Boundless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

  The woman sidled around the table and Sir Jeffrey tugged her into his lap. After pushing down her shift, he played with her nipples, pulling and tugging them as he glanced at his cards.

  Adrian winced for her. She must have nipples of steel to put up with that treatment. “You learned some interesting habits in the army, sir.”

  Sir Jeffrey didn’t appear perturbed, but tossed a few more counters into the pile. “When a man doesn’t know if tomorrow will be his last day on earth, he takes his pleasures when they appear.” He pinched the girl, and when she yelped, he laughed.

  All three of Adrian’s cards were trumps. He couldn’t refuse this challenge. His suspicions were roused when Sir Jeffrey beat him, but only just each time, one card above his. That was clumsy. A man learned to expect to lose in these dens, but not to another gentleman.

  Sir Jeffrey had bribed the house. That doxy was probably feeding him the cards. Her skill must be prodigious, since she didn’t have many places to hide them.

  In this game a little luck went a long way. So did skill. While the man was a good player, he didn’t have Adrian’s experience of Covent Garden gaming hells. His next hand was equally tempting. Since the pot was small, Sir Jeffrey having won the previous one, Adrian played, knowing he’d lose.

  Calling for another bottle of wine, he glanced at the cards dealt by Walton, who sat to his left. Walton met Adrian’s eyes, his brows slightly raised. He’d guessed as well. Damn, if two of them had worked out the play so quickly Sir Jeffrey could be in trouble. If exposed, he’d never get over the scandal. He didn’t have a title like Adrian’s, one he could fall back on. Didn’t he realize that?

  Obviously not. Adrian sensed a bully-boy. Or maybe he was biased, because of Sir Jeffrey’s friendship with Livia. His mouth firmed. Of course, everything went back to her these days.

  A moderate hand worked for him. Although he didn’t win the game, he won a trick, which stopped Sir Jeffrey taking the pot. Since he elected to leave his stake in, the pot grew.

  Adrian played judiciously, waiting until the pile at the center of the table swelled to over a thousand guineas. Regretfully, he would have to bring this game to a close. If his guess was correct, the man was playing far too deep. On army pay and with a small estate, a thousand guineas would wipe him out. Or put him right. Perhaps Adrian should let him win.

  The less he had to do with this man the better, but for Livia’s sake, he’d find out what he could. For his own sake too. He liked to know his enemies, and he would take on the challenge with absolute pleasure.

  Lounging back in his chair, feeling the worn leather give way as he moved, he gave every impression of bored acceptance, playing the game as a gentleman should, without too much attention. Another kind of play, subtler and infinitely more interesting than the one going on before them.

  His deal, so he shuffled. There they were, the notches on the sides of the cards that showed Sir Jeffrey which cards others had. Adrian dealt the cards fairly, receiving an excellent hand that he could use, but this time when he picked them up, he took care to cover the notches. Sir Jeffrey would spot what he was doing, but what of that?

  He played and won. He pulled the counters toward him as if they were worth as little as the bone they were fashioned from. Picking up the five hundred guinea chip, he played with the disc, winding it around his fingers deftly, a childish trick but one that gave him a great deal of satisfaction when he saw the expression Sir Jeffrey was unable to hide.

  His opponent pulled back his coat and drew out his hunter watch, dislodging the woman on his knee. She got up with an affronted squeak, pulling her shift back into place. Ignoring her, he flicked open the lid of his watch. The glint of gold attracted Adrian’s attention. He had something pinned to his waistcoat pocket, securing the watch chain in place. Then he dragged the woman back down.

  Not before Adrian had seen the small, circular gold brooch. The fluting and twists around the edge gave the piece a feminine appearance. Although difficult to see in this flickering, dim light, Adrian was sure the brooch was engraved with initials.

  The man was flaunting his possession of the brooch Livia was searching for. Either that, or he knew nothing and the appearance of the piece was pure coincidence.

  Adrian didn’t believe that for a minute. He couldn’t challenge the man, who was now staring at him, his chin stuck out, as if waiting for the accusation. A clever move would be to obtain something similar and taunt Adrian with it, force him to come out into the open. Then make a fool of him. Ridicule worked much better than duels or outright opposition, especially when Adrian outranked this man. Hell, he outranked everybody at the table this evening. He didn’t hold much store by that, but society did. And Adrian had never thrown a weapon away.

  “That pin—have I seen it before?”

  “This?” The rascal knew exactly what he meant, his fingers going immediately to the brooch, fingering it, stroking over the engraved surface. “It’s a common enough design.”

  “So it is. Have you had it long? It occurs to me that my mother might like something similar.”

  A grunt came from his left as Blackburn registered his surprise. Adrian never mentioned his mother, who lived in discreet seclusion in the country. Sir Jeffrey did not appear to see this as strange. He had obviously not studied Adrian too closely. Perhaps he did not consider him a strong enough rival. Adrian would see about that.

  “I believe most jewelers or goldsmiths will have something that will do. I’ve had this one for years. It belonged to an aunt, now sadly deceased. I use it as a good luck token.” Sir Jeffrey’s fingers closed over the brooch, as if protecting it.

  “I see. Then of course it cannot be the same one.” Except Adrian wanted a closer look at it. He didn’t trust Sir Jeffrey, and from his behavior here tonight, Adrian was right in his instinctive judgment. The man was pure slime.

  He won that trick, as he’d expected, and the pot. Sir Jeffrey sucked in a breath, his nostrils contracting and his mouth going into a hard line before he forced himself to relax. Although not all thousand guineas were his, Adrian had struck a blow.

  The cards came to him and he dealt another hand. This time he had the kind of hand card players dreamed of. The game was his, or not, as he chose. That depended on Sir Jeffrey.

  The man in question fingered the woman sprawled in his lap as he took his cards. “I need to make the most of this. I’ll have to be more discreet if I’m to wed soon.”

  Adrian’s senses perked up. “You are? Who is the lucky woman?”

  “You know her.” Sir Jeffrey met Adrian’s gaze, his gray eyes bloodshot but alert. “The owner of this.” He touched the brooch. “She’s been waiting for me all this time.” He smirked. “I click my fingers and she comes.” He demonstrated, the sharp snap loud in the sudden silence.

  “You are referring to a mutual acquaintance?” Adrian’s voice could freeze water if he chose.

  Sir Jeffrey either didn’t notice the warning tone, or alcohol had given him the bravado he needed. “Indeed. The beautiful strawberry-headed wench who waited for me all these years. You see…” He leaned forward as if to vouchsafe a confidence, but he didn’t moderate the volume of his statements. “I’ve been there already. And no man can compare to me, or so she told me at the time.” Leaning back, he tweaked the whore’s breast. “As you will shortly discover, my dear, if you behave yourself.”

  Adrian’s blood ran cold, then hot as if someone had whipped back a screen before an inferno. The man dared to speak about Livia in a place like this? Nevertheless, for her sake, he moderated his tone. “I suggest you retract that statement.”

  Blackburn stared at him in alarm, as did everyone except the knave sitting across from him. They knew what that tone meant. Sir Jeffrey had pushed Adrian as far as he was willing to go.

  “What, about Lady Livia?”

  Adrian stood, shoving the table aside.
Counters, cards, and wine tumbled to the floor in a huge crash, but Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the man before him. He needed impediments out the way because he was going to kill him.

  The whore leaped up and hurried out of the way, breasts bouncing. The others at the table sprang back. Blackburn stood more slowly. “Preston?”

  Adrian drew the only weapon available to him—his dress sword. A thin blade, the hilt elaborate, and glittering with jewels, it wouldn’t stand much punishment. So he’d use it wisely. One thrust in the right place should do the job.

  His habitual coolness made its presence known but could not overcome the blaze of fury sweeping over him.

  Sir Jeffrey knocked the blade aside, taking a scratch on the back of his hand. Slowly, he got to his feet. “That thing?” He gave the blade a sneering look. “What are you going to do with that? Prick me?”

  A chill swept through him, the cool of white-hot anger. He’d gone beyond fury. “Kill you unless you take that remark about our mutual friend back.” Naming her was unspeakable. Unbearable. He refused to allow it.

  From the way Blackburn stood with him, Adrian was not the only man who felt that way. “I’m your second, if you need one.”

  “Much appreciated, sir.” He kept his attention on Sir Jeffrey. “Take it back.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Now or tomorrow morning.”

  “Oho.” Sir Jeffrey glanced around, assessing his audience. Nobody was playing cards now. They were baying for blood, shouting encouragement. “Then let’s deal with it here, shall we?”

  Lazily, Sir Jeffrey stood and faced Adrian. “Fists or swords? Or maybe pistols?” He glanced around the cramped space. “Although where would be the sport in that? We could hardly miss at this range.”

  “Blow each other’s heads off,” Blackburn murmured. “It might be interesting, at that.”

  Adrian lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t need a pistol to take his head off.”

  Someone thrust two swords between them. Army-style sabers by the look of them, thrust into cheap, cracked leather sheaths. Adrian took them both, ignoring Sir Jeffrey’s “Hardly fair.”

  Nobody commented as Adrian examined the weapons, running his thumb lightly against the blades. They were true, straight, keen with sharpening and freshly oiled. Despite the lack of space, he could use these. He glanced at Blackburn and handed him the swords. Blackburn went through the same process before he nodded at both men. “Are you sure about this, gentlemen? Can you not discuss the matter peaceably?”

  Adrian’s answer was a snort.

  “You think you can beat me, a trained soldier?” That was why Sir Jeffrey was smug. He assumed he had the upper hand. Especially with army weapons.

  Oh dear. Did the man think there was nothing but padding under Adrian’s coat?

  Adrian disabused him. Peeling off his coat, he handed the heavy silk garment to a man standing close. Startled, he recognized Lord Darius Shaw, one of Livia’s brothers. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I wasn’t. I was in the theater, but you know how fast word travels.” Darius glanced at Sir Jeffrey and bestowed a small bow on him. “Sir.”

  “Shaw.” The air between Darius and Sir Jeffrey turned decidedly icy. Did the two have bad blood? Another black mark against Sir Jeffrey, as far as Adrian was concerned.

  “I would take your place, sir,” Darius said. “I believe the traduced lady is closer to me.”

  “Stand in line.” Adrian snarled.

  Blackburn held out the swords, balanced on the palms of his hands. Without paying attention, Adrian accepted the first.

  Sir Jeffrey took the other, and made play with it, swinging it and testing the blade. The others made themselves busy shoving the tables against the stone walls and piling the chairs on top.

  A gentleman would have waited for them to finish. Before tonight Adrian would have said he was no gentleman, but Sir Jeffrey proved him wrong by coming at him swinging. The blade sliced through the air.

  Alarmed shouts of “Get out of the way!” and “Watch out, man!” came from all sides. The whores had long gone, as far as Adrian could tell, but he concentrated on nothing but this man. They had not even agreed to the terms.

  Forget that. If he could kill the bastard, he would do it.

  He timed his block perfectly, cutting his sword up to block Sir Jeffrey’s slash, the blade at an angle so the sharp edge wasn’t damaged. Lifting farther, he swept Sir Jeffrey’s attack aside, and sprang back.

  Rough floors, lots of grip, no slide. He marked it, and waited, poised, for Sir Jeffrey’s next attack. He would learn his opponent’s style, the way he preferred to work. Army trained men usually had a straightforward approach, with none of the tricks that marked the expert swordsman. And Adrian was, despite the wealth and privilege Sir Jeffrey obviously despised, an expert swordsman.

  Sir Jeffrey smiled, baring his teeth. He jerked his head. “Come on then. Or are you ready to give in?”

  Adrian let his lids droop over his eyes. “Hardly. I am like to die of boredom, waiting so long.”

  He would not allow Sir Jeffrey to taunt him into making a premature move but try to get him to make one.

  The murmur behind him swelled as the men increased their bets. “I’ll take those odds,” he called out. They were already close to evens. Nobody knew Sir Jeffrey’s prowess, but he had been a military man. Most men here knew Adrian’s reputation with the sword.

  Adrian pretended to fumble for his watch. “For God’s sake, man, I don’t have all night.”

  His lack of attention on his opponent did the trick. Sir Jeffrey came at him, a hard drive, which, had it found its mark, would have skewered Adrian through his belly. A good place to aim for, since a man sliced through the stomach didn’t fight well and bled a lot. Not good because a man hit there tended to die.

  Adrian curved back, moving aside at the last moment and catching Sir Jeffrey’s sword with his own, forcing the man off-balance.

  Sir Jeffrey surged forward, men diving out of the way, but caught a nearby table with his free hand, steadying himself.

  Before he could recover, Adrian was on him. The fierce temper had left him now. With cold calculation, he went for Sir Jeffrey’s sword arm to put him out of the game.

  The man spun around and met the blow, knocking Adrian’s weapon aside in a clash that could have been heard in the street.

  Adrian didn’t hesitate, stepping aside fluidly and turning his sword in his hand, a drop and catch that few could have emulated. It ended in a lunge, still to Sir Jeffrey’s right side, high, carefully avoiding the vital organs.

  Sir Jeffrey had no such finesse. He went for the heart. This time Adrian ducked under the blade at the last moment he dared and came up, one knee collecting splinters on the floor, the other firm and true, aiming for Sir Jeffrey’s arm.

  He must be aware of what Adrian intended now. He spun around, the movement hampered by the uneven boards under his feet, sweeping his weapon around ready to collect any attack from the flank or his front.

  Adrian did not attempt to attack until Sir Jeffrey over-spun and had to stop himself abruptly. With a tight grin, Adrian took his chance and went up. Sir Jeffrey parried the attack, and suddenly they were close, sword sliding against sword, hilts connecting.

  Their gazes met in a single piercing, accusatory exchange, as pointed as the finest steel blade. “You shall not have her,” Sir Jeffrey said, spittle marking his lips. “She is already mine.”

  Adrian didn’t bother to reply. Releasing his hold on the sword, he brought his left hand up, catching his opponent squarely on the chin.

  Sir Jeffrey’s head snapped back and he fell, solid as a tree trunk hitting the forest floor. Dead unconscious, but not expired. Sir Jeffrey had gone for killing blows, which had made him predictable. Adrian merely wanted to disable him. Not
that he didn’t wish the man harm, but he didn’t want to be accused of murdering the ruffian.

  The only sound in the room was Adrian’s breathing, until Blackburn sprang forward. “Well done, sir!”

  Adrian didn’t show it, but he was shaken. He’d come close to losing his rationality, his capacity for isolation that had kept him alive.

  He’d begun the fight with murderous intent. Somehow he had found his sangfroid once more, his common sense and drew back.

  Without a word, he turned and left, dropping the sword as if it burned him.

  At the end of the street he paused, hearing the patter of feet behind him. Mickey caught up with him, his hand over his heart, his chest heaving. “’Ere.” He thrust a handful of coins and papers—IOUs—at Adrian. “Your winnin’s.”

  Despite his ill-temper, the boy’s gesture astonished Adrian out of his mood. “You could have taken it and run.”

  “Nah.” The boy shook his head. “I’m in this for the long run, me. What’s the point of takin’ this, when I can’t collect on the paper and all I get is back on the streets?”

  Adrian was impressed. “You’re a perspicacious boy.”

  Mickey didn’t seem concerned, giving a cheerful shrug. “If you say so.”

  His face cracked in a reluctant and unexpected grin. “I shouldn’t keep you up so late. I’m convinced Lady Livia disapproves of me employing you in this way.”

  “If she knew where you took me tonight, she’d ’ave a fit.” Mickey grimaced. “And she’s going to get to ’ear about it.”

  Adrian had already worked that out. “Her brother was there, but he won’t tell her. Nevertheless, the story will be all around London tomorrow. Damnation, I meant to protect her.”

  “’T wasn’t you wot did it. The other cove threw the name around.”

  And he’d said something that had riled Adrian’s temper. “I had her first,” he’d said. Adrian was inclined to believe that was an empty boast. The man would have said anything to drive him away. Or to prove a point, maybe. Dismissing the statement, he decided Sir Jeffrey had only said it to touch a sore point and make Adrian do something rash. Lose at cards, maybe. Because Sir Jeffrey had appeared somewhat desperate. Was he running short of money? Living in society, particularly in London, was far from cheap. And Sir Jeffrey had political ambitions. There were great rewards in politics, most of them of the gold, clinking kind. Pitt claimed he was incorruptible, but then, as one of the wealthiest men in the country, he could afford to be. But his companions played deep and hard. To run with that crowd, a man needed deep pockets.