Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance

by Jo Goodman

  Brett Douglas sat beside Jones. He had mastered an impassive face, but it did him little good. He didn't take risks and he didn't bluff. If his hand was good, he stayed. If it was poor, he folded. While he waited out the play of the cards he idly fingered his waxed mustache and kept an eye on his money as if to make sure it didn't end up in the middle of the table by mistake.

  Jeff Beatty was the youngest of the players, not many years older than Brook. It was clear to Brook that he had gulled the others into playing him, hoping for a couple of easy marks. She imagined he had been largely successful, losing a few hands in the beginning to bolster their confidence, then later using any means to establish himself the winner. Jeff had a youthful swagger even while he was sitting. His body was rarely motionless; he was filled with restless energy. If he wasn't tossing back his head like a newborn colt he was shifting his weight in his chair, crossing and recrossing his legs. With so much movement it struck no one as odd that his winnings had a regrettable penchant for falling to the floor. He was also a talker, something Brook knew Phillip couldn't abide. She waited patiently for her opening to remove Jeff from the game or at least encourage him to mend his ways.

  Phillip's stake, provided unwillingly by the hapless Jake Geary a week earlier, grew steadily. Phillip Sumner was an excellent poker player who applied sleight of hand to the cards he was dealt only when he believed there was no other answer. He despised gamblers who cheated as a matter of course, who found excitement solely in maneuvering the cards rather than in maneuvering the players, he preferred an honest game to a rigged one, honest players to bilks, but circumstances being what they were he felt completely justified in making his own rules. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jeff slide a few coins to the edge of the table with his elbow. Phillip asked Brett for two cards, leaned back in his chair to study his hand, and let Brook handle the clumsy enthusiasm of Jeff Beatty.

  "I'll get those for you, Mr. Beatty," Brook offered, leaning over to pick up the coins as they clattered to the floor.

  Jeff very nearly bumped Brook's head in his eagerness to take care of matters himself. "No, don't bother. I'll get them." His eyes dropped from Brook's to the curve of her breasts above the heart-shaped neckline of her gown.

  "I don't have any cards there," she said quietly with a touch of menace. When he raised his face, startled by her tone, he found her staring pointedly at the cuff of his trousers. "Don't do it, Mr. Beatty."

  "Really, Brook, don't engage Jeff in conversation under the table," Phillip admonished pleasantly. "It's his play."

  Brook scooped the coins off the floor and politely placed them with the rest of Jeff's winnings. "I'm sorry," she apologized to everyone at the table. "I did not mean to slow the game."

  Jeff sat up, face flushed, and betrayed his nervousness by tossing in his raise without his usual flourish. He was so intimidated by Brook's awareness of his cheating that he stayed in the hand long after he should have gotten out, sweetening the pot substantially.

  Phillip swept the money toward him with his forearm. "Lady Luck appears to be with me this evening, gentlemen."

  "Until this night I had always thought her to be an airy thing," Ryland North said, the slightest edge of sarcasm in his deep voice. "It would appear that not only is she tangible, she is very beautiful indeed."

  Brook felt Ryland's hand rest on the high back of her chair and wondered why she felt as if he had placed his palm on the naked curve of her shoulder instead. She tilted her head to one side to see him better. "You're too kind, Mr. North," she said evenly, pretending to be oblivious to his sarcasm. "Will you join us? If I am Lady Luck then perhaps I could be of some use to you as well." She glanced at Phillip and stopped his interruption cold. "Darling, you know I'm fickle as well as generous with my favors." The smile Brook raised to Ryland did not reach the winter storm in her eyes. "Isn't that the way of Lady Luck, Mr. North?"

  "Quite," he said, taking the empty chair between Jones and Douglas and directly across from Phillip Sumner. Ryland acknowledged that she had bested him at his own game. The only thing milk and honey about Brook Hancock was her complexion. She could and would exchange innuendo shamelessly, taking the sting from his words. She couldn't be put to blush, Ryland thought cynically, because there was no blood in her veins. He'd sipped from underground spring water that was warmer than anything flowing in Brook Hancock's body.

  Phillip took the cards, shuffled, and began dealing. Beneath the table his foot pressed lightly against Brook's, warning her to guard her tongue more judiciously. He didn't know if his caution would be heeded. If Brook had a fault it was in overestimating her own experience. Not that it wasn't considerable, but Phillip didn't think her long association with him prepared her to parry verbal swords with a man like Ryland North. Brook could hold her own with the Jake Gearys and Jeff Beattys of her acquaintance; she'd had practice enough at the Silver Rose, overwhelming them with a warm smile or intimidating them with her self-composedness and sometimes insolent manner. Phillip didn't know if she understood that he had protected her from predators like Ryland North, that Ryland would be neither overwhelmed nor intimidated. In his own way Phillip regretted adding Ryland North to Brook's repertoire of life experiences. He shrugged mentally and fanned his cards in front of him. It couldn't be helped.

  Brett Douglas tossed in his cards after the ante. "I think I'm done for tonight," he said. "Don't mind if I watch though, do you?" His gaze shifted between Ryland and Phillip, excluding the other players and acknowledging their unimportance.

  "Not in the least," Phillip replied, politely including the other participants in his glance.

  "No complaints here," John Jones said, pulling out his handkerchief.

  Jeff Beatty cleared his throat and cast a nervous glance at Brook. "None."

  Ryland merely shrugged and kept his hooded, sleepy eyes on his cards. A small stringed orchestra was setting up at the rear of the gaming room. He could never understand how the tuning of instruments could sound so utterly unharmonious. Ry blocked it out and tossed a few bills into the pot, raising the stakes.

  Brook could not see the cards of any of the players, and that was the way she preferred it. Her pleasure was not so much in watching, as she had told Ryland, but in foretelling the outcome of each game in her own mind. She anticipated John Jones's departure from the game when his dry upper lip showed that the cards had turned on him. Jeff Beatty's restless movements ceased as he attempted to draw on skill rather than chicanery. He was hopelessly outclassed on both counts and eliminated from the play after three successive losses.

  Brook's expression remained impassive as Phillip and Ryland played hand after hand for well over two hours. The stakes became a little richer, and to the casual observer it would have seemed as if the participants had become a little reckless. Unlike the men and women gathering around the table, drawn by the quiet intensity of the players themselves, Brook knew that Phillip had calculated every move. She suspected the same was true of Ryland North. There were moments when she wanted to stop Phillip and beg him to take his considerable winnings and be done with the game. She held herself back, knowing Phillip wouldn't be satisfied with enough for their passage, not when he had dreams of a partnership in the Silver Rose.

  Ryland rarely looked in Brook's direction, but he was always aware of her. The fragrance of her perfume was not something he could block out. Had she applied it while her body was still damp from her bath? Had Phillip Sumner drawn the scent across her pulse points? The first vision made Ryland distinctly uncomfortable; the second simply made him angry. He buried both emotions and asked for two cards, drawing to a full house, tens over fours.

  Brook wondered if Phillip had noticed the subtle change in his opponent. She could not name the cause or precisely what it was she saw momentarily on Ryland's face, but she did not doubt that she had seen something.

  "The dealer takes one." Phillip said, tossing one card down and dealing himself another from the top of the deck. He barely glanced at hi
s hand. The contents no longer mattered. It was time to make his move. Phillip had glimpsed the look on Ryland's face and had no difficulty discerning its cause. This game had never been about money to Ryland North. As far as Phillip could tell it had always been about Brook. Because it fit so nicely with his plan, Phillip never questioned how easily it had been accomplished.

  Brook drew in a short breath as Phillip pushed the bulk of his winnings toward the center of the table. She watched Ryland carefully to see what he would do.

  Ryland laid his cards facedown in front of him and tapped the top card thoughtfully. "You must be fairly certain of your hand," he said evenly. "I wonder..." One corner of his mouth lifted in the semblance of a smile. He barely heard the collective gasp of the observers as he matched Phillip's incredible wager and made a raise of his own. "Very well, Sumner, but if you want to see my cards it's going to cost more than what's in front of you."

  Phillip looked down at the bills in front of him and feigned dismay. He asked for pen and paper, which were brought to him immediately. "Perhaps you'll accept my marker?" Without waiting for a reply he began to scribble a note.

  Ryland reached across the table and stayed Phillip's hand. "I don't think so," he said pleasantly, then released Phillip's wrist. "I have found it wise not to trust transient gamblers."

  "Being one yourself," Phillip said dryly.

  "Exactly," Ryland agreed, not at all offended.

  "But you haven't seen my marker," Phillip pointed out. "Do you think that's wise?"

  Ryland contemplated his choices. Thus far the scenario had been much as Jake Geary had outlined for him. He could refuse Phillip's marker and take the winnings by default, leaving Phillip and Brook with virtually nothing, or he could have his pound of flesh. Ry found his gaze slipping past Sumner to his mistress. She knew what her lover was about to do, and there wasn't a flicker of disgust in the frozen depths of her eyes. She was Sumner's partner in every way, and that fact decided Ryland. By God, he wanted his pound of flesh. "Let me see your note, Sumner."

  The taut coil in Phillip's gut relaxed slightly. For a moment he had thought he had misread Ryland. He could have lost his chance at everything. He finished writing and passed the note across the table, his hand covering the contents. "I think you will agree this is a private matter."

  Ryland nodded, taking the note and reading it so he could not be observed. Even though it had been hastily penned, Ryland could make out the words: "Brook is yours till morning." Both of his brows rose slightly, but his eyes remained remote beneath their heavy lashes. "An interesting marker, and not entirely an unexpected one." He turned the note over and placed it in the middle of the table. "I accept." Ryland flipped his cards, edged them apart with his index finger, and spoke over the murmur of those standing around the table. "It wasn't a bluff. Full house. Tens over fours."

  In her lap Brook's fingers knotted into a single fist. She felt the same sense of revulsion she had experienced when Phillip permitted Jake Geary to win so handily. It vaguely surprised her. She had anticipated a sense of triumph knowing she would have the last word with Ryland North in her cabin. In her bed. Recouping Phillip's loss, now rested on her ability to completely disarm the man who had won her for the evening. She almost smiled at her euphemistic term. Disarm the man, indeed. Drug him was the correct turn of phrase. Brook slipped her fingers apart. Under the pretext of smoothing the folds of her gown she wiped her damp palms on the material and prayed that after this evening she would never meet Ryland North again.

  "I'm afraid you mistake the matter," Phillip said as Ryland reached for the pot.

  Ryland's head stilled.

  Brook's prayer ended.

  Phillip turned over his cards. "No bluff here, I'm afraid. Four very lovely ladies."

  Ryland withdrew his hand. His eyes narrowed dangerously, but he said nothing. "Not as lovely as the lady by your side," he said quietly. "My loss, I'm afraid." Ryland's chair scraped against the hardwood floor as he pushed away from the table. Without looking at Brook, he stood. "Miss Hancock. Mr. Sumner. An instructive evening at the very least."

  Brook watched the crowd part to make way for Ryland's departure then close in again after he was gone. "He's not a very good loser, is he?" she said for Phillip's ears alone, her voice slightly dazed by what had just happened.

  "No, he's not." Phillip calmly collected his winnings and called to the bartender. "Drinks around." He stood and accepted congratulations from the people milling around. Placing his hands on Brook's shoulders, he bent his head and asked her if she wanted to return to her cabin. At her affirmative response Phillip offered his arm, and they left the gaming room.

  The air outside was heavy and damp, but Brook breathed in deeply, finding it infinitely preferable to the odor of tobacco, liquor, and stifling perfumes. "How did you accomplish that?" she asked without preamble.

  "You forget caution, m'dear. I would prefer to discuss the matter when we are alone."

  Brook accepted Phillip's admonition without demur, but once they were in their cabin she turned on him and demanded an answer again. "I was watching you. I never saw you pull those cards."

  Phillip shook his head and flicked the end of Brook's nose. "Wrong, darlin'. You were watching him. And don't deny it." He dropped into the high-backed chair and threw one leg over the arm.

  "You haven't answered my question. How did you do it?"

  "I played my hand close to the vest, as it were."

  Brook pounced on him, unfastening the buttons of his vest and reaching beneath the silk lining. "Oh, Phillip," she said, dismayed when she found a deuce, a three spot, and a one-eyed jack. "This was beneath you." She tossed the cards on the vanity top in disgust.

  "I would have expected something like this from that Beatty boy, but—"

  "Boy? He's got five years on you."

  "He's a boy nonetheless, and that is beside the point. You are usually so much cleverer. I don't understand why you did it. I certainly don't understand why you held cards. That could have led to the violence you wanted to avoid. What if Mr. North had caught you out?" She pushed away and began pacing the floor, missing the look of satisfaction on Phillip's face.

  Brook's own face was a study of bewilderment. Phillip was far more skilled than this latest act of cheating would indicate. He did exercises daily to keep his fingers agile. He could draw a winning hand from the middle of the deck and Brook would have defied anyone to so much as suspect that he had done it. "Is this the change of plan you spoke of earlier? Is that why you wanted to win the hand?"

  Phillip pulled the winnings from his pocket and began thumbing through the wad. "Is it really so important?" he asked carelessly. "Light another lamp, will you? I can't see what I'm doing."

  Brook bit off a retort and did as Phillip wanted.

  "Thank you."

  "Phillip!"

  Phillip looked up and realized for the first time how agitated Brook was. "Fire and ice, darling. You should practice that expression. It becomes you."

  "I'm not amused," she said tightly. At her sides her hands had curled into bloodless fists. "I've never interfered with your plans, but—"

  "Then don't be tiresome now. There's a good girl."

  Brook ignored him. "But you have never been so maddening. I demand to know the purpose of tonight's play, Phillip."

  Phillip's fingers paused in brushing back a lock of his wheat-colored hair. "Demand? Really, Brook, one would think you were disappointed at this turn of events."

  "You know that's not tr—"

  "One could be forgiven for thinking you wanted the chance to have our Mr. North all to yourself. Alone. In here." He looked pointedly at the bed. "In there."

  "That's not true," she said with quiet dignity. "There's no difference between Jake Geary and Ryland North."

  Phillip snorted. "If you believe that then you're even more naive than I thought. If you don't, you're a liar."

  "I'm neither. I could have held my own with Mr. North. He's as easily laid
low by a drugged tumbler of bourbon as Jake was by a laced shot of Irish whiskey."

  "Granted."

  "Then why? I thought you wanted it all. I thought you wanted part of the Silver Rose. You didn't win a third of what you need for that."

  "Brook." Phillip said her name softly, cajoling. "You excel at worrying. Leave it be. Let things take their own course. It's part of nature. This great river does it. The stars do it. Events proceed as they will."

  It was a peculiar speech from a man who fancied himself a manipulator of those around him. She started to say as much when Phillip got to his feet, rolled his winnings into a single wad, and stuffed the bills into the false bottom of his carpetbag. "Are we leaving now?" she asked.

  "No. Soon." He kicked the valise under the bed. "I'm going to have a drink at the bar. You can get a few hours' sleep before we go. I won't be too long so don't plan on keeping those covers all to yourself."

  After Phillip had sauntered out of the room Brook removed her jewelry and placed it in a box on the vanity. She sat down in front of the mirror, plucked out the pins in her hair, and closed her eyes, massaging her aching temples with the tips of her fingers. The heaviness in her head seemed to grow greater than her neck could support. She bent forward at the neck and then slowly rotated her head to relieve the swell of tension. Brook wasn't certain how long she sat there, her head in her hands, before she heard the door to the cabin open.

  "I'm glad you're back," she said tiredly. "I can't undo the buttons at my back. Would you?"

  He closed the door, locked it, and crossed the room. His fingers parted the heavy fall of hair at her back. There was a brief hesitation as he touched her skin above the point of her neckline; then the material parted as the buttons slipped through their loop fasteners.