Free The Spinster and the Rake by Anne Stuart Page B

pretty, were idiots, with nothing to say for themselves. Strumpets, out to sell their bodies to the highest bidder who came complete with wedding license, yet lacking the easygoing honesty of their less legal-minded sisters. And besides, they were all so damnably young. By the time he met Gillian Redfern, women, that is, proper ladies, had been relegated to a very minor position in his scheme of things.
    “You can’t do that, old man,” protested Vivian Peacock. “Got to get leg-shackled sometime. And you’ve been raising hopes in several breasts. They won’t like it that you’ve lost interest.”
    “Well, I can’t very well marry both Miss Chansforth and Miss Waterford,” replied Marlowe amiably. “I think I’d best forget about the weaker sex altogether for now. They can be damnably disrupting.”
    “Does that include forgetting about Miss Redfern?” Vivian toyed idly with his brandy glass, an absorbed expression on his puffy face.
    Marlowe cocked an eye at him. “We have a wager on, do we not? A gentleman never forgets a wager. Besides, I have the suspicion that Gillian Redfern is a great deal more interesting than these misses just out of the schoolroom. Have we set a time limit on that wager?”
    “Not yet. How long do you think it would take you to bring her around? It wouldn’t do to overestimate your powers,” said Viv with just a hint of malice. “I want to win, but I want it to be fair. It’s late March now—what do you say to the end of the season? Late May?”
    “More than enough time.”
    “It may not be as easy as you think,” Peacock cautioned.
    “It may not be as difficult,” retorted Marlowe. “She’s already unwillingly fascinated by the first rake she’s ever met in her sheltered life. Once I set my mind to it, it shouldn’t take much time at all.”
    “You’re forgetting that damnably starched-up family.”
    Marlowe dismissed them with an airy wave of his hand. “I expect them to prove more a help than a hindrance. Gillian Redfern is not going to like being ordered about by her cod’s head of a brother.”
    “She has for her entire life. Why should she change?”
    Marlowe smiled slowly. “I’m going to introduce her to a few things far more pleasurable. Derwent Redfern should pale in comparison.”
    Vivian eyed his friend warily. “Is this quite kind of us?” he inquired casually. “After all, you wouldn’t want to step too far beyond the line of what is pleasing. If Sally Jersey were to hear of this she might consider it too much.”
    “Why, Viv, I never knew you had a conscience. After all, this was your idea,” Marlowe said lazily. “And I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I intend to see to it that Gillian Redfern’s heart is bruised but not broken. When we part she’ll be more than ready to fall in love with someone a great deal more eligible, and will never again take the easy way out by burying herself among her demanding family.” He lit a cheroot with a practiced air and surveyed the smoke with a faint smile of satisfaction. “I consider this an errand of mercy.”
    “You would,” Vivian scoffed.

    BUT THERE HADN’T been much time for the furtherance of their schemes. The problem of finding a suitable residence for his gaming hell, decorating and outfitting and staffing it took up all his spare time. The thousands of decisions involved in setting up a gaming house proved to be quite overwhelming. There were servants to hire, including the French chef whose duty was to provide the elegant champagne suppers de rigueur for all gamesters. There were a thousand wax candles to order, and a thousand greasy tallow ones for the kitchens. There were invitations and bribes to be offered, and all manner of tedious detail to fill Marlowe’s usually indolent days. The first of which was the proper piece of real estate.
    “I still don’t see why your own house wouldn’t do,” Vivian had protested as they chased around for a residence large enough, with a