One Night of Sin

by Gaelen Foley

  There had been an alarming moment when the children running all over the grounds like little heathens kicking a ball amongst themselves, a spaniel barking at their heels, had dislodged the rope tying the tent down. One corner of the fanciful structure almost collapsed, thanks to their antics. Parthenia Westland nearly had an apoplectic fit, but fortunately, the mishap occurred before the card game had started, and thanks to a few servants with quick reflexes, disaster was averted.

  Now round one was well under way, and the duke’s daughter had gone back to serving refreshments to the Quality along with the rest of the charitable ladies, all sporting superior smiles and large, elaborate, flower-laden hats.

  Safely removed to the outer fringes of the festivities, and guarded by Rush and Fort, Becky paced endlessly as she waited for the outcome, her stomach a flutter of nerves. Alec had tried to forbid her to come today, but nothing could have induced her to stay at home.

  Every woman had her limits of what she could endure, and Becky was near the edge of hers. He had finally relented when she promised to keep a distance of at least three hundred yards. Alec had also bade Fort and Rush to keep the Cossacks in constant view. Mikhail was under the big tent playing cards with the other thirty-one gamblers, but the Cossacks were in sight, keeping watch on the crowd that surrounded the players.

  Becky had worn a deep-brimmed poke bonnet draped by a veil of light blue lace as an added means of concealing her identity, with a final added line of camouflage in the form of her parasol.

  While Alec and Lord Draxinger tried their luck in the first round, she waited in suspense that was equal parts hope and dread. She hated the feeling of being so powerless, but she knew it was all in Alec’s hands now. For their plan to succeed, Mikhail only had to be eliminated at some point along the way, but Alec had to win. If—or rather, when—he did so, she corrected herself, he would not only be in possession of her house, but would also have won for himself a fortune that was almost beyond her imagining.

  The grand prize of 320,000 pounds was a fortune of staggering proportions. The winning pair of players would split the pot, taking home 160,000 pounds each, minus, of course, the ten percent that would be deducted for charity. The victors would be feted at the Winners’ Ball when the whole thing was over.

  Becky knew Alec had been nervous leading up to the start of the tournament. He had barely slept last night, up pacing and sitting in the garden, smoking cigarillos; he barely touched his breakfast, though he’d guzzled a pot of strong coffee. Though he obviously appreciated her efforts to encourage him, he had remained distracted. Loath as he was to forgive himself for his past, it was as though he had placed his own full worth as a human being on the outcome of the whist drive, and Becky knew that was a dangerous state of affairs.

  He had become, however, intensely focused going into the game. She remembered that come-hell-or-high-water look on his face this morning, with a fierce, cool glint in his eyes similar to the one she’d seen during his bloody fight against the Cossacks.

  Oh, what if he is eliminated? What if someone else wins the Hall?

  Pacing through the overgrown grass, she could do naught but wait. She couldn’t help feeling a trifle suspicious about Mikhail’s decision to use the Hall as collateral. Why? Perhaps a guilty conscience made him eager to be rid of it—though she doubted it. He had stated flatly that the Tudor style was not to his taste. But maybe, Becky mused, as impossible as it sounded, maybe Mikhail did not have ten thousand pounds. . . .

  The brief toot of a horn broke into her thoughts, coming from somewhere under the shady tent. She turned to Fort in question.

  “That signals the end of round one,” he murmured.

  Becky laid her hand vaguely over her thumping heart and gripped the handle of her parasol hard as she waited for the results.

  Whist had a rather staid reputation for a card game and was so simple, fundamentally, that even a novice like Becky had no trouble understanding how it was played. As Alec had told her, a good memory gave a player a distinct advantage.

  At each of the eight tables in round one, four players sat in two fixed partnerships, the partners facing each other. Partners were assigned at random and were changed after each hand. A full deck was used, and the man designated as dealer dealt each player thirteen cards, facedown.

  Starting with the man to the dealer’s left, the game moved clockwise, each player throwing down one card. The other players would have to match by throwing down a card of the same suit. It was called a “trick” when each of the four players had thrown down a card; there were thus thirteen tricks in a game. Whoever had thrown down the highest-valued card of the trump suit won the trick, and a point was awarded to the winning team. Because it was a tournament, the trump suits were always designated in advance, per traditional rules: For the first deal, it was hearts; second, diamonds; third, spades; and lastly, clubs.

  Clubs would not be played during round one, however, for there would only be three deals. Whoever had the most points at the end of the deal won the hand. The team that won the best of three hands would progress to round two, where there would only be sixteen players seated at four tables.

  The losers who had been eliminated after round one had to sign away their funds at the master of ceremonies’ table before filing out of the roped-off playing area and exiting under a garlanded arched trellis, to the applause of all for their generous contribution. It was a very quick way to lose an enormous sum of money. Becky watched breathlessly for Alec as the first-round losers emerged while the crowd applauded them.

  Alec had not appeared.

  “He’s made it!” she breathed when the last man passed under the arch and gave a good-natured wave to the audience.

  “Drax stayed in, too,” Fort murmured.

  “So did Kurkov,” Rush said grimly.

  She sucked in her breath and turned away swiftly as two of her cousin’s Cossack warriors stalked around the edge of the distant crowd and, with weapons jangling, went to check on their horses. Alec’s friends concealed her until they passed. Then the three of them exchanged grim glances.

  Meanwhile, beneath the tent, the remaining sixteen men played in silent concentration. Though the time dragged, it was barely half an hour before a second toot of the horn sounded and round two was also done.

  Just as before, the team at each table who had won the best of three deals would progress to round three, with only eight players at two tables.

  Round three was to take place tomorrow night, and would no doubt be a raucous affair, for the gentlemen only, to be hosted by the Duke of Norfolk at nearby Arundel Castle, where Becky and Alec had ridden out one afternoon some time ago on hired hack horses.

  Instead of the fairly speedy best out of three hands, the remaining players in round three would probably be at it half the night, for they would be playing “long whist,” in which each game was nine points.

  Finally, on the following night, the Regent would host the fourth and final round of the annual Brighton whist drive aboard the opulent royal yacht, anchored some distance offshore. In the final round there would be only one table. Four players. Two teams. This last stage of the tournament would be the most difficult and grueling of all, for a win in the final round could not be declared until one team had gained a five-point lead over their opponents.

  “Prince of whales,” Rush murmured as the future king waddled out from under the tent, squeezing his royal girth through the arched trellis and then giving his beloved Brightonians a gentlemanly bow. They cheered him madly, for unlike the rest of the country, the people of Brighton adored their royal patron.

  “Oh, he’s not so bad, is he?” Becky answered, smiling ruefully as “Prinny” reveled in the adulation for a few moments longer.

  At last the future king trudged off with his attendants, leaving the rest of the vanquished to file out as before. The crowd applauded the rich losers’ generosity once again.

  Becky held her breath, counting each man in the short queue
coming out of the tent, but no Alec. “He’s still in!” she whispered, her heart pounding wildly. Lucky.

  “Told you he’d do it,” Fort said with a smile.

  “Lord Draxinger’s held on, as well,” Becky answered.

  “And so has Kurkov,” Lord Rushford repeated, his stare on the distant tent.

  Some fifteen minutes later Alec and Drax strode out together. They spotted them on the crest of the hill where they waited and headed toward them.

  From across the meadow Alec flashed her a small grin, the afternoon sun shining on his golden hair, and gossamer-winged butterflies zigzagging across his path.

  “Those blackguards,” Rush murmured, shaking his head sardonically. “There’ll be no living with them now.”

  As Alec came closer, he held up a small piece of paper in his hand, waving it.

  “What’s that he’s showing us?” Becky asked.

  “His ticket to round three,” Fort drawled, watching his friends with an affectionate smile spreading over his face.

  The very next night, heavy brass torchères lit the manly space of the great hall at Arundel Castle.

  Ducal ancestors stared down proudly from their portraits in gilded frames, sharing the creamy walls with the Great Masters and a frieze bearing the various colorful coats of arms associated with the family. Overhead, a coffered ceiling was paneled in warm ruddy oak diamonds. On one wall, massive Norman arches housed the window bays; opposite them, a towering white chimney-piece slanted all the way up to the ceiling and posed a setting for yet another display of a coat of arms.

  The long spacious hall easily accommodated the two gaming tables left in round three, along with several dozen spectators.

  The Regent had come for a while but left early. Meanwhile, the other gentlemen staved off hunger with an array of sandwiches, but the late hour and the quantities of liquor being consumed had exalted them to a rowdy joviality that, in Alec’s view, bordered on bad form.

  Most of the men were preoccupied in laying side wagers amongst themselves on which team would win at each of the two tables. Alec was tempted to tell their audience to shut the devil up. The noise was distracting his thrice-damned partner—but not him.

  No man in the great hall craved victory more than Alec did. He had already made up his mind he was not walking out of here a loser.

  Staving off bleary fatigue, he held on grimly to his concentration, keeping everyone’s cards filed away neatly in his head. His luck was with him.

  As one who appreciated irony, Alec could not fail to see a certain humor upon finding himself randomly paired with Kurkov as his partner for round three. How the goddess Fortuna loved to play her little jokes.

  Though Alec’s real goal was to destroy the prince; and though Kurkov, in turn, would have happily run him through if he had known that Alec was the one protecting Becky—the very man who had cut down two of his Cossack warriors—for now the two of them were forced to work together to reach nine points before their opponents did.

  At the next table, Drax’s partner was no less unpleasant than Alec’s own, the dissolute and disfigured nabob, Colonel Tallant. A hard, wiry man in his fifties, Tallant wore a black patch on one eye above a cheek scored by the slash of a saber, gotten supposedly in some cavalry charge, though Alec could just have easily believed that Tallant had incurred the scar doing highway robbery.

  On the one occasion that Alec had ever spoken to the colonel, Tallant had revolted him with his bragging of all the tigers he had shot in the forests of India, even baby ones. What did those tigers ever do to you? Alec had nearly asked him.

  In any case, Drax and the colonel were pulling ahead of the esteemed MP and the upstart grandson of a Birmingham coal factor who looked rather dapper with his monocle fixed in his right eye as he inspected his cards. Drax, for his part, was wearing his lucky hat with a brim that cast a shadow over his face, helping to conceal his expression.

  Between hands, Alec lifted his head, stretched a bit, and spotted Count Lieven. He started to greet the ambassador, but noticed that Lieven was engrossed in a note that a servant had brought him. Alec watched intently as the count folded up the note with a tense look and put it in his pocket, unaware that he was being observed. He then stood and hurried out of the room, thanking his host on the way out.

  Lieven did not return.

  It was two A.M. before a win was achieved. Drax and Tallant at the other table claimed the victor’s laurels; ten minutes later Mikhail and Alec tasted triumph. His heart pounding, his smile tentative after such a long bout of intense effort, he rose from the table and shook the losers’ hands, rather stiff after six hours of play.

  Tallant was exuberant, like he could smell a kill. Kurkov puffed out his chest and broke out with a cigar.

  “Well played, Alexei,” he rumbled, landing an easy blow on Alec’s shoulder, a smile slashing his dark beard. “Good luck in round four,” he added with a ruthless glint of humor in his gray eyes. “Of course, I’ll kill you if I have to.”

  “Likewise, Your Highness,” Alec answered in a silky tone, more pleased by the prospect than his enemy knew.

  “Do you know something, Mikhail?” Eva asked, regarding the great hard beast in cynical amusement. “You are the first Russian I ever fucked. Isn’t that nice?”

  He merely grunted.

  Paying her little mind, Mikhail lay staring at the sea, brooding and smoking a cheroot much later that night while Eva played with his short beard and raked her fingers through the fur on his chest.

  “Give me that.” To get his full attention, she borrowed his cheroot and took a puff from it, blowing an expert smoke ring.

  “That’s very impressive,” he remarked, watching her. “Are you sure you don’t have any Cossack blood?”

  She laughed.

  Mikhail took the small thin cigar back from her with only the trace of a smile.

  Dawn was drawing near, but it was still gray outside Lady Campion’s little yellow pastel summerhouse. Far off on the ocean’s horizon the sun showed only a flat glimmering line. They could see it from her bedroom window, indeed, from her curtained bed where the two of them had spent all night battling for supremacy, nearly tearing each other apart as they struggled to determine who was going to be in control of this affair.

  When Mikhail had come back from Arundel Castle, victorious after round three of the whist drive, Eva brushed off the news that he had been paired with Alec Knight and then playfully offered her new lover his reward. He accepted, and their rough contest had begun.

  It was rare to find a man who could give back to her as good as he got, and in the end, to Eva’s amazement, Mikhail had won. She had teeth marks and bruises all over her body and felt, in all, as though she had been ravished by the big bad wolf of fairy-tale fame. Extraordinary, but she quite believed she was smitten. Her Russian beast was not like any other lover she had ever known. A man completely beyond her control. A man who could force her to obey. Put her in her place. She might chafe under his domination, but she knew it was exactly what she needed.

  In short, the baroness had made up her mind to keep him. She had been alone long enough, playing games and chasing pleasure. The change in Alec, her former plaything, his new discovery of love, he and his little Precious, had made Eva fear the future in a way she never had before. She had brooded on it for days after finding out he was engaged, and after receiving his threat. For the first time in her life she faced the fear that had gnawed at her for longer than she cared to admit: that she was really going to end up old, shriveled, and alone.

  But now she had found her perfect mate.

  All she had to do was strip Mikhail of his silly plan to marry Parthenia Westland and replace the chit with herself as his bride. She was tired of always being the mistress. She wanted to be the wife—and she licked her lips over gaining the title “Princess,” as well. That would be a fine feather in her cap—a cap she had now privately set at Mikhail Kurkov. She was eager to endear herself for the added reason t
hat if she could secure his affection, then she could make her ruthless prince punish that male whore for daring to threaten her. What gall he had, after all that she had done for him! She had saved his bloody worthless life, and in return, Alec Knight had scorned her. Well, he would learn sooner or later that Hell hath no fury. . . .

  Still, after his quite terrifying threat, Eva dared not cross Alec outright yet, nor reveal to anyone the existence of his precious little ladybird. Instead, she kept her eyes and ears open for some way that she could safely strike back at the ingrate. Most of all, her grudge festered over the way he had humiliated her, causing her to flee the house like a frightened ninny—she, Eva Campion!—who had taken such pleasure in mastering him. That was what stung most of all.

  When Alec had thrown her against the wall and menaced her, Eva had seen in his eyes how much he hated her. She had realized in shock that after all she had gleefully done to him, she had real reason to fear this man.

  But soon she would have Mikhail to protect her, and then she could do what she liked. Oh, yes, she would pay that pretty bastard back somehow, as well as that hateful young beauty now warming his bed. Fiancée, indeed.

  God, someone ought to throw vitriol on that pretty face and then see if the chit could still snare herself a Knight brother. Becky—Abby—whatever the hell her name was, Eva thought with an inward sneer.

  When a discreet knock sounded on the door, Mikhail got up abruptly, tossing her aside. Eva scowled at the offhand treatment.

  Mikhail hitched his trousers up and prowled to the door. When he opened it, she heard but could not understand his low-toned exchange with the leader of his six huge warriors stationed outside her house.

  Turning onto her side with a sulky stare, she rested her face on her hand.

  Mikhail shut the door and stalked back toward the bed, his closed expression more remote than ever. He seemed restless and agitated. Indeed, in the few short days of their acquaintance, she had often noticed this dark mood of his beneath his outward indifference. It fascinated her.