Chapter One
"Eliza, it's come!" Cassandra Marston's call echoed through her father's empty town house. The last of their servants had left yesterday, giving up their positions with nothing more than Cassie's promise to someday pay their back wages.
Clutching the invitation to her chest, Cassie shut the door behind her, closing out the late July smoke, stench and heat that afflicted London. The sounds of the street -- the clip clop of horses, the rattle of a wagon, the cries of a street vendor offering apples -- dimmed.
Eight years younger than Cassie's twenty-five, her sister, Elizabeth Conningsby, bounded onto the second-floor landing, then clattered down the stairs. Like Cassie, she was dressed for traveling. Still unbuttoned, Eliza's dark blue pelisse flew back behind her. She wore her most comfortable dress, one made of blue-sprigged muslin, a blue ribbon marking its high waistline.
She came to a stop beside Cassie, her golden curls bouncing and her bonnet swinging from her fingers by its ribbons. Smiling, Cassie turned the invitation in her hands to show it to her sister. Relief filled Eliza's pretty face. Her smile was glorious. Their mother, dead these past two years, had passed her beauty -- golden hair, brown eyes and well-made, even features -- to both her daughters. It was good that she had; their appearance was the only dowry left to either of them.
"Thank heavens for your aunt, Cassie," Eliza said, laughing and doing a little jig. "I couldn't bear the thought of starting that long ride north without being certain salvation was at hand. All we need do now is wake Father."
The drawing-room door to the right of them creaked open and Sir Roland Conningsbypeered out at them, blinking sleepily. "No need to wake me," he said around a yawn. Their father had returned from his evening activities at a little after eight this morning, roused his daughters and demanded they immediately prepare to leave London, something they hadn't planned to do until later in the day. He'd then retreated to don his own unique traveling attire: a coachman's dark maroon jacket, fawn breeches and brown boots. Roland considered himself a great whip and intended to serve as their coachman on their trip to Scotland, which was fine with Cassie for it meant she didn't have to hire a driver.
He stepped out into the entry hall, scrubbing at his eyes. The settee's patterned fabric had imprinted on one side of his round face. What little hair he had left stood up around his head in a tangled white halo. Dark rings hung beneath his eyes.
"Did I hear you call out that your precious invitation had finally arrived?" he asked around another yawn, then smiled. "Just in time, I might add."
His eyes widened, then Roland glanced wildly around the sunny foyer. "Time!" he yelped, and ducked into the drawing-room, where they kept their clock.
He exploded back out into the foyer, his face ashen. "It's eleven of the clock! Didn't I tell you we had to leave before eleven?" he squawked.
"Papa," Cassie said, speaking to him as if he were a slow child, "it doesn't matter what time you want to leave. There's no going before the horses are harnessed. The Owens' stable lad had to finish his own chores before he could help us." Cassie didn't trust Roland to correctly harness their horses, not after a night's drinking, so she'd sent Eliza to beg their neighbor's servant to aidthem.
"I could have done it!" Roland yelled at his eldest daughter.
Cassie stared at him. Eliza's eyes were wide and her mouth gaped. Roland had never before raised his voice to either of his children.
"Go!" he shouted. Grabbing Eliza by the arm, he pushed her toward the back of the house. She stumbled a few steps toward the stairs leading down to the house's service rooms, then pivoted back toward the foyer.
The door knocker clanged, the sound ringing through the house. Roland blanched. Cassie and Eliza shared a look, Eliza rolling her eyes in disgust. Cassie knew how she felt. She thought she'd scream if she had to listen to one more angry tradesman call them worthless while demanding they pay money they didn't have for a debt Roland had incurred.
Her father pressed a finger to his lips in warning. "We're not answering that. Run to the coach," he whispered to his daughters.
The knocker clanged again. "Conningsby, open the door," a man called, his voice as imperious as his knock.
Eliza frowned at her. Cassie shrugged. Whoever was at the door was definitely not a tradesman.
The latch rattled. The hinges creaked. The door began to open. Cassie gawked. Who would dare admit themselves to someone else's house?
"It's not locked," Roland yelped as if they ever barred their door during daylight hours.
Neville Mayne, Earl Bucksden, dressed for visiting in a long-tailed blue coat, pantaloons and a tall gray hat upon his head, opened the door. Waiting on the street behind him was his city phaeton with its spiderweb wheels, the earl's tiger, a short, ugly fellow, holding the horse's head. Lord Bucksden, smiling as if he commonly intruded without invitation, closed thedoor behind him and paused as any good dandy should so the women in the hall might better appreciate his beauty.
And, he was handsome. In his middle years, Lord Bucksden was fit where Roland was fat. Pomaded and brushed forward, wisps of black hair clung to his cheeks. His collar points were exalted, rising well above his jawline, while his neckcloth creased exactly so, beneath his clean-shaven, dimpled chin.
Cassie took a backward step. Although Lord Bucksden presented himself as the handsome ideal, and many gentlewomen agreed with his assessment of himself, Cassie knew better ...
This richly entertaining Regency romance tells of an exquisite lady cardsharp who wagers her heart and the dashing rogue who calls her bluff. Original.