The Last Gamble

by Anabelle Bryant

  ‘You were going to kiss me to convince me.’ Her voice trembled though there was no mistaking the incredulous shock in her accusation. ‘That is the work of a scoundrel, a scapegrace.’ She was hot now too, but it had nothing to do with her anticipation of his kiss or the heated temperature in the kitchen, absolutely nothing to do with his devastatingly handsome disarray. No, insult fuelled her temper instead. Indignation reared up to trample disappointment and the foolish incrimination she’d practically disregarded her principles. ‘Did you think me a lonely spinster, desperate for attention and willing to compromise my decision with the first touch of your mouth on mine?’ Her face warmed with the picture drawn by the words but she continued, her emotions dismantled, a runaway carriage wheel, wobbly, off course, and out of control. ‘How dare you? I demand you go.’

  ‘Don’t bother throwing me out.’ He strode towards the front door. ‘I’m already leaving.’

  ‘Good. Leave.’ She sounded a petulant child, or worse, a peevish shrew. ‘And don’t come back.’

  She doubted he heard her last declaration, the slam of the door punctuating their argument effectively. Locked in another room, Biscuit barked his approval.

  ‘Where is he?’ Jonathan Wraxall, Viscount Dursley, stormed across the hell floor to the corner where Cole Hewitt and Maxwell Sinclair, proprietors of the exclusive gambling establishment, loitered in conversation and assessment of the night’s activities. ‘Where’s my bastard brother? I need to see him now.’

  ‘Not here, Dursley.’ Cole hardly spared him a glance before he flicked his dismissive attention from the mottled-faced aristocrat to the piquet table.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Max offered the man a bemused smile. ‘Out of funds? I can arrange for an extension of credit.’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. I’m here to see Reese.’ Dursley, a prig of a corpulent peer who’d allowed himself to go soft through the middle, huffed a breath, impatient in the assumption his bluster would gain him the result desired.

  ‘Can’t help you then.’ Cole took a step forward, bored with the conversation and anxious to be done with Dursley the same way one swatted a pestering gnat. ‘I’ll let Luke know you stopped by once he returns.’

  ‘He stole something of mine.’

  A bit of spittle accompanied the angered statement and Cole slanted left to avoid the spray.

  ‘Then that settles the score, doesn’t it?’ Cole continued his journey across the floor, greeting the regulars in disregard of the viscount, who padded after him in full-blown fury, anxious to cause a scene that might better his advantage.

  Cole ignored him. The card tables were busy. Good. Liquor was flowing. Excellent.

  ‘What does that mean? What has Reese told you?’ Dursley raised his voice and garnered further attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Hewitt. Look here.’

  Cole had heard enough. He whirled on the viscount, collecting the man’s lapels in both fists and gingerly moving him backwards towards the door. Dursley’s feet failed to find purchase on the carpet. ‘No, you look. You’re not welcome here. We strive to keep the worst element outside these walls. You’re not fit for The Underworld.’ Releasing the man’s coat, he shoved Dursley at the exit and, with a sharp hitch of his chin, signalled two men waiting for the anxious opportunity to flex muscle and exert their strength.

  Cole brushed his palms together, the symbolic motion figurative and literal. He would have liked nothing more than to wash his hands of Dursley, but until Luke returned his son home safely, he’d tolerate the man as best he could.

  Life in Coventry proved lovely. An early-morning shower had laced Georgina’s cottage with an iridescent sheen and kissed the flowers along the slated walkway with a glimmer of dewdrop. There was no reason to leave the idyllic setting for the horrid reality in London. Coventry was very fine indeed.

  Even now, as she walked towards the town centre, past sprawling fields of clover and alfalfa-blanketed countryside, the crisp, blue sky above and Biscuit at her heels, she couldn’t imagine a more peaceful respite. Homes, farms and fields spanned in pockets as far as the eye could see. If she forced her eyes to the horizon and stuffed unfinished emotion and contradiction farther down into her soul, she could live some resemblance of a pleasant life here.

  With her reticule looped on her arm and the letter to her parents clutched in her hand, she strode towards town intent on posting her message and forgetting her abominable behaviour from the night before. With a Herculean effort to absorb the tranquil landscape, Luke almost escaped her notice, but there he was, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the roadway almost as if he’d watched her house in wait of her departure and now stalked from fifty yards. Which, most likely, was exactly what he’d done.

  He needed to find his son. She would have taken the same course of action.

  She glanced in his direction a second time and could only have unwittingly encouraged his interaction because the detestable man crossed the roadway before she could object.

  ‘Off to send a letter?’ He didn’t bother with the good morning that would have composed a civil, obligatory greeting.

  She noticed a similar missive in his hand. Could they both intend to visit the post this morning? It seemed an odd coincidence.

  ‘Leave me alone.’ A strict catalogue of indoctrinated manners forced her to gentle the request. ‘Please.’

  ‘Now why would I do that?’ He fell in stride as if she’d invited him to stroll.

  ‘I shall scream if you insist on badgering me this morning.’ The threat hardly sounded propitious.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Sarcasm, mockery, or some equally rude emotion danced in his eyes. ‘You don’t wish to be noticed any more than I do.’

  She scoffed, unable to argue with his logic. ‘Are you writing to Viscount Dursley?’ There was no need to mince words. Biscuit already objected to Luke’s company. Best to carry on in a pleasant fashion in hope the pug would cease his complaints.

  ‘Are you?’ His steely grey eyes, the same ones which had heated her to the core last evening, glinted with cold regard in the slanted sunlight.

  ‘Of course not.’ Did he think her in collusion with his half-brother, the same man who’d abducted Nate? Botheration, that insult trumped any offence which came before. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  Her remark may have touched a nerve. His expression softened a notch.

  ‘You’re right, it was.’ He swallowed audibly, the taste of contrite remorse apparently a new flavour on his tongue. ‘Accept my apology.’

  ‘For your rude insinuation?’ She wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

  ‘For a number of things. Thank you for a delicious dinner and kind conversation.’ He paused. ‘It was wrong of me to try to kiss you…’

  Pity you have regret when nothing has ever felt so right.

  ‘…And pressure you to come to London. You should know the two were unrelated, isolated actions.’

  She purposely viewed him with an expression that questioned whether or not he was stupid? Biscuit growled as if on cue.

  ‘Why doesn’t your dog…?’ He shot a suspicious glance downwards.

  ‘Like you?’ She readily supplied the words.

  ‘I suppose. He’s already had the last word and I’ve the puncture wounds to prove it.’

  She quirked the smallest smile. ‘Biscuit is normally a cheerful pup and has never shown poor behaviour before.’ She eyed the dog where he wandered a few paces before them. ‘I can only surmise he reacts to my caution. He is protective and loyal above all else.’

  Loyal? Infinitely so. The pudgy pug possessed the tenacity of a lion. Luke had told himself to surveil the cottage from afar and merely observe what the good governess was up to this morning, but for some reason he could not yet identify, he’d moved across the street and fallen into stride as if a glutton for further punishment. And too, he’d noticed she’d left her hair unbound, the glorious sheen of mahogany tresses well past her waist. He’d
clenched his fists with the desire to thread his fingers through it, measure its weight, hold the silky strands against his mouth for a kiss. Would her hair smell like apricots this morning?

  Damn, if the governess didn’t cause him to feel things, inconvenient emotions when he most needed to be clearheaded. He had one purpose for pursuing Miss Smith and he didn’t need to muddle the issue with sexual impulse.

  And while he’d convinced himself the paper in her hand was likely a shopping list for ingredients to another scrumptious meal, the illogical suggestion it could be a warning sent to Dursley would not abate. Therefore, he rationalized a conversation was in order.

  She did not appear to appreciate his company this morning and he couldn’t blame her. Last night hadn’t proceeded as planned. Her words this morning might be tart, but whenever his gaze settled on her pink, cupid’s-bow mouth, which was fairly often, he regretted leaving last night without a taste. Damn, if he didn’t detect the lovely fragrance of her fancy soap or notice the soft blush of colour tinting her cheeks as she spurned his attention.

  Clubs, spades, diamonds, hearts.

  He needed to pull his thoughts together. He’d striven to feel nothing for so long, but now, with the anticipation of recovering Nate and the misplaced interest he found in Miss Smith, his composure was at odds.

  ‘I’m for the post.’ He waved the paper in his hand to illustrate his explanation, not at all like a white flag of surrender.

  ‘Yes, we’ve discussed that.’

  Oh, she was in full governess form this morning, speaking to him like he was a child and piercing him with an intense blue gaze that evoked the kind of feelings that reminded he was anything but.

  They’d reached the centre of town and he followed her lead across the main thoroughfare and beyond to the postmaster where they conducted their business in silence. And though he strove to hear the soft-spoken conversation she shared at the window, he failed, posting his letter quickly after so he wouldn’t lose her in the morning bustle.

  He managed to join her at the corner adjacent to the fruit and vegetable market where he’d noticed her just two days earlier. Peculiar, how it seemed he’d somehow known her longer than that. Two days seemed more two weeks where Georgina was concerned, and not due to tedium or boredom. Quite the opposite, actually. He found the more he scratched at the surface of the proper young governess, the more he wished to peer in further and investigate.

  He opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted before he could begin.

  ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind, so you needn’t enlist your practised argument.’ She flicked him a flash of crystalline eyes and then returned her attention to the bins of ripe fruit.

  The saucy minx.

  ‘I intended no such thing.’ Even to his own ears, the objection sounded weak. He followed her, two strides behind, as she moved away from the produce stand and advanced to the corner.

  While they waited to cross, a milk cart stalled directly in front of them, the merchant aimed at the cow-keeper shop across the way once the avenue cleared. Biscuit yipped a complaint, though the pug quieted soon after, all at once entranced by the rivulet of cream that dripped from the back of the cart to form a puddle on the cobbles below. The dog skirted underneath and Georgina tsked her annoyance, waving with insistence at the pug in hope he would return to her side. Luke watched with amusement, cataloguing the memory of the provocative and disapproving noises coming from the governess’s mouth. Biscuit promptly ignored her request.

  Luke could amuse himself all day with such nonsense, but a razor-sharp crack of a leather whip pulled their attention to a large dray blocking the intersection where the animal caused a fuss among the travelling animals and shoppers. The rangy mule attached to the brewer’s wagon refused to budge. The driver cursed a long string of words that provoked Luke to cover Georgina’s ears; and then, too, he’d have the opportunity to feel her hair, but he didn’t dare.

  At the same moment, on the opposite corner of the square, a sleek gig entered the roadway. The team of four black horses galloped into the fray, forcing the pedestrians to pay heed and the traffic to capitulate, though the mule continued in deference to his master’s rebuke. All the while, in front of Luke and Georgina, the milk cart rolled forward and Biscuit trailed after the dripping cream, his tongue lolling in pleasure, his tail wagging in euphoric approval.

  Everything from that point occurred with lightning speed. The oncoming team of horses thundered forward and the milk-cart driver, anxious to reach the cow keeper, darted with his conveyance towards the centre of the square, avoiding the belligerent mule and aligning with the large dray in protection. Unfortunately, Biscuit proved neither as agile nor as clever. The pug stood frozen in the roadway as the approaching team stormed forward. The last thought Luke processed was the high-pitched yelp of the dog combined with Georgina’s frantic shriek.

  In a heroic act he would later use to question his sanity, Luke lunged into the thoroughfare beyond the milk cart and braying jackass to scoop Biscuit from beneath the oncoming hooves of the team, tucking the dog into his arms as he moved aside. His back hit the cobbles with enough brunt to force the air from his lungs and eject the pug from his hold, but despite the animal struggled for freedom, Luke clung to Biscuit’s body and rolled out of harm’s way. All he could think was that he’d saved the damned dog and hopefully curried enough favour with Georgina so she’d assist in locating Nate, except it was the part where his temple struck the curb and knocked him unconscious he hadn’t planned upon. He might have laughed at his foolishness if everything hadn’t suddenly gone black.

  Chapter Seven

  Georgina ran across the roadway, bustled Biscuit into her arms and knelt beside Luke, her eyes wide and breath short. Depositing the trembling dog beside her, she leaned over Luke’s prone form, her hair falling across his chest, her nose nearly touching his as she listened for breathing. He groaned and she released a racked shudder of relief.

  ‘As many have predicted, I’ve landed in the gutter.’ He lifted his head and then, thinking the better of the movement, returned it to the cobbles with care. ‘Another moment should do it.’

  ‘Mr Reese, are you well?’ Her voice had escalated to a squeak, but she had no way to stop her reaction. Fear pulsed a violent rhythm in her heart. ‘I’m so sorry. You saved Biscuit.’

  ‘I’m sorry too.’

  He groaned the complaint and slit his eyes open. She moved back the slightest degree to facilitate his focus, though she hovered fairly close to his handsome face. Why hadn’t she noticed the myriad flecks of colour in his eyes, the length of his dark lashes, the strong set of his chin? She’d memorized the location of that dimple, but it was nowhere to be seen at the moment. At their nearness, she could smell his shaving soap, something rich and spicy. She inhaled again, wanting to remember the scent.

  ‘I never expected you to be sorry.’

  His unexpected tease eased her worry. Surely if he contrived a jest, he couldn’t be all that addled by the knock to his head. ‘No. I’m grateful and upset you’ve taken a fall on my behalf.’

  She touched her fingers to his cheek and his eyes shot open, his gaze soft as cashmere. She rather wished they didn’t have to break the moment, but traffic continued its daily flow on all parallels and he could hardly be comfortable scuttled against the cobblestone curbing.

  ‘May I help you up?’ She didn’t wait for an answer and clasped his hand in hers, Biscuit wisely silent as the dog backed away to allow them ample maneuverability.

  Without grace, he rose from the street and brushed his trousers clean, a few brisk strokes and he finished. When he lifted his eyes and matched her apprehensive gaze, she finally found a trace of reassurance he remained fit.

  In a habitual motion, she swept her hair over her shoulders and noticed his gaze followed the motion. ‘First your arm, now this. Biscuit is proving—’

  ‘The bane of my existence.’ He rubbed the back of his skull and examined his fingers. Satisfi
ed when they came away clean, he heaved an exhale and returned her regard, though his trousers weren’t as fortunate. Roadway grime streaked down his right thigh and a wet stain that could be nothing good marred one knee. ‘Hard to believe such a compact creature can produce so much trouble. I’ll be sure to purchase Nate a different breed.’

  The reference to his son did not escape her notice. How appalling she hadn’t changed her mind sooner. No doubt existed now. It was the least she could do in return of the repeated menacing Biscuit provoked. ‘I will be happy to assist you when the time comes for selection, but first let’s get to London where we can initiate Nate’s return.’

  It may have taken him an extra moment to comprehend her amenability because he continued to straighten his shirtsleeves and roll his neck until at last he dashed his eyes to hers, both black brows slanted upward.

  And then that dimple appeared, and her heart skipped a beat. Botheration, she should have agreed sooner if it warranted the boon. Of course, they would need to discuss every detail. She had no desire for anyone to discover she ventured into London in the first place and she’d make clear she planned to leave with expedience. But if by doing so she could help in even the tiniest manner to reclaim Nate, then they would set out at first light tomorrow.

  Every ounce of tension fled his body in a rush, faster than he’d darted out to save her pugnacious pug, more intuitively than he’d noted the delicate weight of Georgina’s hair draped across his chest or the subtle tease of apricot soap as she’d leaned over him to enquire of his wellbeing. She would travel to London. She would help. Thank God.

  ‘Thank you, Georgina.’ She smiled and he realized they’d advanced to an ataraxic level of companionship. Relief, strong and vibrant, fortified his appreciation and caused a tremor of laughter in his voice. He swept his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face as he released another cleansing breath. ‘I’ll arrange for the carriage and driver. It will take a solid two days’ travel if the roads remain passable. Do find a suitable caregiver for Biscuit so you’ll have no worry. I give you my word, I’ll return you to Coventry as soon as possible.’