“Why, certainly,” Charles said, pounding Jared’s back, reaching up to do so. “You can team up with my father, Sidney Rhodes, the Earl of Creighton. He’s a dastardly good player. Rather a sore loser, though. So you’d better bone up fast. By the by, what title do you hold?”
“Nothing as impressive as yours, my lord,” Jared said, then watched as Rothhamford puffed himself up.
After the introductions were made—the earl and Jared paired against Charles and one Jonathan Grimes, Esq.—the four settled at the table. “Would you give a refresher course?” Jared asked, and the earl’s gaze snapped to his face.
“I thought you played, Braxton,” he said, then the short, thin man looked pointedly at his son, but Charles pretended to be settling his feet under the table with great interest. “In whist, all fifty-two cards are dealt, the dealer turning up the last card, which is trump, and placing it on the table. When the first trick goes round, counterclockwise, the dealer then retrieves the card and either plays it or places it in his hand. When a suit is played it must be followed. If one does not have a particular suit, he must play a trump card. If he has no trump, another card can be played. When a team takes six tricks, the team gets a point. If a team takes all thirteen tricks in one hand, it’s called a slam.”
“Oh, yes, now I remember,” Jared said, frowning. “Shall we begin?” He played the first two rounds, purposely losing for his partner and himself. The earl seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy when Jared played a large trump, the ace of spades to be exact, on a harmless set of cards, the five of hearts the largest shown so far.
“Don’t you have a smaller trump, man?” the earl asked.
“I have the deuce.”
“Damnation! Why didn’t you play it?”
“I told you I was a bit rusty.”
“Rusty! I’d say you’ve gone to seed!”
Rothhamford chuckled. “About time you lost, Father. You usually slam us every time.”
As the game continued, several interested gentlemen from the peerage gathered around the table, mostly to chuckle at Jared’s inept plays, which further inflamed the earl. Red to the roots of his white hair, Sidney Rhodes’s blue eyes were practically popping from their sockets, and his acquaintances were enjoying the sight immensely.
Then as things got considerably worse, the earl and Jared being soundly trounced, a new wager was made, Rothhamford betting his month’s allowance on the round. The earl had balked at first, then glanced at Jared; a cunning look entered his eye. “Agreed,” the earl said, smiling. “Deal the cards, Braxton.”
Spades were trump again, Jared turning up the deuce, placing it on the table. Then, waiting his turn, he leaned back, dividing his cards according to suit. “You never did tell me about your experience, Rothhamford.”
“Right, right,” he said, laying down the five of diamonds. “I did promise, didn’t I?”
“When and where did you say it happened?”
“April … Covent Garden.”
Jared plucked the deuce from the table and tossed it onto the trick, pulling it. “Bad area, of late … pickpockets and all, bandying about outside. Why were you there? The gentry usually attend the opera, nowadays.”
“Playing trump already?” Charles asked, then seeing Jared’s nod, he settled back with a frown. “I was there because I wanted to see some Shakespeare.”
“Excellent choice,” Jared said, then placed the three of spades on the table. “Who did it?”
“A young actress, Alissa Ashford.”
Again Jared pulled the trick, then played the four of spades. “Oh? How did it happen?”
“The little trollop lured me to her dressing room, bashed my head, and robbed me.”
Jared bristled at the slur, but he kept his cool and played the five of spades. “After the play?”
“I say, don’t you have anything besides trump?” Rothhamford asked, losing yet another card.
Jared smiled. “I’m not at liberty to say. But perhaps we could make a wager on it … a friendly one between the two of us?”
Charles considered it. When the first trick had been played, only one trump had appeared and Braxton had thrown it. That meant Braxton held all trump. Seeing an easy profit, he said, “Certainly, but I’ll wager you have all spades.”
Jared frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Do you take me for a fool?” the viscount asked with a chuckle.
“As you wish,” Jared said, placing his wager on the table, between the viscount and himself. Then the six of spades hit the surface. “Was it after the play?” Jared repeated. “Or was it between acts when you were attacked?”
“After act two, I believe,” the viscount said, anxious over yet another lost card. His allowance was quickly deteriorating, but excitement leapt inside him, for Jared’s spade had taken the trick.
The seven turned face up. “Why were you backstage?”
“I was visiting in the green room. Get on with it, man,” Rothhamford said, wanting to see the next card.
Jared threw the eight of spades. “Odd, Madame Vestris doesn’t allow visitors backstage during the play.”
“Well, I was, and that Ashford woman lured me into her dressing room.”
Jared swept the trick. “How?” The nine of spades fell onto the table.
“She saw me and offered to make it worthwhile if I came with her.”
Ten of spades. “Madame Vestris told me Alissa was onstage, and there were too many players backstage,” Jared commented, after he pulled another trick. “If they’d seen you, you would have been asked to leave.”
“Well, then, I was already in her dressing room,” Charles said, as he watched the jack of spades hit, more interested in the cards than his words.
Collecting the last trick, Jared threw the queen of spades. “Why?”
“Because,” the viscount spouted, seeing his pleasures for the next month passing before his eyes. Without funds, what would he do? Yet, his side wager would hold him for a while. “By God, man,” he said, excitedly, “you do have all the trump!”
The cards raked in, the king of spades hit the table, and Jared demanded, “Why?”
Charles threw his useless card in with the others. “Show me the last one,” he ordered, eager to see what it was.
“Not until you’ve answered my question,” Jared said, waving the unseen card like a scrap of meat before a ravenous dog. Rothhamford grabbed for it, but Jared jerked it to his chest. “Tell me why you were in Alissa Ashford’s dressing room.”
“Because, she was nothing but a lowly actress … a little tease. She’d denied me twice … wouldn’t have anything to do with me, so I waited for her. When she came in, I tried to persuade her to let me … let me …” He snapped his mouth shut, and watched as Jared turned his card, flicking the back with his finger. “Deuce of hearts!” the viscount exclaimed, in disbelief, and the crowd that had gathered began to mumble among themselves. Then as an added shock, he saw his father’s hand slam onto the table, revealing the ace of spades. “Something’s not right here!” Charles cried.
“By God, you’re right,” the earl bellowed, “and it smells worse than the Thames!”
“B-but you played out of order. You have to follow suit!”
“And follow suit I shall, you sniveling idiot!”
“I—I don’t understand,” Rothhamford said, his eyes wide with confusion. “Why didn’t you play the ace the first trick?”
“Charles, listen closely,” his father stated, punctuating each word as though he were speaking to an imbecile. Indeed he was, for his son had just confessed to a roomful of his peers that he’d made false accusations against another. “When the hand began, I thought it would be a bit of a lark to play as stupidly as Braxton had. If he’d lost his money to you and Grimes, there, then all the better, especially when my loss would still be kept in the family. But the more spades Braxton turned over, the more interested I became in your babble. Do you have any idea what you were saying while Braxton
was flipping up his trump?”
“Saying? Why, he asked me about being accosted by that actress.”
“You stupid fool!” the earl shouted, pointing a rigid finger at his son. “You were the scoundrel in this supposed assault, weren’t you? You attacked the actress, not the other way around!”
Suddenly the viscount remembered every word that had slipped from his mouth. Hearing the distasteful grumblings coming from his peers, Rothhamford defended, “Yes … but—”
“You bastard! Why?” Jared demanded, his voice as sharp and as cold as honed steel. “Why the hell would you put someone through such agony! Do you have any idea what she’s suffered because of your treachery?”
“What’s she to you?” Rothhamford snapped back, angered that Braxton had trapped him into a confession. “She’s a simple commoner … an actress.”
“Alissa Ashford is my wife!”
The words rolled over him like a tidal wave, and seeing the green fire in Braxton’s eyes, the viscount paled to the color of his starched white shirt. With a quick turn of his head, he looked to his father, seeking help.
“You’ll not get any assistance from me,” the earl told him. “I’ve gotten you out of your last scrape. I’m washing my hands of you. Braxton can feed you to wolves, for all I care.” Knowing his family’s reputation had been ruined beyond repair, the Earl of Creighton stalked from the room.
“B-but …” Rothhamford stammered, then realized he’d get no sympathy from anyone around him and shot from his chair, intent on fleeing.
On him in two strides, Jared grabbed the viscount’s collar, pulling him up short. Balancing on tiptoes, Rothhamford was marched toward the table and slammed back into his seat, where in a cowardly slump, he gasped for air.
“There is a matter of signing a few documents before you take your leave,” Jared said, withdrawing several papers from his inside breast pocket. “Now write.”
“I—I don’t have a pen.”
“Here’s one,” a spectator announced, carrying quill and ink to the table.
“Thank you,” Jared said, angling his head in a slight bow. “Now, shall we begin?”
“What should I say?” the viscount asked.
“I could think of a few words,” another spectator shouted from the corner, and laughter erupted, then settled quickly.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Jared announced, “but I think it best if I dictate. Although I’m in complete accord with your thoughts, my wife will read these papers, and I do not wish for her to blush at the wording.”
“Might it be possible for us to get our own statement?” another man asked.
“When I’m through with the viscount, you may do with him as you wish.”
“Here, here!” all the men shouted in unison, and Rothhamford paled anew.
“Do you, perchance, have a notary on the premises?” Jared asked, then heard an “aye” from the group. “Now, Rothhamford, I believe we can begin.”
As Jared began to dictate, Charles carefully wrote each word and signed each paper. When he was finished, the notary asked if this was done by his own free will. The viscount started to protest, but one look at Jared’s hard eyes silenced him immediately. The documents signed and sealed, Jared slipped all but one into his pocket. “This goes to whomever has the power to drop the charges brought against my wife.” He handed it to the notary. “I trust you will deliver it.”
“Indeed I will,” the man said. “In fact, you may want to inform your wife that she might wish to bring charges against Rothhamford.”
“I’ll inform her of her rights.” Then he turned to the viscount and leaned close to the man’s ear. “I must thank you, Rothhamford, because if you weren’t such a whoreson, then I’d never have met Alissa. But, if I ever hear of you accosting another female, you will see me again, and I won’t be as kind as I have been tonight.” Then Jared picked up his winnings, rotated on his heel, and strode from the room.
“Who was that man?” Rothhamford asked when Jared had vanished into the night. “How did he get in here?”
One of the lingering spectators bent to the viscount’s ear, and while the rest watched, a few with knowing smiles on their faces, he whispered something of import.
Rothhamford jerked upright. “You must be joking!” Then he saw the slow shake of his informer’s head. “But, but—”
And, as the men watched, Rothhamford’s eyes rolled to the back of his head; his face hit the table. “By jove, I think he’s fainted!” someone shouted.
Outside, Jared strode to his coach, his feet ringing with a confident step against the cobblestones, his walking stick twirling in his fingers. “Well? Did ye gets the bloke’s confession?” Mr. Stanley called from his seat.
Jared smiled, while patting his coat pocket. “Did you doubt I would?”
“Did ye have to trounce him? Or was it done all peaceful like?”
“Let’s say a little of both.”
“Ye talk in riddles,” Mr. Stanley grumbled.
“Rothhamford’s pockets are considerably lighter … but his face is still intact, although his integrity is not.”
“Well, ye gots a strange way of makin’ the bloke pay fer his transgressions.”
“He’s paid his due,” Jared said, certain Rothhamford would be disowned by his father, the Earl of Creighton. “Now, let’s be on our way.”
“Where to, gov’nor?”
Jared opened the coach door and announced, “Mrs. Eudora Binnington’s.” Then he settled inside, a wide grin splitting his face.
“Ian,” Alissa said, several days later, as she tossed another stone into the stream and watched the circles ripple wider and wider until they disappeared, then she sighed. “Do you think he murdered her?”
Ian gazed off into the distance to see Megan and Merlin at play. “The servants have been talking again, I see,” he said, straightening from the tree trunk where he leaned, sucking on a tender blade of grass. “True?”
“Yes,” Alissa admitted, her eyes downcast. “Some time ago, I overheard two maids gossiping. It made me angry. It could have easily been Megan who’d walked down the hall to hear them viciously attacking her father. I told them to be on with their work. Yet …”
“Yet they managed to plant a seed of doubt in your mind,” Ian finished for her.
“I suppose.” She turned to him. “Do you think he did?”
“I’ve told you before, Jared is the only one who knows what happened that night. Only he holds the answer.”
“Yes, I know. But do you think he did it?”
“I suppose all of us are capable of doing things we normally wouldn’t when pushed to the end of our endurance.”
“Ian, answer me,” Alissa demanded.
“No, I don’t believe he killed Celeste.”
“Will you tell me about her?”
Ian gave a short, abrupt laugh. “What is there to say about her?”
“I wouldn’t ask, if it weren’t important.”
“All right,” he agreed, tossing the green stem aside. “Celeste was a beautiful woman, and she knew it. Highstrung would describe her, and never happy. Jared couldn’t satisfy her needs. She always insisted on a new gown or a new piece of jewelry. ‘I want’ was her motto, and Jared tried in every way possible to please her, but it was never enough. She was very spoiled, shallow, flighty, self-centered, selfish … I could go on and on, but what’s the point?”
“How did they meet?” she asked, not believing Jared would choose someone like Celeste for his wife.
“At a ball about eight years past. Her beauty was what caught his eye. At four and twenty, Jared was not as wise as he is now. Experience has opened his eyes to the true meaning of what love should be, or at least I hope it has.”
“I doubt it,” she mumbled, but Ian caught her words.
“Don’t tell me you have a schoolgirl’s crush on the dark master of Hawkstone?”
“No, certainly not,” she denied in haste. “How preposterous of you to as
k.”
Ian chuckled. “Dear Aggie, Jared could charm the fangs from a serpent, if he so desired. Don’t think for one moment that you’re immune to his masculine influence. If you do, you’re in for a shocking surprise. Not many women can break his spell once they’ve fallen under it.”
True, she thought, for as the days had passed, Jared’s absence had begun to worry her, and she’d found herself thinking of him more and more, until he had consumed her entire mind, leaving room for little else. Her days were full of him, her nights the worst of all, for he came to her in her dreams, and Alissa had felt stirrings deep within her that she thought to be improper for a virgin.
Yet, what confused her most was she carried those feelings into the daylight hours, and they would erupt at the oddest times. All she had to do was close her eyes and picture Jared’s face, and a strange longing would burst forth, without warning. An odd warmth would spread deep into the pit of her stomach, leaving her breathless as it suddenly radiated through her entire body. Yes, she decided, she was under his spell, and she was certain it was too late to break its bonds.
“He’ll be back soon,” Ian said near her ear. “Then you’ll probably wish he was gone again.”
Alissa turned and smiled. “You are probably right.” But, instantly, she doubted her words. For each day without him seemed like an endless space in time, lacking worth, lacking substance, lacking meaning. Indeed, she was trapped in a masque of enchantment, Jared her fascination.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
In the library, Alissa stood on tiptoe reaching for a volume of poetry, her finger picking at its binding. With the shelf too high, she became irritated and jumped, but missed. An arm stretched from behind her, startling her, and a masculine hand covered the volume, slipping it free. Alissa whirled. “Jared,” she breathed, happy to see him. “You scared the wits out of me!”
“Were you engaging in some form of new exercise?” he asked, a teasing smile curving his handsome lips. His right forearm rested itself on the shelf, the book dangling from his thumb and forefinger. “Or were you after this?”
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the book. “I wanted something to read.”
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