by Nan Ryan
Smiling now as she mused it over, Olivia closed and locked the front door. She turned, thrust her silver-headed cane forward, and walked unhurriedly through the silent house. She went into her room, picked up a book and sat down to read.
She read only a couple of pages, closed the book and laid it aside. She rose with the aid of her cane and left her room. She went out onto the back veranda, leaned against a porch pillar and sighed.
It was a beautiful evening. Warm, but not hot, with a slight breeze from out of the east. The subtle scent of roses was in the air. With twilight just beginning to fall, a few stars appeared in the sky.
Olivia took a deep breath and slowly released it. And she frowned. She was, she realized, lonely. She knew no one at the Springs. The only places she had been in Saratoga were a couple of small, out-of-the way casinos. In neither of those gaming establishments had she spoken to anyone. And no one had spoken to her.
She had not been invited to any of the resort’s many social events, nor should she be. She was, after all, a paid companion to a British duchess. Her position placed her one peg above the household servants. Paid attendants were not included on anyone’s guest lists. And, truth to tell, she wouldn’t have wanted to go to the dances and parties. That sort of thing was for young, energetic people. She was neither young nor energetic.
Olivia shook her head and silently lectured herself. What a foolish, ungrateful old woman she was! She had never in her life had it this easy. She, Olivia L. Sutton, formerly an inmate in Newgate Prison, now lived in a duchess’s opulent mansion. Her teeth had been fixed, her graying hair styled, and she had nice clothes. She could come and go as she pleased and spend money as if it were her own. For the first time in years she did not go to bed hungry and dirty and sick and afraid of being attacked.
Who could ask for anything more?
Olivia smiled and went back inside.
In her room she crossed to her neatly made bed. She reached beneath a pillow and took out the purple velvet drawstring bag which Claire insisted she keep in her possession. From the bag Olivia withdrew their closely guarded stash of money. She carefully counted it as she did every night.
She took several bills, laid them aside.
She put the rest of the money back inside the velvet pouch and returned the stash to its hiding place beneath the pillow. She picked up the bills she had taken and stuffed them in her reticule.
She went to the tall bureau and looked into the mirror atop it. She frowned, pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, and picked up a long-handled hairbrush.
When she put the brush down, she laid out her finest dress.
Fox Connor felt his heartbeat quicken when, at shortly after dusk on that same Sunday evening, he stepped into the dark vestibule of Canfield’s casino. An elegant establishment with tall windows and a French Renaissance interior, Canfield’s provided plush little parlors on the left, a large gaming room on the right and an elegant dinning room at the rear.
Upstairs were private rooms where white chips valued at $100 were the minimum. The worth of each succeeding—red, blue, yellow—chip raised to $100,000 for the brown.
In the gaming rooms tuxedos or tails were required. The ladies wore so many jewels, Canfield hired a private detective to mingle with the crowd to protect them against thieves.
Dressed in the required evening wear, Fox went directly to the downstairs gaming room. He paused at the entrance, looked about and smiled with pleasure. Soft tapestries, silk-upholstered chairs, massive mantels and black-walnut woodwork made the room inviting.
At this early hour there were few players. Before the evening was over, the place would be packed with gamblers.
Fox heard the familiar sound that never failed to excite him. The swirl and clatter which accompanied the tiny white ball as it spun around and around the varnished wheel of the roulette table.
A trio of players were there. A couple of rowdy, inebriated young men, and a quiet, well-dressed lady of advanced years.
Standing behind the table was a tall, unsmiling man with a pencil-thin mustache and sallow complexion. “Twenty-three black,” the croupier announced in a flat monotone and the two young male players groaned. The lady remained silent. Her expression did not change.
Fox approached the table as the ball went whirling around the wheel once more. “The number is even. Twelve red,” the croupier announced, deadpan.
Nobody won.
Fox took a seat on a silk-covered chair between the young men and the gray-haired lady. He laid a couple of bills on the green felt. The croupier scooped up the money and shoved a stack of chips at him. His fellow players began placing chips along the layout.
The lady waited until the white ball was again flying around the wheel, then unhurriedly reached out and laid a blue ten-dollar chip on number eleven. Fox glanced at her, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then placed a yellow one-hundred-dollar chip directly atop her chip.
The spinning wheel began to slow, the white ball skittered and jumped, landing first on red seventeen, popping out, dancing dizzily around and falling into red thirty-six before ricocheting up and down. The two young men were clapping their hands and counting their winnings when the fickle white marble bounced up out of thirty-six, tumbled crazily around the slowing wheel and finally came to a final rest in black eleven.
Fox and the lady exchanged pleased looks, sharing the thrill of winning that only fellow gamblers can fully understand.
“Black eleven. Odd,” announced the dead-eyed croupier and thrust a stack of blue chips at Olivia.
Fox looked at her. “What number shall we take this time?”
“You choose,” she said.
“Not on your life. Be my lucky charm.”
Olivia nodded and laid two blue chips on black number eight. Fox followed suit, dropping two yellow chips atop hers. A camaraderie was quickly developing. Enjoying themselves, they were soon laughing and joking like two old friends.
And they were lucky.
Very lucky.
When Olivia had won more than five hundred dollars, she pushed her chips across the table and said to the croupier. “Cash me in.”
“Same here,” said Fox, his winnings ten times what hers were.
He rose, smiled at Olivia, and said, “You are my lucky charm and I don’t even know your name.”
“Sutton. Miss Olivia Sutton. Companion to the Duchess of Beaumont.”
“Ah, then you must know Hank Cassidy. I understand that he and the duchess are—”
“Indeed,” Olivia replied with a knowing smile.
“I’m Fox Connor, Miss Sutton.”
Olivia nodded. “Hank’s friend from Kentucky.”
“One and the same,” he said, then added, “It’s as if you and I already know each other well.” He reached for Olivia’s cane. He handed it to her, took her arm and ushered her toward the door. “Have you had dinner?”
“Why, no, I—”
“Nor have I. Dine with me,” he said. Olivia blinked in surprise. He smiled and gently coaxed. “It’s too early to end such a lovely evening. Have dinner with me and later, if we’re in the mood, we can return to the tables.”
Feeling wonderfully gay and lighthearted, Olivia smiled and told him, “Only if you’ll agree to come to the estate some evening this week and have dinner with me.”
“Is tomorrow evening too soon?”
“Tomorrow would be perfect, Mr. Connor.”
“Fox,” he said with a charming smile. “Call me Fox, Olivia.”
Twenty-Three
The fevered impromptu lovemaking in the darkened cloakroom of the Grand Union Hotel during a crowded social function was not the first, nor would it be the last time the hot-blooded Hank and the fiery Claire would behave so recklessly.
Hank had a powerful hold on Claire.
And she on him.
Together they were passionate, irresponsible, dangerously daring.
Seductive, sinfully handsome, with a smile that could melt the coldest o
f hearts, Hank knew how to draw Claire to the edge and dangle her over. And Claire, breathtakingly beautiful, vibrant and alluring, could have snapped her fingers, demand he kneel and worship her and Hank would have dropped immediately to his knees.
A highly incendiary affair.
A look, a touch, a whispered confidence and their teasing flirtation would instantly erupt into flame and blaze out of control.
There were many a quick exit. An anxious search for a nearby place to be alone, and then a frenzied coupling in the most implausible of venues.
Up at the lake where they’d gone for a fish dinner at Moon’s, then decided they had no appetite. At least not for food. On an iron lace settee in the private gardens of the duchess’s estate. Most uncomfortable, but ultimately satisfying. And even including a strictly man’s domain, the Thoroughbred stables behind the oval racetrack.
It happened on an evening that had begun innocently enough. A late dinner at the Congress Inn where the two had enjoyed a delicious meal which began with cups of cold consommé followed by Lobster Newburg and a crisp green salad. Dessert was tutti-frutti pudding with Kümmel sauce. And finally pineapple cheese and Albert crackers.
Pleasingly full and relaxed, they lingered over their coffee and brandy. Then the two of them, in no particular hurry, left the hotel and leisurely strolled back toward the cottages commenting on the coolness of the evening, the brilliance of the stars in the inky night sky.
Halfway there, Hank paused and asked Claire if she’d mind walking out to the track with him. Said he’d like to look in on a couple of the Thoroughbreds entered in the next day’s races. And he wanted to check on his prized stallion, Black Satin. See if the big fellow was feeling well and was relatively calm.
“You think it will be all right?” Claire asked, tilting her head to one side. “As I recall, Caroline Whit said women are not welcome at the stables.”
“My woman will be welcome,” Hank said with such possessive authority Claire felt her heart skip a beat.
His woman.
She was his woman. At least for now. She liked being his woman. Liked him being her man. Wished he could be her man forever.
At that moment Claire experienced an unexpected twinge of dread and melancholy. It struck her that in only a few short days this would all be over. She would awaken from this lovely dream to face stark reality. She would kiss Hank Cassidy good-night as though nothing were amiss, then rise with the dawn and flee Saratoga without saying goodbye.
And Hank—her Hank—beloved by all the ladies and admired by all the gentlemen, would no longer be hers.
Claire didn’t realize she was frowning until Hank’s low, soft voice broke into her troubled reveries.
“What is it, Duchess? If you’d rather go back to the cottage and wait for me there, I’ll—”
“No,” she almost choked. “I want to go with you. I want to be with you. Every hour. Every minute.”
Hank laughed, took her hand, laced his long fingers through hers and drew their clasped hands up to rest against his chest. Against his heart.
“Darlin’,” he said, “you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Claire smiled, pleased with his statement. She affectionately pressed her head against his muscular shoulder and sighed. Soon they neared the stables and Claire heard the soft whinnying of horses, the shuffling of hooves against wooden stall floors.
Just outside, a big, tough-looking man was stationed directly in front of the entrance to the sprawling structure. His feet wide apart in an assertive stance, his arms crossed over his massive chest, clearly alert to any sound or sight, he stood blocking access to the stables. His assignment was to keep out any and all visitors who didn’t belong there, with a discerning eye for undesirables who might threaten harm to the valuable Thoroughbreds inside.
“Hey, Jim,” Hank greeted the guard. “How’s it going? Anyone inside tonight?”
Jim recognized Hank, smiled, uncrossed his arms, and shook Hank’s hand. Then he shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Bristow and Cooper and a couple of the other owners came by earlier in the evening. But no one’s here now. I don’t look for anybody else to show up at this late hour.” He quickly amended, “Except for you, Mr. Cassidy. You going inside?”
“We are, Jim.” Hank introduced Claire, then assured the hired watchman, “We shouldn’t be long. A few minutes. Half an hour at the most. Just wanted to check in on a couple of the colts we have entered in tomorrow’s races, then look in on Black Satin. He’s been high-strung and fidgety since arriving in Saratoga. I’m hoping he’s beginning to calm down and will be ready to run in the Travers Stakes.”
“Sure. Go right on in,” said Jim. “Stay as long as you want. I imagine your groom and the other stable boys are asleep.”
“We’ll be extra quiet,” Hank said with a smile. “No need to disturb anyone’s slumber.”
Jim moved aside and Hank and Claire walked past him. Claire immediately blinked in the shadowy passageway. On the floor, low-burning lanterns were evenly spaced along the wide alley. But they gave off little light.
Speaking quietly, mindful of waking the grooms, Hank explained, “My Thoroughbreds are stabled at the far end of this long alley.” Claire nodded and glanced about as they silently walked down the dimly lit lane, hand in hand, saying nothing.
“Here we are,” Hank finally whispered as he stopped before a large stall.
Claire looked around. Several yards on down the corridor, a young boy was curled up on the wooden floor, sound asleep. She saw no one else.
She automatically jumped back and winced when a sleek black horse abruptly poked his great head out of the stall.
“How you doing, Satin?” Hank asked as he ran a gentle hand over the Thoroughbred’s gleaming neck. “You feeling okay tonight? You rested and calm? Want to run for money in a few days?”
Standing at Hank’s elbow, Claire asked, “May I pet him?”
“He’ll be angry if you don’t,” Hank said. He momentarily urged her back out of the way, and opened the stall’s wooden gate. Addressing the stallion, he said, “Move so the lady can come inside and visit.”
The Thoroughbred threw back his head and nickered, but did not move an inch. Hank reached up and gathered a handful of the creature’s long mane, urged his head down, and laid a spread hand on the stallion’s face. Resting the heel of his palm squarely between its eyes, he firmly pressed.
“Back up, Black Satin,” he gently commanded.
The Thoroughbred obeyed. Hank praised him, released him, and turned his back on the big steed. He extended a hand to Claire and drew her inside. He shut the gate behind her. Half afraid of the big, powerful beast, half eager to get up close and touch him, Claire hung back.
“He won’t bite,” Hank said and gently drew her over to stand between him and the stallion.
The colt pricked up his ears and danced nervously. Claire sank back against Hank, hesitant.
“He looks dangerous,” she said.
Hank smiled, wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed his cheek against her temple, and said, “He’s stirred up. Too nervous to rest. But he would never hurt you, sweetheart.”
“You sure?”
“Very sure.”
“And what about you, Hank?” she asked as she tentatively reached out her hand and touched the big stallion. “Would you?”
“Hurt you? You know better than that,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “I’m as harmless as this stallion and you already have both of us eating out of your hand.”
Hank loosened his arms, allowing her to step closer to the big beast. Skittish, high-strung, the ebony colt’s eyes widened and he anxiously danced about, moving away from her, attempting to escape. He pricked up his ears and tossed his head around, his big body shaking.
Claire sensed the stallion’s anxiety. But she followed as he moved to the back of the stall. She murmured to him and stroked him and assured him that she was his friend. In no time the stallion was nickering so
ftly and nuzzling her shoulder. Warming to him as he to her, Claire put a hand to his velvet muzzle and pressed her face to his jaw. She whispered to him, placated him, caressed him.
Hank watched the duchess work her magic on the black colt. He was amazed and intrigued by what he saw. This big powerful beast mastered by the touch of the pale fragile woman. As Charmaine ran a soft hand over his glistening withers, Black Satin quivered with pleasure and excitement.
Hank swallowed hard. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
This golden-haired dazzler had conquered both man and beast. Hank’s lean body tensed like that of the Thoroughbred as he watched the duchess’s soft white hand glide sensuously over the stallion’s gleaming black coat. Hank was mortified. She was sexually arousing him by the innocent act of stroking the stallion.
Hank felt himself stir.
He gritted his teeth as he watched Charmaine wrap her arms around Black Satin’s neck and press her slender body close to the trembling stallion’s powerful frame. Hank ventured a glance down beneath the colt’s belly and was not surprised at what he saw. The stallion was fully aroused.
Damnit! He should never have brought the duchess to the stables. The only thing to do was to get her out of the stall immediately and wake the stable boy, tell him to rub the beast down and get him calmed enough to rest.
Hank knew he wasn’t going to do that. He clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides and swore under his breath. He, too, was fully aroused. And he was going to take the duchess right here in this stall no matter how much it might upset the stallion.
He had to have her.
Now.
He couldn’t wait another hour, another minute.
She must have sensed it.
Suddenly the duchess took her arms from Black Satin, turned away from the stallion, looked up at Hank, and spoke his name without sound. In the shadowy light Hank could see her breasts lifting and lowering with her quick breaths, saw the pulse beating rapidly in her pale throat and the dilation of her violet eyes.
At once she was in his arms, kissing him, clinging to him, knowing what was going to happen. The stallion knew, too. His nostrils flared and he whinnied and snorted excitedly and kicked at the rear wall of the stall.