“Yes,” Jason joked, but when her face fell he quickly said, “No, of course not, ma’am.”
“Exactly my point!” Charity applauded as Stephen walked around the table for his next shot. “But whenever I think of loyalty and friendship among gentlemen, do you know who immediately comes to mind?”
“No, who?” Clayton said, while he watched Stephen line up his next shot and aim.
“Nicholas DuVille and Langford!”
The cue ball slid sideways off of Stephen’s cue stick and rolled to the side of the table, where it gently nudged the ball he’d intended to aim at. That ball slowly headed for the pocket, hovered at the edge, and finally dropped in. “That wasn’t skill, that was blind luck,” Jason told him. Trying to change the subject, he added, “Did you ever stop to calculate how many times you win a game with luck instead of skill? I’ve meant to do that.”
Ignoring Wakefield’s attempt to divert the topic, Charity forged ahead, carefully directing her animated conversation to Jason Fielding and Clayton Westmoreland and avoiding a glance at the earl as he walked around the table for his next shot. “Why, if Nicholas hadn’t been such a loyal friend of Langford’s, he would have sent Sheridan Bromleigh straight back home the day she ran away and landed on his doorstep, crying her heart out, but did he do that? No indeed, he did not!”
She glanced at the mirror on the opposite wall and saw Stephen Westmoreland arrested in the act of shooting, his eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze levelled on the back of her head. “Sheridan begged for the truth about why Langford wanted to marry her, and even though it wasn’t poor Nicholas’s responsibility to tell her everything and break her heart, he did it! It would have been so much easier to lie to her, or send her home to ask Langford, but he took it upon himself to help his dear friend and fellow man.”
“Exactly what,” Stephen asked in a low, savage voice as he slowly straightened without having taken his shot, “did my friend DuVille tell Sheridan?”
Charity looked around at him, her face a miracle of startled, vapid innocence. “Why, the truth, of course. She realized she wasn’t Charise Lancaster anymore, so Nicholas told her about Burleton’s death and how responsible you felt for it. That is why you pretended to be Sheridan’s fiancé, after all.”
Three silent men were staring at her in various states of shock and anger, and Charity looked brightly at each of them. “And of course, being a romantic girl, Sheridan still wanted to think—to believe—that you might have had some other reason for asking her to marry you, but dear Nicholas had to tell her, very firmly, that you’d only proposed after you got word of Mr. Lancaster’s unfortunate death—out of pity, as it were. Which was dreadfully distressing to the poor girl, but Nicholas did what needed to be done, out of unselfishness and loyalty to his own sex.”
Stephen slammed the cue stick into the rack on the wall. “That son of a bitch!” he said softly as he strode swiftly out of the room.
Startled by the use of profanity in front of her but not by his departure, Charity looked at Jason Fielding. “Where do you suppose Langford is going?” she asked, hiding her smile behind a blank frown.
Jason Fielding slowly withdrew his gaze from the doorway through which the earl had departed, then he glanced at Clayton Westmoreland and said, “Where would you say he’s going?”
“I would say,” the duke replied dryly, “that he is going to have a ‘talk’ with an old ‘friend.’ ”
“How nice!” Charity said brightly. “Would either of you consider letting me play billiards with you, now that Langford is gone? I’m certain I could learn the rules.”
The Duke of Claymore studied her in amused silence for a very long moment, so long in fact that Charity felt a little uneasy. “Why don’t we play chess instead? I have a feeling that strategy is your particular forte.”
Charity considered that for a moment and wagged her head. “I think you’re quite right.”
58
Although the Season had wound to a close, the exclusive gaming rooms at White’s were not lacking for wealthy occupants willing to wager enormous sums of money on the turn of a card or spin of the wheel. The oldest and most elegant of the clubs on St. James’s Street, White’s was far noisier than The Strathmore, and brightly lit, but not without its own hallowed traditions. At the front, looking out upon the street, was a wide bow window in which Beau Brummell had once held court with his friends the Duke of Argyll, Lords Sefton, Alvanley, and Worcester, and, on occasion, the then Prince Regent.
More famous than its bow window, however, was White’s Betting Book, into which distinguished members had, for many years, entered wagers on events ranging from the solemn to the sordid to the silly. Included among the entries were wagers on the outcome of a war, the likely date of the death of a relative with a fortune to bequeath, the predicted winners in contests for ladies’ hands, and even the outcome of a forthcoming race between two prime pigs owned by two of the club’s members.
At a table near the back of one of the card rooms, William Baskerville was playing whist with the Duke of Stanhope and Nicholas DuVille. In the spirit of good-fellowship, those three gentlemen had permitted two very young gentlemen from excellent families to join them. Both young men were Corinthians of the first stare, obsessed with sporting and eager to make a name for themselves in town by excelling at the manly vices of gaming and drinking. Talk at the table was slow and desultory; betting was fast and heavy. “Speaking of crack-whips,” said one of the young gentlemen, who’d been speaking of little else, “I haven’t seen Langford at Hyde Park all week.”
William Baskerville provided the answer to that as he counted out his chips. “His nephew’s birthday, I believe. Duchess of Claymore is giving a small party to celebrate the occasion. Lovely woman, the duchess,” he added. “I tell Claymore that every time I see him.” Glancing at Nicholas DuVille who was seated on his left, he said, “You were friendly with her grace in France, before she came home to England, I believe?”
Nicki nodded without looking up from his cards, then he automatically added a proviso to forestall any gossip. “I count myself fortunate to be on friendly terms with all the Westmoreland family.”
One of the youths who’d been drinking heavily heard that with some surprise and then demonstrated his lack of polish—as well as his inability to hold his drink—by verbalizing it: “You don’t say! Gossip had it that you and Langford nearly came to fisticuffs at Almack’s over some red-haired girl you both fancied.”
Baskerville snorted at such a thought. “My dear young fellow, when you’ve more experience in town, you’ll learn to separate rubbish from truth, and to do that, you need to be better acquainted with the individuals involved. Now, I heard the same story, but I also know DuVille and Langford, so / knew the whole story was pure faradiddle. Knew it the moment I heard it.”
“As did I!” the more sober of the young men announced.
“A lamentable bit of nonsense,” Nicki confirmed, when everyone seemed to wait for his response, “that will soon be forgotten.”
“Knew it was,” said Miss Charity’s brother, the distinguished Duke of Stanhope, as he shoved chips into the growing heap at the center of the table. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least to discover you and Langford are the best of friends. Both of you are the most amiable of men.”
“No doubt about it,” the sober young man said to Nicki with a mischievous grin, “but if you and Langford were ever to come to blows, I’d want to be there!”
“Why is that?” the Duke of Stanhope inquired.
“Because I’ve seen Langford and DuVille box at Gentleman Jackson’s. Not with each other, of course, but they’re the best I’ve ever seen with their fists. A fight between them would have lured even me to Almack’s.”
“And me!” exclaimed his companion with a hiccup.
Baskerville was appalled by their youthful misconception of civilized manhood, and he felt obliged to point out their gross lack of understanding. “Langford and DuVille woul
d never stoop to settling matters with their fists, my good fellow! That’s the difference between you hotheaded young pups and gentlemen like DuVille and Langford and the rest of us. You ought to study the excellent manners of your elders, acquire some of their town polish, don’t you know. Rather than admiring DuVille’s skill with his fists, you’d be wise to imitate his excellent address and his way with a neckcloth.”
“Thank you, Baskerville,” idly murmured Nicki because Baskerville seemed to be waiting for some sort of affirmative response.
“Welcome, DuVille. I speak only the truth. As to Langford,” Baskerville continued, waiting for his turn to bet, “you couldn’t have a finer example of refinement and gentlemanly arts. Fisticuffs to settle a disagreement, indeed!” he scoffed. “Why, the very thought of it is offensive to any civilized man.”
“Ludicrous to even discuss it,” the Duke of Stanhope agreed, studying the faces of the other players before he decided whether to wager on his rather poor hand of cards.
“My apologies, sirs, if—” the sober one of the young pair began, but he broke off abruptly. “Thought you said Langford was rusticating,” he said in a bewildered tone that implied there was evidence at hand that proved otherwise.
All five men glanced up and saw Stephen Westmoreland heading straight toward them wearing an expression that, as he came nearer, looked far more ominous than amiable. Without so much as a nod to acknowledge acquaintances calling out greetings to him, the Earl of Langford stalked purposefully around tables and chairs and gamblers, bearing down on the five men at Baskerville’s table and then circling around their chairs.
Four of those men stiffened, eyeing him with the wary disbelief of innocent men who are suddenly and unaccountably confronted with a threat they neither understand nor deserve from a predator they had mistaken for tame.
Only Nicholas DuVille seemed unconcerned with the tangible danger emanating from Langford. In fact, to the population of White’s, who were all turning to watch in incredulous fascination, Nicholas DuVille seemed to be positively inviting a confrontation by his deliberate and exaggerated nonchalance. As the earl stopped beside his chair, DuVille leaned back, shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, and with a thin cheroot clamped between his white teeth, he acknowledged the earl with a sardonic questioning look. “Care to join us, Langford?”
“Get up!” the Earl of Langford bit out.
The challenge was unmistakable and imminent.
It caused a minor commotion as several young bucks sprinted for White’s Betting Book to enter their wagers on the outcome. It caused a lazy, white smile to work its way across DuVille’s face as he slouched deeper into his chair, thoughtfully chewed the end of his cheroot, and appeared to contemplate the invitation with considerable relish. As if he wanted to be certain his hopes weren’t unfounded, he quirked a brow in amused inquiry. “Here?” he asked, his smile widening.
“Get out of that chair,” the earl snarled in a dangerously soft voice, “you son of a—”
“Definitely, here,” DuVille interrupted, his smile hardening as he shoved up from his lounging position and jerked his head in the direction of one of the back rooms.
News of the impending fight reached White’s manager within moments, and he rushed out from the kitchen. “Now, now, gentlemen! Gentlemen!” the manager entreated as he shoved through the crowd exiting in polite haste from the back room. “Never in the history of White’s has there ever—”
The door slammed in his face.
“Think of your attire, gentlemen! Think of the furniture!” he shouted, opening the door just in time to hear the savage sound of a fist connecting with bone and to see DuVille’s head snap back.
Yanking the door closed, the manager spun around, his faced drained of color, hands still clutching the door handle behind his back. A hundred male faces eyed him expectantly, all of them interested in the same information. “Well?” said one of them.
The manager’s face contorted with pain as he contemplated the possible damage to the back room’s expensive green baize faro tables, but he managed to gasp out a quavering reply. “At this time . . . I would suggest . . . three-to-two odds.”
“In whose favor, my good man?” demanded an impatient, elegantly dressed gentleman who was standing in the long line, waiting to write his wager in the Betting Book.
The manager hesitated, cast his eyes heavenward as if praying for courage, then he twisted about and opened the door a crack, peeking inside at the same moment a body collided with a wall with a thunderous crash. “In favor of Langford!” he called over his shoulder, but as he started to pull the door closed, another explosion like the last one rattled the rafters, and he took another look. “No—DuVille! No, Langford. No—!” He jerked the door closed barely in time to avoid having it snap off his head as a pair of heavy shoulders slammed into it.
Long after the sounds of human combat finally ended, the manager remained with his spine riveted against the door, until it suddenly gave way behind him, sending him careening backward into the empty room as the Earl of Langford and Nicholas DuVille walked out. Alone in the room and dazed with relief, the manager slowly turned and surveyed a room that, at first glance, looked miraculously undisturbed. He was uttering a fervent prayer of gratitude when his eyes beheld a polished end table resting upon three sound legs and a fourth that was badly splintered, and he clutched at his heart as if it, too, were splintering. On shaking limbs he walked over to the faro table and removed a tankard that oughtn’t to have been on it, only to discover that the tankard concealed a dreadful gouge in the faro table’s green baize top. Narrowing his eyes, he inspected the room more closely. . . . In the corner of the room, four chairs were neatly arranged around a circular card table, but now he noticed that each chair possessed only three legs.
An ornate gilt clock which normally graced the center of an inlaid serving board was now on the right end of it. With shaking hands, the manager reached out to slide the clock back to its rightful place, then he cried out in horror as the clock’s face fell forward, its hands swinging limply from side to side.
Shaking with outrage and anguish, the manager reached out to brace himself and grabbed the back of the nearest chair.
It came off in his hand.
On the other side of the wall, in the main room of White’s, an outburst of unnaturally boisterous conversation erupted when DuVille and Langford strolled out—conversation of the sort used by adult males as a diversionary tactic intended to convey the impression that one’s attention was everywhere except where it actually was.
Either indifferent to, or unaware of, the unnatural atmosphere and watchful eyes that followed them, the two former combatants parted company at the center of the room, Langford to search for a servant with a tray of drinks, and DuVille to return to his empty place at the card table. “Was it my turn to deal?” he asked, settling into his chair and reaching for the deck.
The two young men answered in unison that it was, the Duke of Stanhope courteously replied that he wasn’t entirely certain, but Baskerville was in high dudgeon over having been made to look a fool before the young gentlemen, and he brought up the subject on everyone’s mind. “You may as well tell these two what happened in there, since they won’t be able to concentrate or even sleep without knowing the outcome,” he said testily. “Disgraceful behavior, I don’t scruple to tell you, DuVille. On both your parts!”
“There is nothing to tell,” Nicki said blandly, picking up the abandoned deck of cards from the center of the table and shuffling it expertly. “We discussed a wedding.”
Baskerville looked hopeful but unconvinced. The two younger men looked serenely amused, but only the drunken one of them had the temerity and bad manners to scoff at the offered explanation.
“A wedding?” he hooted, casting a meaningful eye upon Nicki’s torn collar. “What could two men discuss about a wedding?”
“Who the groom is going to be,” Nicki replied with casual nonchalance.
&nbs
p; “And did you decide, sir?” the courteous one asked, sending his companion a warning glance and trying desperately to pretend he believed the whole tale.
“Yes,” Nicki drawled, leaning forward to toss his chips into the center of the table. “I am going to be the best man.”
His careless friend took another long draught of wine, and gave a laugh. “A wedding!” he snorted.
Nicholas DuVille slowly lifted his head and gave him a long, speculative look. “Would you prefer to make it a funeral?”
Fearing that the worst might yet be to come, Baskerville leapt into the breach. “What else did you and Langford discuss? You were gone a good while.”
“We discussed little old ladies with faulty memories,” Nicki replied ironically. “And we marvelled at the wisdom of a God who, for some incomprehensible reason, occasionally allows their tongues to go on working long after their brains have ceased to function at all.”
The Duke of Stanhope looked up sharply. “I hope you are not referring to anyone I know.”
“Do you know anyone called by the unlikely name of ‘Charity,’ instead of ‘Birdwit’?”
The Duke choked back a horrified laugh at that deliberate, and unmistakable, description of his oldest sister. “I may.” He was spared further discussion of that embarrassing topic by the arrival of another gambler, who nodded a casual but friendly greeting at Baskerville and himself as he pulled out the chair beside DuVille and settled into it.
Stretching his long legs out beneath the table, the new arrival gazed pointedly at the two young gentlemen, who were not known to him, clearly awaiting the formality of an introduction before acknowledging them. DuVille was the only one who seemed either cognizant of the need for introductions or able to respond to it. “These two fellows with the slack jaws and deep pockets are Lords Banbraten and Isley,” he said to the newcomer. To the youths, he said, “I believe the Earl of Langford is already familiar to you?” When they nodded in unison, Nicki finished dealing out the cards and said, “Good. Since that’s over, the earl and I will now endeavor to divest you of the rest of your fathers’ money.”
Until You Page 39