Patience almost floated to the carriage, her satisfaction so great that it was impossible to disguise. Arthur shook hands with Mr. Sommerset, and handed her into the coach, wishing he could give her even more.
“Oh, Arthur, even Lady Beckham cannot sour my mood on this day,” Patience said. “Thank you!”
“I made a promise and I kept it. Surely that is not so remarkable.”
“You have another to keep,” she reminded him, placing her hand upon his thigh in a most distracting manner.
“I do,” he agreed, forming a plan even as he met her gaze. “I would visit my club again tonight,” he said, watching the light in her eyes dim a little. “The tide may have changed and more is always better.”
She heaved a sigh. “Will it ever be enough?” she asked, her gaze searching his own.
Arthur was the one to look away first. He feared he would never be able to do enough to win her heart, but he would use every available moment to try.
If he could win enough to establish their own household as well, she might surrender her heart to him. He could only try.
* * *
The houseon Berkley Square echoed with silence when Patience returned alone. Arthur had helped her out of the coach, then returned to it, waving a jaunty farewell as he departed for his club. Stevens was as impassive and somber as ever, only volunteering that Lady Beckham was out for the afternoon when Patience asked. Upon being pressed further, he confessed that Miss Beckham and her governess were also absent, having chosen to attend a lecture at Lady Beckham’s suggestion.
It was remarkable to Patience that a house could even be so quiet. She climbed the stairs to her room, not feeling sufficiently audacious to sit in the drawing room alone, and smiled when she realized the cats were following her. The three of them settled into her bedchamber, Gellis hastening to light the fire and tend to Patience’s coat.
She could not help but feel let down to be alone after the triumph of that morning. She picked up the book she had been reading but could summon no interest in it at all. She had read it too many times.
Perhaps one of Arthur’s books would provide a distraction, or at least keep her from worrying about his habits. Would he ever relinquish those expensive pleasures? Would she always be awaiting his return from his club? She could not bear to imagine a future of endless waiting upon her charming wastrel of a spouse.
Once again, she was impressed by the variety of languages represented in even this small collection of books. She wondered if he was as analytical about languages as he was about cards. Her hand fell on the book-that-was-not-a-book and she picked it up, reminding herself that there was some benefit to his unfamiliar skills. He had provided for their venture and she had to remember that some good did come from his gambling.
Then she opened the book for a reassuring glimpse of the banknotes and their tally.
The box, so cunningly shaped to look like a book, was empty.
Patience caught her breath and spun to survey her room, then realized the simple truth. Arthur had taken the money to fund his gambling. He had confessed the night before that he had lost, and he had need of some money to place a stake.
He had won the money. It was rightfully his and she could not argue with that.
But all she could see was that his compulsion to return to games of chance might cost the future of their planned venture. His need to gamble might lead him to break his promise to her.
Unless there was worse to be known. Unless the truths he had not shared with her included an expensive mistress, or a secret life, or another demand upon his purse that he knew she would not find compelling.
How could he do this?
How could he so disappoint her?
What was she going to do?
* * *
“Willyou change the name to Fanshawe & Beckham?”
Arthur halted on the stairs of his club. It was close to midnight and he had been headed for Berkley Square. Luck had flirted with him on this particular night, taunting him with small gains that were subsequently diminished. He was not ahead more than ten pounds after hours of playing and had decided to relinquish the fight for the moment.
Then he heard the mocking query from the Earl of Fairhaven. He turned to find that man watching him from the doorway of the club.
“Uncle Reynaud,” he said with a slight bow. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Is it?” The earl came down the steps to confront him. He smelled of brandy and insolence. “I saw you,” he said. “I uncovered your scheme, and I would discuss the matter with you before sharing the tidings with my sister.”
Arthur bristled but hid his reaction. “I should be pleased to call upon you tomorrow.”
