by Angie Ray
Looking at her cards, she saw she had received three sevens. Taking a deep breath, she bet a pound.
To her surprise, she won.
“Nice hand, Miss Westbourne,” Mortimer said as she raked in her winnings. “It appears you will be lucky tonight.”
And indeed, for the next hour, her luck was phenomenal. She couldn’t lose. Excitement began to mount in her as she won hand after hand and the pile of counters in front of her steadily grew. Perhaps she would be able to do this by herself, without Phillip’s help, she thought.
At one point he whispered in her ear, “I’m going to check out some of the other tables. I’ll be back shortly.” She nodded without even glancing at him.
He must have been wrong about Mortimer’s cheating, she thought as she lay down another winning hand. And perhaps she had been mistaken when she thought she saw Mortimer switching decks--it had happened so quickly, she couldn’t be certain. One thing was clear though. She was doing extremely well.
The room and people around her faded as she concentrated totally on the game.
The first time she lost, she wasn’t too concerned. The pot had been small. And she won the next three hands. But on the fourth, she lost badly. Struggling to recoup her loss, she bet heavily on the next hand, and lost again.
She lost the next three hands in succession.
“How unfortunate.” Mortimer frowned with simulated concern. “But don’t worry. Your luck will turn.”
But as the game continued, Margaret lost more. Although she won an occasional hand, the pile of counters in front of her diminished steadily. In what seemed like minutes, the pile dwindled down to nothing.
She was staring disbelievingly at her last hand when Phillip returned.
“What the devil!” his voice growled.
“If you would like to write a note, Miss Westbourne, I would be glad to advance you some cash,” Mortimer said smoothly.
“What happened?” Phillip demanded. “How did you lose everything so quickly?”
“I don’t know,” she said dazedly.
“It’s done all the time,” Mortimer said.
“Dammit, we’ll have to start from scratch. Sign the note, Margaret.”
“Do it?” she murmured, horrified.
“You’ll do it? Excellent,” said Mortimer. A servant brought pen and paper.
“Make it for a thousand guineas,” ordered Phillip.
A thousand guineas! Holding the pen over the paper, Margaret hesitated. What if Phillip’s plan failed? What if they lost and she ended up owing Mortimer a thousand guineas? But she must do it for Aunt Letty’s sake. And Phillip’s. Biting her lip, she scratched her name onto the paper.
Glancing at the I.O.U., Mortimer’s eyes widened. Then with a smile he leaned towards her and lightly rested his hand on her knee under the table. “You are a woman after my own heart, I see. You and I must try another game later.”
Gripping her fan tightly, Margaret dug one end of it into Mortimer’s wrist. With a curse, he drew back.
“Planning another game is a bit premature, Lord Mortimer.” She pinned a smile on her face, trying to ignore the barely restrained rage in his eyes. “This one is not over yet.”
Phillip barked with laughter. “You’re a cool one, Margaret Westbourne. Are you ready to begin?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Good. Now watch Mortimer’s hands closely,” Phillip instructed. “It will make it more difficult for him to switch cards.”
Obediently, Margaret stared intently while Mortimer shuffled the cards. He took a long time about it, hesitating once or twice. Finally he dealt.
“Very good,” Phillip praised her. “You’ve got him beat. Raise the bet.”
Margaret did so, but Mortimer promptly threw in his cards. Frowning, Margaret gathered in the small pot.
“Curse it all, I forgot about the mirror,” Phillip said. “Mortimer can see your hand. You’ll have to switch seats.”
Margaret glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, a mirror behind her was reflecting every card in her hand. She jumped to her feet. “Aunt Letty. Would you please exchange seats with me?”
“Whatever for, dear?” Aunt Letty asked.
“Perhaps changing seats will change my luck.”
“Oh, that is a good idea. It often works for me.”
Bernard watched them switch, a frown on his face. “Margaret, perhaps it would be wise--“
“Now Barnett, don’t be a spoilsport,” Mortimer interrupted. “Deal the cards.”
The game continued.
Following Phillip’s directions, Margaret managed to win two out of the next four hands.
“Dammit,” Phillip said when the deal came back to Mortimer. “He slipped you a second, Margaret. Throw in your cards.”
“Oh dear.” Margaret placed her cards face down on the table. “I don’t think it would be wise of me to meet your wager, Lord Mortimer.”
She looked up to find Mortimer staring at her with narrowed eyes. Margaret smiled sweetly.
“Perhaps we need a fresh deck,” Mortimer said, signaling a servant.
A new deck appeared forthwith, and Mortimer dealt.
“He has the ace of diamonds up his sleeve,” hissed Phillip. “Keep your eyes on his sleeve so he can’t change the card.”
Mortimer waved his hand in the air, but Margaret did not move her eyes from his left arm. He shifted in his seat, but Margaret kept her gaze fastened to his sleeve. He shifted again and his elbow caught his glass sending wine spilling across the table. Margaret’s eyes flickered to the spreading stain, then quickly came back to his sleeve, but it was too late.
“Dammit Margaret, I told you to keep your eyes on his sleeve!”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret muttered.
“It wasn’t your fault, Miss Westbourne.” Mortimer spoke jovially. He lifted a finger, summoning a servant to clean up the mess. “Now let’s see what we have here.” He lay down two kings and the ace of diamonds.
“This isn’t going to work,” Phillip gritted through his teeth.
“What can I do?” Margaret murmured.
“Keep trying, Miss Westbourne.” Mortimer gathered up the cards. “Your luck is bound to change, it always does. You have to keep trying.”
“Cheat, Margaret,” said Phillip.
She swallowed. “I don’t think I can.”
“Nonsense, Miss Westbourne. You’re a very good player. Surprisingly good. You simply need a bit of luck.”
“You’re probably right.” Phillip’s voice was full of frustration and the glow was a little brighter. “It takes a great deal of skill to cheat a cheater and I have a suspicion he’s using ‘splitters’--cards that are trimmed on the ends and sides. Dammit! We must do something or all is lost.”
Despair washed over her. She had known from the beginning that this idea was insane. How could she possibly beat Mortimer at his own game?
“I wonder.” Phillip’s voice had a new note in it--a note that made her very nervous. She had a foreboding he was about to do something outrageous.
From the corner of her eye, Margaret saw the glow moving across the table towards Bernard. She watched with frozen horror as the flicker of light entered Bernard’s body.
Bernard jumped.
Margaret’s eyes widened as his chin came up, and his mouth tightened. His shoulders straightened and grew square. A bright gleam entered his grey eyes.
Phillip inhaled deeply, feeling the air expand his lungs and the blood rush through his veins. He was alive again! An array of sights and smells and sounds assaulted him. How extraordinarily acute all his senses were. As a ghost, he had not realized how muted everything was. Picking up the deck of cards, he flexed them between his fingers. The cards felt smooth, slippery. He could feel the softness of Bernard’s clothes, the slight discomfort of the high collar where it poked his chin, the tightness of his boots pressing against a corn on his toe. He could smell Aunt Letty’s soft lavender scent, Mortimer’s a
crid stale odor, and, most of all--Margaret’s sweet rose perfume.
He looked at Margaret for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. She was staring at him with those wide blue eyes of hers. How lovely, how incredibly lovely she was. The pink of her dress lent a glow to her cheeks, and the huge bell of the skirt made her waist look impossibly small. The low neckline revealed smooth white skin and the tops of her breasts curved invitingly over her bodice. She was so close, he could reach over and--
“Deal, Barnett. The night’s young.”
Mortimer was staring at him too, Phillip saw. Did he suspect something? Casually, Phillip pulled out his watch, and clicked it open. “You’re correct, Mortimer. But I must confess, playing for these chicken stakes is becoming tedious. What do you say we excuse the ladies and play a real game?”
Mortimer gaped a little, then a cunning gleam lit his eyes. “Certainly, certainly, if that is your wish.”
“But Bernard!” wailed Aunt Letty. “I’m not ready to quit.”
“Aunt Letty,” Margaret intervened smoothly. “Let’s watch for a few hands. Please?”
The old woman grumbled, but said no more.
Snapping the watch closed, Phillip laid it on the table and shuffled the deck, fumbling slightly. A card dropped to the floor. He picked it up, raising it high to show Mortimer the crease now running across its length.
“How terribly clumsy of me,” Phillip apologized. “I’ve bent the card. I’m afraid we’ll need a new deck.”
Mortimer frowned, but since he had no choice, he called for a fresh deck.
Phillip took the new deck and fanned the cards out on the table. With a flick of his finger, he turned them over before gathering them back up. He felt the sides and ends, then held up a card, tilting it at an angle to the light. On the plain white back he saw a small spot.
“Dear me,” he drawled. “How unfortunate. This deck appears to have some sort of defect. The glaze on the cards is not evenly applied. Perhaps we should have another deck, Mortimer.”
Their eyes met. Mortimer’s expression of astonishment gave way to wariness, and then to dark anger. His fingers clenched the stem of his wineglass. The line of his mouth tightened, and he nodded curtly to the servant. “A new deck. Make sure it has no...blemishes.”
Phillip repeated his examination on the new deck. Satisfied, he nodded, and the game began.
In the hours that followed, Phillip won hand after hand. He steadily increased the bets until enormous amounts of money were riding on each deal. A crowd began to gather around, watching the silent duel, until almost all the other tables were empty.
To the watchers, it seemed the Viscount Barnett had an uncanny knack for knowing when his hand couldn’t beat Mortimer’s. Time after time he threw his cards in, allowing Mortimer to win only a small pool. At other times, Phillip drove the pool so high, the onlookers gasped. Occasionally Mortimer would stare at Phillip, his expression a mixture of rage and bewilderment.
“Ready to quit, Morty old fellow?” Phillip asked after Mortimer suffered one particularly devastating loss. “Seems your luck is definitely out tonight.”
The crowd murmured as Mortimer threw down his cards and stood up. His face reddened with fury, veins throbbing at his temples. “Perhaps that would be wise,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It is always wise to quit, when your courage fails you,” said Phillip, shuffling the cards negligently through his strong fingers.
In the sudden silence, the only sound was Mortimer’s rasping breath. The two men’s gazes locked and battled. Then Phillip tilted his head back slightly and smiled.
Mortimer’s face grew pale. “No one can question my courage,” he snarled. He looked around at the watching faces. No one moved. His face paper-white, he sat down again.
The game went on.
They stopped a few times, to send for paper and ink so Mortimer could write out an I.O.U., but other than that, they did not pause. It was almost dawn when Mortimer finally said in a queer voice, “That’s it. You’ve won everything I own, Barnett.” Sweat rolled down his face. His skin was a sickly grey color.
Phillip tapped his fingers against the watch lying before him. “I’m willing to play one final game, Mortimer.”
“Don’t toy with me,” Mortimer bit out. “I have nothing left.”
“Actually, you do have something. Something I want. The ruby ring on your finger. I’m willing to wager everything I’ve won tonight against that little bauble.”
Hope glimmered in Mortimer’s eyes. “Done,” he said.
Phillip dealt the cards slowly. Mortimer picked them up with shaking hands. His eyes flickered from his cards to Phillip’s face, then back to his cards. A savage smile lit his face. With a triumphant laugh he laid down his cards. Three aces. “You should have stopped when you were ahead, Barnett.” He reached out for the slips of paper littering Phillip’s side of the table.
“Wait.”
One by one, Phillip laid down his cards. The ace of diamonds. The knave of clubs. The nine of diamonds.
Disbelievingly, Mortimer stared at the cards. With a roar of rage, he leapt to his feet. Pulling off the ruby ring, he threw it down on the table, and turned on his heel.
“You may call on me tomorrow, Mortimer, to settle the rest of your debts.”
Without replying, Mortimer stormed out of the room.
Phillip picked up the ring and tossed it high in the air. Catching it deftly, he turned and flashed a grin at the stunned crowd.
A laugh rang out, then a few more.
Soon the room was filled with the sound of howling, roaring laughter.
Margaret, laughing along with the rest, grabbed his arm. “Phillip! You did it! Aunt Letty has her home back!”
He had done it! He laughed out loud and swept her into his arms, swinging her around in a wide arc. Her helpless laughter was sweeter than any music, the feel of her in his arms more heavenly than any Paradise. Setting her back on her feet, he pressed the ring into her hand, and did what he’d been longing to do for an eternity.
Margaret barely had time to see the glint in his eyes and think, No, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t--not in front of all these people, before his lips were on hers and he was kissing her hard.
The room whirled, and Margaret didn’t even hear the ragged cheer that went up. She was too wrapped up in Phillip’s--Bernard’s?--warm mouth, his strong arms, his lean body. Who would have thought that a mere kiss could make her blood sing, her heart dance, her body flame?
Abruptly, the kiss stopped.
Margaret looked up, dazed, into Bernard’s confused eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Margaret felt numb. Huddling in the corner of the carriage, her eyes tired and gritty from lack of sleep, she knew she should be feeling happy, triumphant. Mortimer had been defeated, Aunt Letty’s home was safe, and the curse...was broken?
Surely it must be. Why else would Phillip have disappeared? But everything had happened so quickly, she was having difficulty believing it. She hadn’t known it would happen so fast.
She stared down at her hands, the clenched knuckles of her fists barely visible in the pre-dawn light. For the first time, her mind registered that she did not have her fan. She must have lost it somehow, in the confusion at Mortimer’s. After Phillip disappeared, people had crowded around, jostling and pushing her aside in their eagerness to congratulate Bernard on his victory. She must have dropped the fan then.
She did not care particularly about losing the fan. It had been an ugly thing and she was sure the sticks were permanently bowed from the abuse it had taken last night. She could easily purchase a new one at the haberdasher’s, a much prettier one. She could bear losing a fan.
But she wasn’t ready to lose Phillip. The moments she had spent with him were the happiest she could remember. Those hours had added brightness and excitement to her otherwise dull and ordinary life. How strange that someone who was dead made her feel so alive.
Was he gone? She ha
dn’t even said good-bye. How could he be gone?
“Margaret, please say you forgive me!” Bernard’s pleading voice penetrated her misery. “I don’t know what came over me, but I swear it will never happen again!”
What on earth was Bernard babbling about? Oh. The kiss.
She averted her face, not wanting him to read her thoughts. Through the window, she could see sheets of rain pounding down. In the early morning twilight, everything appeared dark grey. Her life suddenly seemed to be the same lackluster color.
“It...it was the strangest thing. I just don’t understand. All those people staring at us...frowning at us. What a scandal!”
“Oh, pooh,” said Aunt Letty. “Everyone loved it. They were as caught up in the moment as you were.”
Bernard shook his head. “I don’t know what I could have been thinking to embarrass you like that, Margaret.”
She hadn’t been the least bit embarrassed, but Margaret remained silent, filled with the desperate desire to get home and reach the sanctuary of her room.
Bernard began playing convulsively with the catch on his watch. “I must have been insane. Perhaps I am ill. How else to explain it? Or to explain that money! I don’t understand how I won all that money! And that reminds me, Aunt Letty, how did you ever come to sign the mortgage over to Mortimer?”
“Ah, let’s see--“
Fortunately Bernard was so bewildered he didn’t wait for an answer. “I just don’t understand,” he mumbled.
Much to Margaret’s relief, he fell into a brooding silence which lasted for the duration of the trip home.
At the castle, Margaret tried to make a quick escape to her room, but Bernard detained her.
“Margaret, I must know. Can you forgive me?”
She didn’t want to talk right now. Her limbs felt leaden and her head ached. “Of course, Bernard. But please excuse me. I am very tired.”
More tired than she had ever been in her life, she thought when she reached her room. But instead of ringing for her maid, or lying down, she seated herself at the dressing table and opened her fist.