Free The Spinster and the Rake by Anne Stuart Page A

them.”
    “Good God, no! We weren’t invited.”
    “I wouldn’t think that would matter on my birthday,” she said soulfully.
    “Well, I wouldn’t think so either, but you never can tell. We might go to the opera,” he suggested rather wildly.
    She shook her head. “Too late. It’s almost eleven. Now where can we possibly go where it won’t be too late for . . . Bertie!”
    Her nephew jumped guiltily. “I think we should stay home.”
    “I know where we can go. Gaming salons are just beginning to be lively right about now, aren’t they? And I have a great deal of money. We shall go and gamble. I am bound to be in luck on my birthday.”
    “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Bertie said weakly.
    “And I know exactly where we should go. Lord Marlowe’s establishment. I’m certain he’ll be delighted to see us.”
    Bertie’s complexion was an alarming combination of pale horror and rosy embarrassment, with a touch of green around the gills. “I don’t know where it is.”
    “Now don’t prevaricate, Bertie. You were the one who told Felicity about it. You needn’t worry—Lord Marlowe and I are old friends. He’s scarcely likely to turn us away from the door. Is he?”
    “He doesn’t turn anyone of good ton from the door. And some of bad ton are just as welcome. Though I sometimes think that’s more Vivian Peacock’s doing,” he added darkly.
    “And women are allowed?”
    “With someone like Marlowe?” Bertie scoffed. “Women are encouraged. But not your sort of woman, Gilly.”
    “Lightskirts?” she questioned knowledgeably, handing a fresh bottle of champagne to Bertie to open.
    “Nooo. But ladies who are not really top-drawer. There’s Lady Kempton, of course, and Sally Jersey can be seen there any number of evenings. Of course, she always had a weak spot for a handsome man, no matter what his reputation.”
    “Well, that settles it. If a patroness of Almack’s may go there with impunity, then a Redfern need not blush to be seen there also. We’ll finish this bottle, Bertie, and then be off. Cheers!”

Chapter Seven
    THE WEEKS SINCE Ronan Patrick Blakely, Lord Marlowe, the marquis of Herrington, had returned to his native shores had been busy ones. His lordship had been greatly amused to discover that what was completely unacceptable in an impoverished younger son was lauded as being delightfully original in a wealthy marquis. Even young Ronan Blakely’s final escapade, which involved attempting to elope with a married woman of impeccable lineage, was now looked upon twenty years later as an amusing prank.
    One of the strangest aspects of his re-entry into society was the attitude of mothers. The gentlemen accepted him, which was only to be expected. Marlowe was a man’s man, with easy, charming manners around his peers that had always made him universally well liked, despite his predilection for the petticoat line. But unlike his youth, when the mothers of husband-hunting daughters would refuse to allow their precious offspring to stand up with such a rake, nowadays he was considered an extremely eligible parti. How often, one matron with a gangly, bracket-faced daughter demanded of another with an equally unfortunate child, does a handsome, wealthy, titled gentleman of excellent lineage come along? What had put him beyond the pale before were now dismissed as youthful peccadilloes; what had caused mothers to snub him outright were now treated as entertaining eccentricities.
    It was little wonder that a man of Marlowe’s cynical nature would endeavor to discover just how far his pardon extended. Would the proper Miss Chansforth care for a stroll in the deserted garden? Miss Chansforth would be delighted. But wouldn’t her mother mind? Oh, no, Mama told her that Lord Marlowe was to be deferred to in all matters. Whatever would give him pleasure. Whatever, Miss Chansforth?
    Such sport soon paled for Marlowe. For one thing, the majority of the ladies, though extremely