir Charles spread his hands.

‘Very well, if you all want to have a touch, let us say instead, who will be first to seduce her.’

‘Much better,’ agreed Cromby, laughing immoderately. ‘Then we can all have a pop at the heiress.’

Fullingham raised his hand. ‘There must be witnesses, mind—a trustworthy servant or some such to confirm the prize is won.’

‘Naturally.’ Urmston smiled. ‘Waiter, tell Burton to bring the betting book and we will write this down.’ His hooded eyes surveyed the company. ‘But there is one here who has not yet agreed to join us, one whose reputation as a devil with the ladies is well known in London. What say you, Arrandale? I should have thought you eager for this little adventure.’

Richard did not allow his distaste to show.

‘Seducing innocents has never appealed to me. I prefer women of experience.’

‘Ha, other men’s wives.’

‘Not necessarily, just as long as they don’t expect me to marry ’em.’

There was general laughter at his careless response.

‘What, man?’ exclaimed George Cromby. ‘Do you mean you have not left a string of broken hearts behind you in London?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Best leave him out of it,’ cried Fullingham gaily. ‘He is such a handsome dog the ladies can’t resist him. The rest of us would stand no chance!’

‘Certainly I have not heard of Arrandale being involved in any liaisons since he has been in Bath,’ murmured Sir Charles, swinging his eyeglass back and forth. ‘Mayhap you are a reformed character, Arrandale,’

‘Mayhap I am,’ returned Richard, unperturbed.

‘Or perhaps, in this instance, you are afraid of losing out to the better man.’