After every single one of Jimmy's barrages of questions and observations had been thoroughly talked though the boy stood stroking one of the grey's silky muzzles with a wistful air.
“S'pose I'd best be off then,” he said with a heavy sigh.
Beau felt the urge to do something. It was a strange thing, he reflected, in a life where he had often behaved with a shocking lack of care, that he was sometimes gripped with the defiant urge to do a good deed. Perhaps he was just balancing the scales, he thought, remembering the low points of his past year. As this included abducting his best friend's fiancé and one of his lovers throwing herself into the river when he had grown bored of her, he felt there was probably a fair way to go.
“Where are your parents?” he asked Jimmy, unsurprised when the grubby urchin shrugged.
“Dunno, dead? Never 'ad any,” the boy said with apparent unconcern.
Staring at Jimmy and knowing full well the rest of his staff would be cursing him from now until Christmas and beyond, Beau made a decision.
“Do you know what a Tiger is?” he asked the boy, the glimmer of a smile at his lips.
He watched the boy frown and purse his lips.
“Aint it some big animal?”
Beau grinned at him and nodded. “A big cat, yes, but that's not what I meant. A Tiger is also a liveried groom,” he said, watching as the boy's eyes widened to a startling degree. “He is expected to be small and light as he must sit or stand behind a fast-moving curricle without disturbing the balance. He would be expected to manage the horses when I was not at the reins and perhaps to exercise them whilst waiting for me.”
Jimmy gaped at him.
“Do you think you would like to be my Tiger?”
Beau raised an eyebrow as the boy made a strangled noise.
“Is that a yes?”
Beau took an involuntary step backwards as the boy launched himself at him, wrapping his arms about Beau's waist. “Yes, yes,” Beau said, patting the boy's filthy hair with caution. “It's quite alright.” Firmly but gently he removed the clinging child by grasping hold of his wrists and thrusting him slightly away from him.
Jimmy looked up at him with glittering eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“D'yer really mean it, mister?”
“Your Grace,” Beau corrected and then nodded. “Yes, Jimmy, if you think you should like it. You need to come back here tomorrow at three PM and you'll travel back to Hertfordshire with me. You'll have to work in the stables and learn your trade, but the head groom is a very fine fellow and I think you'll like him.” Whether or not old Benson would like Jimmy being thrust upon him was another matter entirely but Beau thought he'd cross that bridge when it came into view.
A suspicious look entered the boy's eyes as something unpleasant had obviously occurred to him. “Ye said liveried.” He gave the words no small amount of accusation. “D'ye mean I'd 'afta wear some funny clobber?”
“A uniform, yes,” Beau said, nodding and failing to hide his amusement. “Mine is black and gold, very smart indeed. And before you bother to ask me, yes that will mean having to wash and keep yourself clean and presentable at all times. If you do not I shall put you back where you came from.” Beau watched this terrible threat hit home as the boy swallowed.
“Right ye are then, mister ... mister Grace,” he said, with dignity and looking very much as if he'd agreed to some great sacrifice.
Beau sighed. “Very well,” he said, handing the boy a shilling. “Go and get yourself some dinner and be back here tomorrow. I'll tell them to expect you so you won't get thrown out.”
The boy took the money from his fingers and glanced up at Beau as though he was looking at some godly figure brought down from the heavens. “I'll be 'ere, mister.”
Chapter 14
“Wherein the stakes are raised.”
Beau watched his wife as she set her napkin aside. She had seemed particularly distracted this evening, barely listening to a word he'd said and toying with the shockingly expensive meal before them with little appetite.
It had not escaped his notice that her shopping expedition, which had apparently been of some urgency, had produced no visible signs of expenditure. No hat boxes, bags or packages of any kind had been in evidence. It occurred to Beau to comment that she may well be cleverer than most men of his acquaintance, but she had a way to go if she meant to continue practising in deception. For some reason, though, he couldn't bring himself to say anything on the matter. Neither did he confront her or demand what the devil she had been doing.
The idea that he hadn't asked because he was afraid of the answer was one that sat ill with him but was nonetheless true. He could not believe she was playing him false. If she'd had a lover when they'd met why hadn't he helped her out of her predicament? If her heart had been engaged elsewhere surely she'd never agreed to have married him?
No. He wouldn't believe there was a man involved, not unless he saw it with his own eyes. But she wasn't telling him the truth about something and that bothered him. Why didn't she trust him?
He waited until the staff had cleared the table and left them alone in the private parlour knowing that any minute she would excuse herself and go to bed. Except tonight he wasn't going to let her.
“I am so looking forward to the museum tomorrow,” she said, looking up at him with real pleasure in her eyes. At least he'd done that much right. “It was such a surprise that you'd arranged it for me. I don't know what to say.”
“I'm not a complete philistine, Milly,” he replied, the words a little sharper than he'd intended. Why should it be such a damn surprise? Did she think he'd no interest in such things?
She blinked, clearly a little taken aback. “N-no of course not, Beau. I never thought it.”
He watched as she toyed nervously with her wedding ring, turning it round and around her slim fingers.
“I like that colour on you,” he said, a little abruptly, wanting to make amends for snapping at her.
“Oh.” She looked up and smiled at him, a faint flush in her cheeks at the compliment. “Thank you.”
The dress was as ever demur and unrevealing but it was well cut and the deep rose coloured poplin did indeed become her. The Vandyke trimmings at her throat and wrists drew attention the fine quality of her porcelain skin and her delicate limbs.
He frowned as he remembered the vision of her in her bath and the more generous proportions that he hadn't previously guessed at. He realised that she must in some way have bound her figure to disguise it. Something she'd no doubt had to do to turn away Brownlow's unwanted attentions. But she was still doing it.
He clenched his fists involuntarily. Was he to be put in the same category as that bastard? Did she think he could not control himself and would pounce upon her if he had the least encouragement or saw an inch of uncovered flesh? And yet a wave of heat swept over him at the image behind his eyes of his wife, her naked skin flushed pink from her bath. He cursed inwardly as desire waged with his current purpose.
“Well,” she said, moving as though she would get to her feet. “I had better go to bed. Museums are such fatiguing things and I don't want to miss anything.”
“No,” he said in a rather abrupt manner, torn from his heated day dream to the reality of the woman across the table. “I would like your company, Milly. If you think you can bear me for a little longer?”
He smiled to take the sting out of the words but felt too keenly her desire to get away from him to make them totally bland.
She dithered for a moment, half way out of her seat.
“Very well, Beau. If you would like me to,” she replied with a polite rather than warm smile of acceptance.
He noticed that she said nothing to argue the fact that she found his company tiresome. He tried to ignore that and started to deal cards out onto the table.
“Do you play Pharo?” he asked, watching her eyes widen as he gave out the cards.
She shook her head, making the tiny pearl ea
rrings dance against her slender neck. “No. I never have.”
“Good,” he replied, smiling at her. “I'm going to teach you.”
She looked up at him in surprise but offered no comment.
With a particularly unchivalrous manner, he rattled through the rules at a lightning pace. This would put his little bird on her mettle, he thought with grin. “Each player has a Livret or thirteen cards plus four other cards which are called figures. I'm limiting the play to a guinea a counter.” He put into her hands a dozen mother of pearl counters. “I know you're good for it,” he said, winking at her. “So the punter, that's you, chooses your card or cards and places them face down at the head of those betted on.”
He shuffled the pack as she placed her bet, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to follow his instructions.
“I'm going to now turn up a card from the top of the pack, laying the first on my right the second on my left and so on until all the pack is gone. The card to the right is the bank's, in other words mine. The card on the left is yours. I win if the card you've bet on turns up on the right and you lose half your stake. I lose if it's on left.” He paused and smiled at her. “Simple enough?” he asked, raising one eyebrow and knowing damn well that was only the start of it.
They began to play and Beau continued to explain the perfectly bewildering set of rules as they went along. It had taken him a fair amount of time to get to grips with it himself, and many years before he had become a seriously accomplished player.
He naturally won the first two rounds with ease but was increasingly aware that with each turn of the card, Milly seemed to grasp how the game should proceed with astonishing speed.
“So that's a paix to the sept a la va,” she said with a little frown of doubt, as he won a third time and decided to proceed. “And if you win again, you are entitled to fifteen times the amount of the stake?”
He looked up at her with a little glow of pride filling his chest. “Quite so, love.”
“Gracious,” she replied, shaking her head. “No wonder fortunes are lost at the tables. I can see how the cards could run away with you.”
She gave a little crow of delight as the card turned up on her side of the deck. “So now I can make a paix parolet by doubling the card, so that's six times the stake?”
Beau nodded, and sat back in his seat, watching with amusement as her dark eyes glittered with excitement.
“How many cards in hand?” she demanded.
“Eight.”
“So that's five to three in favour of the bank,” she muttered, biting her lip.
“You really are quite extraordinary, little bird,” he said watching her and quite unable to keep the affection from his voice. But Milly didn't respond, too lost in the game, her mind calculating the coming odds and figuring out her next move.
“I made a new friend today,” he remarked as she finally made her play.
“Oh,” she said absently.
“Yes, a delightful little rogue. He's coming to Ware with us. I hope you don't mind?”
“Not in the least,” she said, watching him turn the cards over with anxiety.
“I met him on the way back from the museum,” he added, wondering when she'd start listening to him. “We found a common interest in horses and fancy French pastries.”
“That's nice,” she said. “Oh, I win that!”
He looked at the upturned card and nodded. “So you do.”
“So I continue with a sept a la va.”
“As you wish, Milly.”
They played in silence for a while, with Beau still winning but finding he had to concentrate rather harder to do so.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Milly?” he enquired, looking at her rapt expression with a smile. She was rubbing her finger back and forth over her full lower lip in an absent manner that Beau found he had trouble looking away from.
“What?” she asked, pausing and looking up. “Oh yes, very much. It's terribly absorbing isn't it?”
“I think so,” he replied wondering if he could really goad her into accepting his bet, and if he was really as certain as he had been of winning it. “I wonder if you are brave enough for a proper wager?” This was said with a considering tone, his eyes fixed on hers.
She looked a little startled by his proposition. “But Beau, a Guinea a counter is hardly a trifling sum.”
“Not if you were playing anyone but your husband, no. But I hardly think you expect me to hold you to it if you lose your fortune?”
His wife gave a slightly nervous laugh of agreement. “No, of course, you're quite right.”
He watched her turning one of the mother of pearl counters around in her fingers and smiled. “No, you see to understand the true nature of gambling you have to bet something that you don't wish to lose. Something that is significant to you, no matter the financial value of it.”
“What do you wish me to stake, Beau?” she asked looking up at him, the trepidation in her eyes only too obvious.
“Don't look so terrified,” he said, laughing at her and reaching for his drink. He took a sip, watching her over the rim of his glass before setting it down on the table. “If I win overall, you will stop wearing your hair scraped back in that unbecoming fashion and accompany me to the modiste where I will have the choice of three gowns, which you will wear, Milly.”
He watched the blush sear her pale complexion, though he was unsure if embarrassment or fury was the cause of it. There was an icy silence.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do you accept my wager?”
“Of course, your Grace,” she replied with dignity. “Though if my appearance causes you embarrassment I wonder that you haven't mentioned it before.”
“Oh, stop talking such fustian!” he threw back at her with obvious annoyance. “If I was embarrassed by you I would hardly have married you. I am damned, however, if I will allow you to treat me in the same way you were forced to deal with your despicable cousin. Or am I to take it that you view us in the same light, Milly? Is that it?”
Her eyes flew open and he was relieved at least to believe in the look of horror he saw there. “No! How could you ever believe I would think ...”
“How the bloody hell am I ever to know what you think? You never talk to me!”
The clock on the mantle ticked, the sound amplified by the silence between them, but she returned no answer.
They stared at each other over the table, the atmosphere taut and oppressive. “Do you accept?” he asked, once he had mastered his temper enough to speak with sufficient calm.
She nodded, though what she was thinking he had no idea.
They continued to play and he was aware of how much he wanted to win the bloody bet. To his chagrin his wife seemed of much the same mind and it was with more relief than expectation that he took the hand. In truth he was rattled. She'd very nearly bested him.
“Congratulations, your Grace,” she said, her voice dull.
“Oh for God's sake, stop saying ’your grace’ at me!” he said, throwing the cards down on the table in frustration. “If you're angry with me say so.”
He watched her take a breath and some of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders. “I'm not angry with you.” She looked up at him, her expression defiant. “I want to play again.”
“What for?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed.
“Why, to win back what I lost,” she said, a fierce glitter in her eyes.
He stared back at her, seeing the determination in her expression with a mix of admiration and annoyance. Damn it. Why was she so determined to keep dressing in such a repressive manner? And why was it those bloody high necked, long sleeved dresses were beginning to play on his mind in such a devious manner? It was getting to the point where he thought he might actually run mad if he was granted a glimpse of bare skin.
“Very well,” he said, his tone even. “I accept, but if you lose ...”
He watched as she put her chin up a little, knowing full well that he w
ould demand she put something more pertinent at stake than her manner of hairstyle or dress.
“If I lose?” she repeated, her posture very straight, her breathing perhaps a little fast.
“If you lose, Milly,” he said, staring at her and keeping his voice low. “You will kiss me.”
For just a moment and to his dismay, he saw panic skitter behind her eyes but it was swiftly put aside and her jaw seemed to tighten.
“Very well.”
The next two hours was spent in a tense and silent battle of wills and Beau thought he had never been more on his guard. He had both won and lost thousands of pounds in a single night of play, but none of that seemed anywhere near as important as what he'd stood to win or lose now.
“Trent a la va!” Milly cried with triumph, her eyes febrile with excitement.
Beau cursed and knew the chance of regaining his losses were slipping away.
“Paix,” she said, indicating that she would continue upon the same course.
He looked up at her, startled. “You can't be serious?” he said, wondering if he could turn this around after all. She must know the odds were stacked incredibly against her. No one in their right mind would pursue it for fifth time.
“Continue,” she replied with a cool expression.
Beau laughed. Well the chances of her winning again were so slim it was negligible and he wanted to win dammit. Let her play.
He turned the cards and felt a jolt of disbelief as her card turned up.
Milly smacked her hand down on the table. “Soixante a la va!” The relief and exultation in her win was only too audible.
Beau felt his heart thud in his chest. “My God,” he whispered. He looked up, staring at her. Her cheeks were flushed with her triumph and she stared back at him, grinning defiantly. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I knew it was still in the deck.”
“You counted the cards,” he said in astonishment, torn between awe of her incredible mind and deep reproach that she was looking so damned relieved.
“I did,” she agreed, nodding at him. “Goodness me, look at the time, it's nearly three in the morning.” She looked truly surprised by the time that had passed and Beau watched with growing annoyance as she gathered her things and got up to leave. Getting to his feet he came around the table to her.
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