Paying the Virgin's Price

by Christine Merrill

  The walls were the same dusty gold colour, and the desk and shelves were just as she remembered from her youth. But the contents of the shelves were different. Her father had favoured atlases, poring over them as though he wished to escape. But it appeared that Nathan Wardale had had his fill of travel. The maps had been replaced with local histories and books on art and drawing.

  She turned to the desk, where she had learned the importance of picking simple locks while trying to find enough money to pay the bills. The surface was clear of papers and more orderly than she remembered it. Her father's old glass inkwell had been replaced with a heavy silver desk set. And here was the little locked drawer where Father had kept his purse and his memories of Mother. There had been letters, a miniature in a silver frame, and a lock of her hair, bound up by silk thread.

  Without thinking, she pulled a pin from her hair and set about bending it to the shape of the desk key. Then she inserted it into the lock, and gave a jiggle and twist, feeling the mechanism turn, just as it always had.

  What had she meant to do, she wondered, other than to prove that she could? There was no need to go through Nathan Wardale's desk, if he'd left his money in the bank for her. Perhaps it was the same curiosity that had led her to keep his note to Marc. Though she might claim that she wished no more from him, she still wanted to know the state of his mind.

  The drawer was empty, except for a deck of playing cards. In that, he was not so different from her father after all. In the place where her father had hidden his most precious possessions, Nathan kept nothing but cards. She picked up the deck and stroked it, feeling sad for the man that had owned this house. Then she sat, shuffled and went to lay out a game of patience.

  And stopped as she turned up the first card. Apparently, Nathan was something of an artist. He had transformed the cards, drawing little pictures around the pips. The clubs grew in flower gardens, dogs and cats played amongst the diamonds, the spades had been turned into fish.

  And the hearts. Her breath caught in her throat. The hearts were her. She was sure of it. The likeness was not expert. But there she was, in her old bedroom, reading a book, with hearts floating around her like memories. And here on the five was the bonnet she had worn on her visits to Hyde Park, with hearts hidden amongst its flowers. On the ten, her hand was outstretched, to hold one of the hearts in her palm.

  And as she looked at it, the conviction grew in her that it was his heart she held. If he'd said it to her face, she'd never have believed the words. But when he was alone in his study, with nothing to prove to anyone, what reason would he have to lie?

  She cradled the card in her hand for a moment, and then gathered up the deck and thrust it back into the drawer, so that no one would see. It was a precious secret, and deserved to be kept safe. Then she ran out into the hall and called for the butler.

  The man came hurrying to her side, probably fearing an emergency, for the tone she was taking. 'Miss Diana?'

  'Benton. Where did he go? If I meant to find him...'

  'That would not be wise, miss.'

  'So few things I have done recently are. But I mean to do it, anyway. Please, tell me, Benton. Where is Nathan Wardale?'

  'If he is not here, I expect he is where he always is, Miss Diana. He has returned to the gaming table.'

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nate stared down at the perfectly arranged cards in front of him, and the shocked expression on the man across the table. Then he gave his usual cold smile and said, 'Another hand?'

  'One hand too many, I think.' His opponent gave a shaky laugh. 'I should know better, Nathan. You and your damned luck.' And then he smiled. 'Next week, perhaps?'

  Nate smiled and nodded, gathering the stakes into a neat pile before him. 'Perhaps,' he said, relieved the game was over. The man in front of him knew when to push himself away from the table, and might return as a diversion. Or he might not. But he would not reappear with a driving need to avenge himself or with a score to settle. Would that there were more like him, for Nate could take tonight's winnings in good conscience.

  As soon as the chair was empty, another man seated himself. Nate looked up to see the Gypsy, darkening the table again. He smirked. 'And who are we today, then? Hebden? Or Beshaley?'

  'As you prefer.' The Gypsy gave a bare nod of acknowledgement.

  'I prefer that you leave. Both of you. But if you must stay, then let us play for something that has value to you. I should like to see you suffer, when you lose it.'

  'Taking vengeance, Nathan?'

  'If I can.'

  'And how did your meeting with Keddinton go?'

  'Just as you suspected. He was not impressed with the evidence, and had no real desire to help me. He expected me to work for him, as a matter of fact, in further smearing my father's name. I mean to take matters into my own hands, to go after George Carlow, once Diana is forever safely out of that house.'

  'Revenge is not an easy course. I speak from experience when I tell you it takes as much from the wronged as it does from the cause.'

  'Fine words from you, Beshaley. And meaningless. You speak as if you care for my future, after all you have done to me.'

  The Gypsy gave him almost a clinical examination, as though he could see the spirit as well as the body. 'Nothing has changed then? Your luck holds?'

  'As it always does,' Nate said. 'No thanks to you and your kind.'

  'So the curse did not break.' The Gypsy seemed surprised at this.

  'Did you think it would?'

  'As a matter of fact, I did.'

  Nate frowned. 'Perhaps the luck was my own then, and this has all been nonsense. If so, I hope you are through with me, for I have no wish to part from it. I should think, taking the father, the family, the house and the girl would be enough to satisfy your mother. You have ruined the better part of my life and left me with no hope for the future. Leave me the cards at least.'

  The Gypsy held out his hands in a gesture of finality. 'For my part, you have paid enough. You are released in any way I can release you. What is left, lucky or unlucky, is up to you.'

  'Too little and too late. But it is something, I suppose.'

  They played in silence for a while, and the stack of coins in front of Nate became larger. Then he said, 'And what of you? Are there others who will receive your gift?'

  The Gypsy rubbed his temple, as though his head ached. 'Unfortunately, yes. While this business may be through for you, it is far from done for me. Until then?' He shrugged. 'The shadow moves where the sun commands. I will go where fate leads me. And it will be done when it is done.'

  'And if you find proof that Narborough knew of my father's innocence?'

  'Then he is my father's murderer. Despite what you may think, his debt to me is greater than to you. It will end in blood.'

  'If you can prove George Carlow's hand in this, tell me of it. We will finish him together.'

  The Gypsy's mouth quirked. 'Together, as friends?'

  'To call you friend goes too far, after what you have done. Ally, perhaps. Let us say we have a common goal.'

  Stephano raised his glass. 'To honour and justice for our families.'

  It was impossible to tell by his expression which family he meant, the Hebdens or the Beshaleys. And so Nathan responded, 'For our families. Whoever they may be.'

  The Gypsy let out a bark of laughter. 'Very well. If I have information to give, you shall have it.' And then, with a sidelong glance, 'If, when the time comes, you are still so eager to throw your life away on the past.' He tossed his cards on the table and stood up. He waved his hand in a strange gesture of blessing, and said, 'God keep you, Nathan. May I dance at your wedding.' He moved quickly away, so that he could not hear Nathan's responding curse to such a sarcastic parting.

  Nate rubbed his temples, wondering if the Gypsy's headache was contagious. The air was oppressive, heavy with tobacco smoke and the smell of too much whisky and too many overheated bodies. He longed for the fresh scent of the park, the feel
of the cool breeze on his face.

  And if he were honest, the feel of a small hand in his. But he did not dare go back. For suppose he was to see her? She could have the park and Bond Street, along with the house. Half of all London would be hers, if it meant that he would not have to see her again. There was nothing left he could offer her. He had given everything he had, and there had been no response. He must accept it. This was home. Hyde Park was a million miles away from the room he was in, and as dangerous a journey as a trip to the Indies. It would be too painful to risk another meeting.

  He heard ribald laughter from the front of the room, and then the crowd parted, as a woman timidly approached his table.

  'Diana.' The cards slipped from his hands. He gathered them quickly and shuffled in a skilled, nonchalant manner, so that she might not see how her arrival had unnerved him. Why had she come here, just as he was trying to reconcile himself to the loss of her? He had to fight with all his might against the urge to jump to his feet, hide the cards behind his back and stammer an apology for being caught in so low a place.

  But it would do little good. If she knew to seek him here, there was no way to present this to her as an isolated occurrence. He could not pretend that he was any different than what he was, a habitual gambler, as at home here as she was sitting before the parlour fire in his old home. And so, he composed himself. 'I beg your pardon. Miss Price.' He rose to honour her properly, and offered a bow and a smile that was courteous, but would give no indication to those around him that she was anything more to him than an acquaintance.

  'Mr Dale.' She looked nervous. Was it just the gaming hell that made her uncomfortable or was it his presence? He had longed to see her again. But the sight of her unhappiness was even more painful than her absence had been.

  'Mr Wardale,' he corrected. 'If you please.'

  'You have decided to use your real name, then?' Her lips formed what might almost have been a smile of approval.

  He nodded. 'It is time, don't you think? In the end, the alias proved to be more bother than it was worth.'

  'What of your troubles with the Navy?'

  'I mean to see to it that they are the Navy's troubles with me. They took me unjustly. They must acknowledge the fact.'

  She nodded. 'It pleases me to see you are ready to face your past.'

  And what good did it do him, that she was pleased? 'I assure you, it is hardly a magical transformation of my character. No matter my opinions on the past, the present is likely to stay just as it is.' He gestured around the room to remind her of their surroundings. 'I did not expect to see you again, certainly not in such a place as this. I trust that you will not think it a breach of my promise to leave you in peace. I will quit the city, if my presence in it is a problem for you.'

  'No. No, of course not. That will not be necessary. It is a very big city, is it not?' She sat down at the empty seat across from him, fussing with her skirts. She was wearing the green silk dress that she had worn to seduce him; he wondered if that had meaning or was merely her attempt to blend with the gaudiness of the surroundings.

  She leaned forward, almost confidentially. And he doubted, from the innocent look in her eyes, that she realized what a fascinating thing it did to her decollete. 'There is more than enough room in London for the two of us.'

  The two of them. If for once his life had turned out the way he wished, they would have needed very little space at all. He stared fixedly back at her, reminding himself that a gaming table was no place to show emotion. He looked directly into her eyes, waiting for her to speak.

  Then, without a word, she removed a wad of folded bills from her reticule and set them upon the table, pushing them to his side. 'I believe these are yours.'

  'Not any more. At one time, they belonged to your father. I no longer wish to retain them.'

  Her returning smile to him was surprisingly cynical. 'If you meant to repay what my father lost to you, then it is not enough.'

  He shrugged. 'There were expenses.' Then he pushed his night's winnings towards her across the table. 'If you wish more, then take. Or I can write you a bank draft.'

  'That is not why I am here. I come to return what you have given me, for it was fairly won.' She reached deeper into the purse and removed the deed. 'And this as well.'

  'It is yours.'

  'Was mine. My father's actually. In the distant past. But it has not been in the family for some time.'

  'How fortunate that you have it again,' he said, pretending that the matter did not concern him.

  'I no longer wish it. That is why I have been trying to return it to you.' She was staring back at him, her kissable mouth fixed in a resolute chaperone's smile.

  'Nor do I. That is why I will not take it back.'

  'I understand what you are trying to do by returning it to me. But you do not have to. It is kind of you to wish a different life for me than the one I had, but it is too late. While you might learn to live with it, you cannot change the past, Nathan.'

  She had called him Nathan. The other words in the sentence paled to insignificance, leaving only the sweet tone of her voice and the sound of his name. For a moment, it gave him some small bit of hope. 'If there is some way to soften the memory of them, I wish to try. Or to make you forget altogether.' He frowned. 'Although there are some things, one night in particular, that I wish you to remember in every detail.'

  There was not a trace of blush upon her cheek to reveal that she understood him. Perhaps she had lost the ability, after the previous evening's activities. Or maybe it was a sign of rare composure and her ability to maintain an even keel, though the waters were rough.

  She ignored his hint and went on. 'Your life was more difficult than mine, and you have been less content. There is much I would not change. More than one night, certainly. It does not do to put too much emphasis on the actions of a single day, whether they be good or bad.'

  Did she mean their night together? Or his night at the tables with her father? Or perhaps both. For then she said, 'Whatever the past between us, giving me the house and the money means nothing. They are not what matters. They do not indicate whether a person's character is changed or constant.' She pushed them back across the table.

  He glanced at the papers and gave a shudder of revulsion at the sight of the deed lying in front of him on the baize where it had been so many years before. 'My character has changed for the better from what it once was. If the change is insufficient and you do not like it as it is, then I am sorry. And if you do not believe me to be constant, then tell me what I can do to prove it to you.'

  'You certainly do not need to do--' she waved a hand over the deed '--this.'

  'And yet, I have.' Her stubbornness over the thing made his head ache, and he wished that she would take it and leave him with what little peace he had, instead of coming to give him a fresh reminder of how unsuitable he was. 'I will not take it back. I wish I had given it to you on the first day, the moment I realized who you were. It and the damned letter, and anything else I could think to give. And then I could have walked away from you before speaking a word, with a clear conscience.'

  And that had an effect on her, at last. Her eyes grew round with shock and hurt. He could not help himself and hurried to soften the blow. 'Do not misunderstand. My acquaintance with you was pleasant. More than pleasant. But it was a mistake. For now it hurts me to think of even the most pleasant moments, knowing they are all in the past. And the association hurt you as well. I could have spared us both so much grief by tearing up your father's note on the night he gave it to me.' He gestured to the money and the deed. 'This is all I have left to give you. Please, remove them from the table. If they are not stakes in a game, they do not belong here.'

  'Stakes.' Her eyes had a stubborn sparkle. 'That is all these are to you? Nothing more? Then I...I wish to wager them.'

  He laughed. 'You have no idea what you are talking about. And you know nothing of cards or gambling.'

  'On the contrary. I may know
nothing of cards, but I know more than you think about gambling and gamblers. And I know exactly what I am doing. You will accept this challenge from me, because you cannot help yourself. It is like a madness, isn't it? You have no control over it.'

  Too true, although he did not like to admit it. But he could master it if he tried, he was sure. It was just that there was seldom a reason to try.

  'You did not stick at winning the house away from my family the first time it was offered. Are you afraid that you will not succeed a second time?' Her voice was no longer the prim and proper tone of a paid companion, but the low, sultry murmur of the cards and the dice, cutting through his resistance.

  The men gathered around the table gave a laugh. She had just called him a coward. He would have called out any man who said the words. He could hear the beginnings of mutterings, as a crowd began to gather to see the spectacle of the strange woman come to challenge the infamous gambler. And he could not very well let the insult stand. But neither did he want to play against her. 'It is just that I do not wish to take from you unfairly.' What had sounded like surety in his head, sounded overconfident, arrogant and dismissive as he said it to her.

  'Since when have you turned away a game?' She was sweet and cajoling now. Intoxicating. If she were calling him to bed, he'd have gone in an instant. 'It is hardly unfair to play me in a game of chance. Unless you mean to cheat, of course.'

  The crowd gasped. She had insulted him again. Even if it came from a woman, he dare not let that pass. 'Very well.' He'd said it more sharply than he intended, his fever for the game momentarily overcoming his fever for the woman. He spoke again, more calmly, 'What do you wish to play?'

  She bit her lip, considering. 'What would you suggest?'

  He groaned. 'Miss Price, the first lesson you must learn is not to allow me to choose the method of your destruction.' He shuffled quickly, giving the cards an elegant flourish, hoping that his dexterity would frighten her away. Then he dealt out the cards for a hand of Macao. 'I assume you are at least slightly familiar with this game? Let us make this interesting. Your house and money, against the contents of my purse.'