"I'm more than willing to allow you to win back your losses, gentlemen," Lord Trevegne replied in a bored voice, straightening the lacy cuffs of his sleeve with an experienced flick of his wrist. He glanced slowly at each player in thoughtful silence, a hint of amusement gleaming in his tawny eyes.
The youngest gentleman nervously looked around the table, shifting slightly in his chair, trying to get up enough courage to admit that he was broke. He finally ended up murmuring softly to no one in particular, "Too tired," and relaxed back in his chair with relief at having made so difficult a decision.
"Are you really, dear Charles? Such a pity," Lord Trevegne said sympathetically, a cynical twist on his sensual lips.
Charles Lackton flushed red to his fiery-colored hair, and turned resentful blue eyes on His Lordship's lounging figure, feeling both anger and admiration for the man. He had admired Lord Trevegne for as long as he could remember, the stories of Trevegne's escapades having fired his imagination, until Trevegne had become a legend to him.
Charles was startled out of his thoughts by the shuffle of the cards, the gentlemen having decided on one last hand. He watched in fascination as the cards were dealt swiftly and expertly by Lord Trevegne's long, narrow fingers, the odd, gold ring that he wore on his little finger glowing mystically up into Charles' somewhat bemused periwinkle-blue eyes; eyes as guileless as a child's. He continued to stare at His Lordship's unconcerned expression as he played his hand, apparently uncaring whether he lost or won, even though the stakes made Charles draw in his breath, thankful he was not in on the last hand. This whole game was a little rich for his blood. He had gamed for lesser stakes in most of the clubs, and had only received an invitation for private play at Trevegne's because of his friendship with His Lordship's younger brother Peter. He had thoroughly enjoyed the evening even though his pockets were empty.
The room was now quiet except for the breathing of the two men sitting comfortably in two leather chairs by the fireplace. The fire was cold, the cards spread in careless abandon upon the table, and empty glasses scattered with ashes and cigar butts throughout the room were the only sign of the night's play. .
"You've the luck of the Devil, Alex," the older of the two men stated emphatically, but with good humor. "Sure you haven't made a pact with him? You certainly had Danvers' pockets to let last night, and he's not one to like losing," he chuckled in remembrance of Danvers' red, perspiration-streaked face.
"It just wasn't your evening, George. Next time try to keep that twinkle out of your eye when you think you've got a winning hand," Lord Trevegne laughed as he rose and stretched his long, lean body, running a negligent hand through his raven-black hair.
"I've always thought you were part hawk with those sharp eyes of yours. See a damned sight too much for a mortal man," George complained.
"Don't tell me you've been listening to those stories doing the rounds of St. James? I had thought better of you, George," he inquired casually, pouring two brandies. He handed Lord Denet one as he resettled himself in the large chair.
"I know you're no Lucifer, or devil incarnate, as some seem fond of calling you, your brother among them, but sometimes your luck is uncanny," replied the older man.
"I may have a lucky star, but I prefer to think it's my skill that enables me to win, not Lady Luck. As with most females, she is fickle, and not to be trusted. No thank you. I shall continue to rely on my own devices, rather than to play into the lovely, but quicksilver hands of Lady Luck." He took a sip of . brandy, and smilingly added, "And as for Peter, he's just a young cub following the pack, like young Lackton. He'll soon find his feet. He's just miffed because I won't advance him his allowance. Spend it before I can even get it out of my pocket." He loosened his cravat and settled deeper into the chair.
“I can see that you're tired, Alex, and hinting that I should take my leave, but I've one other subject to discuss first," said Lord Denet, getting to his feet, and planting them firmly, as if in preparation for an attack upon his person.
"I was not hinting that you should take your leave. Why, George, how could I allow you to think me so lax a host as to show my guest the door? Even though it is rather late—or early—whichever you prefer. I was merely attempting to make myself more comfortable." He smiled up at his old friend.
"Well, no offense taken, but I'll say my piece and then leave. I'll say no more upon the matter, this I promise, but—" He hesitated, reluctant now that he had his host's attention.
"Do continue, George, this is beginning to interest me. I gather that you've some advice to impart to me?" Lord Trevegne asked helpfully in a quiet voice.
Lord Denet had known. Alexander Trevegne since he had been in short pants, and knew that the quiet, languid voice was deceiving to those who were not aware that it masked a will of iron and a fierce temper. Lord Trevegne's quiet tones were soft and ominous, and more deadly than a man who raged like a bull. Alex, when angered, struck quickly and quietly. He had seen Alex cut a man to pieces with his sharp sarcastic tongue, reducing him to a quivering animal ready to turn tail and run. Few men cared or dared—to cross words, or weapons with Lord Trevegne, the Marquis of St. Fleur. He was a deadly shot with pistols, and even deadlier at reducing some annoying acquaintance into looking the fool with his notorious set downs and snubs.
George mentally gathered up his courage and plunged straight on. "I think you ought to consider' marrying, Alex. I only say this because I feel that I owe, it to your dead parents, who, as you know, were close friends of mine."
Lord Trevegne gave a harsh laugh. "You're a fine one to be lecturing me, George. You happen to be a bachelor still, or are you planning on joining your friends in wedded bliss?"
"That's not the point, and anyway, I have four brothers who are quite capable of keeping the nurseries full, and I'm too old now to set up housekeeping with one woman." He frowned as if the thought were too painful to contemplate. "But I have acted responsibly and discreetly with my liaisons, which I might add, you have not. In fact, I believe you purposely enjoy causing gossip. You aren't satisfied with one ladybird. No, you have to have half a dozen fighting for your favors; flaunting your presents in every gaming hall from London to Paris. But even that doesn't satisfy you, for then you entertain certain Ladies of Quality whom you treat as casually as your other paramours. There are rumors, after this last affair of yours with Lady Mariana, of kicking you out of Almack's, Now you can't allow that!" George expostulated heatedly.
"I don't give a damn about those clucking hens at Almack's," Lord Trevegne spoke in disgust.
"And how about Peter? What kind of an example are you setting for him?"
"You know, George, if you weren't such an old friend I'd call you out for the liberties you have taken this morn. No one has ever dared to speak to me thusly." His voice had hardened with his meaning, the golden eyes darkened.
"I'm only doing what I consider to be my duty."
George said a trifle too heartily, then cast a look of speculation on the Marquis as he added, "And maybe it is about time that someone began to talk back to you. Do you a bit of good to be given a dressing down."
The Marquis laughed in genuine amusement "You think so, George? I've yet to meet the man."
"Maybe it won't be a man . . ." George hinted obliquely. "Maybe you'll meet your match in a feminine devil in skirts, who'll humble you with a look from provocative eyes that only have disdain in them for you. And if you aren't careful you'll lose her—the only time in your life when you'll desire something that you won't be able to buy or win," George concluded, turning red as he gave Lord Trevegne an embarrassed look, surprised by his own vehemence.
"Well, well, I had no idea that you had turned into a crystal-gazer, George. So, you believe I shall meet a paragon—no," Lord Trevegne paused, a sneer on his lips, "a she-devil if she's to be my mate—who will give me a royal setdown." He laughed again, his black head thrown back. “I hope I've not long to wait for thi
s confrontation. If what you predict is true, then I shall look forward to it with anticipation. It promises to be a fiery affair—be sure to keep a safe distance, George, or the sparks that fly will no doubt set you alight."
George guffawed loudly, unable to repress the smile that hovered upon his lips as he threw up his hands in defeat. "You're a devil, Alex. You mock everything—nothing is sacred to you. But listen, if you were married and settled down, then people would be appeased. A wife will add respectability to even the most roguish of blackguards." -
"If I ever get married, it certainly won't be to satisfy a bunch of snoopy busybodies, sticking their pointed noses into others' affairs," Lord Trevegne answered, a twisted smile on his lips as he continued in mock offense, "and to think you hold me in such low esteem—a roguish blackguard, indeed! Would you have me do penance in sackcloth and ashes, prostrating myself on a marriage bed in atonement for my plunge into dissipation?"
"Certainly not!" George disclaimed, shaken. "I certainly do not hold you in low esteem, Alex. Why, you're a gentleman of the highest order. Your name is certainly not to be held in derision by anyone—in fact I have never heard a slur cast upon the name of Trevegne. There is no one more honorable than you, Alex, but—well, you have a damnable reputation for being a libertine; for seeking your amusements to the exclusion of all else. Not that there is anything wrong in that—but must you always succeed? It's the envy and jealousy of other, less fortunate roués who have been grumbling about your extraordinary successes that have set Almack's to talking."
"I cannot control what others will say, nor can I let gossip rule my life. My God, I'd have to sit home with a prayer book if I did."
"Well if you won't consider marriage, then at least try to be less conspicuous about Haunting your mistresses, especially when they're Quality. Everyone knew about Lady Mariana, even when you threw her over. I must say, I did rather think she might manage to become your Marchioness. Had me worried, that. Never been one of my favorites, the Lady Mariana. Granted she's a beauty, but too damned uppity for my likes. Hear she's after higher stakes, now. The Duke of Linville. Won't be getting much in His Grace, I can tell you. Laughing Lin ain't got much to recommend him except his title and well-lined pockets. Never did meet a more obnoxious character; even if he is a Duke. Knew him as a boy, disliked him then, dislike him now. Got the damndest laugh I ever heard," Lord Denet said disgustedly. "You were too young of course, but—"
"Enough reminiscences, George, please," Lord Trevegne pleaded, holding up his hands placatingly. "I think I have made my .position on marriage quite clear, and to set your over-active imagination at rest, I will tell you that I never entertained the thought of marrying Lady Mariana, beautiful as she is, but then she didn't expect marriage either, I've never dallied with young innocents who would misunderstand my intentions—or lack of them, nor do I deceive any woman into thinking that I have intended more than just a casual liaison." Lord Trevegne's voice hardened as he continued coldly, "And only occasionally will some lady try to extend what had been an enjoyable affair into something more permanent. But it's never worked." The Marquis took a swallow of brandy, and glancing at the silent George added with cynical amusement, "I hope that allays any doubts you have harbored concerning my welfare, and by the way, I shall be leaving London shortly." He covered a yawn with his hand gracefully.
"Leaving London!” George exclaimed as if leaving London was something unheard of. "But, I don't understand? Leaving London?"
"Yes, leaving London. Please, George, you have us sounding like parrots," the Marquis laughed as George repeated his words once again. "I've business to attend to, and I'm anxious for a bit of hunting. Now satisfied? Let us drop the subject, because I've become exceedingly bored by it all. All these questions and answers—I shall have to take counsel under this catechism." Alex feigned another yawn, looking up at George, an innocent expression on his handsome face.
"By God! I do believe I'm boring you to sleep. You are a demon, Alex. Nothing seems to affect you except to bore you. If you are so bored, then why are you leaving town? There's plenty to do here to keep you busy. Your estate agent can handle all your business affairs, so surely there's no need to go gallivanting across the countryside, is there? Cursed uncomfortable if you ask me."
"You've answered that one yourself, George."
"Eh, what?" George bent a confused look upon the relaxed Marquis.
"Boredom, George." Alex returned his look with jaded golden eyes. "As plain and simple as that. I would rather be down by the sea, in the fresh air, doing some hunting, than closed up in balls and assemblies. It will serve as a trip with twofold purpose—relaxation and business, to be carried out at my leisure. And I can promise you that I've no seventh mistress tucked away on my estate, nor do I have designs on my estate manager's wife. However . . ." he added devilishly, "I might have a bride safely secured, eagerly awaiting my pleasure, in the master bedroom."
The Marquis laughed, and rising as if in preparation to retire, successfully ended the conversation. "Listen, George, come down to Westerly when you tire of London. You're' welcome any time."
“Well, thank you, Alex. Glad to know you don't hold what I've said against me, even if I do wish you had a bride hidden away somewhere," he answered gruffly, feeling genuine affection for the Marquis, who he looked upon almost as a son. "Ill be off then, and see you soon, I suspect. Dashed dull around here without your devilish tongue, Alex."
Lord Denet left the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs until Lord Trevegne finally heard voices and the slamming of a door. He poured himself another brandy and stared morosely at the floral pattern on the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet His mouth was set in a grim line, his body as tense as a tightly-coiled spring. He would leave the following morning for the coast, and travel at his leisure. He was in no hurry—except maybe to leave London.
He had told George most of the truth. He was bored with London and the endless rounds of clubs and parties and balls, the same silly chatter and expressionless faces night after night. He felt the need to clear his mind of the fogginess caused by late nights of heavy drinking and gambling, to set himself free from the clinging, destructive tentacles of London society. He felt restless, as if something was missing from his life. He felt as if he were searching for something; but he wasn't quite sure what it was. Hell, all he really needed was to sort out his mind he was just drunk on the gay life here. What he needed was fresh, and clean spring water to wash away the bitterness.
He could achieve this out in the country where the unexpected could happen, challenging him to his fullest capabilities. He needed something to whet his appetite from the monotonous routine of town life.
Alex could feel his blood begin to surge as he thought of open country, the moors and jagged coastline of Cornwall, and Sheik, his big black Arabian stallion beneath him as they raced like the wind across the countryside.
"You're up shockingly early, old boy," a voice drawled from the doorway.
"I could say the same of you, Peter,” Lord Trevegne answered, casting a disapproving look over his young brother, who had quietly entered the room. "Where the blazes have you come from this early in the morning, looking like Hell itself?" Alex demanded as he watched his brother pour out a large brandy from his quickly depleting decanter.
Peter settled himself casually in an armchair, trying to appear calm, but failing to conceal his excitement from those golden eyes across the room.
"You might as well tell me, Peter, for I shall probably hear about it soon enough," he sighed in resignation.
"You'll never guess, Alex, but I beat Teddie's time by three minutes!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.
"Really," Alex drawled, "pray tell me at what? I'm no gypsy fortune teller."
"His time from Vauxhall Gardens to Regent's Park—and during the crush too! His blacks were no match for my bays. All he saw was my dust the whole distance. Never saw a madd
er look on a fellow's face. Of course he lost a bundle, I can tell you!" he stated smugly, smiling to himself as he took a large swig of his brandy, choking as it went down the wrong way, tears streaming from his eyes as he coughed.
Lord Trevegne slapped his brother hard on the back and smothered a grin as Peter straightened, wiping furtively at his eyes.
"There is no record to beat in finishing that brandy, my lad. And, it happens to be one of my finest, so do go easy on it, if not for your own sake, then for my injured senses as a gentleman, who deplores seeing his fine brandy tossed off like a tankard of ale."
"Your pardon, Alex, but I had a damnable thirst to quench and wasn't quite thinking." Peter said contritely, taking a small sip from the snifter as he tried to regain his composure. He stood up and walked over to the window and stared out at the park across the street. The sunlight filtering in played on his black hair, bringing out red highlights among the raven strands. He turned back and grinned mischievously before saying casually, "I'd like to borrow your team of blacks. Nothing can beat them." His blue eyes twinkled irrepressibly as he watched the frown settle on his brother's face, then the golden eyes caught the imp of mischief in the blue eyes.
Alex's lips parted in an answering smile. "If I had thought you were serious I would have guessed that you'd driven your team while standing on your head. But I'm glad that you've decided to pay me a visit. I had imagined myself having to cross the Channel in search of you on one of your crazy antics. But seeing how Napoleon wishes to win this war, he would waste little time in dispatching you speedily back to England."
"Oh, come now, Alex, I'm not as bad as that Just having a little fun," he complained happily.
"Well, just don't get yourself thrown out of Almack's," Alex warned, forgetting that he himself was in danger of that very happening, and of his own scoffing attitude.
"You've come pretty close yourself, and if rumor has it, then—"
"—then you will be careful and remember that I've warned you," Alex interrupted his brother's rebuttal.
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