Were all men scoundrels?
Iona was beginning to wonder.
Brimming with a healthy dose of seething anger, she followed Lord Grainger through the growing crowd as he rushed toward the back rooms of Goldsmith’s.
She didn’t need Nathan’s help. She could make her own adventures without him.
A sob caught in her throat. Picturing him in bed with that harlot of an actress or him discussing methods of her seduction with the likes of Mr. Harlow fed a deep pain in her chest that had nothing to do with the tight bindings she wore.
He’d denied both charges but had done so with such a casual shrug and self-depreciating grin that she’d have to have fluff for brains to believe him.
She supposed her mother and sister had been right all along. The bounder was naught but a cad. Tears sprang to her eyes. Why would Lord Grainger and Mr. Harlow say such things if they weren’t true?
Blinking furiously, she cast a glance over her shoulder. The dim lighting in the room created long swaths of shadows and did nothing to chase away the midnight darkness from the room’s far corners. Even so, she searched, hoping to catch sight of Nathan’s unmistakable silhouette emerging from the crowd, dearly wishing he would come chasing after her.
“Where is he?” she grumbled. “Shouldn’t we wait for Lord Nathan?”
“I think Wynter has his hands full enough as it is,” Lord Grainger said. He had a firm grip on her wrist. “He doesn’t need to be worrying after you as well…um…Crumps.”
No, she supposed not. Still, she couldn’t help the way her heart hurt as she let Lord Grainger lead her toward the back door.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked him, striving to keep her quivery voice as low and manly as possible.
“Where you do think?” His grip tightened around her wrist. “You have no business in here…Crumps.” A dangerous look flashed in his eyes.
It was the same hungry look that had darkened Nathan’s gaze a moment before he’d kissed her at the King’s Bath. With Nathan, the heat and expectation she’d seen in his eyes had excited her. Seeing it on Lord Grainger only made her insides quiver with fear.
“I’m taking you home,” he said, giving her a tug toward the back door.
Whose home? Mr. Harlow had said that both he and Lord Grainger were interested in seducing away her innocence. She couldn’t take the chance that he’d seen through her disguise.
“Oh dear.” She pulled away from him and darted up a narrow staircase.
“Wait!” His heavy footsteps pounded on the steps behind her. His grasping hand caught on her sleeve just as she reached the narrow room upstairs. Before he could drag her back to his side, she flung herself into the nearest empty chair at one of the upstairs gaming tables.
A handsome gentleman with dark hair, a narrow, pointy nose and dressed in a natty suit cut from a velvety dark cloth leaned forward in his chair. The small lamp hanging above him illuminated the sly expression that curled on his slender lips.
“Don’t fight me on this.” Lord Grainger gave her arm a nasty tug that nearly flung her out of the chair and to the ground. “Whether you want to or not, you’re coming with me.”
“No. I will not go anywhere with you.” She’d fight him before letting him drag her helpless into the dark alleyway that ran behind this shady establishment.
“Please, you can’t stay here, Lady—” Lord Grainger’s voice rose.
“My pockets are filled with money and I haven’t yet had the chance to play even one hand of cards,” Iona said quickly. She wasn’t about to let Lord Grainger expose her and ruin everything. And following him out into the bleak night was out of the question. She planned to remain seated at this table and to play cards until Nathan came looking for her.
At least she hoped Nathan would eventually come looking for her.
Oh dear, what if he didn’t?
The gentleman sitting across from her perked up at her mention of money.
“Splendid,” he purred. His all too alert gaze raked over her and settled on her lower arm where Lord Grainger stubbornly was holding on to her.
“Get away from here, you young pup.” Her tablemate slapped the back of Lord Grainger’s hand. “Come back when you have a couple of coins to rub together.”
The gentleman’s hard gaze locked on Lord Grainger as he rose halfway out of his chair. “Move your hand from the lad’s arm before I cut it off.”
Iona muttered a small prayer that Lord Grainger would do whatever this gentleman said. She didn’t want another fight to break out because of her.
With a growled warning, Lord Grainger backed off.
The broad smile returned to the bristly face of the man sitting across from her. “A fresh face. Haven’t seen one of those in our ranks in ages.” He puffed on the cheroot trapped between his teeth, sending a cloud of smoke curling about Iona’s face.
She coughed and tried to wave away the fumes. A futile task if there ever was one. Heavy tobacco and cheroot smoke clogged the room’s cramped stale air.
“Sirrah,” she said when, with an evil gleam in his eye, he puffed on his cheroot and sent the white cloud spiraling into her face again, “desist sending that horrid smoke in my direction.”
He stubbed out the cheroot into a filthy crystal ashtray and eased forward until his body was nearly sprawled across the table. The tip of his nose was inches from her face. The sharp scent of alcohol hung heavily on his breath. “You ain’t a man,” he whispered, sounding somewhat shocked.
“I cannot imagine what you are talking about, sir.” She looked around, hoping beyond hope that Nathan would soon come looking for her. Instead she discovered that Lord Grainger had all but abandoned her too. He appeared to be absorbed in an intense conversation with a man sheathed in shadows a few tables away.
“No matter.” The man took up a deck of cards and settled back into his chair. “I’ll take your blunt as readily as a bloke’s. Makes no difference to me.” His graceful long fingers shuffled the deck with a magician’s skill. “I’m assuming you know the rules of piquet.”
When he tossed two cards in her direction she dropped her hand over them and gave him a hard glare. “I believe high card determines the dealer.”
He lowered the cards on the table and gave a shallow nod. “Ah, you are correct,” he said and slid the deck over to her. “You may draw first.”
Keeping her eyes fixed on his shifty gaze, Iona was about to flip over the top card on the deck when his hand crashed down on top of hers. “Let’s see some money on the table first.”
It took a basketful of courage for her to stay planted in her chair and draw out the ten pounds, six pence she had stuffed in her pocket. With much hesitation she placed her small fortune on the table.
It was all the money she had left from her quarterly allowance. If she were to lose it she wasn’t sure what she would do. Unlike her sisters, she’d never spent carelessly or had cause to go to her father with her hand out for charity.
And yet if she were to lose this money she’d be forced to plead her case and beg her father to pay the entrance fee for the upcoming gala in Sydney Gardens, celebrating Napoleon’s recent defeat at Waterloo. The gala promised to be quite a spectacle with troop reviews, marching bands and what promised to be the grandest of fireworks displays.
She shouldn’t take such a risk on a single game.
But if she were able to double what was left of her pin money, she’d be able to prove that she could, on some level, take care of herself.
“I have nothing to worry about,” she whispered.
“What did you say, ma’am?” he asked while he eyed her quite remarkable pile of banknotes and coins.
“I said, sir, I have nothing to worry about,” she replied with renewed confidence ringing in her voice. The game of piquet came naturally to her. Only rarely did she lose a set. Papa often said rather proudly that his little poppet had an uncommon cunning when it came to cards.
There was truly nothing to worry about.
&nb
sp; “Whatever you say,” he said and tapped the deck. “You have first draw.”
Iona turned over the top card and was pleased to see the king of spades staring up at her. Only an ace could beat that.
The man’s grin never wavered. In fact he barely glanced down at her card before flipping over the next in the deck.
A sickly dread flooded her gut. What rotten luck.
He’d drawn the ace of hearts and won the deal.
“Now then,” he said as he resumed dealing the cards, “let’s not delay any longer in my winning that paltry sum of yours.”
His confidence, seemingly carved from marble, proved disconcerting. Iona frowned as she watched him deal, his gaze locked on hers. The swiftness of his fingers made her think of shiny-cloaked magicians and country fairs where sleight-of-hand was used to deceive.
She inched her chair closer to the table and watched his movements more carefully.
He started talking about the weather—dreadfully hot, did she not think?—local politics—never will Bath see the heights that Beau Nash once brought to this fair city—and the Lansdown races—a fine filly if ever there was one.
She did her best to ignore his persistent gabbing and the utter nonsense his gravelly singsong voice wheedled into her thoughts. Instead she focused all her attention on his fingers.
Something about the way he was dealing the cards was wrong.
“Sir!” She leapt out of her chair when finally she saw it clearly. “You are dealing your hand from the bottom of the deck. Why, you are nothing but a swindling card monger!”
Silence blanketed the room.
A heavy sigh filled her ears in the long moment that followed. He sucked in another breath and slowly turned his head up until he was staring down his frighteningly narrow nose at her. His black gaze looked dead, lifeless and just about as hard as the stone eagles threatening the front entranceway.
“What did you say?” His lips barely moved as he spoke.
“I saw you cheating me,” she declared, still feeling rather shocked that he would dare do such a thing.
“You’re calling me a double dealer?” he growled.
What was left of the cards in the deck dropped from his hand and scattered on the table. He rose from his chair until he was towering over her by several feet. The amber light above the table flickered fire into his eyes.
“I speak only the truth, sir,” she answered before realizing what an irrevocable gauntlet she had tossed down at his feet. In front of a crowded room she had challenged this man’s honor. And while she might have escaped unscathed if dressed as a lady, the gangly young upstart she resembled was surely due a thorough beating.
Things were spinning out of control. But really, she knew what she’d seen. He had tried to cheat her. She was merely trying to protect her pin money.
Oh, why hadn’t she listened to Nathan and agreed to stay away from the gaming tables in the first place?
Thinking her best option would be to disappear from the room as soon as possible, she reached out to retrieve her pile of money and—
A knife appeared in the man’s nimble grasp. Its long jagged blade sliced between her fingers and through the paper money clutched in her hand.
Chapter Ten
The sharp blade bit into Iona’s skin as it ripped her money from her clutches. She cried out and cradled her stinging hand to her chest.
“Hand that back, sir,” she hissed in a panic. He stuffed what was left of her monthly allowance into his coat pocket. “This is vastly unfair. You cheated me. You have no right to my money.”
Like a flash of lightning, he moved. He grabbed her and pinned her hand to the table. His sharp knife poised to cut into the knuckle of her forefinger. “If you’re not careful, I’ll chop off your pretty finger.” He gave her arm a powerful jolt, sending her sprawling across the table toward him. Her nose nearly banged up against his. His sharp breath curled around her face like a hot storm as he murmured in her ear, “Or perhaps you can convince me to save that finger by trading it for your body. One night. My bedroom. What do you say, my lady?”
Her heart was pounding in her throat. He-he wanted to use her like some common Cyprian? And if she refused, he was going to chop off her finger?
“No.” She tried to jerk away from him but he held on to her hand as if it had been caught in some terrible vise. “Please, no.”
He chuckled and released her, sending her stumbling backward. Her chair toppled over with a great crash.
A roar of laughter rose in that shadowy, smoke-laden room. She spun around in search for a friendly face, an ally who might help untangle her from this nightmare. What she found was a group of men, keeping to the shadows, watching her with the same interest they’d a theatrical production. Several of the so-called gentlemen were even returning to their games as if her fate was no business of theirs. Were there no heroes left in the world? Would no one rush to her aid or champion her?
Only Lord Grainger was marching in her direction, a look of determination stiffening his chin. Suddenly she felt trapped. To run in one direction, she’d end up caught in Lord Grainger’s grasp. And he’d wanted to drag her into a darkened alleyway. He was no different from the lusty card shark who was waiting to trap her and chop off her finger unless she gave him use of her body.
Men! They should all be locked away!
She raised her fists, prepared to fight off any bounder who dared to try and touch her. A doomed battle perhaps, but one she had no choice but to wage.
Her heart shuddered in her chest as she waited. Time seemed to stand still in those harrowing moments. And then it happened. Just as she feared, a strong male hand closed over her shoulder.
“I’ll not fall prey to any of you.” She drew back her arm. With a quick twist at the waist, she turned and punched her attacker in the belly. Only instead of hitting vulnerable flesh, her fist slammed into what felt like a tapestry-covered brick wall.
Two sturdy boots stood toe-to-toe with her much smaller pair. A pair of buff-colored doeskin breeches hugged the man’s powerful legs like a second skin. His stomach, which she’d already discovered to be rock-hard, was covered with a familiar navy blue coat and white marcella waistcoat.
“You’ve picked the wrong lad to fleece this time, Varner.” Iona immediately recognized his voice.
She sighed a deep breath of relief. “Lord Nathan. You won’t believe what this gentleman has asked, nay, demanded I—”
Her indignation froze as she watched Nathan’s expression harden. Violence glittered bright in his fixed gaze. With the bravery of a warrior knight, he stepped in front of Iona and placed himself dangerously close to the villain’s blade.
“You threatened a helpless…um…lad with a knife? And you demanded what?” Nathan’s cool tone left Iona shivering. She latched onto his arm.
“Please,” she whispered.
Varner still had that barbarous knife poised at the ready. If they weren’t careful, he could kill Nathan.
“You threatened the lad and demanded he do what?” Nathan’s voice rose.
Varner spat on the stained deep orange Oriental rug and snarled. He pointed the tip of his blade in Iona’s direction. “That whelp ain’t no lad—”
With the speed of a hawk dropping out of the sky to snatch his prey, Nathan pounced. Using a crushing grip, he twisted the long blade from the man’s grasp.
Varner gave a shout and spewed a string of creative curses involving horse parts, bog slime and a few things Iona simply couldn’t figure out. Spit dripped from the corner of his mouth by the time he was done. “Watch yourself in those dark alleyways, Wynter,” he warned, his face growing deep red. “You never know when someone might stick his point into your gullet.”
Though the threat had Iona’s insides quivering, Nathan didn’t appear to be concerned in the least. With one fluid motion, he drove the knife deep into the gaming table, reached into the villain’s pocket and retrieved Iona’s money.
“Come now, Varner. You
can’t possibly hold a grudge against me or the lad when everyone here knows you use a marked deck of cards.” Dipping a mock bow and with a playful smile tripping over his lips, he bid the man a good night.
Iona’s watery legs were barely able to support her as Nathan led her down the narrow back stairs. When she would have liked to bolt from the building with a rabbit’s speed, he held her back.
“Let’s not create any more scenes right now,” he whispered and put his hand on her lower back to help her keep a steady, calm pace. His voice sounded hard again. Cold.
They made their exit from Goldsmith’s, stopping only long enough to retrieve their hats and gloves from the attendant.
Once they were out of the club, Nathan picked up his pace. His jaw muscles tightened. He urged her to trot alongside him down the street until they reached a gravel walk. Their boots crunched over the stones. The walk led them into the Orange Grove Park where a stone obelisk hiding in the shadows of the gothic Bath Abbey greeted them.
For a moment Iona had a devil of a time catching her breath. She leaned up against a fat tree trunk. “These-these men’s clothes are certainly accommodating for running away from villains,” she said, panting lightly.
Nathan shook his head. “Yes, I suppose they are deuced useful considering how you decided to take on one of the meanest coves in Goldsmith’s tonight.”
“Deuced useful,” she echoed.
In the breathless moment that followed, his gaze trapped hers.
“He wanted to take you to his bed?” he asked. His voice was as hard as the pebbles beneath their feet.
She didn’t want to answer him. She didn’t want to admit that she’d let herself get that far in over her head. The whole purpose of visiting a gambling hell had been to prove that she could hold her own—that she didn’t need her father or a husband to watch out for her or take care of her. But she’d failed. Miserably.
If not for Nathan…
She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to hold back the tears that threatened. In her first attempt at independence, she had nearly fallen prey to two scoundrels. Her heart sank into her boots.
The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection Page 33