“Darius, don’t act when you’re so cross. You of all people know how important it is to keep a cool head.”
“Perhaps I’m tired of always being sensible.” The desire to resort to something other than rational argument had never been more compelling. Unable to look at Flick until he had his temper under control, he focused his gaze on an ugly shepherdess figurine on the mantelpiece. “If I can’t keep you safe then what sort of man does that make me?” he asked, pacing the room so forcefully that the boards rattled.
“You’re frightening me.” Flick stood in front of him so that he was forced to stand still. As soon as he did so she wrapped her arms round his neck. “I don’t recognize you when you’re like this.”
“Even I have my limits.”
He fell into the nearest chair and pulled her into his lap. His anger turned into a cool, simmering desire for revenge as he kissed her with brutal passion, hoping to eradicate the image of Armstrong daring to force himself on her.
“I swear by all that’s holy, Flick,” he said softly, rubbing his lips down the slender column of her neck, “if you get yourself into any more scrapes, I’ll put you over my knee and spank your bottom so hard that you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
Her eyes sparkled. “In that case, I might misbehave more often.”
He took a firm grasp on her waist and glared at her. “Flick, I’m serious. When I walked in here and saw Armstrong pawing you, I was ready to pulverise him with my bare fists. Don’t ever put yourself in that situation again.” He resisted the urge to shake her. “Promise me.”
“Yes, I promise.” She plastered his face with delicate kisses. “If I’d taken time to think it through, I wouldn’t have even stopped to listen.” She tilted her head and flashed a considering smile. “Well, probably not.”
Darius tipped her off his lap. It was either that or remain where he was and kiss her witless for the rest of the night. Not that he would have been content with mere kisses for very long. He ached for her, and having her sitting on his lap, fidgeting, wasn’t helping his cause.
“Are you ready to return to the ballroom?” he asked.
“If we must.”
He stood up, examined her clothing to ensure everything was as it should be, and placed her hand on his arm. “Come along then.”
“What’s going through your head?” she asked. “You’re scowling and, knowing you as well as I do, I suspect you’re plotting something.”
“Perhaps I’m tired of always playing by the rules,” he said with icy determination. “It’s time to invent a few of my own.”
She gasped, perhaps in response to something she saw in his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Come, your family will wonder where you are.”
Darius escorted her back to the fray and took supper with the Forsters. He somehow managed to make small talk with them, all the time plotting his next move. Things had gone too far. Every time he thought of his Flick being manhandled by that monster he was almost blinded by inchoate anger. The time had come to settle this thing once and for all with the Armstrongs.
But not with the worthless son.
Pallister was his target and Darius knew exactly where to find him. He left Flick in Leah’s care when supper was over and found a room with writing implements. He quickly wrote out a document, folded it into his pocket and headed towards the rooms where the heavy gambling took place, sure of finding Pallister in the thick of things.
He wouldn’t leave again until either he or Pallister had backed down. To protect the woman he loved, he would do what he’d sworn never to do. Perhaps there was more of his father in him than he cared to admit. Not only would he gamble but he would risk his entire future—everything he’d worked so hard to achieve—on the turn of a card.
Chapter Thirteen
Darius entered the suite of rooms on the opposite side of the ballroom. In the first a large number of gentlemen were at play. Whist, vingt-et-un, faro and dice tables were all well patronised. Darius forced himself not to turn tail and run as he absorbed the deep sense of concentration, heard the low babble of a dozen different conversations, all of them tense as the players tried a little too hard to appear careless about losing. Desperate expressions told another story, as did the aroma of greed and the predatory demeanours of those on winning streaks.
Rich men throwing their money away for sport, or because they were bored, seemed to Darius the height of irresponsibility. He thought briefly of the poor wretches he defended at the Bailey week after depressing week and the good that could be done with just a fraction of the losses going down in this room tonight.
He acknowledged a few greetings but ignored the interest his appearance had created. It was well known that Darius Grantley, unlike his father, absolutely never frequented gambling rooms.
“Decided to try your luck, Grantley?” someone asked.
Darius didn’t respond, bypassing the busy tables without allowing himself to be waylaid. His quarry wasn’t in this room, but he hadn’t expected him to be. The document he had penned rustled inside his coat, reminding him of his purpose and strengthening his resolve. He sauntered into a smaller anteroom and found Lord Pallister seated at a table with two other men, playing faro for high stakes. A large number of people were observing, since the amounts being bet were recklessly high. Darius recognised Pallister’s two fellow gamblers. They could afford to lose, but not without depriving their families of some creature comforts. Pallister was the only person who could take a beating without feeling the pain, which was why he would probably win.
Pallister glanced up and caught Darius’s eye. If he was surprised to see him, he hid it well.
“Grantley,” he said amiably. “Join us?”
“Thank you, no. Faro holds no interest for me. I have a different game in mind.”
“Really?” This time Pallister appeared wary, presumably sensing that Darius had sought him out for a reason. “You’ve overcome your aversion to the tables then?”
Darius, still burning with fury at the manner in which Flick had been accosted, gave every appearance of implacable calm. “So it would appear,” he said indolently.
“And what would your pleasure be?”
“Finish your game, gentlemen. Don’t let me intrude.”
Darius assumed Pallister was dallying with his opponents, stretching the game out to see how much he could take from them. By appearing among them, Darius had clearly intrigued and possibly unnerved him. One could but hope. Pallister finished off the game by doubling the amount of his last bet.
“Too rich for me,” Lord Parker said, shaking his head.
The game lasted one more hand. Pallister won, naturally, but no one left the room. They all wanted to know what Darius was doing there. It would be all over the ton tomorrow that he took after his father, after all. Had Darius not been simmering with suppressed rage, he might almost have smiled. How little they actually knew him. Darius tried not to resent the fact that, far from damaging the reputation he’d worked hard to earn, this departure would probably enhance it.
Pallister moved from the table and joined Darius at the edge of the room.
“You’re here to issue me a challenge.”
It wasn’t a question but Darius treated it as such. “You must have a guilty conscience, Pallister,” he said easily, “imagining intrigue where none exists.”
“On the contrary, I sleep like a baby at night.”
“Manipulators often do.”
Pallister absorbed the deliberate insult with barely a flicker. “But you are here to play a game of some sort, aren’t you?” He rubbed his chin. “I wish I knew why.”
“I can’t afford to play for high stakes.”
Pallister raised one arrogant brow. “You have something else in mind?”
“Absolutely.” He withdrew the document from inside his jacket and allowed Pallister to read it. He must have been astounded by Darius’s ploy but merely elevated his shoulders in a neglig
ent shrug. “An interesting development, just when I was feeling bored with this dreary assembly. Thank you for livening matters up. What game do you favour? Challenger’s choice, naturally.”
“Naturally, and I choose piquet.”
“By all means.” Pallister snapped his fingers at a footman. “Bring me pen and ink.”
Darius and Pallister waited in silence until a pen was produced. Armstrong signed his name to the document with a flourish, unable to suppress a smug expression. Edward Armstrong had now joined the crowd edging the room, smirking with equal self-assurance even though he was ignorant as to the terms of the wager. It was obviously enough for him to see his father about to face Darius across a gaming table. In his opinion, and that of most of the gentlemen present, there could only be one winner.
Darius was counting on Edward having told his father about the incident with Flick. Lord Pallister would assume that Darius was behaving in such an uncharacteristic fashion because he was desperately angry, an impression it suited his purpose to reinforce.
Darius took the signed paper from Pallister, signed it himself and moved to the nearest table. Pallister called a dealer for a pack of cards. In front of the two players the dealer removed the surplus cards, leaving them with the required thirty-six, and moved a short distance away to ensure fair play.
“Would you care to shuffle?” Pallister asked amiably.
Darius took the pack and deliberately made a mess of it.
“Oh dear. Perhaps I’d better—”
Darius collected up the scattered cards and handed them to Lord Pallister. His son sniggered.
“I appear to be out of practise,” Darius said calmly.
“Were you ever in practise?”
“Ah, there you have me.”
The crowd had moved closer to the table. Darius ignored them. His rage had given way to a feeling of icy calm. He emptied his mind of everything except the task in front of him. He was taking a far greater risk than his father ever had. He wasn’t gambling his estate away, nor was he using money he didn’t have. It was more fundamental than that. Everything he’d worked to achieve over the past several years hung in the balance. If he beat Pallister, then that gentleman had just signed a paper to say that he wouldn’t make public the rumours about Lady Julia’s birth or, crucially, question Hal’s loyalty to the crown. Darius hadn’t added Lady Denby’s vowels to the agreement. If Hal didn’t care about them, why should he?
If Darius lost, he had agreed—well, to give less than his best for his clients and not make any mention of the Armstrong name.
The choice was a simple one. All he had to do was beat the popinjay seated across from him. A man who looked upon him with an expression of extreme confidence tinged with wry amusement.
A man who famously almost never lost at cards.
* * *
“Darius is playing Pallister at piquet.” Rob bounded up to his family in the crowded ballroom and delivered this astounding piece of news.
“What!” Flick shook her head. “He can’t possibly be. Darius doesn’t gamble.”
“He does today. The game’s drawn quite a crowd and it hasn’t even started yet.”
“We must stop him before it does.” Flick, alarm making her giddy, grasped Hal’s arm. “He’ll lose everything.”
“Too late to stop him,” Rob said. “They’re just about to sit down. Besides, no man would thank a woman for pulling him away from a game he’s voluntarily entered into.”
“This is all my fault!” Flick wailed.
“They’re not playing for money,” Rob said.
“Then what?” Hal asked.
“I’m not sure.” Rob scratched his chin. “They both signed some sort of document. No one knows what’s in it but they’re deadly serious about it.”
“I have to see.”
Hal tried to stop Flick but she was already heading for the gaming rooms. Hal and Rob rolled their eyes and went after her. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd, conscious of her brothers flanking her, thankful for their protective support. Darius, her beautiful, conscientious, intelligent Darius, was seated across from Pallister, his face completely devoid of emotion as he glanced at the cards in his hand. She tried to attract his attention but he was beyond her reach.
She glanced at her Hal, who looked as bemused as she felt. “Why is he doing this?” she asked.
“I have absolutely no idea,” he said.
They watched as the players cut the cards. Darius drew the lower card and was dealer.
“May the better player win,” Pallister said, picking up his hand.
“I haven’t any doubt that he will.”
“Why does Darius sound so confident?” Flick asked, sharing a glance between both brothers this time.
“He’s up to something,” Rob said musingly. “Take it from one who knows. I’ve seen that look on chess players’ faces too often to doubt it.”
The spectators had split into two camps. The Forsters stood at Darius’s shoulder, along with the majority of the audience. Many had lost heavily to Pallister over the years and would like to see him taken down a peg or two. Others, she imagined, simply felt for the underdog. None of them could doubt that they were watching something significant occur and didn’t wish to miss a moment of it.
Edward Armstrong and the odious Lord Peters were at the front of the group behind Pallister’s chair. Armstrong glanced across the room, saw her and actually had the audacity to wink. She pretended that he didn’t exist.
Flick didn’t know how she managed to remain standing, such was the fear coursing through her for her beloved Darius. She simply couldn’t fathom why such an intelligent man would do something so foolhardy. Darius never did anything without considering all the consequences first. His lack of spontaneity was one of the few things she occasionally took him to task for. The incident with Armstrong must have pushed him beyond his limits, and so it was her fault that he was behaving so rashly. They would never be able to marry now because he was bound to lose—even she had heard of Lord Pallister’s skill at cards—and he wouldn’t accept her dowry as a means of support.
She felt ready to scream with frustration. If only he would look in her direction perhaps she’d be able to convince him to stop before the game even began. Or at the very least, get some clue from his expression as to why he felt the need to challenge such a man in quite so public a manner. She’d give a great deal to know what the paper they were playing for contained. What she did know was that this was some sort of defining moment for Darius personally and had to do with a great deal more than just a reckless game of chance.
Flick quelled the desire to dash through the crowd and give Darius’s shoulders a good shake, unsure if she were more angry, frightened or plain dispirited by his lunacy. On the occasions when she’d tried to cajole him into acting spontaneously, this definitely wasn’t what she’d had in mind. His calm, emotionless expression scared her and she wanted him to know it. If he really loved her, perhaps that would bring him to his senses.
Flick blew air through her lips. Since he hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction, it was impossible for her to communicate that fear to him. She might just as well not be there for all the notice he took of her. Perdition, she wasn’t even sure he’d actually seen her.
Darius calmly discarded four cards and drew four replacements. Pallister, of course, only required two. God’s beard, Darius wasn’t even concentrating on his cards. Instead he kept looking steadily at Pallister. Flick wanted to scream that he’d hardly get any assistance from that quarter.
“What can he be thinking?” she whispered, clutching Hal’s hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze but didn’t answer her.
They played the hand out and Pallister was ahead by fifteen points.
“My deal, I believe,” he said.
Darius said nothing but reduced the deficit at the end of the second hand. Pallister was now just ten points in the lead. Another hand saw them draw almost equal and had Flick
squirming with excitement.
“Beginner’s luck,” Darius said, breaking the tense silence in the room.
Pallister, still looking full of confidence, inclined his head. “Lady luck can be a fickle bedfellow, but then I dare say you learned that much at your father’s knee.”
“The wretch!” Flick was consumed with the most violent rage. “Why would he say such a thing?”
“Shush.” Hal squeezed her hand a little harder. “It’s a good sign. He’s probably not as confident as he looks since the score is so close. He’s trying to discomfit Darius.”
“But Darius doesn’t look as though he even heard him,” Rob said approvingly. “Good for him.”
“This hand ought to see the game over with,” Hal said.
Flick wished she couldn’t hear so much strain in his voice. She’d dared herself to start hoping. Against all the odds, Darius was holding his own and didn’t appear to be worried. In fact he was the epitome of composure. If he could stand all this, so could she. She straightened her shoulders and willed her beloved to have good fortune in the deal.
“Shall I shuffle?” Darius asked.
“By all means, although you didn’t do so well at it last time.”
Darius took the cards and shuffled them so skilfully that everyone gasped, Flick louder than anyone.
“I appear to have got the hang of it,” Darius said affably, dealing so fast and professionally that the cards were a blur.
“I thought so,” Hal said, sounding mightily relieved.
“Thought what?” Flick asked.
“Nothing. Just watch.”
Cards were discarded and picked up in unnatural silence. After checking the score on ruffs and sequences, which improved Darius’s position, Flick thought she could detect a modicum of concern creep into Pallister’s languid attitude.
“Darius looks so unruffled,” she whispered to Rob. “It must be the face he uses in court.”
“Pallister is no longer quite so self-assured, either,” Rob whispered back.
Beguiling the Barrister Page 17