As Tory saw them to the parlor, she mentally reviewed the list of players for that evening—as usual, an even six, when counting Charles: Eugene Morningdale, Grayson Wheeler, Tyrone Barnes, Paul Stokes, and Mitchell Waring.
Mitchell Waring.
She had been disconcerted to find Waring’s name on the list. During the last party he had attended, Charles—discounting Tory’s signals and warnings—had thoroughly thrashed Waring.
She frowned on the remembrance. It was one thing to beat a man at cards, but Charles had first stripped Waring of his stake, then goaded him into writing a check that, according to rumors, Waring could ill-afford to cover. When Waring lost again, he had stood abruptly, jarring the other players’ drinks.
“I say, Waring,” Charles had drawled, “I do expect better manners from a gentleman. These are, after all, exclusive games.”
It was what Waring replied that had alarmed Tory. “A gentleman? You question me? I can trace my family line back fourteen generations. I doubt you can, Charles Luchetti. Weren’t your parents impoverished Italian immigrants? Hardly the pedigree of a gentleman.”
As Charles began to get up from his seat to respond to the insult, Tory had stood first, obliging the entire table to rise with her—thus diffusing Charles’ precipitous move.
She had put a hand on Waring’s chest and murmured with an intimate smile, “Oh, my dear Mitchell. I am grieved that your usual luck has deserted you this evening. However, I am certain you will recover—how could you not? You always play brilliantly. Please do not give this evening another thought. It will pass.”
Waring’s soul had blinked out from his eyes for the briefest moment. “It is not the loss itself, my dear,” he’d whispered.
She knew then that he could not cover his forfeitures, that he had overextended himself, perhaps to the point of ruin.
“Do let me see you out.” It was the kindest thing Tory could do for him, but the glare of loathing Waring had bent on Charles as he murmured his goodnights to the other players chilled Tory.
Later, she had said to Charles, “I pray you will never invite Mitchell Waring to another of our parties.”
Charles had laughed and lit a cigarette. “Waring is a grown man. If he, after he has licked his wounds, solicits another invitation, who am I to deny him? Perhaps I will let him win a little, just to mollify his pride.”
Mitchell Waring’s pride? It was Charles’ pride that worried Tory. He seemed disinclined to heed her concerns of late—and Tory, still stinging from Charles’ last tongue lashing, was loath to risk receiving another.
Rightfully uneasy, Tory hoped to find Mitchell reconciled to his last encounter with Charles. However, when she answered the door, she found Mitchell accompanied by an unfamiliar companion. She had difficulty concealing her alarm: The governing rule of their parties was that guests were admitted by invitation only.
“Good evening, Miss Tory. May I introduce my houseguest, Mr. Drake? He arrived unexpectedly from London, and I could not, in good conscience, leave him to his own devices in a strange city, could I? Surely Charles will have no objection to another player?”
Before Tory could answer, the uninvited guest spoke up. “Good evening, Miss Tory. Thank you for receiving me; Mitchell has regaled me with accounts of your beauty and charm. He did not overstate his regard for you.”
She studied the stranger, who, if she was not mistaken, carried West Indies blood. His frame was spare and his evening wear impeccable; he combed his black hair straight back from his swarthy forehead. Above his lip he sported a short-cropped mustache.
As he took her hand and bent over it, Tory’s apprehension increased. Although the man’s manners were faultless, something . . . disturbing had glittered in his eyes.
“Welcome, Mitchell, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Drake—”
“Please. I hope you will do me the honor of addressing me by my first name? It is Blair.”
“I would be delighted to call you Blair.” Tory smiled and turned back to Waring. “Of course, you know the rules, Mitchell. I must leave the decision regarding your guest to Charles’ discretion.”
“Let us ask him, shall we?” Waring took Tory’s arm and steered her out of the foyer into the parlor where Charles and the other players were mingling prior to the start of the game.
Tory did her best to preempt Waring. “Charles?”
Charles turned toward her, and Tory laid a gloved hand below her neck, signaling that the situation was troubling, that she required his assistance. But Charles had already seen the intrusion. Holding a drink in his left hand, he approached.
“Evening, Waring. Glad you could make it. And your companion is?” He appraised Drake, who had, in Tory’s estimation, suddenly shrunk in on himself.
Puzzling, Tory thought.
“Blair Drake, at your service, sir. I have only arrived in St. Louis this morning and am staying with Mitchell. Frightfully sorry to put you in an awkward spot. Since my presence goes against the rules, I will not mind sitting out the game. I shall nurse a drink and,” he nodded at Tory with a shy smile, “enjoy the view while you chaps enjoy your game.”
Every cautioning instinct in Tory’s being jangled. While she dimpled and nodded to acknowledge Drake’s compliment, she fingered the center stone of the necklace she wore, signaling, “Beware. Danger.”
Charles ignored her.
“Mr. Drake, we would not dream of excluding Mitchell’s guest or a newcomer to our fair city. Come, sit. We are about to begin. Are you familiar with the game of poker?”
Drake appeared dubious. “I have heard of it, of course, and had the pleasure of a brief introduction to its intricacies while visiting friends in Baltimore, but, I confess that my usual game is whist.”
“Feel free to dabble a little this evening,” Charles answered.
“Well, I do have a bit of money with me.”
“We shall be happy to include you.”
Tory looked from Drake to Charles and back, sensing something “off.” Drake’s manner had altered from the moment he had greeted her at the door to his introduction to Charles just now, and his assertion of “a brief introduction to its intricacies” rang with hollow sincerity.
Then she slanted her eyes toward Mitchell and grew further concerned: Mitchell Waring’s lips twitched as with suppressed gratification.
The game proceeded without interruption or a clear winner for the space of an hour. When the players took their first break, Waring’s companion had lost only a little. When the game resumed, however, something in the play altered. Drake began to make subtle moves, raising, doubling down, and bluffing—successfully.
Within a quarter hour, the atmosphere in the room shifted as Drake’s abilities “improved” and the competition between him and Charles heated. Halfway through the next hand, when the players threw in cards and asked for replacements, Charles signaled Tory to slip him an ace. She did, and he won the hand and a sizable pot with two pair, aces high.
Seen only by Tory, Charles palmed an ace when he flipped and threw in his winning cards.
In the next hand, the pot grew to an outlandish size, made fat by early bets all around the table. Then, as the stakes increased, players dropped out one by one, first Waring, then three others, leaving only Charles and Drake in contention.
Charles raised; Drake re-raised. The two men stared across the table with open hostility.
The discomfort increased, and Tory glanced around the table. Three players seemed to sense and fidget at the tension between Charles and Drake; only Waring appeared relaxed.
Tory thought him excited but guarded, as though he were keeping his elation hidden. She again signaled “Danger” to Charles. She knew he saw her signal, but his eyes were fastened on Drake’s.
“Mr. Drake, I am ‘all in.’”
Drake smiled and sat back. “Actually, Mr. Luchetti, you are a cheat.”
Time slowed, and the remaining players froze. Tory, unable to look away, saw Cha
rles suppress a cringe of surprise.
“Mr. Drake, you are a guest in this game, yet you make an egregious and unfounded accusation. I could call you out for this.”
“Call me out? How quaint. How dated. But I do accuse you, and my charge is neither egregious nor unfounded. Stop! Do not move, Mr. Luchetti.”
Charles found himself staring into the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver. “How dare you bring a gun into my home!”
“I use it merely to prove my point, Mr. Luchetti. No, do not move: I have now warned you twice. I shall not a third time.” Drake pointed his chin at the player next to Charles. “Mr. Morningdale? Please check inside Mr. Luchetti’s coat sleeve. Yes, just there.”
Eugene Morningdale, one of Charles’ regulars, spluttered. “I shall do no such thing! Why, I—”
The veneer slipped from Blair Drake’s disguise as he redirected the gun to Morningdale’s chest. “I have a bullet for every man in this room, Mr. Morningdale. I am not asking, I am telling you: Reach inside Mr. Luchetti’s sleeve and show us what you find there.”
Morningdale looked at Charles. Charles’ features were carved of white, bloodless stone. Morningdale glanced at Drake’s gun and back to Charles. Without further argument, he felt the sleeve of Charles’ suitcoat. “What?” He reached two fingers inside and, fumbling a little, retrieved a card and laid it face up on the table.
An ace of diamonds.
“Why, Charles!”
Charles sneered at him. “Shut up, Morningdale. You are a fool, and fools get what they deserve.”
Drake waved the gun at Charles. “I repeat my accusation: You, Mr. Luchetti, are a cheat and, for the benefit of your guests who are slow to comprehend, I must expose you and your schemes.”
His lips thinned to a sardonic grin. “Your private parties are but an elaborate guise, a front to, at your leisure, strip your ‘exclusive guests’ of their money. And you do not act alone. Your precious ‘Miss Tory’? She is your skilled collaborator, dealing deceitfully, signaling you, distracting the other players while you cheat them.”
The gaze of every man at the table fixed on Tory; she felt their regard turn from admiration to disgust and loathing. Her breath came in small gasps, and she grew faint.
Drake continued. “You are cunning and usually careful, Luchetti. You never appear to win too much or too often but, on occasion, your greed overcomes your good sense. I refer to your ego, Luchetti, your downfall. One such overreach occurred during your last encounter with my friend—my employer—Mitchell Waring.”
No one at the table had any doubt what was happening. Mitchell Waring had brought his own card sharp to the party to defeat and expose Charles. Waring’s intention was not merely to recoup his losses. No, the payback for Waring would be double: to recover his lost money (split with Drake, of course) and to annihilate Charles.
Charles seethed. “Make your point, Drake. What do you want?”
“Ah, my point. Thank you for reminding me.”
Tory did not notice the glittering glance Drake slid in her direction. She had focused all her strength on remaining upright in her chair.
“Perhaps . . . perhaps we should excuse Miss Tory from our deliberations,” Drake mused. “Why don’t you send her to her room, Luchetti?”
Charles, without looking away from Drake, muttered, “Go to your room, Tory.”
Tory tried to stand but could not. Mitchell Waring rose, pulled back her chair, helped her to her feet.
“I am sorry, my dear, but you were part and parcel of this charade.”
Tory did not answer. Her worst fears had come to pass. She stumbled up the stairs to her room and closed the door. Locked it. Wondered if the report of a gun would shortly announce Charles’ demise.
Downstairs, Drake grinned at Charles. “Don’t worry, Luchetti. You are in no danger of my shooting you. I enjoyed this evening too much, old chap. Yes, I quite enjoyed beating you. And I believe I shall enjoy the remainder of this night as well.”
To the other players, he commanded, “Take whatever money you have won and get out. Do not bother calling the police—unless you wish the entire city to know how often Luchetti has fleeced you. Consider yourselves lucky to be leaving with what you have.”
The glances of the other players skittered around the table, only to come back to the revolver.
Drake laughed. “Go, you lily-livered cowards—before I change my mind.”
Morningdale rose first. He scraped his money from the table, stuffed it in his pocket, and skirted the table. The other two players followed him.
When the front door closed and only Charles, Mitchell Waring, and Drake remained, Drake smiled again. “Mitchell, old boy, I should like to renegotiate the terms of our deal.”
“What? But I need that money! I—”
“Shut up, Mitchell. You shall take the entire pot, and half of whatever else Mr. Luchetti gives up. I prefer to take my share of the pot in other tender.”
Mitchell appeared confused. Charles was not. “You low-down, son of a—”
“Do be careful, old boy. Now, listen closely; here is how this is going to work. Tomorrow, you and your ‘Miss Tory,’ will leave St. Louis with nothing but your bags and whatever money you have squirreled away that we do not find tonight. Waring here will send hired men tomorrow evening to ensure that you have heeded our ‘request.’ Do you get me? Or should I say, capisce?”
Charles snarled without answering—and Drake discharged his revolver over Charles’ shoulder. The mirror above his liquor cabinet exploded; acrid, blue smoke filled the room.
“Do you agree to my terms, Luchetti?”
Charles nodded.
“Ah, good. Now, where else in the house do you keep your funds?”
Charles stirred. “Behind the bar, a loose floorboard. You’ll find a strong box.”
“Excellent. Get it, Mitchell.”
Mitchell Waring had already scooped up Charles’ winnings and the money in the pot. He uncovered the strong box and placed it on the table, eager to see its contents. He counted out the cash. “Nearly thirteen hundred dollars.”
“Hand me my cut, please.”
Drake pocketed the bills. “Now, Mitchell, do find us a bit of rope. I wish to leave Luchetti tied up when we leave. Miss Tory will find him later and undo his bonds.”
Ten minutes later, Charles was trussed to his chair.
Drake smoothed his short mustache. “Now, Mitchell, you will wait and watch Luchetti while I extract the remainder of my payment.”
“I don’t understand, Blair.”
“Luchetti does, don’t you, old chap?”
The hate burning in Charles’ eyes was fearsome.
“What are you talking about, Blair?”
“You shall remain here. I shall be no longer than thirty minutes, perhaps less—depending upon Miss Tory’s disposition.”
Understanding dawned on Waring. “You do not mean to . . . No, Drake. That is unconscionable!”
Drake snickered. “Conquest is never complete without rape and pillage, is it, Mitchell?” His mouth hardened. “We renegotiated our deal, remember? You kept all the cash on the table, and I said I would take my payment in another form. If you wish to welsh on our deal, I shall demand that you divide the table with me.”
Mitchell Waring struggled for a moment, his need for the cash warring over his moral scruples. Finally, he shrugged. “I prefer to keep the money.”
“I thought you would.”
As Drake ambled to the stairs, Charles shouted, “Tory! Tory, run!”
Upstairs, Tory’s head snapped up. She had believed Charles dead following the gunshot. She ran to her door and listened. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, in the hall, ending at her door. She looked around, grabbed her chair, and jammed it under the door handle.
“Open the door, Miss Tory. I have won the pleasure of your favors this evening.”
Tory backed away. She was terrified—and looked to her bedroom windows. She tore back the curtains and was un
latching a sash when Drake threw his weight against her bedroom door. The flimsy lock broke. With another shove, the chair she had braced under the door handle splintered, and the door burst open.
“Oh, no, my dear! I cannot allow you to harm yourself.”
Drake’s arms twined around Tory’s waist. She screamed and fought him, but he was much stronger. Within moments he had thrown her to the bed and pinned her.
Tory continued to scream. She fought and raged, but neither did her any good. In the end, Drake had his way.
Twenty minutes later, Drake paused at the bottom of the staircase to adjust his suitcoat and check his tie in a wall mirror.
An ashen-faced Mitchell joined him. “Can we go, now?”
“Yes. I am famished. We should get some dinner, what?”
Mitchell frowned. “I am not hungry.”
“Tsk, tsk. Well, let us be on our way.” He stopped, as though remembering something. “One moment, if you please.”
He went into the parlor and stood before Charles. “Mr. Luchetti, it was my presumption that you and Miss Tory were, ah, intimately acquainted, that the arrangement was longstanding. My enjoyment of her was intended more as an insult to you than to her. However, if it means anything, I did not realize she was a virgin until I took her.”
Drake shrugged and sketched a mocking bow. “Please extend my apologies.”
Chapter 19
Tory could not move. No part of her body responded to her mind’s commands. I must run. Run! Yes, Maman. I must get away from Bastiann, get away from this man, Drake!
Then she remembered it was too late to run, that Drake had come and gone. He had violated her in ways she had not imagined possible. No one had explained these things to her . . . but now she knew for herself what her mère and Sassy had feared Bastiann would do.
She lay still and drifted away in her mind. She was a girl again, a child running through the tall grass of the orchard at Sugar Tree, climbing high into the boughs of an apple tree.
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