by Gina Conkle
“A fine plan, but I wouldn’t want to fleece the baron’s esteemed guest.” Lord Bowles looked pointedly at Herr Wolf.
The Prussian smiled. “I don’t fear you.”
Her husband’s jaw clenched.
“Let’s take our seats, gentlemen.” Lord Barnard pushed into the circle, insinuating himself with Lord Bowles. “How is that fine racehorse of yours? Khan, isn’t it?”
Lord Barnard steered the group, and Genevieve’s husband slipped away to the tables. Mr. Beckworth escorted Mrs. Grey to a seating area.
“May I escort you, Lady Bowles?” Herr Wolf offered his arm to her.
She hesitated. Lord Bowles glanced back, scowling at the Prussian. He pivoted as if to come to her rescue, but Lord Barnard smoothly snagged her husband with a question. Lord Bowles looked about to charge to her side, but she shook her head. She’d spent a lifetime fending for herself. It didn’t matter that she was Lady Bowles. She’d not lose her courage.
“I can hardly steal you from here,” Herr Wolf said privately for her.
Genevieve signaled again to her husband with a small wave to stay where he was. “You’ll not steal me at all,” she countered, meeting Herr Wolf’s stare.
Haunted blue-gray eyes pinned her. Desperate and hurt. Longing flashed a split second before Herr Wolf looked away.
“Was it so bad with me?”
Around them, male laughter bounced off the high ceiling. His proud profile reminded her of a painting she’d once seen…a long-ago warrior king who’d ruled the world.
“I’d prefer your escort to my seat.”
His long legs led their amble, the silver tassels on his Hessians tapping with each step. He appeared to take her on the roundabout route to the settee.
“You owe me an answer.”
She stared straight ahead. “I don’t owe you anything. You take first and ask later. It’s your way.”
He flinched, and part of her softened. Not long ago, she had lived in the Wolf’s lair. Reinhard had pleasured her body. He’d seen her fed and clothed. From time to time a gift would appear.
She patted his arm. “It wasn’t all bad.”
But life in the Wolf’s grand house didn’t compare to a certain cottage. Reinhard Wolf had never shared his secrets, never made her laugh, never sought to know her deepest wishes. If she let him, he’d meet her needs…except her heart and soul would not be filled.
“But it wasn’t good. Not enough to make you want to stay.” He steered her along the fireplace before turning to the gold brocade settee where Mrs. Grey waited.
Lord Bowles frowned at them in his hawkish way, a man ready to fly to her aid. Lord Barnard set a glass of whiskey before him. Her heart sank. She was supposed to be here for his support. He’d done so much for her already. She tried to pull free, but Herr Wolf’s large paw manacled her.
“We’re not finished.”
His hand was warm, calloused on the side of his forefinger where he practiced fighting with a blade. The same hand had touched her intimately, brought her to heights of pleasure, and was content when she slipped off at midnight to seek her own bed. Not once had Reinhard begged her to sleep with him.
“Tell me, Reinhard. Do you love me?”
His beastly glower was priceless. “I want you. It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” She eyed his hand on hers, saying firmly, “Now let me go.”
A silk-clad arm linked with hers. “Lady Bowles, I’ve been waiting most impatiently for you to join me.” Mrs. Grey. She smiled sweetly at Genevieve and Herr Wolf.
The Prussian’s nostrils flared at the intrusion, but impeccable manners forced his hand. Born to Prussia’s Junker class, he knew the lay of the land. A curt bow, and his long legs took him to a seat beside Lord Barnard.
Mrs. Grey guided Genevieve to the settee. “We have prime seating for what looks to be a fine battle,” she murmured. “Something tells me you’re at the center of it.”
They sank down on brocade the color of sunset.
Genevieve’s chin dipped to avoid Mrs. Grey’s perceptive eyes, and she stroked the bright fabric. “This is a pretty room.”
“It’s supposed to mimic an aviary.” The widow’s head tipped for a view of the ceiling. “I call it a cage.” She shrugged, her gaze meandering over the mural of red and blue birds in flight as if such beauty were commonplace in everyone’s home. “But I’m more interested in your story. Do tell.”
At the table, Lord Barnard shuffled cards. Lord Halliburton cut the deck. Lord Bowles and Herr Wolf tossed a few pound notes into a pile of money, and the cards were dealt. Mr. Beckworth braced a hand on a timbered beam and watched.
Genevieve scooted to the edge of the cushion. “There’s nothing to say.”
“You’re not getting off that easily.” Mrs. Grey’s voice was low. “I know that Prussian’s involved. You can see it by the way he stares at you.”
Genevieve folded her hands in her lap and felt her mouth pull in its safe, serious line. The lady’s smile danced with life. Upon closer inspection, Mrs. Grey was well into her third decade. Faint lines sketched the corners of her eyes, yet she glowed.
“Oh, very well, Lady Bowles. I’ll not corner you. After all, we’re neighbors. There’s plenty of time for us to get to know each other.”
“You’re staying in Cornhill-on-Tweed?”
“For the time being. I’m a social outcast in most places.” A light frown marred her brows. “Be careful. I might taint you,” she added while plucking another glass from a passing footman.
Mrs. Grey cradled the drink on her knee, and they spoke of safe subjects like Twelfth Night celebrations and Mrs. Grey’s love for archery and water coloring. Genevieve glanced at the gambling table where several rounds had been played. Then she looked to Mr. Beckworth, who scowled mutely at the card game.
In all the worry about Herr Wolf, she’d forgotten about the horses.
Lord Bowles sat, legs sprawled under the table. He stretched free of his coat, letting the green velvet hang limp over his chair. Lord Halliburton held cards in one hand, and his other hand tugged loose his cravat. Herr Wolf smiled and showed his cards.
“Court cards, gentlemen. I win.”
Lord Barnard groaned, dropping his cards. “And you call this a frivolous pursuit.”
Herr Wolf scooped the pound notes and arranged them in a neat stack. “What is it you Englisch say? Child’s play.”
“That’s easily a hundred pounds,” Lord Halliburton huffed before yanking his cravat off. “We should lower the stakes, or I’ll have to yield my seat to Beckworth and send myself off to bed with warm milk.”
Mr. Beckworth didn’t move. “You can keep your seat. Bowles will gamble on my behalf.”
Lord Barnard shuffled the cards, and Herr Wolf cut the deck. “Early night of warm milk for you, Beckworth?”
“It’s Adam. He has the ague. I’ll have to leave soon.”
“And play nursemaid to your brother? Tsk-tsk,” Lord Halliburton teased. “No gambling. Sick family. And no woman to warm your bed. A dull existence indeed.”
Shoulder muscles bunched under Mr. Beckworth’s coat. “I manage.”
“Your new venture,” Baron Atal called from the next table. “I hear you’re single-handedly saving Northumberland from a dearth of horseflesh.”
“Not single-handedly. Bowles is with me.”
“Bowles? Are you breeding racehorses?” A portly man in a bagwig beside Baron Atal spoke.
“Not exactly.” Head bent, Lord Bowles studied his cards, his other hand toying with the whiskey-filled glass.
“How does that work?” the portly man prodded. “Either you’re breeding racehorses or you’re not.”
“Utter dribble,” Marcus muttered and tossed down his cards.
“What’s that?” Barnard asked.
&nb
sp; “My hand.” The chair creaked beneath Marcus, and he raised the glass to his lips for a sip. “The demand for horses has increased in the region.”
Genevieve held her breath. He took a drink and another before returning the glass to the table. This time, Lord Barnard won the pot, and the men proceeded with another round.
“Not a bad idea.” Baron Atal shuffled a deck of cards. “Supplying horses for stagecoaches. With the new bridge, could be a sound business.”
“A hostelry? A bit beneath you.” The dandy Halliburton fanned his cards.
Genevieve’s silent husband wrapped his fingers around the glass. Eyes hooded, he studied his cards and drained his whiskey. She nibbled her bottom lip. It wouldn’t be wise to comment on his drinking. She was his wife, not his nursemaid.
Baron Atal tipped back in his chair, fanning the cards in hand. “Not if you saw their stud. A fine bay. Worthy of Tattersall’s, if you ask me.”
“So he is,” Mr. Beckworth shot back. “Fast and strong.”
“One stud to service all the mares… He’d better be.”
Lord Bowles raised the empty glass, and a footman came forward and took it. “I’ll have another,” he said, not taking his eyes off his cards.
Genevieve sucked in a quick breath. “Perhaps we should return home, milord.”
“Not now.”
* * *
Marcus didn’t take his eyes off the cards. The king and queen of diamonds. Was his luck changing? A footman’s white-gloved hand set a crystal glass on the baize beside his elbow.
Liquid gold sloshed indolent and tempting. Despite the married pair in hand, Marcus’s blood pounded in his ears. The parched sensation clawed its way up his throat. The craving. He swallowed the dryness. He could control himself. Had for years. But his eyes burned. Across the table, the Prussian was too composed.
“Why don’t we raise the stakes?” Lord Barnard put in a twenty-pound note.
The Prussian set his pound note on the pile.
“Our first night, and you’re bleeding me dry.” Halliburton cheerfully tossed out a twenty-pound note.
Marcus stared at his cards and rubbed his eyes. The flat-faced queen warned him: Go home. Pound notes crinkled in his waistcoat pocket. A clock chimed the midnight hour. He pinched the cards, wanting badly to knock the foreigner out of his seat. The Prussian’s ante topped the pyramid of money, an amused light in his eyes.
Sweat prickled Marcus’s hairline. The horses…
He fingered his whiskey glass. His head was aching. The thirst. Hot and needy. Someone’s foot tapped the floor under the table. Halliburton rearranged his cards.
“What say you, Bowles?” Barnard prodded. “Are you in?”
A married pair. As good a sign as any. “I’m in.” He laid his offering on the table.
Silk skirts whispered in the periphery. Genevieve. She wandered the room, studying the murals. Facing the table, Marcus’s stare collided with the Prussian’s. The foreigner’s gaze flicked to Genevieve and back again. The Hessian sat tall and calm. Too calm.
Marcus rubbed his nape, itching to win and leave. Lord Barnard blustered, and the round continued. Marcus discarded a useless four of spades and got an equally useless four of clubs. Light glinted like gold on the Scotch whiskey. He upended his glass.
The king and queen would carry his hand.
Buy the second herd of horses. Save them. The words thumped in his head, keeping time with his pulse.
“I’m out,” Barnard groused and waved over a footman. “Not the hand I needed.”
The Prussian showed his cards. A pair of aces.
“Herr Wolf, you play well, but I’ve something better.” Halliburton grinned, fanning his cards. The jack of clubs, the Pam, the trump card.
Another losing hand. Marcus dropped his cards. An officious white glove set another full glass at his elbow.
“Not my night,” he muttered and sat up in the chair.
Barnard chuckled. “Luck eludes you, Bowles.”
The Prussian split the deck in two. “Marriage must not agree with him. He hasn’t won a single round.”
“Dulled him a bit.” Halliburton stuffed folded pound notes inside his coat pocket.
Marcus ignored the taunts. He knew them for what they were—petty attempts of men to elevate themselves at the cost of another. When he gambled, he kept comments to himself. Gaming brought out a rare facet of his nature. He was less talkative and more watchful. Quick to pick up on little habits, such as how Halliburton’s shoe dangling and tapping sped up when he had a good hand. Barnard’s thumbnail picked the gap in his teeth when his cards were mediocre. But Herr Wolf was icy composure with every hand.
“Women. They always try to soften a man,” Lord Stoneleigh jested from his table.
“That’s my last round, gentlemen.” Halliburton rubbed his eyes. “Today was a long journey. I’m off to bed.”
Marcus slipped on his velvet coat.
Herr Wolf riffled the cards. “Surely you’re not leaving, Bowles. Our game has just begun.”
Marcus’s hand fisted on his thigh. Herr Wolf had thrown down a gauntlet. A hum played in Marcus’s head. The whiskey. The Prussian was up to something, but his mind drew a blank. The foreigner wouldn’t dare try to snatch Genevieve in one of England’s oldest castles.
“Count me out.” Barnard leaned back in his chair. “I’ll watch another round or two. Could be well matched if Bowles recovers his mettle.”
“Sure he didn’t leave it at the Cocoa Tree?” Lord Stoneleigh shot a verbal jab from his seat beside Atal, and chortles erupted.
“With no chance to get it back, not since they banned him,” another man chimed in.
“He may have to run farther north at the rate he’s going,” Lord Stoneleigh jibed.
“Or give you a sound drubbing, Stoneleigh,” Marcus shot back, the mural behind the Prussian blurring. “Don’t forget who won your prized roan last winter.”
Lord Barnard waved over a footman, and a white glove deposited a new glass at his elbow. “And one for Bowles,” the older man said. “Looks like he needs a drink.”
Marcus took the drink and set the glass to his mouth. Small tremors shook his hand, nothing visible. He could control this—the whiskey and his anger and the will to win and silence the room of fools. He took one swallow.
Skirts swished, and Genevieve charged to his side. This night was a dressing-down. It was bad enough the men jabbed him, but the Prussian sat front row, the semblance of a smile on his stoic face. He wasn’t good at smiles. The expression wasn’t natural on his face.
Genevieve touched Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m tired, milord. Can we go home now?”
Herr Wolf’s pale stare dropped to her solicitous hand.
“Not yet.” Marcus kissed her hand, gloating at the Prussian. “But if you want to go home and wait for me…”
The Prussian’s smile fell.
“No. I’ll stay here with you.”
Herr Wolf tapped the deck on the table. “Are you going to gamble or not?”
Marcus pulled out the last of his money. Two fives and a well-creased ten-pound note lay on the baize. “My last twenty.”
Whiskey wobbled in his glass. Eyes hooded, he felt the golden liquid calling to him again. Warmth loosened his limbs. Herr Wolf cradled the deck in his palm, his stare tracing the glass.
“I propose a change. A game I played with soldiers in Hesse.” The Prussian tried to smile, but the effect was a snarl. “One widow card.”
Several heads turned their way.
“A game of sudden death.” Barnard sipped his drink.
The widow card. One chance to win, an exchange card facedown from which to play the round, if a man lacked confidence in the hand he was dealt. Wolf made the card game a test of wills.
Who’d draw first?
; To the rest of the room, Herr Wolf was a foreign oddity, an oversize soldier of no account. Yet he handled cards the way some women handled jewels—with full knowledge of their power. Marcus had underestimated his opponent, a mistake worthy of the greenest gambler.
He waved a hand over the table. “We’ve small winnings here. Why the drastic odds?”
Herr Wolf chuckled. “You don’t have much, do you?”
Marcus tugged at his neckcloth. His enemy across the table didn’t move, yet he stalked him. The Prussian’s taunts were snaps and snarls, seeking weakness.
“Is this change of rules because you mercenaries are fond of widows?” Marcus goaded, a slur chasing his last word.
“In different circumstances, I could like you, Englisch.” The Prussian paused. “But I don’t.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
Herr Wolf rested his arms wide on the table, his eyes hard blue slits. “Before I leave England, the world will get another widow.”
“Is that a threat?”
Barnard rocked back in his seat. Two men at the next table peered over their cards.
Baron Atal held up a hand, passing on another round. “Gentlemen, this is a friendly gathering.”
Ignoring Atal, Marcus notched his head at the door. “Why not leave now? No one is stopping you.”
“Unlike you, I don’t run from anything.”
Marcus’s knee bumped the table leg. The insult had rolled easily off the Prussian’s tongue, all the more stinging for the ounce of truth it delivered. The craving burned Marcus’s throat. Parched and hollow, he was a man of rank yet lacking substance.
And the Prussian knew it, saw right through him.
Baron Atal’s guests ceased their play. Conversations dribbled to silence. Chairs creaked. Men craned their necks for a better view of the battle at his table. Some got up and made their way over.
“Marcus.” Genevieve hissed his name. “Please. Let’s go home.”
“Might be for the best,” Barnard suggested.
Herr Wolf toyed with the cards, his cold smile a taunt. Samuel set a hand at Genevieve’s elbow and guided her back to the settee. The world narrowed to the square gaming table. Blood hot from whiskey and insults, Marcus splayed both hands on the baize.