A beautiful woman on the dance floor, beckoning to him to come closer. Closer still. A few moments in her arms and his life had changed for ever.
The last time he had been at Vitium et Virtus and not some society gathering. The woman in his arms had been masked. In the heady atmosphere of the room, what had started as a waltz became not so much a dance as a seduction set to music. He had taken her lips as she had shamelessly rubbed her body against his, not caring who saw. The bodice of her gown had been so low that her nipples were clearly visible, erect from teasing against the hair of his chest as they moved.
He had kissed her neck. Her hand had moved lower, caressing him through the fabric of his trousers and leaving no doubt what she wanted from him. It had been no different from a hundred other nights at the club and they were no different from a half-dozen couples on the floor with them that very night.
He’d whispered a suggestion that they go upstairs.
She had taken him by the hand, not just willing, but eager, tumbling with him through the first open door of rooms kept for casual joinings. She’d shed her gown before he’d even managed to close the door and was tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head, stroking his back and trailing hot kisses up and down the bare flesh.
‘Frederick, I want you.’
She had known him, despite his mask. But was that really so surprising? He was there almost every night. Many of the members knew him from life outside the club. His identity had to be an open secret.
‘And who are you, my darling?’ He’d reached for her mask as well, the only scrap of fabric left between her and complete nudity. Who was she? He had to know. A woman of such passion, such enthusiasm, such a prodigious appetite, was not someone he wanted to forget after one night.
She had turned away from his grasp to kiss her way down his belly, undoing the flap of his breeches with steady and experienced hands. She kissed like a courtesan, familiar with the needs of a man, and happy to fulfil them.
She tormented him with her hands and tongue until finally, he’d picked her up bodily and tossed her on to the bed, if only to have a chance to finish undressing.
When he’d turned back, the mask had slipped, giving him his first glimpse of her face.
His brother’s wife lay before him, legs spread, her own hand tangling in the chestnut curls between them. ‘Frederick,’ she’d said breathlessly and held the other hand out to him in welcome.
He had grabbed his breeches and run. And he had not stopped running until Waterloo.
He filled his glass and spoke to the place Nick should have occupied, wishing that his spirit might be there to hear his confession. ‘If you can hear me, old friend, come back to us and take the burden of this place from me. I have lost the stomach to take pleasure in it. And now…’
He shook his head, amazed that he could be so easily tricked. In a single afternoon, Caroline had transformed the sweet, awkward girl he’d married into the sophisticated temptress that had all the men in the room dancing attendance on her, including him.
When he’d called her out for her behaviour, she’d had the gall to argue, quite logically, that there was no way she could have known a family visit would displease him. She’d said that he was being the irrational one.
Then, he’d proved her point by running away, just as he had after the incident with Caroline. There had been no reason for it. She was his own wife, not someone else’s. The disagreement between them could not be settled if he did not go home to talk to her. He would have to, eventually. But what would he say to her when he did?
‘Mr Challenger, there is a problem in the game room.’ Snyder, the porter, stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, but head dipped in deference, as if sorry for the intimidating figure he could not help but present.
‘Handle it,’ Fred said, tired to the bone of difficulties created by other people’s lack of control.
‘It is Mr Christian,’ Snyder said, waiting to see if the instructions had changed now that Fred knew it was his brother causing the problem. ‘He has been playing all evening and is losing rather badly.’
‘And where did he get the money to do that?’ Frederic said, giving the porter a dark look. ‘Westmoor said he left here the other night with nothing but lint in his pockets.’ He had been expecting a contrite visit from the boy on that very subject. Nothing would prevent future excesses faster than having to beg for a loan to cover them.
Then, a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘No one here gave him credit, did they?’
‘No, Mr Challenger,’ Snyder said, frowning. ‘There is a lady with him.’
A woman, perhaps. But whether she was a lady was yet to be determined. In his mind, Fred sorted through a list of opera dancers and courtesans that Christian had associated with. All were either too poor or too sensible to give money back to the man who was supposed to be keeping them. That meant the woman staking him was likely older, perhaps a widow, but more likely the wife of a gentleman.
Christian was nearly three-and-twenty, old enough to make his own way in the world. But Fred could not simply stand by and watch the fellow ruin himself on some Jezebel at Vitium et Virtus. He had learned for himself the dangers of alluring women in masks and the way a single night with the wrong one could alter one’s life for ever.
It was also his job to prevent scandals that would reflect poorly upon the club. If something Christian did here led to a duel with a jealous husband or, God forbid, caused him to blow his brains out over bad debts and a heartless jade, it would be Fred’s fault for not stopping him sooner.
‘Very well. I will take care of him, you deal with the woman.’ He pulled himself out of the chair and walked to the gaming room with Snyder following a step behind.
When they arrived, it was just as the porter had said. Christian was at the tables with but a single chip left in front of him. He also lacked the common sense to be upset by the fact that he had squandered everything he had. He turned to the woman next to him, a blonde in low-cut, scarlet satin. ‘I am out of money, again.’
‘Help yourself,’ she said, pushing half of her large pile of chips in his direction. Then she shuffled the cards in her hand with the facility of a dockside gambler and began to deal.
‘It is not right that the two of you should collude,’ grumbled another player. ‘We are playing drumhead, not whist.’
