Chapter One
July, 1801
If he weren't so thoroughly drunk, he might never have got
himself into such a fine mess.
Anthony Morehouse raked in the small pile of notes from
the center of the card table and thought he'd better call
it a night. Earlier that afternoon he had bested Lord
Reginald D'Aubney in a curricle race, for which he'd won
his lordship's favorite pair of matched grays, and had
been celebrating the victory with his friends all evening.
He'd lost count of the number of toasts in his honor.
Clearly, he was too foxed to think straight or he would
never have accepted such damned fool stakes.
It made him uncomfortable when a gentleman began to put up
personal possessions as collateral instead of money or
vowels. Tony had never pegged Victor Croyden as that sort
of desperate player, and yet he'd just won a piece of
furniture from the man. Now, what the devil was he to do
with this damned wardrobe or bureau or whatever it was
he'd just won?
"Well, I'm for home," he said, and tucked the notes into
his purse. He'd better take his leave before he won a
matching set of chairs. He stood and had to grab hold of
the table edge to keep his balance. Devil take it, he
really was squiffed. "Care to share a hackney, Croyden? We
can discuss this chest of yours andarrange delivery."
A burst of laughter from Croyden and similar hoots of
mirth from the other men at the table caused Tony to look
down and inspect his person. Was something amiss? His
breeches gaping, perhaps? A wine stain on his neckcloth?
Stockings puddling around his ankles? "What?"
"Really ought to pay more attention, Morehouse," Sir
Crispin Hollis said. He was the only one not laughing too
hard to speak. "It ain't a piece of furniture, you know."
"Course it is," Tony said. "Croyden said so. Heard him
quite clearly. A chest or bureau or some such thing. Very
fashionable, he said. It's all right here in his note."
More guffaws rang out in the card room and Tony began to
become irritated. It was an idiotic thing to have won, to
be sure, but he'd seen stranger stakes. Besides, he hadn't
wanted to be rude and ask Croyden to stand down, even
though he doubted the wretched bureau could possibly be
worth the purse he'd staked. He was only trying to be
civil, and look where it got him. All of White's was
gathering around the table to see what the fuss was about.
"Better look at that note again," Sir Crispin said.
Tony fumbled in his coat pocket to retrieve his notes, but
his fingers got all tangled up in the purse strings and
the whole business was making him dizzy. He gave up. "Just
tell me." Fearing he might take a header - not at all the
thing to do in White's - he leaned on the table for
support. "Have you bamboozled me, Croyden?"
"Not in the least," the man said, though his smile
indicated otherwise. "Made myself perfectly clear. Thought
you understood."
"Understood what?" Tony's celebratory mood had faded.
Wished he hadn't drunk so much claret. Couldn't seem to
think straight. Had a fuzzy sort of notion, though, that
he'd been played for a fool.
"Understood my stakes," Croyden said. "The magazine."
"What magazine? See here, Croyden, I may be drunk, but I'm
not that drunk. You staked some sort of cabinet and that's
what I played you for. Said it was worth my purse. Took
your word as a gentleman. If you've taken me in - "
"Nothing of the sort," Croyden said. He held up his hand
to stop any accusations, though he did not have the look
of a man about to be caught out in a dishonorable wager.
In fact, he looked positively gleeful. "I put The Ladies'
Fashionable Cabinet on the table and you won it. It's
yours, Morehouse, fair and square."
"All right, so I won a piece of female furniture."
The players erupted in laughter once again. Tony was
becoming seriously annoyed. "Well, what of it? It ain't
all that comical."
The press of spectators surrounding the table had become
oppressive, and the roar of their laughter made Tony's
head ache. He lifted his hands, palms up, and looked
around at his friends and acquaintances. "What? If the
blasted cabinet is worth what he says it is, what is so
damned funny?"
His friend Ian Fordyce took pity on him. He came to Tony's
side and put an arm around his shoulders. "I think you'd
better sit back down," he said. "And try to pay attention
this time."
"Don't want to sit down. Want to go home and fall into
bed. I'm done in, I tell you."
"I don't doubt it," Ian said, "but first you need to
understand what you've won, old boy. It ain't a piece of
furniture."
"It is, by God. If I've heard the word 'cabinet' once,
I've heard it a dozen times."
"Yes, but it's not furniture," Ian said, his voice
quivering with suppressed mirth. "It's a magazine. The
Ladies' Fashionable Cabinet. Do you understand me,
Morehouse? It's a magazine."
Tony took a moment to allow this bit of information to
work its way through the bleary pathways of his brain.
He'd just won a magazine? A few sheets of printed pages
against his entire purse? Could he have been that drunk?
No wonder he was a laughingstock.
"Let me make sure I have this right." Tony enunciated each
word as clearly as possible, and tried to set his brain to
listening with the same deliberate clarity. He glared down
at Victor Croyden ...
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