Madeline’s feet felt as heavy as anvils as she lifted first one, then the other, taking the first steps toward him. As she walked, it became easier. She breathed more calmly. Her color faded.
She was the duchess of Magnus. She had made her choice of mate. Now she would trust him, and let the chips fall where they may.
Unbuttoning her glove, she stripped it off. As she reached Gabriel, she slowly and with great ceremony offered him her bare hand.
He stared at the curl of her fingers, her pale, lined palm, the wrist where the blue veins crossed. He looked up, and in his eyes she saw a flaring triumph and a bittersweet weariness that shook her to the bone.
“Gabriel?” she whispered. She had given him what he wanted. Why did he look so sad?
Cupping her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the very center of the palm.
The pureness of the gesture soothed her fears and renewed her faith. He might be using her, but only to get justice for his brother. He wouldn’t sacrifice her, also. He wouldn’t.
Taking her hand, he placed it on his shoulder and faced Mr. Rumbelow. “Very well. Let us play the last partie.”
Gabriel dealt the cards, twelve apiece, and placed the remainder in the middle of the table.
Mr. Rumbelow exchanged first, then, as Gabriel exchanged, Mr. Rumbelow said, “Tell me, Your Grace, what you intend to do when I win you.”
She allowed her gaze to flick him with so much scorn, he reddened. “If I were you, I would be more concerned with how to fund ten thousand pounds.”
“She is so loyal to you, Campion,” Mr. Rumbelow marveled. “Point of five.”
“Not good,” Gabriel replied to Mr. Rumbelow’s play.
“Trio of aces. So few men own their women’s souls as well as their bodies. It will be a great pleasure to take her from you.”
Gabriel answered only to piquet. “Good.”
“Three.” Mr. Rumbelow led the king of hearts. “Four.”
Madeline stared at the far wall, as humiliated by Mr. Rumbelow’s comments—and Gabriel’s indifference—as ever she’d been in her life. Yet she would get through this. Gabriel would win her. He would wed her. And she would spend the rest of their lives reminding him what he owed her.
The humiliation was temporary, she reminded herself. Justice would be sweet. Justice for Jerry. Justice for everyone here who had been so duped by this shyster who called himself Mr. Rumbelow.
The play continued. Slowly, the circle of ladies and gentlemen closed in around the players, the suspense of the outcome holding them in its clawed grip.
Madeline tried not to watch. She tried to put all her faith in Gabriel’s skill. But how could she not see every move when she stood right at Gabriel’s shoulder? How could she not know . . . that things were going badly for Gabriel?
When the last card was thrown, a dreadful silence gripped the room.
Mr. Rumbelow had won the last trick.
Gabriel had lost the partie, the game—and her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“I won. I won!” Throwing back his head, Mr. Rumbelow cackled with glee.
Madeline struggled to breathe. To believe.
“I actually won, fair and square. Who would have thought? I have the hundred thousand without stealing it.” Mr. Rumbelow laughed again, and the maniacal sound brought everyone to attention.
“Stealing it?” Lord Achard came to his feet. “Why would you steal it? You organized this game.”
Mr. Greene’s mouth gaped unattractively. “You don’t mean you were planning some kind of uncouth heist?”
Madeline’s hand remained on Gabriel’s shoulder. She felt his warmth, his steadiness beneath her hand. And she couldn’t believe he had done this.
He took her hand. He raised it to his lips. Once more, he kissed the palm.
The tenderness of his gesture made his betrayal seem like delusion.
Then he offered her hand to Mr. Rumbelow. “She’s yours.”
The world had gone insane. Gabriel had gone insane.
“She can’t go with him,” Lady Tabard stated in her imperious tone. “We don’t know who his people are.”
Madeline stared at Mr. Rumbelow and shuddered in disbelief. In revulsion. She tried to pull her hand back, but Gabriel held her firmly by the wrist.
“She’s the future duchess of Magnus, not some racehorse,” Hurth said.
How had this happened? Madeline couldn’t understand it. Gabriel had never lost, never, and now he had failed in this, the most important game of his life. Of her life.
“Outrageous!” Monsieur Vavasseur stroked his luxuriant mustache. “Unthinkable.”
Thomasin stepped right up to the table and said fiercely, “You can’t do this. You . . . you men . . .”
Gabriel stood so suddenly, he knocked his chair down. “I lost.” He leaned over the table toward Mr. Rumbelow. “I lost her, so you’d better take care of her.”
Did Madeline trust Gabriel? She either did or she didn’t. She had made the decision to depend on him. Nothinghad changed from a few moments ago. If Gabriel had lost her, he must have a plan.
If Gabriel had done this, he needed her help.
“Oh, I will.” Mr. Rumbelow reached across the table for her hand. “Believe me, I will.”
How could Madeline help Gabriel?
Calmly, she plucked her glove off of the table and handed it to Mr. Rumbelow.
Not her hand, but her glove.
He understood she had agreed she was his, and insulted him, all at the same time, and she saw the feral creature beneath the civilized mask.
Leaning forward again, Gabriel blocked her view of him. “You’ll let her pack a bag.”
In a lofty tone at odds with his red-eyed fury, Mr. Rumbelow said, “Of course. I’m not an uncivilized man.”
“Lady Thomasin.” Gabriel caught Thomasin’s arm. “Pack Madeline a bag. Make sure she has all the necessities for a long journey. The necessities a lady needs for a dangerous journey.”
At that moment, in Madeline’s mind, it all clicked. She knew what Gabriel wanted. She understood—at least a little—what he planned.
Thomasin’s eyes flashed. “I most certainly will not!”
Pandemonium erupted as everyone spoke at once. “You can’t—” “She can’t—” “Shocking!” “Deplorable!”
Madeline stopped them with a gesture. “My valise is already packed. Thomasin and I tried to leave the day before yesterday, and were forbidden by Mr. Rumbelow’s men.”
The voices started again, high and low, male and female, some directed at Mr. Rumbelow, some at Madeline, some at Gabriel.
Madeline spoke slowly and seriously to Thomasin. “Please bring me the bag that I packed.”
Thomasin stared at her as if she’d run mad. “You don’t mean to go through with this?”
The rumpus faded as everyone strained to hear what they were saying.
“I agreed to be wagered. I’ll fulfill my part.” Placing her hand on Thomasin’s shoulder, Madeline pressed it firmly. “Now you, my friend, must bring me my bag.”
Thomasin was slack-jawed with bewilderment. “Please, Madeline, you can’t . . . he’s . . .” She glanced at Mr. Rumbelow. “He’s horrible. He’s always been horrible, and now he’s . . . You just can’t!”
With the sincerity formed of desperation, Madeline said, “Thomasin, if you are my friend, please do as I ask.”
Reluctantly, Thomasin nodded and darted toward the door.
One of the footmen stepped into her path.
“Let her go,” Mr. Rumbelow instructed. “And Lady Thomasin?”
She faced him.
“The servants are mine. If you try anything, I’ll kill your parents.”
Thomasin’s wide eyes grew wider, and she pressed her fist to her lips.
“What do you mean, you’ll kill us?” Lord Tabard’s florid complexion turned alarmingly bright.
“Please, Thomasin, hurry,” Madeline begged.
Thomasin ra
n from the room.
“Are we prisoners?” Mr. Payborn asked in his booming voice.
“What did Her Grace mean when she said they couldn’t leave yesterday?” Mr. Darnel demanded.
Lady Tabard turned on Madeline. “Why did you try to leave? With my daughter?”
“Yes, Rumbelow, and what’s the meaning of all these men?” Lord Achard demanded.
Now they noticed the men and the danger, Madeline thought in disgust. Why hadn’t they noticed as Mr. Rumbelow had them herded in like cattle to the slaughter?
Reaching under the table, Mr. Rumbelow pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Mr. Payborn. “A prisoner? Worse. Unless you do as you’re told, you’re on execution row.”
One of the Misses Achard screamed.
“Papa.” Miss Payborn flattened herself against her father.
Mr. Rumbelow’s pistol moved to point steadily at her. “If you want your daughter to stay alive, Payborn, she’ll hand over those pearls she’s wearing around her scrawny neck.”
Mr. Payborn and his daughter seemed frozen, staring at the ugly black eye of the pistol as if transfixed.
Lady Tabard intervened, her bosom quivering with her indrawn breath. “Mr. . . . Rumbelow! Whatever do you mean by pointing a pistol at that young girl?”
As if he’d been possessed by a demon, Mr. Rumbelow’s lips drew back, his eyes narrowed. “Get them to me now!”
Miss Payborn gasped and reached around for the clasp.
Mr. Payborn pushed her behind him. “See here, Rumbelow, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—”
Mr. Rumbelow pointed the gun at him. “The rings. The snuffbox. Now.”
“I beg your pardon!” Mr. Payborn’s double chins swung as he gobbled in indignation.
“So you should.” Mr. Rumbelow nodded to his men, and around the room, a dozen pistols appeared.
Monsieur Vavasseur embraced his family as if he could protect all of them with his skinny body. “This is the act of a villain.”
“Yes. I’m a thief and an imposter—and you never knew.” Rumbelow’s contempt overflowed and scorched them all like acid. “You bunch of bloody morons—”
Lady Tabard still had it in her to be horrified. “Mr. Rumbelow, watch your tongue!”
“Shut your yap, you stupid old boot.” The pistol swung around the circle that surrounded him. “You fools thought I was so fine. Just like you. Now you’re going to pay.” With a smile, he indicated the crowd with the stock of his pistol. “Strip ’em clean, boys. This is as easy as it gets.”
With a growl, the footmen moved in, demanding every piece of jewelry.
The young ladies were crying.
Hurth raised a fist to protect his mother. For his pains, he received the butt of the pistol to his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious. Kneeling beside him, Lady Margerison wailed as she removed her rings, while Lord Margerison tried to bribe the footman to leave them alone. The footman was taking the money, but he wasn’t going away.
In every corner of the chamber, the footmen were pilfering and the aristocrats were providing.
In the middle of the ugly scene, Gabriel moved closely behind Madeline. “MacAllister?” he breathed in her ear.
Turning her head, she said, “Left night before last. No sign of him.”
“Damn.”
Thomasin came panting back, Madeline’s bag banging against her knee. She paused in the doorway, petrified by the sight of so much violence, until Mr. Rumbelow gestured to her. “Let me see what’s inside,” he ordered.
Thomasin trudged to him and handed over the carpetbag.
Madeline took a long, slow breath and watched as he placed it on the table. In a voice heavy with mockery, she inquired, “Will you approve my stockings, Mr. Rumbelow?”
“If I wish.” Opening it, he looked inside. “Ah.” Rummaging around, he brought out the box containing the queen’s tiara. “Campion gave it to you. Good.”
Placing it on the table, he produced a key.
“You had it all along!” Madeline said.
“Yes. So I did.” He fit the key into the lock and lifted the lid.
She stared at the incredible creation of gold and diamonds, rubies and emeralds. A heavy crown. A royal crown.
An unfamiliar crown. “What’s that?” she croaked.
Gabriel did a double take and stared at her.
Mr. Rumbelow’s long fingers caressed the jewels. “It’s the Crown of Reynard.”
Madeline’s shock was as great now as at any point in the evening. “That’s not my tiara!”
“For God’s sake,” Gabriel muttered.
Mr. Rumbelow laughed again, one of those laughs that started slow and grew in intensity. “You thought it was yours? You thought your father sent it? Is that what you’re doing here in that miserable excuse for a disguise? The prince of Reyard sent it, and I suppose the English blockade prevented his arrival.”
Madeline knew Mr. Rumbelow was dangerous. She knew he was cruel, unprincipled and probably mad. But no one laughed at the duchess of Magnus. She lifted her hands to box his ears.
Gabriel caught her wrists.
She whipped her head around and glared. “Let me,” she demanded.
“I need you alive,” he murmured just loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of screaming women and shouting men.
Of course he did. Still her temper raged, and she tugged against Gabriel’s grip.
“Let her go!” Mr. Rumbelow wrenched Gabriel away from her. “She’s mine.”
In that instant, Madeline saw Gabriel’s face contort, saw his body spring to attention and thought she was going to have to stop Gabriel from attacking Mr. Rumbelow.
But Gabriel backed away. “I said she was.”
Mr. Rumbelow wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t touch her again.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Lord Campion!” Thomasin quivered with indignation. “How can you let this happen?”
Madeline swallowed hard. It was one thing to decide to trust Gabriel, quite another to allow Mr. Rumbelow to touch her. This was worse than when those other men had kissed her. She could feel the viciousness, desperation and victory that drove Mr. Rumbelow. He had been the cause of so much death and so much disaster. She feared him almost as much as she despised him.
Gabriel pointed toward her bag. “Have you got enough packed, Your Grace? I suppose you’ll be leaving the country.”
Mr. Rumbelow stuffed the crown back in the bag. “On a French ship. What an adventure for you, my dear duchess.”
“Hm. Yes.” Rummaging in the carpetbag, Madeline searched for the black velvet holster that contained her pistol. For one horrible moment, she thought it had vanished, and her heart beat so hard she thought Mr. Rumbelow would hear it. Then she placed her hand on the black velvet, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“What’ve you got there?” Mr. Rumbelow asked, his tone sharp with suspicion.
“My reticule.” She lifted it up and showed him. “I trust that’s all right with you?” The query ridiculed his concern. “Or did you think I could carry something inside that would hurt you?”
He didn’t answer that, but she smelled the faint scent of sweat and fear emanating from him. Now that he’d come so far, he wanted to escape before this became a trap—for him. “What do you need a reticule for?” he asked.
She looked him squarely in the eye. “I am a woman. Once a month, I—”
“All right.” Mr. Rumbelow blanched. “All right! Keep it.”
Sometimes—only too seldom—being a woman had its advantages.
“Your Grace, that was a little too frank,” Lady Tabard objected, but feebly, as she handed over her diamonds.
Madeline slipped the holster over her wrist, holding it like a woman who used her purse for nothing more than storing a handkerchief and a few coins. But the weight of the pistol comforted her, and no matter what happened to the carpetbag, she now had the gun.
She looked at Gabriel, who
slowly dipped his head. Just once. In reassurance.
As she faced disaster and possibly death, she realized—she didn’t want reassurance. She didn’t want him to feel guilty about the way he had betrayed her. She wanted only one thing from Gabriel—his love. And she didn’t know if she had it.
“Wait a minute.” Lorne pointed his pistol at Mr. Rumbelow. “That crown’s to be divided with the rest of the loot.”
With a gesture both vulgar and expressive, Mr. Rumbelow said, “First I’m taking the duchess to the bedchamber for a quick toss.”
Madeline looked desperately at Gabriel—who had the gall to look relieved.
“Don’t look at him.” Mr. Rumbelow shook her arm. “He can’t save you.”
Then I’ll have to save myself.
Chapter Thirty
That was the question Madeline should be asking herself. Did Gabriel love her?
Lorne still pointed the gun at Mr. Rumbelow. “I want me part o’ the crown.”
“Do you think I can tear it apart with my hands? Do what you’re supposed to, and point that thing at one of them.” Mr. Rumbelow jerked his thumb toward the desperate aristocrats. “It’s not as if I can leave the bedchamber without being seen. I’ll be back soon enough. Here.” He handed the valise to Madeline, and said to Lorne, “Just in case you get any ideas about making off with the spoils.”
“Ye can’t take it!” Lorne objected.
Big Bill walked up behind Lorne and smacked him on the back of the head.
Lorne turned on him, but Big Bill planted him a facer, and when Lorne went down like a rock, Big Bill kicked the pistol away. “Rumbelow’s goin’ t’ take his pleasure.” He glared at Madeline. “Then we’ll all ‘ave a toss o’ that.”
Madeline’s hand crept toward her throat.
Rubbing his bloody nose, Lorne mumbled, “I don’t want no toss. I want me money.”
“I’ll be back out soon to open the safe and divide the cash.” Mr. Rumbelow’s tone changed from informative to sarcastic. “You can place a guard at the door if you like.”
As Gabriel watched, Rumbelow led Madeline toward the door. Her gait was long and relaxed. She moved as she always did, with a bone-deep sensuality and the confidence of a woman born to a position of wealth and privilege. She seemed unaware of—or unconcerned about—the peril she was in.
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