Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  She froze. Someone was coming. A man, from the sound of the footsteps. There was nowhere to hide, the room was too small! She went to the tiny space of wall behind the door and flattened her back against it. Her breath came shallowly while her heart hammered in her chest.

  “Cassandra?”

  It was Wade! He was in the library, looking for her! She heard a sound outside the door and stopped breathing altogether. She watched the knob turn before she shut her eyes in blank terror. She stood as still and silent as an upright corpse while the door opened. Seconds passed. The door closed. Not until she heard steps in the hall again did she open her eyes and discover the room was empty. Her knees started to knock against each other and she had to sit down.

  Minutes later, she slipped unnoticed from the study and returned to the library. It occurred to her that she ought to have drunk some of the tea. When Wade found her a little later she was walking in the garden, pressing a camellia to her nose and reading The Pilgrim’s Progress.

  At noon the men played cricket and drank beer while the ladies watched, sipping lemonade. Then it was time for dinner. They were dining early today because their host had devised a special entertainment for the afternoon: a cockfight. One of the more loathsome of English pastimes, Cass had always thought, and made up her mind to contract a headache just before it started. She was seated between Wade and the indomitable Teddy again, and the meal was as heavy and interminable as yesterday’s. Midway through there was a commotion outside. Laughter and raucous shouts sounded from the hall.

  “It’s Vaughn and MacLeaf, finally out of the mud at Stoke!” guessed Teddy. “Let’s give ’em a real hazing.”

  All heads turned toward the door. Two grinning men appeared in it, stumbling, their arms around each other for support. No one greeted them, so Cass deduced it wasn’t Vaughn and MacLeaf. She recognized them, though; she’d met them somewhere. Two disheveled ladies came up behind them, giggling and simpering, and all at once she knew who they were. Wally and Tom, Lord Digby-Holmes and Lord Seymour, and their two lights-o’-love. She wasn’t sure these were the same two lights-o’-love she had met before, but the distinction hardly seemed important—certainly not to Wally and Tom. She was inexplicably glad to see them all, and was about to call out a greeting when the fifth member of their party staggered up, jostling the little knot in the doorway.

  Riordan.

  Cass’s heart literally stopped. When it started again, it had to pump especially hard to compensate for the temporary standstill, and for a moment she was quite sure she was going to faint. She gazed at him across the silent room as every other person in it faded into invisibility and she was conscious of nothing but his well-loved face. He had a two-day beard and his black-and-silver hair was wild. He looked dirty and exhausted, but a private, fleeting light in his eyes warmed her to her bones. She’d never in her life seen anyone so beautiful.

  Riordan put his arms around Wally and Tom and leaned against them, his head between theirs. “Good afternoon,” he enunciated with a drunk’s carefulness. Wally and Tom echoed the greeting, after which the whole trio lurched suddenly to the left. They regained their balance with difficulty while the two ladies behind them snickered and peered around their shoulders. “We happened to be in the neighborhood,” Riordan went on, unperturbed, “and decided to pay our respects.” He sent an exaggerated leer at Cass, then caught himself against the doorpost as one knee appeared to give way on him.

  Wade stood up slowly. He wore a faint, philosophical smile. “Riordan,” he said smoothly. “I don’t believe I know your friends.”

  He introduced them with a flourish, only stumbling over the ladies’ names—Cora and Tess, it turned out—and then wondered if there might be a morsel of bread and a drop of water for his crew of weary travelers. With a resigned shrug, Wade signaled for more food and more chairs. He went through the formality of naming all the other guests for the newcomers’ benefit, and Riordan made a fatuous bow to each of them in turn. When the chairs arrived, he seized one from a startled waiter and plunked it down between Cass and Teddy Everton. He settled himself in it with a vulgar groan of satisfaction and put his arm around Cass’s shoulders. She smelled like a garden and looked good enough to eat. He was angry with her for many reasons, but at the moment he couldn’t recall what any of them were. He saw that she was pressing her lips together to keep from smiling. Before he could give it another second’s thought, he kissed her.

  This time Wade reacted. He stood up and leaned forward, pressing his hands against the edge of the table. “Listen here, Riordan,” he said with more determination than anger. “You’re in my home, and Miss Merlin is my guest. I’ll thank you to keep your hands off her while you’re here.”

  It wasn’t the most gallant defense of her honor Cass had ever heard, but it seemed to cool Riordan off for the time being. He grinned sheepishly and muttered a sort of apology, something to do with not being able to help himself. It didn’t cool Cass off, though; she still wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let go. She watched him reach for the glass of wine at his elbow and knock it over, staining the cloth a bright purple. She stole a quick glance at Wade. His eyes narrowed at her in return, as if to say, “Let’s see how much of that he really drinks!” She felt a thrill of alarm. She had to speak to Riordan privately, warn him that Wade was suspicious, and that their glass-switching ploy wouldn’t work here; but she couldn’t see how to do it without Wade’s noticing.

  More food came, providing a momentary distraction. But Riordan was genuinely intent on satisfying his appetite now, and it would have taken more than a whispered word in his ear to get his attention. Cass watched him bite lustily into a leg of roasted turkey, his strong white teeth tearing the meat off in chunks, and she felt a lightness in her chest. At the opposite end of the table, Wally, Tom, and their lady friends were devouring their food with the same gusto, causing her to wonder when they’d last stopped for a meal.

  Conversation gradually resumed as the high-spirited intruders began to be absorbed into the original company like old friends. After the meal, the drinking continued unabated and the noise level in the dining room grew deafening. Cass waited until Wade turned to speak to the viscount’s companion, a lady named Miss Cluny, and then managed her first private word with Riordan.

  “Wade is watching you,” she told him, speaking just above a whisper. “He doesn’t believe you’re really drunk.” She smiled politely, as if she’d just complimented him on his cravat, and turned away.

  Afterward, she wondered if Wade could have heard. Almost before she’d finished speaking he stood up, glass in hand, and proposed a toast to the king.

  Riordan looked at Wade; their eyes locked in silent challenge. “To the king!” the others responded, quaffing their drinks in cheerful obedience. Wade swallowed the contents of his glass deliberately, his eyes never leaving Riordan’s. Cass gripped the edge of the tablecloth with nervous fingers and stared straight ahead.

  “To the king.” Riordan closed his eyes and downed the wine in four swallows, intent on not choking. It was his first drink in eleven months.

  After that the toasts came rapidly—to the king, the queen, the Prince of Wales; to union with Ireland, the Catholic emancipation; to Cora and Tess. At each one Wade would fix Riordan with a cold, mocking eye and not take his gaze away until every drop in his glass was drained. Cass was transfixed with anxiety, but could think of nothing to do to stop it. When she reminded Wade of the promised cockfight, he waved his hand dismissively and said they would have it tomorrow; he didn’t want to break up such a pleasant party.

  Riordan knew he was getting drunk. The nice thing about it was that the drunker he got, the less he minded. What wonderful, friendly people they all were, and what amusing stories they told. He told some amusing stories himself, and they all laughed uproariously and slapped him on the back. This Everton fellow was an awfully good sort, too; he could do a first-rate impersonation of the prime minister. There were three sisters acr
oss the table —Lord or Lloyd, he thought their name was—singing a madrigal in three parts. The wonderful thing was that none of them could sing worth spit, and that made him laugh. He slid down on his backbone almost to the floor in hilarity, holding his sides. When he finally recovered, he decided to propose a toast himself.

  “To the most beautiful woman in the world!” he called out. “Cass Merlin.” There were good-natured “hear, hear’s” and everybody drank. He sat down and grinned at Cass. He could see she wasn’t having a good time.

  She needed to relax. He told her so, with a heavy arm draped across her shoulders and his nose within inches of hers. She looked as if she was going to cry. He was filled with a deep, uncomplicated love that made him want to comfort her. He touched her face with his fingers, not caring in the least who saw, and then he kissed her. Oh, it was good. No one tasted like Cass. Wade was blithering about something, but he paid no heed. He pulled her closer with one hand and put the other on her thigh. God, he loved the feel of her. What were they doing here with all these people, anyway? They ought to be upstairs in one of Wade’s fancy guest rooms, rolling around in one of his big beds.

  He felt a tightening hand on his shoulder and looked up.

  “I told you, Riordan, to keep away from C’sandra, dammit,” Wade was saying. He seemed to be swaying on his feet, but Riordan thought it could just as easily be his own vision. Cass groaned something inaudible as he got up unsteadily from his chair.

  “Oh, yeah?” he asked eloquently. “What makes you think you’ve got anymore right to ’er than I have?”

  “As I said before, this’s my house and she’s my guest. That means hands off.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Cass rested her forehead in one hand as the witless battle went on above her. A duel with pistols was proposed, then swords, then fists. Tom and Wally offered to be seconds. She might have been alarmed, but somehow she wasn’t able to take any of it seriously; she could see the combatants and their seconds passing out before they got to the dueling ground.

  “I’ve got an idea,” piped up Teddy Everton. “Why don’t you play cards for her? A nice civilized game of piquet. Then we can stop all the bickering and get back to business.” He waved at the table, indicating that business meant drinking and eating.

  Everyone thought this was a capital idea. Wade sent a servant for two packs of cards. “All right with you, Cass?” asked Riordan solicitously. She kept her head in her hand and didn’t look at him. She felt stunned with embarrassment and disbelief and helpless amusement.

  “But not to a hundred,” Teddy complained. “That takes too long.”

  “One hand,” suggested Wally. “Winner take all.”

  “All right with you, Cass?” No response. “I guess it’s all right with her. Draw for deal.”

  Listlessly, Cass watched the cards fly past on the table in front of her as Wade dealt twelve each, two at a time. Everyone gathered around to watch. After drawing from the stock, Riordan scored for point and sequence, but Wade scored for triplets. Play began, with each man counting his score out loud after every trick. In minutes, the game was over.

  Riordan won, twenty-eight to nineteen.

  Grinning like a hyena, he accepted the gleeful congratulations of his friends. Wade folded his arms across his chest and grimaced manfully. Riordan toasted him, quite liking him at that moment. “To you, Colin, for taking it like a soldier!” Everybody drank.

  “Well, Cass,” he went on expansively, leaning back. “Let’s go into Lancaster and get a room.” This was greeted with enthusiasm by the listeners. Cass raised her eyes to him then, and he felt the first inkling that all wasn’t well. “Eh? What d’you say?”

  “What exactly do you think this hand of piquet means, Riordan?” she asked quietly.

  The room went still. Damn it, he thought, trust a woman to put a damper on things. “It means you’re mine, o’ course,” he said forcefully, and there was a masculine murmur of agreement around the table.

  “I see. Does that mean I have no say in the decision?”

  That flummoxed him. His wits were slow; he couldn’t think of a speedy rejoinder. “Uh—”

  “I assume you’re thinking I’ll come and live with you now,” she went on relentlessly.

  “Well, exactly, that’s certainly—”

  “I dare you to play another hand,” she said, with a smile that ought to have warned him. “With me this time. If you win, I’ll consent to be your mistress.”

  He agreed, with misgivings. Damnation, he’d already won her once, why did he—?

  “What if he loses?” asked Teddy.

  “Yeah, what if he loses?” echoed Tom.

  Cass smiled again, and Riordan felt a cold premonition in the pit of his stomach. “If he loses, he has to marry me.”

  IX

  EXCEPT FOR the surreptitious scraping of a plate by a spellbound servant, there wasn’t a sound in the room. Everyone stared at Cass as if waiting for her to laugh and admit she was joking. When it sank in that she was dead serious, Wally let out a whoop, and the tension broke. They all gathered around again, joking and jostling and slapping Riordan on the shoulders. He finally closed his mouth and tore his eyes away from Cass’s gray and unnervingly sober gaze. He reached for his goblet with a sickly smile, found it empty, and looked around for the decanter in something bordering on panic. A laughing Viscount St. Aubyn filled his glass for him to the brim, and he drank it down in one huge gulp, spilling a lot down his neck. The wine was supposed to wet his throat and make speaking easier, but when he said, “Draw for deal,” it came out a dry, palsied croak. He drew an ace, Cass a nine. She cut, he dealt. They were facing each other, their knees almost touching. He spread the remaining cards on the table in the shape of a fan and looked at his hand. His face blanched. Too many goddamn sevens and eights. He watched Cass arrange her cards calmly, expertly, her manner a study in total composure; only a certain tightness around the mouth suggested that something more than a few pounds was riding on the outcome of the game.

  She discarded three cards and picked up an equal number from the stock. He did the same, and elected to leave the rest face down. All he accomplished from the pick was to replace his sevens and eights with tens.

  “Four,” Cass announced, to begin the calling.

  “How much?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Equal.” He let out a breath. Neither had scored for point.

  “Quatrieme.”

  “We say ‘Quart,’ ” he corrected, unreasonably irritated.

  “Quart, then.” She shrugged agreeably.

  “Good,” he conceded.

  “I also have a tierce. Three aces.”

  He smiled. “Not good. Four tens. And three jacks.”

  She shrugged again. “I begin with seven.”

  “I begin with seventeen.” He felt a little better.

  She led with four hearts: ace, king, queen and jack; after each trick she announced her score in a noncommittal tone. If she won the majority of tricks, seven or better, she would score ten, and Riordan began to hate and fear the light, uninflected sound of her voice. She led next with the ace, king, and queen of diamonds. Seven tricks. Ten points.

  She led the seven of spades, and finally he won a trick. He took two more, then led his jack of clubs. She aced it. She led the king of spades for the last trick, and won.

  “Twenty-eight,” she said, staring down at the pile of cards in front of her, lining up the edges with her long, slim fingers.

  He blinked repeatedly and had to clear his throat. “Nineteen.”

  All hell erupted. Everyone moved toward them to shout congratulations or condolences, kissing, shaking hands, patting and slapping. The noise came to Cass’s ears as if through a tunnel. Even her vision blurred. The only thing she saw clearly was the look of shock in Riordan’s eyes. He stared as intently as if he’d never seen her before—or as if she were a madwoman holding a razor to his throat. Someone dragged him to his feet, someone e
lse pulled her chair back and urged her to hers, and then they were all drinking a toast.

  “To the bride and groom!” shouted Teddy Everton, raising his glass high.

  Cass drained her wine numbly, welcoming the heat that spread through her a second later. Then she shuddered, watching from the corner of her eye as Riordan’s hand shot out in another desperate grab for the decanter.

  “Why don’t we do it now?” Tom suggested when the uproar died down a little. He half-lay on the table, one elbow propped against a congealing platter of roast pork. “Leave now, I mean, for Gretna Green.”

  “Right-ho!” seconded Wally, pounding Riordan on the back. “If we left now, we could be there by morning. You’d be married before dinner!”

  Rude shouts and laughter greeted this proposal. “I’ll supply fresh horses and a coachman!” Wade chimed in. Cass looked at him in astonishment. He was definitely intoxicated—his face was red and perspiring and he swayed a bit on his feet—but there was a calculating glint in his bloodshot eyes that outshone the drunkenness. What was his game? she wondered distractedly, then understood. Of course—he wanted her to marry Riordan; that way he thought she could find out all his secrets.

  The insistence that they leave now, tonight, grew almost violent, and she was reminded of a pack of hounds snapping at the backside of a hapless fox. She hazarded a glance at Riordan. He was looking at her again—not with shock now but with a kind of reckless, swaggering challenge. She put on her most insouciant expression, trying to match his in carelessness. Their gazes held while he swallowed yet another glass of claret and belched loudly. He turned toward the waiting company. Cass’s breath caught at the top of her lungs.

  “Whoever’s going with us, let’s get on the bloody road.”

  New cries, more congratulations, as chairs were pushed back and the party surged out of the dining room into the hall. Riordan continued outside, feeling an urgent need to relieve himself, and half a dozen men followed him out. The ladies drifted upstairs or into the drawing room. What was she supposed to do now, Cass wondered—pack? She started up the stairs uncertainly, noticing Wade speaking to a couple of servants in the hall. She stopped when he called out and then joined her, taking her arm and leading her into an alcove off the second floor hallway. The sun had almost set, she saw through the window; the sky was a luminous strip of orchid over the dark trees of the park.