“I don’t care how much,” Roland snarled, closing his eyes as he swayed.
“Well, money’s one thing, but it ain’t goin’ to please our esteemed guest whose company we presently await,” purred Mrs Hollingsworth. “Ah, Sir Richard!” She simpered up at a new arrival whom the clubfoot ushered into the room with a great deal of supercilious care. “Mr Hawthorne has been ever so impatient to get down to business. We thought you’d never get here.”
“A street urchin delivered your message when I was up to my wrists in gold coin at The Hellraker.” The newcomer rose from kissing the back of Mrs Hollingsworth’s hand, a sardonic smile curling his thin lips as he surveyed the company.
Roland blinked at the man who’d inhabited so many of his nightmares.
Sir Richard Byrd.
Trickie Dickie, as he was commonly known.
Back from exile.
About five years older than Roland, tall but powerfully built, he was still a handsome man, although dissolute living had made its inroads.
“Not even a run of good luck could have enticed me to stay, knowing what other … enticements … were on offer, here.”
His gaze slid over Caro, his velvet tones at odds with the lack of empathy in his cold, hard eyes, though he smiled as he bit his lip in apparent contemplation. “This frightened looking damsel must be Miss Hawthorne. Venetia’s child without the fire and ice.” His eyes travelled to Sarah. “And this lush little morsel must be the governess, yes?”
“How dare you!”
With a laugh at Roland’s ineffectual outburst, Sir Richard went on, “Mrs Hollingsworth and her son have been maintaining these two young women at their own considerable expense. Knowing my interest in the welfare of any Hawthorne family member, they kindly requested my presence to help resolve an adequate means of recompense …”
Roland waited. A weary acceptance that matters were about to become very complicated settled upon him.
Sir Richard moved to the fire to warm his back. He looked at home, an image he upheld as he said, “Being a regular patron of Mrs Hollingsworth’s esteemed establishment-”
At Roland’s look of derision, Sir Richard laughed. “Do not make the mistake of calling me inconstant. Venetia did that. No, my dear Hawthorne, I have but one fair and faithful creature whom I visit here regularly; the magnificently endowed Queenie. So it was an unexpected and delightful surprise when Mrs Hollingsworth sent me the message this evening informing me that Lady Sarah’s quest to find your daughter had led her here.”
“The last person we’d expected to see!” exclaimed Mrs Hollingsworth, clapping her hands and leaning forward.
“Certainly a lucky chance I’d never thought would fall into my lap,” murmured Sir Richard.
Moving stealthily around the back of the small sofa upon which Sarah and Caro were huddled, Sir Richard took up one of Caro’s smoky ringlets between two fingers. Lowering his face, he brushed the curl across his face, breathing deeply before he released it with a kiss.
Roland’s fury ignited at Caro’s frightened intake of breath. He took a step forward but the menacing effect for which he was striving was marred by his unsteadiness.
Sir Richard gave a bark of laughter. “So you intend defending the girl’s honour as you never did her mother’s?” He caressed Caro’s neck and his lip curled. “Though it would appear Venetia’s daughter is not as willing with her favours as her mother. Darling Venetia was … so very accommodating.” With an assessing look, he added, “Nor does she have her mother’s ripe sensuality but she is very young and that may come.” Leaning further over the sofa he reached towards Caro’s bodice.
“How dare you?” Sarah hissed, batting away his hand. Sobbing, Caro sank against her shoulder.
“If you’re after vengeance, not money, then pistols at dawn,” Roland managed, hoarsely. “You’ll not find me hard to negotiate with when the safety of Caro and Lady Sarah hang in the balance.”
It was an exhausting speech. Dear Lord, just give him the strength to endure what he must in order to rescue the women.
“I don’t think Sir Richard was entertaining thoughts of duelling, but rather had in mind some other kind of challenge.” A tremor of excitement rippled through Mrs Hollingworth, like a gentle blow to a blancmange. Widening her eyes and biting her lip like a child barely able to keep a secret, she turned to Sir Richard. “Are we to play our favourite parlour game, Sir Richard? Do you wish all of our large, happy company to participate, or just you and Mr Hawthorne and the two young ladies?”
“No one will play any parlour games!” Roland was surprised at the energy he managed to inject into his voice. He slid his gaze across to Sarah and she smiled. To his amazement she raked her eyes upwards, the length of his body in that lazy, maddeningly sensual manner she had, and then pursed her lips slightly.
He could barely believe it. There they were, in the direst danger, and she was flirting with him.
Yet was that not her way of bolstering him? Her feelings were reflected clearly in her gaze. Despite the depths to which Roland was now reduced, she was reaffirming her desire, sustaining him at this moment when his manhood had never been more vulnerable. He felt a surge of love and appreciation for the woman he had banished from his household so recently.
“I am taking my daughter and Lady Sarah home now,” he told Sir Richard, quietly. “If neither money nor satisfaction at the end of a sword are what you want-”
Sir Richard began to clap his hands in a desultory fashion. “Heroic words! And yes, satisfaction is what I’m after, but not at the end of a sword. Rather, upon the roll of the dice.”
Roland closed his eyes.
“Yes! I’ve in mind a very diverting parlour game which I think we’ll all enjoy. I can see you’re not up to much, Hawthorne. I’m surprised, and disappointed, I must say, to find you in your cups but as it’s not a game of skill it hardly signifies.”
Roland ran the back of his hand across his eyes. “The young ladies are very tired,” he said, wearily. “It’s time we took our leave.”
“Come! I can see Lady Sarah is eager to enjoy some sport with you, Hawthorne.” Sir Richard kissed the top of Sarah’s head. “Damned fine filly this one,” he murmured. “I don’t wonder you’re on fire to bed her.”
Steeling himself against the unwise impulse to lunge at Sir Richard and thereby provide the man with the perfect excuse to fell him with an easy blow, Roland blinked at Sir Richard’s yelp of pain.
“The bitch bit me!”
“I’ll do more than bite you if you don’t let us all leave,” hissed Sarah. Her beautiful eyes were blazing. “If you were a man of any substance you’d realize your warped plans for revenge could hardly be satisfied by pitting yourself against a man who is so ill he can hardly stand up!”
Roland’s fear intensified. “Stop, Sarah!” he begged. If they could suffer in silence just a little longer, if he could only lose consciousness, even if it was at the cost of his dignity, perhaps they could walk out of here relatively unscathed.
Sir Richard crossed his arms and directed an admiring look at Sarah. “The young lady has fair got my blood up, Hawthorne. However, to prove I am indeed a gentleman, first choice this evening is yours.” He smiled. “Name the stakes. Shall it be the lovely, innocent and retiring Caro” - he asked, caressing her shoulder – “or this little filly, the fair and fiery Lady Sarah?”
Roland did not think he had uttered his horror but Sir Richard answered as if he had.
He chuckled. “It’s merely a popular party game, old chap, which I’ve no doubt Lady Sarah has played countless times. Let me explain. Upon the roll of the dice an item of clothing from the chosen damsel is either removed, or replaced.”
“The ladies do not wish to play,” muttered Roland. His eyes were hurting from the light. “Gaming debts sent you into exile once before, sir; I assure you, your insistence on this route will send you to a place far worse.”
“I did what I had to do … for Venetia,” snarled Sir Richard. “I sa
crificed everything for Venetia.” Violence lit his eyes. “And I paid the price, by God! These past seven years I have been paying the price as she haunts me from the grave. She was beyond pearls, that’s what she told me. A string of pearls that cost a king’s ransom is what she demanded. Yet when I risked everything to give her what she wanted, she prettily accepted the gift with the most half-hearted of favours” - Sir Richard’s face contorted grotesquely as he hissed — “and then left me!” His eyes were pinpricks of malice as he looked at Roland. “Left me and returned to her husband.”
So that was it. Relief kept Roland upright. He might have known money would ultimately guarantee their freedom.
“I cannot give you Venetia,” he said, feeling the world closing in upon him, despite his sudden illumination as to what Sir Richard really wanted. “She was never mine to give … but I can give you the pearls-”
“The pearls are mine by rights and I mean to claim them. This little entertainment is the interest upon what you already owe me.”
Mrs Hawthorne clapped her hands. “Oh, this is sport.” She quivered with excitement. “Do let us begin. There’s the table, gentlemen, and there are the dice.”
“I refuse to play.” Roland eyed the die suspiciously. “Certainly, not with those.”
“Always happy to oblige, Hawthorne. If you have them, we’ll play with yours instead.” Sir Richard pulled a delicate gilt chair into the centre of the room. “Lady Sarah, if you please?” With courtly exaggeration he assisted Sarah towards it.
She shrugged off his grasp and faced him with loathing. “Not only must Mr Hawthorne play with loaded dice, you can see he is seriously ill. If you force any of us you must know that your title will not protect you from the law.”
“What a fearsome and tempestuous creature you must be between the sheets,” he sneered. “Just like your gentleman friend’s admirable predecessor.” He turned to Roland. “I have to tell you, Hawthorne, I’ve bedded lusty wenches in my time but your Venetia put the most enthusiastic whores into the shade. Why do you look at me like that? Perhaps she did not provide the same excitement in the marital bed? Was she as great a disappointment to you … as you were to her?”
“Oh dear! The table!” clucked Mrs Hollingsworth as it toppled over in Roland’s haste to get his hands around his tormentor’s throat. “Archie, won’t you help poor Mr Hawthorne to his feet? Poor fellow’s in his cups.”
Nauseated, Roland suffered the grip of the young man’s hands beneath his armpits. He was in no position to struggle, he realized, as he was set back onto his feet, only to stumble backwards as the world tilted once more on its axis. His inadequacy was compounded as Sarah, refusing to sit, taunted, “Perhaps, Sir Richard, you were a disappointment to her, since she so willingly returned to her husband once she’d tired of you.”
Sir Richard’s eyes flared. “Young Miss Hawthorne will suit my purposes just as well, though her retiring ways are not so pleasing to me.” Lamplight glinted on the shaft of steel he pressed to Caro’s throat. Roland and Sarah froze.
“Ah, finally you understand I will not be gainsaid.” A voice of velvet in keeping with the charade. “Once more, Hawthorne, I ask you to make your choice. Remember, it’s just a game. A game of chance, a roll of the dice, your luck against mine. Just tell me, who shall be the stakes? Your daughter?” He grinned. “Or this luscious wench?”
He gripped Sarah’s shoulder with his free hand.
“Still you refuse to choose?” Sir Richard glared at him. “Perhaps I need to press a little harder.”
Caro gasped and Roland had to close his eyes to the entreaty in her look.
Think! he exhorted himself. One wrong move and three lives could be in ruins.
“Please, father.”
“Mr Hawthorne has too much honour to put either of us in your hands!” With dignity, Sarah relaxed in an attitude of defeat, sinking in the gilt chair set out for her. “If you must choose, choose me, though I warn you, you’ll regret it!”
Roland gripped the back of the settee for support. “No, Sarah,” he whispered. But what could he do? He was powerless. Emasculated. Defeated before the game had begun.
“That is against the rules of the game, my dear.” Still smiling, Sir Richard removed the knife from Caro’s throat. “Mr Hawthorne must make his choice.” He looked at Roland enquiringly. “Or must I choose for him?”
Pressing the knife once more to Caro’s throat, he drew her up from her seat. She made a strangled sound, like a trapped bird.
“There’s something fitting to my breaking in Venetia’s spawn though it’s to be expected you’d place a higher value upon the very delectable Lady Sarah since your parentage of the sadly dispirited Miss Caro has always been in doubt.”
“No!” It was all he could do to utter the word. He felt sweat crawling over his body, like an army of ants on his chilled, trembling frame.
Sir Richard cocked an eyebrow and his lips curled in a rictus of a smile. “No? Not Caro …? Or no, you dispute my assertion?”
“I am her father,” Roland managed, hoarsely, raising his head. “I will kill anyone who suggests otherwise.” The entreaty he saw in Caro’s eyes was agonising. He’d do anything to protect her. The doubts fed her regarding her parentage had led to this. Had led them all to this. He could not let her think he had forsaken her.
“The lovely Lady Sarah, then. Yes, an understandable choice. Knowing how you’ve lusted after her I can imagine what it will cost you to watch me arrive first at the finish line. So you’ve made your choice then. Lady Sarah …” He paused, meaningfully. “Come, Hawthorne, say it. You’ve chosen Lady Sarah as the spoils tonight. Is that right? Then say it!” Angrily, he jerked Caro’s hair, the knife still at her neck. She began to cry.
“Yes … Lady Sarah,” gasped Roland, defeated, as he slumped over the back of the sofa, his head resting on his folded arms. Stand up like a man, he exhorted himself once more. But he could do no more than keep his flickering, light-sensitive eyes open for a few seconds at a time. The scene was reproach enough for his cowardice. Caro’s whimpers contrasted with Sarah’s admirable bravado were equally intolerable. Sir Richard was now fondling the dice as he stood beside the baize-topped card table set up near the fire.
“Garth!”
At a nod from Mr Hollingsworth the bullet-headed thug left his post at the door and pushed Sarah roughly back into her chair. Roland caught the flash of bravely concealed fear before she bowed her head.
So, she could no longer look at him? He didn’t blame her. With difficulty, he raised himself at the rattle of dice.
“First throw is yours, Hawthorne.” Sir Richard beckoned to him, then strode over to his side. “Let me help you, you’re done in, old fellow.” His voice was full of feigned concern. “That’s right, steady does it. Got a head like a sore bear, have you? A nice warm fire will make you feel better. Isn’t the lovely Lady Sarah a sight to behold?”
Roland cast her an imploring look. She looked like a queen on her throne with her haughty eyes and lips curled with disdain. Longing and despair slashed his insides as he feasted his eyes on her for as long as he could keep them open.
“Lady Sarah will appreciate your cooperation. Ah, luck appears to be on your side, which refutes your offensive charge that I am not a man of honour. Yours is the higher number.”
“I forfeit,” said Roland who was glad he could now see only throbbing pinpricks of light in front of his eyes. His overloaded senses were at breaking point. The best he could do was remain upright.
Dimly, he registered the heavy bulk of another of the brothel heavies just two feet from him.
“But not I,” crowed Sir Richard in the next round. He circled Sarah, savouring her obvious loathing, and the terror she could not entirely hide. “Of course, I could simply request the young lady divests herself of her gown.” He trailed a bony forefinger over Sarah’s exposed throat, caressing her collar bone and closing his eyes in ecstasy, as he murmured, “Soft womanly flesh. But no, I a
m, and remain, a gentleman. If the lady would just point her toe I shall merely remove her dainty slipper.”
Dropping heavily to his knees Sir Richard slipped off Sarah’s shoe. Caressing her foot, he held it against his cheek, murmuring, “The anticipation is nearly killing me.”
It did not surprise Roland to lose the next throw. He watched, his disgust and horror equal to his helplessness. As much as he struggled to remain clear headed, he wondered if losing consciousness would put an end to the nightmare for them all. What pleasure would Sir Richard gain if Roland were unable to witness it? This whole spectacle was designed purely to humiliate him.
Sir Richard eyed Sarah, lasciviously. “And now for the lady’s stocking.” He laughed as Roland was held back, this time by a chuckling Mr Hollingsworth.
On his knees again, Sir Richard held out Sarah’s foot, as if parading it before them. Roland tried not to look but his gaze was drawn to the dainty white silk-clad leg before travelling to Sarah’s face. Her brave attempt to mask her fear with contempt, and then the hope he saw when her glance locked briefly with his, was almost too much to bear.
He blinked open his eyes at the sound of Sarah’s shocked whimper.
“The ribbons are a delight, don’t you always think?” Sir Richard addressed Mr Hollingsworth in a matter-of-fact tone, as his arm disappeared up Sarah’s skirts. “That join between silk stocking and flesh, just above the knee. I cannot help myself, but I must explore a little further-”
With a roar Roland tore himself away from his captor and hurled himself upon Sir Richard. “Blackguard!” he managed between gritted teeth.
Caught unawares, Sir Richard was thrown on his back. However, Garth and his compatriot exerted little effort to return both men to their feet.
Sir Richard quickly regained his composure. “So glad you appear to enjoy this as much as I had hoped,” he said, smoothly, dusting himself down. “Hawthorne, you win the next toss. Congratulations! I await with anticipation your choice. What? You wish to have the lady’s stocking back? I had thought to keep it as a souvenir, but” - he shrugged – “it is within the rules.”
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