The Devil's Bargain

by Karen Harbaugh

  There was silence.

  She took his hands and pressed them reassuringly. “But Papa, it is not as bad as it seems. Lord Clairmond is … a most honorable man. He has asked me—no, urged me to marry him. I did not want to at first, for I did not want to accept him on such terms, but”—she gave a little, breathless laugh—“he loves me.”

  Mr. Seton let out a small groan. Eveline stared at him.

  “What is it, Papa? Are you not feeling well?”

  “God! If I were capable of walking from this room, I would take a whip to him in a manner he would not soon forget!” He closed his eyes again, and his fists clenched in impotent rage.

  Eveline suddenly felt cold. “No! Papa, he loves me, he told me so.”

  He opened his eyes again, and his gaze was a mix of anger and sorrow. “My dear, dear Evie girl. You have ever been a good judge of character, but I think your heart misled you. I wish to heavens I had talked with you earlier, but you had seemed so sensible! I have looked into the affairs of your viscount—”

  “Papa!”

  “Granted, it was sooner than I would for any of your suitors, but I would have done it at some time, be he titled or not—and well you know it! But Clairmond is an impoverished man. His estates are mortgaged to the hilt. I do not know if there is enough substance to the man to get him out of his troubles.”

  Eveline was silent. She looked out of the window at the blue sky, ironically untroubled by clouds. She turned back to her father and smiled. “I do not see the problem, Papa. We live quietly and without ostentation. How could he know how well off we are or not?”

  “You know better than that, my dear. The man has solicitors, just as I do.”

  She lifted her chin stubbornly. “If he is indeed as impoverished as you say, then perhaps I can help him.”

  “That is precisely my point, Eveline. How do you know that your viscount did not propose to you—indeed, compromise your reputation—with that aim in mind?”

  Eveline’s heart sank, and she fell silent once again. She had indeed considered the possibility. Her mind roamed back to their time in the cottage, and she could not believe it. Whatever his motives, whatever his actions, she knew in her heart that he loved her. It was in his touch, his kisses, his tender looks and gentleness. But then she remembered the shadows in his eyes, the flickers of anger and sadness she had seen on his face, and she did not feel so confident. She wondered if it were possible for someone to not know their own feelings of love for another. Surely it was impossible! She had known, almost instantly, when her emotions had changed from attraction, to liking, and then to love.

  She shook her head. “No. I will admit the possibility—I can be as practical as you, believe me! But I know it, Papa. I know! Have you not felt this yourself, that you know a thing so well it seems a part of you?”

  Mr. Seton pressed his lips together repressively. “Yes, Eveline, I have known it in various business dealings, and you and I both know my instincts have always been proved true. But love is a different thing, and I have seen too many people swayed by emotion and make disastrous choices.”

  “Ah, Papa, do you not trust me? Am I not your daughter and inherited your abilities?”

  He sighed and smiled at her. “Yes, I do, in general, and you are my daughter. But I wish to tell you, Evie, that though you may be compromised, you need not marry him. We can go elsewhere, away from the scandal. I can well provide for you, and perhaps in time when the scandal subsides, we can look about us for a good husband for you.”

  She stared at him in surprise. She had not expected this; she had thought her reputation, regardless of her actions or intent, would have made this impossible.

  “I do not want you to marry a man who cares only for your money and will no doubt make your life miserable. Certainly you can marry someone else if you are not totally ruined.”

  Eveline felt her cheeks grow warm, and she looked down at her clasped hands in her lap. “No, Papa, I wish to marry Lord Clairmond.” Her voice was firm and left no room for argument.

  After a brief silence she heard her father blurt, “Did he … take advantage of you, Eveline?”

  A struggle took place in her heart, then she said bluntly, “Do you mean, did he seduce me? No, of course not, Papa!” She made herself look squarely into her father’s eyes. That is the truth, she told herself. It was no seduction, for he took only what I offered him freely. I loved him and would have given him my soul if he had needed it.

  Mr. Seton gazed at her, his eyes disturbed. He sighed again and said: “Very well, then, my dear. I shall expect to hear from him soon.”

  Eveline smiled at him affectionately and with relief. “Of course you will. He had offered to support me here today, but I told him he needed to change his clothes first.” She laughed. “He was as sodden and muddy as I, and not fit to be seen.”

  Mr. Seton smiled and relaxed against his pillows.

  But Lord Clairmond did not call the next day, or the next. Or the day after that. When Eveline sent a hesitant note to the inn at which he was staying, she was told his rooms were empty and he had left Bath.

  Chapter Ten

  Young Adrian Hartley was not feeling very well. He did not know why he had come to the gaming hell—or rather he did, for it was his friend Tom Stamps who had convinced him to come. It was a lark, something he had not ever done. But now, it was no longer a lark. For he had lost two hundred pounds, and he did not know how he was to get it back.

  Adrian looked about him and shuddered. The main gambling room was vulgarly decorated; scarlet curtains clashed with the blue-and-green patterned wallpaper, and the chairs were a sickly yellow. The rooms smelled of port and anxious sweat, and the low murmur of conversation ebbed and flowed like a muddy wash. He wished he had not come. He could see now it was not the sort of place his father would have approved. Indeed, the senior Mr. Hartley would not have approved his suspension from Cambridge, or his travel to London, let alone to a gaming hell. He thought again of the two hundred pounds he had lost and almost groaned.

  He would get no help from anyone, he was sure. He could see Tom slumped against one wall of the room in a drunken stupor. Adrian himself had been bosky as well when he had entered the place, but faro had soon driven the spirits from his mind. For he had been caught in gambling fever, and no drink was as sweet as that.

  But now there was only a bitter taste in his mouth, for he did not know what he was going to do. Adrian saw a man curse and slap his cards down on a table, only to start another game. Perhaps … perhaps if he played another game he would win his money back—and then some. Adrian moved to a table and volunteered to be a fourth at whist. A dark-haired man, impeccably dressed, looked at him up and down. The man smiled wryly and shook his head.

  “Better you should go home, boy. The play’s too deep for halflings,” he said.

  Adrian felt his face flush warmly. He bowed and turned to another table. Again, he was refused, and at another, yet again. His former opponent—to whom he had lost his money—smiled welcomingly at him across the room, but Adrian was sure by this time the man had cheated, although he could not prove it. He did not want to play the man again and lose even more. Yet, table after table refused his offer to play.

  His stomach contracted in painful anxiety. He could not go home, two hundred pounds in debt! He wet his dry lips and ordered a glass of brandy, which he swallowed quickly though it choked him. The drink flared warmly within him, and he felt once again that he must challenge the next stranger to a game of faro. His eyes lit upon a man near him who seemed about to leave the room.

  Adrian did not mean to do it, but he grasped the stranger’s sleeve. The man turned and stared at him, eyebrows lifted. His face was lean and spare, but his expression kind, though sad. He gently pushed away Adrian’s hand.

  A wild despair coursed through him, and he almost wept. “You!” he whispered hoarsely. “No one will try their skill against me. You shall do so!”

  The man frowned and shook
his head. “You are drunk. I suggest you put your head under a pump. Good night to you.” He turned to leave.

  “You must!” Adrian heard his own voice take on a pleading tone and cringed inwardly at the sound, but could not stop himself. “Just one more game … one more.”

  The murmur of the gamesters near them grew a little louder, and Adrian noticed with embarrassment that a few were frowning at the interruption to their game. He returned his gaze to the stranger before him.

  “No,” the man said, but paused. “I assume you have lost money?”

  Adrian felt ill at the question. “I … I will win it back, I am sure!”

  “I doubt it,” the man replied dryly. “What is your name?”

  “Adrian. Adrian Hartley.”

  “I would advise you, Mr. Hartley, to go home and raise what money you can.”

  The young Mr. Hartley paled even more. “My father will kill me.”

  “Be glad you have a father.” Again the man turned to leave.

  “No, please! If my father finds out, I swear I’ll kill myself,” Adrian cried passionately.

  The stranger froze. He turned back once more.

  “Very well, then.”

  Adrian Hartley choked out a sob of relief and sat at the nearest empty table. A pack of cards was already set in the middle. The man picked them up. “Your game?”

  “Faro, Mister …”

  “Clairmond. Richard, Viscount Clairmond.” The viscount shuffled the cards. He gave Adrian a curious look, half angry and half mocking, but he paid little heed. He eagerly snatched up the cards that the viscount laid before him. The youth stared at his cards—not bad, but not good either. Perhaps, the next draw …

  Adrian glanced quickly at the clock and saw an hour had passed. All his attention had been focused on the game, and he had not noticed the time. He gnawed his lip, feeling the anxious hope rise in his chest again, for he had good cards this time. Surely he would win! He looked at his opponent, who seemed to come to a decision. Lord Clairmond put down his cards.

  Hope died, and despair replaced it.

  “Another game?”

  Adrian looked up, feeling half frightened, half eager.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “Very well.” Lord Clairmond dealt again.

  The viscount won again, and then the next one. Adrian’s stomach clenched again, and his playing became mechanical. By the fifth game he felt he could not look at anything but the growing number of vowels in front of Lord Clairmond.

  Once more the viscount took the cards and shuffled them. A low moan forced itself from Adrian’s lips. “What was that, Mr. Hartley?”

  “No more. I cannot …” Adrian could feel himself turn hot and cold at once, and shame filled his gut.

  The youth looked at the pile of vowels before him. He did not count them, but he was sure the amount must come to over five thousand pounds. He looked once more at Lord Clairmond, who put out his hand to gather the pieces of paper. The viscount paused.

  “How much did you lose before you came to me, Mr. Hartley?”

  Anger flared within Adrian’s heart, then faded to dull despair. “Two hundred pounds.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “I … I am just turned twenty.”

  “You are a fool.” Lord Clairmond gathered the vowels together and rose. “Come with me.”

  Adrian looked at him, puzzled.

  “Come! There is nothing for you here.”

  The youth rose slowly; he would not have questioned the man even if he had thought of it, for his mind felt as if a fog engulfed it, and his limbs as if they moved through mud. He followed the viscount out of the gaming house.

  Mist shrouded the night, and Adrian shivered. Lord Clairmond walked in front of him, away from the gaming house, and did not look back, as if he expected Adrian to follow him. The youth dully followed—where else had he to go, after all? At last they stopped at a lamppost, and the viscount turned and stared at Adrian.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  Mr. Hartley gazed at him, uncomprehending.

  “You have lost over five thousand pounds. What are you going to do?”

  A low groan wrenched itself from Adrian, and he covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  Two hands jerked Adrian forward by the lapels.

  “You stupid fool!” He shook Adrian roughly, like a terrier with a rat. “You lost two hundred pounds, and then went on to lose five thousand! What the devil did you think you were doing?”

  “I … It started out as a lark—”

  “A lark! God!” Lord Clairmond shook Adrian one last time, then thrust him away. The youth stumbled backward and fell. “You were a pigeon easily plucked! You could have lost far, far more than five thousand pounds!”

  Adrian felt faint hearing the amount. “I would have won it back …” he began, but his voice faltered at the obvious foolishness of the remark.

  The viscount sneered and stepped closer. Adrian moved back until he was up against the lamppost.

  “Do you know how deeply dipped you could have got?”

  Adrian shook his head, wide-eyed. Lord Clairmond moved closer so that he was eye to eye with him. “Enough so that you’d sell your soul to get it all back. Do you know what it’s like to sell your soul?” he asked softly.

  Fear lanced through Adrian. “You … You must be mad!” He moved back from the viscount.

  Lord Clairmond gave a bitter laugh. “You lose your soul, and there is nothing you have left after that, do you see? Your pride’s only a facade, and your good name means nothing. You tell yourself you’re doing it for your family and your lands, but that turns hollow, too. And there is nothing left in you.” His eyes closed briefly, then he opened them. Adrian froze and crouched closer to the lamppost. The man’s eyes were dark and lost, as if he were staring at an abyss.

  “All for this!” the viscount cried and thrust the vowels he’d won under Adrian’s nose. “The turn of a card, and some stupid pieces of paper that mean nothing compared with all you have lost!”

  Lord Clairmond stared at the stack in his hand for one moment, and then with fury-fed strength, tore it in half. He threw the torn pieces with such force that they fluttered across the street and around them.

  The emotions in Adrian churned and changed from stupefaction to joy to consternation.

  “You can’t … you can’t … debt of honor …”

  “Honor?” Lord Clairmond spat the word. “There was no honor in winning this from you, boy.” He shivered, passed a hand over his eyes, then stared hard at Adrian. “Go home. Go home to your father and tell him you lost two hundred pounds. Then remember how you could have lost five thousand, and be grateful.”

  Adrian stood and gazed, bewildered, at the scattered pieces of paper around them. He, too, shivered. Perhaps he could go to the lodging he and Tom had acquired and borrow some money from his friends on the morrow so that he could go home. Suddenly, his father did not seem the ogre he had thought him, and he remembered all the times the senior Mr. Hartley had easily forgiven him his mistakes, after a hard lecture. Adrian drew a deep breath and finally looked up. “I … I thank you, sir.”

  But the viscount had already turned and walked away into the mist.

  Richard strode through the chill night toward home. He would not go out again this night. There was no place where he could occupy his mind, to keep out thoughts of— No.

  He thought of the bills he had found in his father’s room before he had left the estate. Five thousand pounds. His stomach clenched at the thought. He could have taken those vowels and made the boy pay. He could restore a good deal of his estate with that amount. Marianne would not feel the need to be the governess to Wyvern’s daughters, and Richard could thumb his nose at the earl’s proposal.

  But there had been something in the youth’s eyes, a desperation that had suddenly brought the room
, the cards, the people into sharp focus. Richard had been in a similar situation when this bargain had started with Teufel, and he despised where he was now. He saw the boy, Hartley, imagined him meeting Teufel in the dark of night and soul, and could not let it happen. Richard would not be the instrument of an innocent’s fall—once again.

  The viscount groaned at the thought and looked up thankfully to see he had arrived at his town house. The house was dark when he entered and his servants asleep, but he took one of the few burning candles from its sconce to light his way to his study. There, he lit a fire, saw the brandy bottle he had left on a side table, and poured himself a glass.

  This was not the first time a raw young man ready to be fleeced had been put in front of him at a gaming hell. He had gone the night before and had been challenged to a game, which he had refused. Not once, but twice. Was this Teufel’s way of coming through with his side of the bargain?

  Richard saw in his mind’s eye countless years ahead of him, where he led young men into poverty and hopelessness, winning game after game from them. A wave of nausea filled his stomach, and he hurled his glass into the fireplace. The smell of burned brandy came to him, and it stung like brimstone in his nose.

  He could not live with that. He had never dreamed of himself as a cardsharp, an ivory turner. He was skilled at games of chance, but the thought of his sucking out the life of ones like the young Mr. Hartley filled him with disgust. Richard had come so close to utter hopelessness himself; each time these naive boys approached him, he lived the hopelessness again.

  Misery surged through him, overwhelming him, so that he moaned aloud and clutched his hair in his hands. No. No, he could not do this, could not be the cause of corrupting those who had done him no harm. Who knew how far it would go, how far Teufel would go in presenting him with so-called opportunities for further debasement? Would there be other innocents, others like Hartley, and … Eveline?

  Eveline. Her face rose up before his eyes, her face full of light and love. Surely, he had ruined her. It was all of seven days since he had last seen her, and she haunted his dreams, not with expressions of sadness, but with the joy and love he had thrown away. He was a fool—an utter, stupid, useless fool. He shook his head. At least he did not take advantage of the young fools he had encountered since he had returned to London.