by Anita Mills
She glanced around, taking in the ornately carved bed, whose headboard rose almost to the ceiling, with gauzy drapings extending out to ornate hooks that were suspended from the ceiling and falling softly like a cloud of gossamer to surround the bed itself. The furnishings were in the gilt-washed French style of Louis XIV, both elegant and feminine. And for her boudoir, the last viscountess had chosen patterned damasks in hues of blue and green. He came up behind her to ask, “Do you like it?” as though it mattered to him if she did-
“It . . . it’s very lovely.”
“We can change the colors if you would like.”
“No.” She spun away, afraid he meant to touch her in the intimacy of a bedchamber. “ ’Tis lovely as it is, but I prefer the one that overlooks the garden in the back, my lord.”
“Ah, I see,” he murmured, appreciating her reasons with a sardonic gleam in his blue eyes. “The one at the far end of the hall.”
“Yes. ’Twill suit me quite well, I think. ‘Tis light and pleasant, and the view is excellent. I can sit and read in the window. Now, is there anything else you wish me to see?”
“No, but have you considered that the servants will think it odd that you choose to . . . er . . . sleep so far away from your husband?”
“If it becomes a subject for gossip, you may insinuate that I dislike your snoring,” she answered with a perfectly straight face.
“You will certainly have been the first to note it.”
“Ah, yes, but then the house’s other residents sleep upstairs, do they not? Unless you are in the habit of dallying with the maids, I suppose.”
“No. Miss Cole, are you always so frank?”
“Candor is a virtue—I cannot remember who said that, but I have quite taken it to heart, my lord.” Reaching into her reticule, she retrieved her kid gloves and drew them on. “We really must go, sir, if we are to arrive in the park for me to be properly seen.”
Reluctantly he stepped back to allow her access to the door, and his eyes traveled almost wistfully around the room. Somehow, he could quite imagine her living in it. Catching up to her, he offered, “There is a key, after all.”
“Yes, but no doubt there are two of them.”
15
The second time Tony saw Christopher Hawkins, the boy was getting fleeced. Having decided that Leah needed an evening alone with her ailing parent, he’d gone to White’s, prepared to endure both curiosity and a good ragging over his betrothal. And even as he handed his hat and stick to an attendant, his acquaintances hailed him, berating him for everything from desertion to a mesalliance. The overbearing Baron Bagshot was attempting quite openly to pry into the nature of the settlements when Tony’s eyes caught sight of the boy.
“Just spoke t’ the duchess t’other day,” Bagshot confided. “‘Lyndon’s a fine figure of a man—real Corinthian, that is—out-and-outer, if you was to say it. ‘He’ll come about,’ I told her, and damme if he didn’t!” Turning to Tony, he asked outright, “How warm d’ye think Old Cole’ll cut up when ’tis done—hundred thousand?” But Tony was watching Hawkins push his money forward on the green-baize-covered table. “Well, from all I have heard,” the baron answered himself, “it could be even twice that even—I doff m’hat t’ ye for your good fortune, old fellow. Why, there’s some as don’t like it one bit that the chit’s a Cit, but I say for that sum, I’d take a Turk!”
“Your pardon,” Tony murmured, his attention riveted on the play, as he decided to intervene.
“What the devil ails him?” Bagshot demanded as he left. “Didn’t bother to answer me even!”
“And for that you may be grateful,” Gil retorted. “Tony don’t like to bandy about his affairs, you know, and if he’d been listening, he might have called you out.”
“Over a Cit?” the baron scoffed.
“Over the lady he’s wedding.” Now even Gil’s curiosity was whetted. “By the looks of it, ‘tis Skeffington with another green ’un primed to fleece. But it ain’t like Tony . . .” Shaking his head, he watched his friend bow to Lord Skeffington and greet the boy. “Well, daresay he must know ’im.”
“Lyndon!” Hawkins beamed up at Tony with the enthusiasm of a pup. “My lord, ‘tis Lyndon himself,” he announced to his partner, unaware of that lord’s scowl. “Do you join us, sir?” he asked Tony eagerly. “I apologize for our last meeting, my lord—hadn’t been to town long enough to know who you was. Why, when I told m’uncle I’d met Viscount Lyndon, he said you was a real Corinthian—a true whip—and allowed as you must’ve thought me a veritable gapeseed. Have you boxed with Jackson, sir?”
“I am certain that Lyndon is wishful of supping,” Skeffington cut in hastily. “Whist is scarce his game.”
“Actually, I like it, and am a fair hand at it. And I cannot say I have boxed so much as I have studied the science of it,” Tony answered both of them. “Deal me in, my lord,” he addressed Skeffington.
“And I should like to play also.”
The baron whitened visibly at the sound of that chill voice. “Egad, my lord!” he expostulated. “But you ain’t a hand to play.”
“Perhaps it affords me amusement tonight.” Rotherfield’s voice was silky, his eyes hard. “Unless, of course, there is some reason you do not wish Lyndon and me to play?”
“No … no. ’Course not—heh-heh,” Skeffington tittered nervously. “Just surprised, that’s all.”
“Hallo, Marcus,” Tony greeted him without turning around. “Hawkins, you remember Rotherfield.”
Gil pulled up a chair and straddled it to watch, his interest now thoroughly piqued. Jason Skeffington was not known amongst the ton as Jason of the Golden Fleece for nothing, having earned a reputation for introducing green youths to the pitfalls of gambling. More than once the baron had been accused of cheating, but as his victims were almost always nobodies, the charges had never stuck. Well, if it were just Tony against Skeffington, Gil would wager his friend would not lose a farthing, but the fact that Rotherfield had chosen to join them was cause for concern. It was not usually the earl’s lay to insinuate himself into games, and the fleeting thought crossed Gil’s mind that he meant to take on Tony.
Obviously Skeffington had been outmaneuvered by both Lyndon and Rotherfield, for he sat glowering from beneath heavy brows at both of them, while his victim blithely welcomed them. Tony immediately called for a new deck from an attendant, broke the band on it, and shuffled.
“Whist, is it?” he asked Hawkins, ignoring the baron. “Oh . . . and keep the sherry coming,” he ordered the attendant who’d brought the cards. “Cannot play without it.”
It was equally obvious that Tony had not only come to play, he’d come to win. Pushing the first bottle toward the boy, he told him to drink up, and that also surprised Gil Renfield, for Tony usually kept a clear head when he played.
“My lord, I’d as lief be called Kit, if you do not mind it—all of my friends call me thus.”
Shuffling quickly, Tony dealt deftly, wagered moderately, and won the first game. It was as though he were testing the waters, so to speak, to determine the sort of money best wagered. After three more hands, of which he won only one, he suggested higher stakes, raising brows amongst those who’d gathered to watch once word had spread that ’twas Lyndon against Rotherfield. The assumption was immediate and unspoken that the viscount meant to come about at the tables.
“Thought he’d found a rich Cit,” was the lone furtive whisper that further expressed everyone’s opinion. “Didn’t think he needed to play deep.”
But play deep he did. In less than an hour, Skeffington withdrew and attempted to persuade Kit Hawkins to leave with him, suggesting supper, but the boy held to his determination to play until he could come about. Skeffington’s place was taken by a dandy who immediately went down a hundred pounds.
Rotherfield played judiciously, neither winning heavily nor losing, choosing to pass on some games, playing on others, and all the while watching Lyn
don with that enigmatic look he affected so well. Bleary-eyed gamesters gathered to watch as the hour grew late, and drifted away to waiting carriages when it turned early, and still Kit Hawkins played desperately in the hope he could recoup his losses, which were mounting at an alarming rate. Empty bottles now littered the table and were strewn about on the floor beneath them.
Long before dawn, the boy ran out of his purse and pressed Tony to take his vouchers. Against the protest of Gil and several others, Tony agreed. Rotherfield finally withdrew from play altogether, announcing his departure. Leaning over the table behind Tony, he murmured, “You’ve had the devil’s own luck tonight, Lyndon. ‘Twas my intent to speak with you on a matter of some import between us—perhaps I should call later today?”
“No, I am committed elsewhere, Marcus, but I shall be at home tomorrow.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight is the Wicklow affair.”
“Until tomorrow then.” Nodding a curt farewell, he left.
“Didn’t know you was friendly with him,” someone observed to Tony as he again shuffled the cards.
“Neither did I,” Tony admitted. His eyes met Christopher Hawkins’ across the table. “Do you wish to quit?”
“Can’t,” the boy mumbled, his head drooping from fatigue and too much wine.
“Tony, he’s had enough,” Gil insisted. “He cannot come about.”
“Have you had enough?”
“Got to come about.” Kit’s speech was softly slurred now, but his determination was firm.
This time, Tony risked five hundred pounds, and the boy wrote furiously to cover it. Winning again, Tony picked up the slips of paper that littered the table and stuffed them into his already bulging pockets. Behind them, the attendants swept the floor, picking up coins carelessly dropped in play, and still Kit Hawkins clung to hope.
Slivers of gray light filtered through the front windows, and the watch outside cried eight o’clock. Finally Tony Barsett pushed back from the table and announced he was done. Gil, who’d observed the entire debacle, watched in disgust as he collected his winnings. It was the first time he’d ever seen Lyndon deliberately set out to fleece anyone, least of all a green youth.
“I am for home then,” Gil announced heavily. “Do you need taken up?”
“No, I told my driver to come back this morning.” Tony’s own eyes heavy, he turned to the boy, who now slumped over the littered table. “I am taking him home.”
“Can’t go—got to come about,” Hawkins mumbled.
“Another time. Come on, up with you.” Tony hoisted him to his feet, balancing him against his shoulder, and began walking him to the front of White’s.
When the boy stumbled, he righted himself, muttering thickly, “Pardon.”
Tony walked him, weaving from Hawkins’ weight against him, to the front of the establishment, where he collected both their hats and his own stick. Once outside, Kit Hawkins revived slightly in the cool morning rain. One of the coachmen jumped down to help Tony get his companion into the closed carriage.
Pushed, the boy lurched across the seat to lean his head against the cool pane. As the coach moved into the street and picked up speed, he was silent—so much so that Tony feared he was sick. Finally Christopher Hawkins turned a stricken face to him.
“How must dith . . . did I loosh?” he managed thickly.
Tony pulled out the wad of banknotes and vouchers from his pocket and hazarded, “About three thousand pounds.”
“Three th-thous-thousand?” The boy fell back, scarcely able to comprehend the enormity of what he’d done. Sobered suddenly, he stared out into the London Street. “I . . . you . . . pay you,” he mumbled almost incoherently as tears welled in his eyes.
“Actually, I think it may be a little more than that, but I shall not know until I have a chance to count it fully. I am uncertain as to what I had to begin with, but I do not recall more than five hundred pounds.” After he finished emptying the rest of his pockets, he straightened the wad of banknotes and separated out the vouchers. Peeling off and pocketing several notes, he reached to press the rest into the boy’s hand.
“ ’Tis a bitter lesson, is it not? Pockets to let and no money to refill ’em—a debt bigger than a quarter’s allowance.”
“I . . .” Kit blinked, trying to make sense of what Lyndon had done. “I don’t . . .”
“No. I have kept approximately one hundred pounds of your money for the lesson. Suffice it to say that Skeffington is a known fleecer—he gets his money from fellows like you, fellows too green to know what they are about even.”
“Got it all wrong. I was—”
“You were winning. They always do at first, some for longer than others, depending on how badly he is dunned by the tradesmen. But after a night or two, he takes ’em to the hells he frequents, and then they always lose.” Tony tapped on the roof to remind his driver to stop. “But we have arrived at your uncle’s.”
“Must think me a fool,” Hawkins muttered.
“Yes, but hopefully a wiser one.”
“Got t’ pay . . . gennulman pays if he plays.”
Tony shook his head. “I never fleece the infants, Kit—play me again sometime when you reach your majority.” Leaning down to retrieve the boy’s hat, he picked it up and set it over the reddish locks. “Now, begone with you—and don’t play where you cannot pay.”
Kit Hawkins stumbled from the carriage and had to be helped to his door by a coachman, while Anthony Barsett watched and wondered why he’d bothered with the boy. Leaning back against the squabs, he slid his own hat forward to shade his itching eyes. His obsession with Leah Cole must be making him dicked in the nob.
16
The room was crowded, the air stifling at the Wicklows’ ball, for Lady Wicklow was determined that Miss Amanda’s come-out should be a success. And, given the thinness of the social calendar on this particular evening, the event had turned into a true crush. The dance floor had narrowed by the press of people until it was overheard that “ ’Tis far too crowded for a country dance, and so close that the waltz becomes positively indecent.”
Tony had no more than relinquished Leah’s hand to a dashing young Irish peer than the Earl of Rotherfield edged his way through the departing dancers to her side. His black head gleaming beneath the gaslights, his dress characteristically both expensive and austere, his manner abrupt in the extreme, he managed to insert himself between her and her would-be partner.
“Ah, Barrasford—I believe I am promised this dance with Miss Cole.”
Not ready to give up the field tamely, the handsome Barrasford raised a barely civil eyebrow. “A Banbury tale, if I ever heard one, Marcus. You are but just arrived, and Tony put her in my care.”
“Ask Miss Cole.” Rotherfield shrugged indifferently and waited for Leah’s answer.
Perplexed, she looked from one man to the other, and her interest was piqued by the earl’s self-assurance. “Yes, ’tis true,” she heard herself say to the disappointed Barrasford, “but I did not see Lord Rotherfield and thought he meant to forget me.” She smiled apologetically at the younger man, murmuring, “But I shall be happy to save another one for you.”
“Now, that was well done,” the earl approved as he led her onto the crowded floor. “You are learning early how to keep them dangling, aren’t you?”
“How could you have known I would do that?” she asked, looking up at his face. “I did not know it myself.”
“I knew it.”
“Well, I think it quite shameless of me, actually.”
“You could have said I was mistaken.” He spoke softly, drawing her into his arms.
“I suppose I wished to thank you for taking me home the other night—’twas most kind of you. I find it difficult to reconcile what is said of you with the man.”
“Lyndon will tell you I am quite dangerous.” He smiled down at her, and for once his black eyes were warm. “You ought to listen to
him.”
“ ’Tis a case of the pot calling the kettle black then, I am sure,” she responded easily, “for there’s naught that can be said of you that cannot be said of him.”
“Almost true,” he agreed readily. “But thus far, no one has accused him of killing a man.”
Her eyes widened and she nearly missed her step at the casualness of his admission. “You are a duelist then?”
“In my youth.”
“And you are so positively elderly now, my lord, that you are ready for the grave,” she teased lightly. Then noting the sudden sobering of his expression, she grew serious. “Well, I daresay you were exonerated.”
“Your pardon—I should not have touched on a matter I have no wish to discuss. As for my age—I am seven- and-twenty, no matter how old I appear to you. A misspent youth sits heavily on one’s face, you know.” His black eyes warmed again as he looked down on her. “You cannot know, Miss Cole, how utterly refreshing it is to meet a female who does not either recoil from my reputation or simper at my title.”
“Actually, I like you,” she admitted candidly.
“You must surely be quite brave to voice such an unpopular viewpoint, my dear. Tell me—how is it that you find yourself betrothed to the irrepressible Tony Barsett?”
“I thought you knew—indeed, I think everyone does.” She colored slightly, remembering the gossip she’d overheard, and spoke into his shoulder. “ ’Tis but a simple business arrangement between him and my father—his title for Papa’s money, if you would have the truth of it.”
“What—can it be that you are so unlike other females that you have not fallen victim to Lyndon’s charm?” he quizzed her. “Can it be that you are impervious to the dashing Tony Barsett?”
“ ’Tis difficult to be charmed by a rakehell and a gamester, my lord,” she retorted stiffly.
“Your pardon. ’Twas not my intent to overset you.”