Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel)

by Johnstone, Julie

  “Better than anyone I know,” the man replied with the smuggest smile.

  “Care to prove that and play in our modest game?”

  Something shifted in Westonburt’s eyes, making them darker, challenging. Alex recognized the burn to win at all cost. He’d seen it in his own face when he was younger and very foolish. Westonburt finally nodded. “I’d love to.”

  Adrenaline pumped through Alex’s veins as he danced Lady Marion down the long lane to the end. The bait was cast. The game was on. And he meant to play for the stakes of ruination. Pray God, not his own.

  Toward the end of the dance, Lady Struthford called for a change of partners, and Alex quickly grabbed Gillian’s hands as she passed while guiding Lady Marion in Westonburt’s direction. The wolf would hardly attempt to devour this girl. She was no beauty and possessed a lowly title. Alex refused to worry about her. He had his own problems. Yet as she danced away with a smile on her lips, he second guessed his selfishness.

  “Developing a tendre?” Gillian whispered as he bowed to her.

  He came up, wrapped an arm around her waist and twined his other hand with hers. “Hardly. Since you trod on my heart, I’ve quite given up on females.”

  Gillian chuckled as they danced down the line. “I’d say your low impression of females was formed long before our encounter.”

  Her words were so true that hearing them felt like he’d been pricked by something sharp. But he wasn’t here to try to figure out anything about himself. “How goes the seduction? I don’t see your target anywhere around.”

  “Quit calling it a seduction,” she hissed. “It sounds so sordid put that way.”

  What else could he call it? He frowned. She was trying to capture a marriage proposal from his partner who she barely knew and certainly did not love. Although she wasn’t after Sutherland’s money, she was pursuing him based on where he lived. Didn’t that make the whole affair sordid? One he couldn’t quibble over since he was helping to lead the lamb to the sacrificial altar. Deuced honor. It kept rearing its ugly head tonight.

  He squeezed Gillian’s hand. “How’s the merry chase going, then?”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “You are incorrigible. It’s a courtship.”

  “A what?” He gaped. Now he had heard it all. A woman courting a man? An interesting concept and one, he realized with surprise, he would not mind having tried on him. Not that he wanted a wife. Besides, he could not think of a single lady he would wish to court him. Now, seduce him… He glanced away from Gillian and forced his mind back to the task at hand.

  “Call it what you like,” he said, hearing the growl in his own voice as he danced her back down the line. “Just as long as it is a success. And judging by the fact that I do not see Sutherland anywhere around…”

  She raised one beautiful black eyebrow. “But you underestimate me. Here comes my future husband.”

  Alex looked toward the direction she indicated. Sure enough, Sutherland strolled their way. Gillian tapped Alex’s shoulder, drawing his gaze back to her, and nodded at the approaching figure. “If you really mean to help me, now is the perfect time.”

  He stood rooted to his spot, absurdly jealous that Sutherland would be dancing with Gillian while Alex sat in a smoky room full of men in their cups telling bawdy jokes. Funny, but he usually loved just that sort of thing.

  “Don’t you have a card game planned?” she offered.

  “I’ll take over from here, Lionhurst,” Sutherland said, winking at Gillian while clapping Alex on the back.

  As Westonburt ambled toward them, Alex sprang into action. He clasped the man around the neck. “Let’s go, old boy. I’m dying to see just how good you are.”

  Westonburt hesitated, indecision flickering in his cold eyes. It was obvious that the man sensed he should stay and protect what was his, but Alex would bet his life that Westonburt’s desire to climb the social ladder would win over good sense.

  “They’re waiting for us,” Alex said, pointing to Peter and his friend Dansby. “Are you in or not?”

  “I’m in.”

  Without a reply, Alex walked away from Gillian, though her tinkling laughter followed him, teasing him with what would never be his.

  * * * * *

  The five men settled into their seats as a servant scurried toward their table with a silver tray containing liquor, their deck of cards and chips. Lady Davenport’s husband might have been dead, but Gillian’s aunt had obviously not forgotten what men wanted from a ball—a place to gamble and good liquor to drink. Apparently, this was exactly what her aunt wanted too.

  She sat several tables over, holding court among eight other matrons. Lady Davenport shone like a diamond of the first water among the drab older women surrounding her. Her old cronies dressed as if they already had one foot in the grave in their dull gowns buttoned up to their necks with firm scowls on their faces. Not Lady Davenport. She wore royal-blue silk, which came to a rather daring plunge to expose her charms. The blue flowers in her hair made Alex smile. Her attire was a blunt, silent statement that she was not dead nor did she care to be old. Gillian must have learned how to express herself by mimicking her aunt.

  Picking up the cards, Alex ran a finger over the smooth surface as he surveyed the table of four friends and one enemy surrounding him. Peter and Cameron knew the stakes were far higher than blunt, and Dansby would realize something was amiss very quickly as Alex planned to lose the first hand. He never lost at cards.

  “Should we draw for the first dealer?” Alex spread the cards face down across the table with a fumbling stroke. One card flipped up, and Alex smiled ruefully. “Sorry. My fingers aren’t warmed up yet.”

  “That’s obvious,” Westonburt said with a smug smile.

  Dansby raised both eyebrows at Alex but said nothing.

  Each man drew a card, then laid it face up in front of them. Westonburt smiled, then reached for the cards to deal them. “It seems my luck has already begun.”

  Peter fiddled with his card as he stared at Westonburt. “Seems so. But I’m feeling rather lucky too. Why not make the minimum bet thirty pounds and the maximum five hundred?”

  “Good God, man.” Cameron smacked the table with a snort. “We are not all dukes with a king’s ransom at our fingertips.”

  “Poor excuse,” Peter replied with a grin. “If you’re afraid to test your skill against mine, simply say so.”

  “I’m not, you bloody peacock,” Cameron bellowed.

  Peter flicked his card toward the pile Westonburt was gathering to shuffle. “Then you agree to the terms?”

  Cameron blanched but nodded.

  “If I lose five hundred pounds, I’ll have pockets to let for the rest of the month,” Dansby said, picking up his glass. He leaned back in his chair and took a long swig of the drink.

  Alex hid his mirth by taking a drink of his whiskey. Dansby had plenty of money, but not many people knew it. The man was a friend indeed to play along so beautifully.

  After a minute of drumming his fingers against his glass, Dansby finally nodded. “I’m in, but only if Lionhurst agrees to loan me some blunt if I end up in dire straits. Quarter Day is a long way off and a man has to eat. What do you say, Lionhurst? I’ll pay you back if it comes to that.”

  Alex shrugged. “I suppose I can afford to do that. But if you end up without the money to pay me, I’ll take it in property.”

  “As it should be, my friend, as it should be,” Dansby replied.

  Peter tapped on the table in front of Alex. “I take it this means you’re still in the game?”

  “I suppose I can’t pull out since this was my idea, though I am now regretting the suggestion,” Alex said.

  All the men chuckled at his comment―all save one. Westonburt stared into his glass with a scowl. The stakes were high, so high Alex would bet if Westonburt lost enough hands, he would not have the money to pay into the pot. But then, that was the point. Alex stared at his foe.

  “I’m in,” Weston
burt snapped.

  “Then by all means, let’s begin,” Alex replied, pleased that his fish had bitten the bait meant to drag him to the surface and strip him of the ability to breathe.

  Alex flicked his fingernail over the edge of the card, causing it to pop back into place. It barely made a sound, really. And if you had good concentration, you would never even notice the noise.

  No one spared him a glance but Westonburt. Testing the man’s mettle, Alex flicked the card repeatedly until Westonburt slammed his fist against the table. The glasses rattled with the force.

  “Do you mind?” he snapped, spittle flying out of his mouth.

  Alex cocked his head to the side. “Do I mind what?”

  “That racket.” Westonburt flicked his own card in a mimicking gesture and glared at Alex. “I cannot think.”

  “Really? So sorry. I didn’t even realize.”

  “Place your bet,” Westonburt said through clenched teeth.

  Alex pushed his chips forward and waited.

  Peter thumped his glass down in front of him. “I can see I’ll have to get the game going in earnest. I’ll see your measly thirty pounds, Lion, and raise a hundred.”

  “Damnation, man.” Dansby picked up one of Peter’s chips. “I might actually need that loan before the night is through, Lionhurst.”

  “Of course.” Alex nodded.

  “All right, you addle-pate,” Dansby snapped. “I’ll match you.”

  Peter grinned. “Then I’ll let you slide for calling me stupid.”

  “I call ’em as I see them, Lord Primwitty. You’re a fool if you think your wife isn’t going to notice you skulking about after losing so much money tonight.”

  “She’ll not notice,” Peter replied.

  Dansby shut one eye and squinted at Peter. “She’s blind, then?”

  Peter glared. “She won’t notice because I plan on winning.”

  Cameron tossed his chips into the pile, matching Dansby and Peter’s bets. “Seems we are at cross purposes, Primwitty. That’s my plan exactly.”

  Westonburt dealt the next card. All joking stopped as each man studied his hand once again. Westonburt leaned forward and spread his two cards face up. “Twenty-one, gentlemen.”

  And so it went for three hands that Westonburt won two and lost one. On the fourth hand, Cameron, who had lost every hand, bowed out, shoving away from the table and storming off to weave around the other card tables in the direction of the door. Alex watched his brother stride out of the room. He favored his right leg as he went, yet managed easily to grab a glass of champagne off a tray before quitting the room. A grand exit by a grand actor. If only Mother would let poor Cam join the stage.

  “It’s your deal, Dansby.” Alex held the cards toward his friend, but Dansby pushed them back. “I’ve lost five hundred pounds already. I’m out.”

  “Do you need a loan?”

  Dansby shook his head. “I’ll squeak by. Just expect me for dinner every night until the end of the month.”

  “Off with you, then. Sparring tomorrow?”

  Dansby rose from his chair. “Make it day after. I’m otherwise engaged tomorrow.”

  “Do tell, Dansby,” Peter crooned.

  “Never.” Dansby turned on his heel and strode away from the table.

  Alex caught Peter’s gaze and blinked three times fast and once slow. Time to go in for the kill. “What do you both say to the winner getting double what we staked?”

  “I expect my luck to last,” Westonburt said, tossing chips worth five hundred pounds into the center.

  Alex whistled. “I should hope so. Just so you know, if it doesn’t, I’ll take property from you for payment.”

  “You’re offering me some sort of reprieve? You, who’ve won but one hand? I’ve no concern of you. If there’s any competition, it’s him.” Westonburt pointed to Peter.

  Peter matched Westonburt’s bet. “Thanks for the compliment. I hope I can be obliging.”

  After dealing, Alex glanced at his hand. He smiled. Really, he could not have stopped it even he had wanted to, and he did not. “Pontoon,” he said simply.

  Westonburt’s cards fell to the table in front of him. “Let me see.”

  Alex flipped the cards onto the table, taking extra care to give them the snap he knew his enemy hated. “Don’t forget you owe me double your stake.”

  Westonburt threw the chips at him from the pile he had accumulated. Alex eyed the remainder and quickly calculated. Two hands to take the winnings and two more to put the man into debt of unrecoverable proportions. Funny he did not feel any rush of excitement for the prospect. Maybe when the game came to a conclusion?

  “I’m out,” Peter said, sliding the rest of what he owed toward Alex.

  “But you’ve all those chips left,” protested Westonburt.

  “I like to keep some money,” Peter replied as he pulled his jacket from the chair and shrugged into it. “I’ll leave it to the two of you.” He met Alex’s gaze for a brief second, then strode away from the table.

  Alex eyed Westonburt. “Your deal.”

  Precisely two minutes later the man was bust. And so began the downfall. Alex drew the chips toward him. “Bad luck. Care to play again, or are you now afraid?”

  “Your deal,” Westonburt snarled.

  In school years ago, the teachers would marvel at Alex’s ability to see something once and remember exactly where he had seen it. He could look at a page and tell you everything on it, word for word. “Special” they had called him. A gift from God. Now he used this so-called gift. The old cards went to the bottom of the deck without shuffling. Without having to glance at the cards, he knew every card that was out of play. Pity every man could not do this.

  Four lost hands later, Westonburt dripped sweat and he shook in his chair. Alex took a long sip of his whiskey, allowing the liquor to wash over his tongue. Anger was a powerful thing. Tricky too. It could make a man dominant or very, very careless. Westonburt had used up his winnings two hands ago.

  Alex leaned toward his enemy. “You should stop. You owe me”―he looked down at the paper where the calculations had been scrawled, though he did not need to― “six thousand pounds.”

  Alex had never seen a man turn green, but there was a first for everything. He shoved Westonburt’s glass at him. “Let’s call it a game.”

  “No. The next hand is mine. Has–to–be.”

  “And if it’s not? Can you pay me in blunt?”

  “I’ll give you my house.”

  Alex shrugged. “It’s yours to give, but I suggest you stop. What will your mother say if you have to make her move?”

  “I’m no mama’s boy. Deal the damn cards.”

  The noise around Alex dulled to nothing as he concentrated. He heard only the beat of his heart, the hiss of his breath and the slide of fate as the cards swished across the table. One for the enemy. One for him.

  Westonburt pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it across his glistening forehead. Alex watched him. Strange, but he felt oddly cold. Just to make sure things went smoothly, Alex leaned in to tighten the line. “I hate to see a man lose his house. Perhaps you should quit.”

  Westonburt glared daggers. The man would not quit. He was backed against the wall. Alex had hold of his enemy’s Achilles’ heel. Westonburt felt inferior, the weakness shimmered in his eyes. Westonburt wanted to prove he was the best. Whatever the cost. Reason was gone, and in its wake, disaster remained.

  “I’ll buy another.”

  “A mere thousand again?” Alex asked.

  Westonburt’s gaze snapped to his. A bead of sweat slid down the man’s forehead and dropped onto the table. “Make it three.”

  Alex flipped the card. “You’re bust, and you owe me twelve thousand.” Where was the feeling of joy from the first strike?

  Westonburt tore at his cravat. “A three,” he spat. “I was sure it would be a three.”

  The man was clever, but not quite clever enough. Alex picked up what would ha
ve been the next card dealt and flipped it over. A three. He allowed a slow smile to curve his lips. “It seems you’re unlucky tonight.”

  Westonburt’s hand clamped down on Alex’s arm. “You bloody sod.”

  “Do you mind?” Alex slid his gaze to Westonburt’s fingers. “You’re mussing my coat, and my valet will have a fit. He is not a man I care to anger. Irish, through and through.”

  “You played me for a fool,” Westonburt growled.

  “Did I? Seems to me you did that all on your own. Now, I suggest you unhand me, unless you now care to test my skills as a boxer, in which case, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “I’ll test you anywhere you like.”

  “Out there.” Alex jerked his arm away, motioned toward the terrace and stood to accommodate his enemy.

  Before he could take a step, a hand clamped on his shoulder and pressed him down. He glanced up into Sin’s shadowed faced. Sin motioned him to sit back down. Alex hesitated for a moment, caught between anger and good sense. Robert’s voice rang in his head. No man worth his salt acts without thinking, though apparently, Robert had forgotten his own worth. Alex dropped the rest of the way into his seat while appraising Westonburt. Judging by the man’s open mouth, Sin’s sudden appearance had dumfounded him as well.

  Sin leaned in with both elbows on the table. “Though I love a good boxing match as well as the next chap, I promised my mother I would keep all my gentleman friends in line tonight. It seems she had some concern about my old chums all coming together in one house to greet me. Some dribble about us busting up the hunting lodge before I left for Europe.”

  “We are not friends,” Westonburt hissed through clenched teeth.

  “And here I thought we’d gotten off to such a fine start,” Sin replied casually.

  “How? By you helping your friend to swindle me?”

  “I did not swindle you,” Alex said. “Vingt-et-un is a game of bluffing. I bluffed. You failed to see it. Now you owe me twelve thousand pounds. I’ll take it in cash or property, but I want it by day after tomorrow.”