Page 27 of Rogue’s Holiday

“Damn you, Powell!” She slapped his sleeve with her fan. “I must know what noble deed it was, else I’ll have little to tell the Brighton gossips.”

He returned her a smirk. “Just as I feared.”

At that moment, the band that had been quietly sitting in one corner began playing God Save the King. Everyone got to their feet and turned to welcome the king who strode into the room in his glorious finery, his current mistress, Elizabeth, Marchioness Conyngham, at his side. That her husband was not in attendance was likely noted by no one, save possibly Robbie.

The king stopped at the head of the table and raised a hand to motion them back to their seats. The music stopped.

Once he had seen the marchioness to her place beside him, the king said, “Welcome, my friends! I trust you will enjoy the splendid menu this evening. I approved it myself. After we dine, there will be rooms for cards with plenty of refreshments. And, of course, there will be music.”

Easing his great girth into the chair a footman held out for him, the king accepted a glass of iced champagne. Immediately, the first course of green turtle soup was served.

Robbie was relieved to hear the band begin to play something more conducive to the dinner hour.

Conversations resumed. Robbie turned from Letty, who was getting acquainted with Jack, and introduced himself to the woman on his right, who had slipped into her chair as the band stopped playing. The attractive woman turned out to be Dorothea, Countess Lieven. Many tales were told of the intelligent and politically savvy wife of the Russian Ambassador to Great Britain—and of her affairs—but he had not met her before now. He judged her to be about his age, perhaps a bit younger and nearly his height.

“Sir Robert, you are a friend of His Majesty?”

“I like to think so, Madam.”

The footmen served steamed turbot in butter sauce, a mild fish Robbie quite liked. Along with the iced champagne, wine was served.

His gaze shifted to the king’s mistress whose high-pitched trilling laughter caught his attention.

Countess Lieven huffed. “Alas, that woman has not an idea in her head, not a word to say for herself. Nothing but a hand to accept pearls and diamonds, and an enormous balcony to wear them on.”

Robbie sputtered, nearly choking on his wine. Sweeping a napkin over his mouth, he whispered, “You must warn me, Countess, when you are to make so witty a remark.”

The countess tilted her head and smiled coyly at him, allowing a dark auburn curl to fall to her forehead. For the astute female he knew her to be, the gesture surprised him. But the interest in her gray eyes and the suggestive sweep of her long fingers over the mounds of her breasts rising above her gown could not be mistaken. It was an open invitation to come to her bed.

Many of the king’s guests would be surprised to learn that when it came to affaires de coeur Robbie had rules to which he assiduously adhered. Unlike the king, for example, Robbie did not share the bed of married women, even if invited. Widows, on the other hand, were fair game and almost always willing. And there were never husbands to make cuckolds.

The next course was venison served with carrots and roast potatoes. Pondering the vegetables, Robbie turned to respond to something Letty was saying and was distracted by a movement of blue-green froth on the other side of the table some way down. Miss Reynolds. He had no idea she would be attending the dinner but, given Lady Sanborn’s friendship with the king, he should have considered it a possibility.

The fair-haired hoyden presented a captivating picture in a gown of some wispy sea-green material that reminded him of a lagoon he’d encountered on a voyage to the South Seas. The room was certainly warm enough to bring back a memory of those hot tropical days. He imagined her there on a white sand beach, the breeze blowing her pale gold hair behind her, only in his imaginings, she wore nothing at all.

He lifted his wine and took a sip, watching her as she chatted gaily with the two men sitting on either side of her, unaware, as Robbie was, of their character. He had to wonder what had been the thinking of the one who arranged the seating. The two were rakes of the first order. He suddenly felt protective of her and, though he was certain she believed she could take care of herself, he decided a rescue was in order. The Countess of Claremont would surely expect it.

At last, the dessert was served, accompanied by more wine. Robbie watched his lemon ice melt in the heat of the room, anxious for the dinner to end. When it did, he rose from his chair and bid Countess Lieven and Lady Lade a good evening. The two ladies departed together. The countess gave Robbie a lingering look over her shoulder.

He took a step away from the table as Jack came to his side.

“I expected you would be leaving with that striking woman with whom you’ve been conversing.”

“The countess?” Robbie watched her tall, retreating figure. “No, I think not. What do you say to a game of whist, Uncle?”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I thought your game was brag.”

“Most often it is, but ’tis not a lady’s game and I thought to invite Miss Reynolds and Miss Crockett to join us.”

“Snow White and Rose Red?” Jack asked with an amused expression. “That might be entertaining.”

“Exactly my thought.”

“Give me a glass of the king’s potent brandy, Nephew, and you’re on. But you will first have to pry the two of them loose from those men who have been monopolizing them all evening.”

“You noticed?”

“I did happen to glance in Miss Crockett’s direction once or twice, a lovely figure in that rose gown.”