Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ‘As you see, I decided to leave hell for another time and come here instead. It’s likely to be a fairly similar substitute.’

  ‘It will be if you have anything to do with it,’ returned Giles coolly.

  Alex smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I do my best.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ muttered Danny, ruefully. ‘If that’s the way of it, I’ve a good mind to go home.’

  ‘And miss all the fun? Alex would never forgive you. He’s suffering and is very kindly making sure that we all get a share.’ Giles turned back to Alex. ‘Have you a special treat in store – or is this a mere run-of-the-mill occasion?’

  Alex smiled slowly. ‘An element of suspense is always fun, don’t you find?’

  Of the two remaining guests, Alex was surprised to find one faintly familiar, though from where he could not recall. The other, however, was instantly and ludicrously recognisable. Sardonic blue eyes met astounded hazel ones and Alex bowed mockingly to the young man whose dalliance he had so effectively disrupted earlier in the evening.

  Richard Stavely looked back, scarcely able to believe his bad luck and too shocked to bow in reply. An angry flush surged up to the roots of his hair and he thought of a number of things he would like to say but could not without looking even more foolish than he already did. On his way across the room, Alex paused briefly beside him and murmured, ‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ before moving on.

  The gentleman on the couch, whose face Alex had as yet been unable to place, showed no signs of being pleased to see him. In fact he seemed extremely nervous and closely resembled a startled rabbit. Alex repressed a grin.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alexander Deveril.’

  The gentleman swallowed convulsively. ‘Frederick Iverson.’

  ‘Mr Iverson. Have we met before?’

  There was a short pause and then, ‘No. That is – can’t say we met exactly. Never introduced, you know.’

  ‘Ah. More in the nature of an … encounter … perhaps?’

  ‘That’s it,’ was the grateful reply.

  ‘When and where?’

  This brought the rabbit look back with a vengeance.

  ‘The Acorn – night before last. I was with Gresham.’

  ‘Oh God – yes!’ Alex gave a crow of laughter. ‘You were the one who said that Rupert was quite good with a sword.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frederick, brightening at this evidence in his favour. ‘Didn’t think you’d remember.’ He thought for a second and then added naively, ‘Didn’t remember much myself.’

  Alex regarded him with mild reproof.

  ‘I remember it,’ he explained, ‘because it is the most thundering understatement I’ve ever heard. Oh – stop shaking. I’m not going to hurt you. I save that for bombastic idiots.’

  Frederick stared at him, fascination mingling with budding respect. Then, standing up in a rush of confidence, he held out his hand as Alex took it, said, ‘Tell you what – good thing if you had strangled him. He’s a Bad Man.’

  Alex frowned slightly. ‘That’s interesting. You must tell me more – another time. I think we’re being summoned in to supper.’

  They were and it proved to be both unimaginative and poorly cooked, with the result that everyone drank a little more than usual. The talk was also besieged with pitfalls, due mainly to a seating arrangement that placed Colne and Hassall together at the end of the table where they could and did conduct a conversation which excluded everyone else and Giles and Alex exactly opposite each other where they indulged in spasmodic sniping. Danny, uncomfortably situated beside Giles, hovered between laughter at the absurdity of it all and fear that one would push the other too far.

  By the time they rose from the table some two hours later, everyone was a little the worse for wear and Alex was fast approaching his most volatile state.

  Retiring from the dining-room, the party moved back to the parlour where a number of small tables had been set out and the dresser stocked with squat, dark green bottles and glasses. The Rhenish wine which had been served through supper had given place to brandy … and devilish bad brandy at that, thought Giles putting down his glass almost untouched.

  As soon as they entered the room, Colne and Hassall headed for the remotest of the tables and, producing a well-used tarot deck, settled down to a serious session of tarocco. Danny, anxious to keep Messrs Beckwith and Deveril apart, chose Giles as the more amenable of the two, rounded up Richard Stavely and proposed a game of gleek, neatly leaving Ashton and Mr Iverson to take care of the other half of his problem.

  They solved it by suggesting that they also make a three at gleek, to which Alex agreed with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, expecting to be bored.

  He wasn’t and the reason was perfectly simple. He could not lose. No matter what he drew or discarded, the result was always the same. He won. And after the first hour he began to find it funny, for it was nothing to do with expertise or intellect – just pure, unadulterated luck. The cards were running his way and it seemed that nothing could stop them.

  Frederick took his losses in good part but Ashton grew steadily less jovial as, coin by coin, his money moved across the table and finally he came abruptly to his feet, refilled the glasses and proposed they change the game.

  Alex smiled with maddening understanding.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Dice,’ replied Ashton. ‘Maybe these three will join us?’

  At the magic word ‘dice’, Danny’s eyes brightened and he promptly forgot all his sterling resolutions and started pushing tables together.

  Alex smiled down at Mr Beckwith. ‘Take the bank, Giles?’

  ‘I might. But if all you want is the opportunity to break me, I’m sure we can arrange something.’

  ‘Generous,’ mocked Alex. ‘But sufficient unto the day and all that.’ He indicated the table. ‘Shall we?’

  As luck would have it, it was Danny whose throw won him the dubious privilege of the first bank. He gaily emptied his pockets on to the table and the game opened on a guinea stake. At the end of an hour when Ashton threw for the bank and won, Danny was still an easy winner but Mr Stavely, having lost consistently, had declared himself at beggar’s bush and dwindled into a glassy-eyed observer.

  Ashton smiled for the first time in half an hour and opened his bank on a stake of five guineas. Giles favoured him with a long, cool stare, called a main and won. The smile faded but Ashton need not have worried. On his second throw, Alex challenged the bank and took it.

  ‘Stake fixed at five,’ he announced. ‘Giles?’

  ‘Seven,’ called Giles. And turned up a deuce and a four.

  The game continued. Alex’s luck, it seemed was still in and the heap of coins in front of him gradually increased. By the time the clock struck ten, Mr Iverson [now Freddy to everyone] had joined Richard on the periphery and Ashton, becoming grimmer by the minute having lost more than he could afford, was writing vowels to cover his losses. At this stage a wiser man would have withdrawn but James Ashton was gamester enough to indulge in the belief that his luck must turn. However, as the evening wore on and he wrote more and more notes, he began to feel frightened. He called, threw and lost. Again.

  ‘It seems time another took the bank,’ he muttered, looking at Giles and Danny. ‘What d’you say?’

  Mr Beckwith raised his brows with faint hauteur. ‘As the rest of you wish. For myself, I am satisfied.’

  ‘So’m I,’ agreed Danny, blinking owlishly. ‘But then, I’m devilish drunk. Are you drunk, Alex? Giles isn’t. He don’t care for the brandy.’

  Mr Deveril greeted this piece of tactlessness with a laugh. His collar was loosened, his hair disordered, and the effect of the brandy was evident in his too-steady gaze and less than steady hands.

  ‘Yes, I am undoubtedly drunk – but it’s immaterial.’ He looked at Ashton. ‘There’s some three hundred in the bank. Will you throw for it?’

  Ashton hesitated but only for a moment.

>   ‘Yes, damn you, I will.’

  ‘Wonderful. After you.’

  Ashton threw a five and a four. Unhurriedly, Alex cast a four and a six, then sat back in his chair.

  ‘You lose,’ he said flippantly. ‘Satisfied?’

  Ashton banged his fist on the table.

  ‘No, I’m not! You hold too many of my vowels.’

  With an expression of distaste, Mr Beckwith moved as if to get up. Alex looked at him, the pale eyes glimmering strangely in the candlelight.

  ‘Don’t go, Giles. We have arrived at the high point of the evening. Mr Ashton isn’t satisfied. You should sympathise.’ He looked back at his host. ‘So. You haven’t the money to try another throw. Pity.’

  Ashton glared at him and cudgelled his brain for inspiration. And then it came to him; an idea so wild and wily that it stopped his breath. He slopped more brandy into his glass and laughed.

  ‘I’ve a stake for you – if you’ve the stomach for it.’

  Alex smiled. ‘Name it.’

  Ashton laughed again. ‘M’sister.’

  There was a sudden silence.

  ‘Would you mind repeating that?’ asked Alex softly.

  ‘My sister. Step-sister if you want to be pernickety. When m’father married his Frenchie widow, her Frenchie brat came along with her. She’s got a dowry of eight hundred pounds from her mother. I’ll stake her hand in marriage against your bank – three throws to decide.’

  Silence was succeeded by uproar in which Danny, Richard and Freddy all spoke at once. Out of this, Richard emerged triumphant – largely because in lurching to his feet he overset a chair.

  ‘You – you’re mad!’ he shouted.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ snapped Ashton. And then, to Alex, ‘Well?’

  ‘Can’t do it,’ announced Freddy positively. ‘Can’t stake a lady.’

  ‘I’ll stake what I choose.’

  Danny wagged a solemn finger at Alex.

  ‘Wouldn’t take him if I were you,’ he advised. ‘You haven’t seen her. Might be a hag.’

  Freddy blinked, much impressed by this logic, and then shook his head regretfully.

  ‘She ain’t,’ he said simply. ‘But that’s not the point.’

  Ashton was losing patience.

  ‘Enough! Will you cover, Deveril – or haven’t you the nerve for it?’

  Alex’s eyes had never left Ashton’s face. He raised one brow and said, ‘My friend, I have the nerve for more or less anything.’

  It was all Giles had been waiting for.

  ‘This is absurd,’ he said coldly. ‘Ashton – you can’t toss your sister into the pot like a handful of coins. Her dowry isn’t yours to dispose of and she can’t be made to marry anyone just because you’re in debt. As for you, Alex, are you too drunk to realise how utterly stupid you’re being?’

  Alex laughed a shade wildly.

  ‘Oh I realise, sweetheart. I’m just not sure that I care.’ He turned to Ashton. ‘Produce your stake. I’ll take you.’

  Ashton relaxed and summoned his servant.

  ‘Fetch my sister,’ he ordered.

  The man goggled.

  ‘But – it’s late, sir. Miss Chloë retired some hours ago.’

  ‘Then wake her up. Go to it – hurry!’

  The man gave up and went out.

  Richard Stavely, who had stood through this discussion in a trance-like stupor, suddenly roused himself to protest.

  ‘You’ve no right! It – it’s disgusting and I won’t let you do it!’ And, stepping valiantly forth, he tripped over the fallen chair and measured his length.

  Danny and Freddy inspected him with professional interest.

  ‘Looks like he’s knocked himself out,’ observed Daniel.

  ‘Out cold,’ corroborated Freddy cheerfully. ‘Pity.’

  And, pleased to find themselves in agreement, they drank a toast.

  Waiting for Ashton’s sister to make an appearance, Giles informed Colne and Hassall that it was time they left and, since his tone brooked no argument, they gathered up their cards and departed, muttering.

  When they had gone, Giles made another attempt to make Ashton and Alex see sense. Ashton ignored him. Alex leaned back in his chair, whistling; then, like the others, he turned and, unlike them, remained seated as the door opened and a girl came in.

  Daughter of Ralph Ashton’s second wife, Marguerite, Chloë Herveaux was just twenty and though, as Freddy had said, she was not a hag, neither was she precisely beautiful. Of medium height, fine-boned and slender, she had grace and a certain distinction which was nothing to do with her shabby dress. But her face was one of character, rather than loveliness. Narrow, arched brows were set above dark brown eyes, wide and intelligent; her nose was short and straight, her lips firm, her chin determined. And the long hair falling down to her waist was unfashionably straight and the colour of newly-beaten copper.

  She stood quite still, hands clasped loosely in front of her and surveyed the company. Her glance lit upon Freddy and a tiny smile touched her mouth.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Iverson,’ she said, as calmly as if it was perfectly normal to be roused from bed at midnight to attend her brother’s bachelor evenings.

  Freddy bowed politely. ‘Servant, Mistress Chloë.’

  The dark gaze transferred itself to Giles, widened, moved quickly to Daniel and on to Alex where it stayed for a moment. Mr Beckwith’s brows rose sharply and Mr Fawsley frowned as if trying to place her. Mr Deveril looked back at her with interest but no other discernible expression. She restored her attention to Giles, who swept her an elegant bow.

  ‘Mistress Ashton … we have met before, I think. But perhaps you don’t remember?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ she averred. ‘Only I don’t know how to address you. And my name is not Ashton – it’s Herveaux.’

  ‘My apologies.’ He smiled engagingly. ‘My name is Beckwith. And this Mr Fawsley – and, over there, Mr Deveril.’

  She directed a brief smile at Danny, passed over Alex and curtsied to Giles. Then she turned to her brother and her eyes became quite blank.

  ‘Well, James? What am I doing here at this hour?’

  For a second, Ashton had the grace to look embarrassed but he conquered it.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said slurring his words a little, ‘because I’ve chosen to stake you.’

  ‘Plait-il?’

  ‘I said I’ve staked you. You’re to be my pledge in a game of dice.’

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘If this is some sort of joke – ‘

  ‘It’s not. But if I win, nothing changes as far as you are concerned.’

  ‘That’s no comfort,’ she said coldly. Then, ‘And if you lose?’

  He reached for his glass to avoid looking at her.

  ‘Your hand and marriage portion go to the winner.’

  There was a long silence during which Chloë’s expression changed to one of blistering contempt.

  ‘I see. And to which of these … gentlemen,’ she gestured swiftly round the room, ‘goes the delightful opportunity of winning me? Not all of them, surely?’

  ‘No. Only one,’ said Alex, coming slowly to his feet. ‘Myself.’

  Giles saw her composure crack – but only a little. A sudden flush stained her cheeks and the small capable hands clenched over each other; then she drew a long breath and was in control again.

  ‘Ah well,’ she said, in apparent resignation. ‘One cannot have everything.’

  Her eyes wandered past him and perceived the recumbent form of Mr Stavely, as though for the first time. Her brows rose.

  ‘Why is Richard lying on the floor?’

  Freddy and Danny exchanged warning glances.

  ‘He’s tired,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Thought he’d take a nap,’ added Danny helpfully.

  ‘Oh? I had thought it must be the brandy. But perhaps it’s better than usual?’

  Giles swallowed a laugh and began to feel a certain admiration.

/>   Ashton, meanwhile, was becoming belligerent again.

  ‘Enough of this piffling talk – it’s wasting time. Shake the bones.’

  ‘One moment,’ interrupted Chloë. ‘Do I have any choice in this?’

  ‘No,’ snapped her brother.

  ‘Yes,’ said Giles. ‘Of course you do.’

  She looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘You can’t be bartered in this way against your will. It is quite reprehensible. So if you wish to halt this lunacy now – all you have to do is say so. And I will see to it that your decision is respected.’

  His reward was an unexpectedly charming smile.

  ‘Thank you.’ The smile disappeared as she turned to look at Alex. ‘And you … Mr Deveril, wasn’t it? We don’t know each other and my dowry is no great fortune. So why would you accept a wager of this kind? Or are you just as drunk as my brother?’

  Alex made an expansive gesture, swayed slightly and said grandly, ‘Drunk or sober, wager or dare, I never refuse a challenge.’ And dropped back into his chair.

  She looked at him and sighed.

  ‘Oh dear. That doesn’t sound like promising husband material, does it?’

  Alex laughed and reached for the brandy.

  She ignored him and, turning back to Giles, said ‘So. I may refuse to take part in this charade … and stay here. And trust that my brother, having conceived this original idea, does not seek to repeat it on another occasion when I may be less fortunate in being offered protection.’

  ‘There is that,’ Mr Beckwith admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Yes. I am not inclined to rely on it. Of course, if Mr Deveril loses, it may happen again anyway. And next time the gentleman concerned may be an ancient, or poxed, or – worse still – one such as my brother himself.’ She eyed Ashton dispassionately. ‘All things considered, I think I prefer to take my chance now. At least when he is sober, I imagine Mr Deveril is usually in full possession of his faculties.’

  ‘Much obliged to you, Marigold,’ slurred Alex, raising his glass to her.

  Chloë ignored him again and looked across at her brother.

  ‘Very well. Throw your dice, James. I consent.’

  ‘Wait.’ Giles frowned. ‘I won’t ask if you know what you are doing. I can appreciate your situation only too well. But are you sure this is wise?’