Page 85 of The Queen of Roses

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

James hesitated, and Mrs. Jarrett melted away, leaving the pair of them.

“I thought I would go after him,” he said, gesturing to the door with his hat. “He has mentioned some places to me over port before. They are outside the city’s jurisdiction, so the prohibition against gambling and alcohol do not extend to them. I thought I might start there, but if you know of any other places to look…”

“No. I don’t know where he might go.” She hesitated. “He went to a poker game after the Colorado Grand’s opening ball.”

James nodded. “I believe I know where they play. I will inquire there first. Please give the others my regrets that I had to leave so abruptly.”

He began to turn, but Adele called out, “James!”

When he looked over his shoulder at her, she could see the pity in his eyes and it crushed her that anyone should feel sorry for her, Adele Whitley, the woman who had everything she could ever have wished for.

She struggled for words until finally she simply said, “Thank you.”

James nodded and then donned his hat and left.

It was long past four o’clock in the morning, but Adele lay awake in her bed, moonlight illuminating the room through open velvet curtains and turning the antique gold of her furniture a muted silver.

She had made Guy’s and James’s apologies to the rest of their party. She did not give an excuse for why both men should have left because there was none that would make any sense, and no one would have believed her.

The disastrous dinner party had only lasted a quarter of an hour longer before Mama and Papa and Mrs. Barnes and her daughter called for their carriages and Margot retired upstairs.

As soon as the front door closed, Adele had stood in the middle of the entryway, bursting with a frustration that warred with her instinct to explain away Guy’s crudeness. It was not like him not to turn his charm to whomever was at supper. He prided himself, she knew, on his easy way with people, and he understood more than most men the importance of his popularity. Why, then, had he gone out of his way to embarrass them both that evening?

Something must have happened. Something significant enough to knock Guy off his equilibrium.

Somewhere in the road nearby, she heard the clip of horses’ hooves. Adele rose from her bed, pulling on her lace-and-chiffon dressing gown on the short walk to one of her windows. Sure enough, there was a hired cab drawing up to the front door of her house. As soon as the vehicle stopped, the door opened from the inside, and two pairs of anonymous hands shoved Guy out at the bottom of the front steps.

With a gasp, she hurried from her room, not stopping to don her slippers. The tails of her dressing gown flowing behind her, she made for the stairs. She was almost to the top when she heard the front door open, and as she reached the landing, she saw Aubrey, Guy’s valet, practically carry his master into the house.

“Good Lord,” she murmured, not caring that her mother would have chastised her for taking the Lord’s name in vain. The appearance of one’s husband, clearly drunk enough that he could barely stand up straight, let alone walk, was worthy of blasphemy.

“I was waiting up for him, Mrs. Whitley,” said Aubrey with a grunt as he adjusted the shoulder that propped Guy up. Her husband’s hat was gone, his bowtie undone, and he wore only one of the dove gray gloves she had given him for Christmas the previous year.

“Thank you, Aubrey.” She glanced up the stairs in fear that the noise invading the silence of the house might wake Margot and James.

“Shall I take him to his dressing room?” asked the valet.

“I think that would be best. Would you please also brew some strong coffee and bring water?”

“Yes, Mrs. Whitley.” He began to move off just as Guy’s head lurched up, giving Adele a sloppy smile.

“My dearest one,” Guy slurred. “Adele, the most beautiful woman in Pasadena. You’re here!”

He made a weak attempt to reach for her, causing Aubrey to grunt and brace himself once again.

Adele sighed. “Oh Guy, what has happened to you?”

The question was more rhetorical than literal, but Guy lifted his drifting eyes to her and frowned. “Those bastards cheated me.”

“Who cheated you?” she asked.

“The cards. They cheated.”

Her stomach sank. “How much did you lose? And where is the new motorcar, for that matter?”

Guy snorted, his head lolling. “Don’t worry. There’s still enough for your gowns.”