The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8)

by Mary Lancaster

  He took a sip of his brandy. “Sometimes. When the stakes are high enough to excite me.”

  “Ah. We are too provincial for your taste,” she said deprecatingly.

  “I didn’t say that. It would give me no pleasure to fleece your squire of his sheep.”

  “He might fleece you of yours.”

  He appeared to consider that. “I don’t know that I have any, though I suppose I must. At any rate, it would take either of us weeks to win anything worth having at those stakes, which is damned dull when there’s a girl as beautiful as you in the house.”

  She blinked. “I’m not beautiful.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “I don’t lie. Or repeat myself. Drink your brandy.”

  She glanced at the glass, almost surprised to see it still in her hand. “I don’t believe I like brandy. I took a sip of my father’s once and it was nasty.”

  “This isn’t, I assure you. But if you’re not responsible for it, who is?”

  “My brother Bernard. My father always said his palette was his only sign of intelligence.”

  Mr. Keith looked faintly amused. “Is it?”

  “No,” Gillie allowed. “He’s pretty good at cards, too.”

  “Are you warning me he’s a sharp?”

  “Lord, no, he never cheats,” Gillie said, genuinely shocked. “Besides, I thought you wouldn’t play for such paltry, provincial stakes?”

  “I might for the pleasure of exposing a sharp.”

  “You have very odd pleasures,” she said tartly.

  His lips curved. He lowered his hip onto the arm of her chair, which brought him a little too close for comfort. “You don’t yet know anything about my pleasures,”

  Defiantly, she counted them off on her fingers. “Brandy, card sharps, lack of sheep…”

  Quite suddenly, his smile was genuine. “Are you making fun of me, Miss Muir?”

  “Only in a friendly way.”

  “Then you may add that to your list of my pleasures.” He set his glass on the table, straightened, and strolled out of the alcove.

  Gillie blinked after him in mingled surprise and disappointment. Really, his manners were quite eccentric. She wondered if her humor had offended him, though it hadn’t appeared to. Or perhaps he was just over-haughty—which begged the question why he’d spoken to her in the first place. Boredom, no doubt, clearly unrelieved by her conversation.

  She had just risen from her chair again when he walked back into the alcove, a pack of cards in his left hand. His right reached for the curtain, then catching her eye, he released a silent breath of laughter and left the curtain alone.

  “Shall we play for love or money?” he asked, taking the other chair, and shuffling the cards.

  “I think it would bore you to play snap for either.”

  “On the contrary,” he said at once.

  Again, she caught a faint whiff of wine and brandy on his breath, but neither his speech nor his movements were those of a man in his cups. “Er…what is snap?”

  “The only card game I play. Bernard and I invented it as children and made our parents play. We divided the cards between us and then took it in turns to play the cards one at a time in a pile. When you play a card of the same number as the one before, you have to snap your hand over it to claim the whole pile. The winner, of course, is the person who gains all the cards. You see? No sophistication and no stakes whatever.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, beginning to deal the cards between them with quick, smooth actions, “if that is your choice, I am happy to play.”

  Gillie’s eyes strayed to his face. She guessed he was veiling his expression. It made her heart beat faster to imagine he was hiding too sudden an interest in her. She could even laugh at herself for such a fantasy. And yet, what other reason could he have for singling her out like this? Playing a child’s game with her…

  It all added a rather breathless intoxication to the game, which was quick and evenly matched. As they played, he distracted her with witticisms and questions until she did the same to him, when he threatened to take back his cards and play no longer.

  “Except that the cards are mine,” she pointed out.

  He shoved them toward her. “Take them, with the last of my self-esteem.”

  She laughed. “Truly, I am not so petulant.”

  “On the other hand, the game grows noisier with time and we shall draw unwelcome attention.”

  She glanced up and saw that a few amused faces were already turned toward them, including that of Lord Braithwaite, who seemed highly entertained by the sight of his haughty and presumably fashionable London friend playing such a ridiculous game for no money whatsoever.

  “I think we already have,” she said ruefully, rising to her feet. “I have been distracted from my duties long enough, sir.”

  He stood, too. “Five more minutes to make you laugh again.” Reaching up, he drew back the window curtain next to him, to reveal the French glass door onto the little terrace and the garden beyond. The night was clear and the moon full, spilling its light across the lawn and the blossoming trees to the little summer house. “You have a pretty garden. Shall we?”

  Gillie hesitated. Although she knew the rules of propriety, she’d always been among friends here in Blackhaven. And if this man was a stranger, she still knew him to be a friend of Lord Braithwaite, with whom she’d been acquainted since childhood, along with his family. Besides, it was hard to doubt a man who’d played snap with her.

  But even as she stood and unlocked the garden door, she understood there was more to it than that. He intrigued her. He was different, apparently oblivious to accepted manners and etiquette, yet possessed of elegance and self-assurance beyond any she’d encountered before. And if she was honest, his interest flattered her. To most of the young men of her acquaintance, she was simply Gillie, whom they’d known forever. No one told her she was beautiful as if they actually meant it, or deliberately chose her company over that of the cards or the dice. No one had ever invited her to walk in the moonlit garden.

  “You left your glass,” he observed as they paused on the terrace.

  “Were you planning on making a toast?” she teased.

  He raised his glass. “To the moon,” he said, but instead of drinking, he offered her the glass.

  Recklessly, she took it. “The moon,” she agreed and sipped warily. The fumes caught her breath and the liquid burned its way through her mouth and down her throat. The sensation was far from unpleasant.

  “I like it better now,” she said in surprise, handing the glass back. He took it quickly, trapping her hand beneath his and bending his head to drink from the exact place on the glass her lips had just touched.

  Her whole body heated in the friendly darkness. “Are you flirting with me?” she asked breathlessly.

  He smiled. “Most definitely. Do you mind?”

  She licked her dry upper lip, and his gaze dropped, following the movement in an avid way that made her cheeks burn. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

  “Then let’s see.” He bent his head, still clasping her hand over the brandy glass and kissed her mouth.

  She should, of course, have slapped his face, or at least pulled away from him at once. But in truth, his action took her so much by surprise that in the first instance, she was simply stunned that he would dare. In the second instance, she realized his lips were warm and firm and strangely exciting and that there seemed to be butterflies soaring and diving in her stomach. And by the time his free hand came up to hold her nape while he deepened the kiss, she was more afraid of it ending than of anything else.

  Her mouth yielded helplessly, letting him explore and plunder. Her free hand clutched at his coat for support and, without really knowing how, she was returning his kiss.

  “Please add that,” he whispered against her lips, “to your list of my pleasures.”

  And mine. Fortunately, she couldn’t yet speak, just gaze mutely into his hot, clouded eyes—how had she e
ver thought them cool? His fingers caressed the back of her neck. She could no longer doubt that he liked her, and nothing in the world had ever been as sweet and arousing at that knowledge.

  “I’d like to discover a few of yours,” he murmured. “Take me to your chamber.”

  Chapter Two

  Gillie blinked at him, uncertain that she’d heard him properly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your bedchamber. I want you very badly.”

  By then, they stood so close together that she finally understood the hardness pressing against her stomach. With a gasp of outrage, she tore herself free.

  “How dare you? Do you take me for a—a…” She struggled to find the word. “…a camp follower?”

  “Not exactly.” He sounded more amused than contrite. “I understood you were free, but if you’re not interested, just say so.”

  For some reason, her eyes stung. It wasn’t so much the insult to her honor. It was…hurt, because she’d actually liked him. She’d actually believed he liked her. She’d naively, stupidly, mistaken his sordid interest for romance. The earlier conversation about Kit suddenly made lowering new sense.

  “Danny!” she called, drawing herself up to her full height.

  “Who the devil is Danny?” he asked, sounding a little less amused and a little more irritated.

  “I am,” said her father’s old sergeant, emerging around the side of the house at high speed. He’d been keeping his eye out for the Watch, who’d visited more than once before to be sure the parties were truly private affairs.

  “This gentleman is leaving, Danny,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t shake like her knees. “He is not allowed back.”

  Without waiting to see her order carried out, she turned on her heel and walked back across the terrace. She held her head high, but it made no difference. She’d never felt so stupid, so humiliated, so insulted. And God help her, so disappointed.

  She re-entered the house by the kitchen door in order to avoid her guests until she had calmed her temper and the angry tears. The cook and maids barely noticed her as they put the finishing touches to the supper dishes about to be served. She flitted past them, using the back stairs to reach her bedchamber where she washed her flushed face and repinned her slightly wild hair before descending once more to do her duty.

  “There you are,” Bernard said in relief, crossing the empty hall to meet her. “Not one to preach proprieties as you know, but, seriously, not sure you should wander off alone with the wicked baron. He ain’t at all the thing. Or at least not in that way.”

  “Bernie, what are you talking about?” she asked impatiently.

  “Wickenden! You sat down with him in the alcove, then went out into the garden.”

  “His name is Keith,”

  “Yes,” Bernard said impatiently. “David Keith, tenth Baron Wickenden.”

  “Oh.” The name and title meant nothing to her except mild irritation. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re quite right, he isn’t the thing, so I had Danny throw him out and told him he isn’t allowed back.”

  Bernard blanched. “You did what?”

  “I had Danny throw him out—”

  “Damn it, Gillie, what the hell for? You’ve ruined us just as we were beginning to make something of this!”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. The man insulted me. I don’t care if he has a title—”

  “It ain’t his title that concerns me. Don’t you know anything about London fashion? Wickenden leads the fast set and has such influence that one word from him and no one will bother coming to our parties – except a few old friends out of pity.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe, but why would he bother to speak such a word? We’re nothing to him.”

  “Let’s hope so, but trust me, Gillie, he’s got a nasty reputation for vindictiveness. I wouldn’t put it past him to ruin us on a whim of revenge before he forgets us altogether.”

  Gillie stared at him, unease growing steadily into something akin to horror. “But…but he was in the wrong, Bernie!”

  “It makes no odds,” Bernard said, dragging his fingers through his hair until it stood up in spikes. “The wicked baron never apologizes. He just leaves a trail of ruin in his wake, including us. We’re done for.” He paced as far as the mirror on the wall, where he hastily flattened his hair with his hands before swinging back toward her. “Unless we apologize to him. That might work.”

  Gillie closed her mouth. “Apologize for what?” she said flatly. “Refusing to let him in my bed?”

  Bernard’s mouth fell open. “Oh the devil!” he exclaimed, clearly wishing for a stronger expletive and tearing at his intricately folded cravat instead. “Now I shall have to call him out and you’ll be left all alone when I’m dead.”

  Gillie saw at once that rage had caused her to reveal too much. Worse, now that she thought about it, even she had heard talk of the wicked baron. He’d fought duels before, was even rumored to have killed his man once and only been saved from the law by a lot of judicious string pulling. Under no circumstances could she let Bernard near such a predator.

  “No, no, it wasn’t that bad,” she said hastily. “I was exaggerating from sheer temper. I could just see that was where it would lead, so of course I was angry at such an insult. But there, he is a stranger in Blackhaven and clearly misunderstood many things…Leave it to me, Bernie. I shall apologize and make it right. You mustn’t even let on that I’ve told you anything about this quarrel. Promise me.”

  *

  Lord Wickenden, deep in thought, had no sooner followed Danny, the burly watchman – or whatever he was – around the side of the house before the fellow came at him in the darkness. From pure instinct, perhaps leavened with a little luck, Wickenden threw up his guard in time to ward off two hefty blows that would almost certainly have felled him if they’d reached their mark. Since the man’s balance was all wrong, he stumbled and Wickenden was able to seize him in an arm lock.

  “Damn it, you’re quick for a toff,” Danny panted. “Doesn’t mean this is finished!”

  “There, I agree with you.”

  “You’ve no cause to come here upsetting Miss Gillie!”

  Wickenden considered. On the whole, he tended to agree, although he was well aware his judgement had been clouded by contraband French brandy and a pair of laughing hazel eyes.

  “I’ve had a few,” he admitted, “so I’ll make a deal with you. Once I’ve had a chance to think about this, if I decide I was in the wrong, I’ll come back and let you hit me for free.”

  Danny stopped struggling.

  “In the meantime, I’ll go on my way and you go on yours,” Wickenden suggested.

  Danny was really in no position to refuse. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “But you’re a bloody odd gentleman.”

  “You’re a bloody odd servant.”

  “I do what’s required,” Danny said with dignity, rolling his shoulders and straightening his lapels as Wickenden released him.

  “Did she give you some signal to beat me?” Wickenden asked curiously.

  Danny laughed with utter scorn. “Miss Gillie? God, no, it would never enter her head, let alone her soft heart. I decided that was required!”

  “Hmm,” Wickenden said thoughtfully and strolled down the path and out of the front gate.

  Blackhaven was not a large town, and Wickenden did not find himself spoiled for choices of entertainment. Braithwaite had heard tell of some new, extraordinary bordello, whose existence so close to his ancestral home seemed to amuse him. They’d been on their way there when, on impulse, Wickenden had suggested stopping first at “the Muirs’”. Although Braithwaite had looked slightly surprised that Wickenden had heard of the place, he’d made no demur. And indeed, it had proved to be some kind of genteel if illegal gambling den.

  Miss Muir herself, however, was not at all what he’d expected. In fact, he rather wished he hadn’t got involved. He should have followed his original inclinations and stayed away from Lillian’
s affairs. In fact, he should have stayed in London. Although it was true he’d found life there confoundedly boring, too. And uncomfortable.

  A brisk five minutes’ walk took him to a tavern where he sat down and ordered more brandy.

  Around half an hour later, Braithwaite walked in. The locals all tugged their forelocks, although not terribly obsequiously, and the earl exchanged a few words with a couple of them in passing before throwing himself down at the rickety table opposite Wickenden and placing two tall beaver hats between them.

  “What do you need two for?” Wickenden asked.

  “One of them’s yours, idiot. You left it at the Muirs’.”

  “So I did.” He called peremptorily for another glass before sweeping the hat onto the seat beside him and fixing his friend with a frown. “It’s not a gaming hell, is it?”

  Braithwaite blinked. “Good God, no. Who told you it was? They just do card parties rather well.”

  “No, there’s more to it than that,” Wickenden insisted. “But she—Miss Muir—is no game girl. Nor even a scheming courtesan.”

  Braithwaite’s jaw dropped. “Game girl? Courtesan? No! She’s the respectable daughter of an army officer. He died on the Peninsula a few months back. She lives in her family home with her brother and a scatterbrained but quite unexceptionable spinster aunt. Plus, she’s something of a friend of mine. She shared the schoolroom with my sisters for a few years.”

  “Damn,” Wickenden said without heat. “I shall have to get a black eye.”

  “What?”

  Wickenden sighed. “Nothing. I’m afraid I insulted your friend.” And be damned to Lillian Grantham who’d involved him in this. He was fairly sure it had been Lilian’s son who’d greeted Gillie as soon as they’d re-entered the gaming salon. In which case, it was clearly their first meeting in months and any affection of longstanding. Hardly the whirlwind seduction of a wicked temptress digging her claws into a man for his money. On the contrary, Wickenden had detected nothing terribly lover-like in their greetings at all. Especially not in hers, although sticklers might fault her friendliness and somewhat free manners. Wickenden rather liked them.