by Thea Devine
"Indeed," Southam said noncommittally, not caring to pursue the way in which the perceptive Lady Truscott had echoed his own thoughts. He felt bored already with his preoccupation with this woman's face.
But still he did not move from the doorway, and he watched intently as she cracked open a new deck of cards and shuffled with cool and practiced hands.
Yes, there was something in her expression that positively arrested him and for one moment he felt a violent wave of antipathy, as if he could dislike her intensely even though he was certain he knew her not at all.
And she looked up just then, her melting blue gaze unerringly settling on him, and she smiled, and it was the smile of the siren; she spoke, and her voice was like a caress. "Join us, my lord."
It was not even a command, and still he moved forward into the room on the strength of his curiosity and the look in her eyes and took his place at the table with only a cursory glance at the order of cards embedded in the baize.
She in turn placed the freshly sorted deck into the beautifully gilded mahogany box beside her, and then looked up once again, her imperturbable gaze resting once again on Southam. "Your wager, my Lord?"
Nothing more, nothing less, and still he felt such a jolt of antagonism toward her, he was hard put to concentrate as the others set out their bets and she put the cards into play.
He went down quickly on the tide of his inexplicable animosity, and left the center saloon shortly thereafter to seek out Jeremy Waynflete as he was sliding into oblivion at the E.O. table.
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"I swear, Nicholas, it is you who are leading me down the path to ruin," he greeted Southam ill-humoredly.
"I collect you are down a few hundred," Nicholas inferred calmly. "Never mind that." He helped himself to a glass of champagne from a tray offered by a passing manservant. "Come; look at this Greek goddess instead. She positively fascinates me."
Jeremy grabbed a glass of champagne and followed Southam through two card rooms to the reception hallway where they could mingle with a number of other guests taking a respite from the rigors of play.
It was perfectly plain from the crowd gathered around the doorway to the center saloon just where the goddess of the Greeks held court, and Jeremy made his way among them without any direction whatsoever.
Nicholas, however, held back, feeling another inexplicable surge of hostility as he watched the fawning exquisites who were vying for a seat at her table.
He could just see her quite lovely face and those intelligent, amused eyes. (Scornful eyes, lightning bolt eyes wishing him dead . . .) resting with great confidence on each and every man who took a seat around the table.
Lying eyes . . . She said a word to each, her expression reflecting a warm, seemingly personal interest that had to have been faked; she could not possibly have known them all. And yet each looked flattered, and more than that, wound up and ready for a round of spirited play.
Nicholas turned away in disgust; Jeremy joined him several moments later in the dining room after accurately deducing where he had disappeared to, and found him seated at a window table with a tray full of cold meats and another glass of champagne.
He looked up at Jeremy with his familiar insolence. "Well?"
Jeremy took a chair and sat down emphatically next to Nicholas.
"Your wits are addled, man. Do you really not know who the goddess is?"
"I do not, nor do I care," Nicholas said, making a show of wiping his mouth with his napkin. Did he know? Maybe he didn't believe it. . . 23
"Good God, Nicholas, that woman is the wench you took to bed last Yuletidemas, the witch who poured a decanter of the house's best claret over your head and ruined your new coat and top boots and then threatened you with a candle and fireplace poker."
"Did she really?" Nicholas murmured. From guttersnipe to goddess in the space of a year, with those knowing eyes that now would never stoop to such crudity with a paying guest? Such a fascinating transformation; almost worth a coat, a pair of boots and a half hour of humiliation. And Jeremy, damn him, would remember every last detail; while he—he never would forget.
He shook his head. "Do you know, I can't seem to remember anything like that happening at all."
"I believe the bedclothes caught fire," Jeremy amplified helpfully. "And of course, the incident did nothing to add to your consequence, Nick."
"What a shame," Nicholas said mildly. "I do hope the gentleman in question got out in time."
"I believe there was great damage to his pride. But then, it was bruited about that he had been drinking, something quite unlike him, and the whole was laid to the door of some broken engagement. Apparently a man will be forgiven anything in the name of drowning his sorrow."
Nicholas sighed. "So it seems. A man could be thoroughly foxed and have no memory at all of passing events. The thought is diverting. I believe I must have another long look at this goddess. I am sure she will never give me away."
"The trouble with you, Nicholas, is that you have too much money, too much time and too much inclination, and you take great enjoyment in testing my patience. You surely don't mean to take revenge at this late date."
"My dear Jeremy—you talk in such violent terms about an incident of which I have no memory whatsoever."
"Exactly, my lord. You never saw the chit. She never jammed the poker perilously close to your unmentionable. You were never here. I was never there. It's all of a piece, Nick. You have been furious for a year that she took you that time around, and, come to think, she probably took you at the Faro table this very evening, and you are probably furious about that as well."
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But Nicholas, as was his wont, said not a word in answer to this upbraiding, and Jeremy finally threw up his hands. "You are being thoroughly dislikeable, you know."
"Never," Nicholas said with feeling.
"In any event, you would be better served if I returned to the Cardleigh's and attended to my mother."
"Perhaps not," Nicholas said, rising to his feet and dropping his well crumpled napkin onto the table. "Come now, Jeremy. I merely wish to ascertain if the goddess is worthy of my mettle."
"I know you, Nick. You will gnaw at a thing until it's nothing but bone. But the goddess has backbone, I'll wager, and I'll even bet who comes out the better in any encounter between you two."
"Done," Nicholas said, as they walked together into the reception room. He motioned to Lady Truscott. "The betting book, if you please." It was, as he knew, ready to hand. "A hundred pounds, Jeremy?" He wrote it in the book and handed it back to Lady Truscott. "I bid you goodnight, Jeremy."
Jeremy smiled. "But how could you think it, Nicholas? That I would leave you to the goddess's tender mercies and not stay to rescue you as the occasion arises."
"Foolhardy of me," Nicholas murmured, damning Jeremy for his perspicacity and the way in which he had been manipulated. He was a little off the pace this night, but that didn't signify. He viewed these little unforeseen surprises as one of the things that made life so amusing. His demeanor in that respect never changed. Nothing threw him, and he always presented a calm and collected appearance, and it was one of the many things for which he was both envied and despised.
He motioned now toward the center saloon. "Do join me, Jeremy."
"I wish you well, Nick," Jeremy said. "And may one or the other of you be fully done up by day's break."
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Chapter Two
She had barely a moment to study Southam's face as he entered the center salon and proceeded to elegantly and somewhat ruthlessly remove every obstacle in his path to her table.
He was a wonder to watch in his severe black evening dress with that implacable, harsh-featured face which gave over nothing to either excess politeness nor the exigencies of fashion. Still, he was the most refined and noticeable man in the room and it was obvious that this anomaly was the thing that set him apart from everyone else, and more, that he deliberately cultivated it.
But she w
ould have known him had he been clothed in satin and a powdered periwig, and it was plain from the careless glance he gave her as he settled himself into the chair opposite her, that he remembered exactly who she was as well.
Yet, she could have sworn the half hour previously there had been no recognition in his eyes at all.
She looked up at him from under thick, long lashes. Not a muscle moved in his face.
Yes, that was the thing they said about Southam. He never betrayed a thing, his feelings always locked in the attic, never to be exposed to the light of day.
Formidable opponent. It would not do to show a moment of weakness to this man, but still, as she turned away from his mesmerizing black gaze, she felt a little tremor of uncertainty.
She would definitely be out of her depth if she tangled with this man. She wasn't sure at all that she wanted to, given his languid disregard for everything save his own comfort. There were
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others besides Southam who would serve her purpose equally as well —that elegant and plainly dressed man beside him, perhaps, who had a much nicer face and a quirky smile.
Or this next man to the other side of her, who was perhaps a shade overdressed and did not present as comme il faut an appearance as did Southam . . . but what difference was that now to her plans and schemes?
The pressing urgency she always felt to comply with Therese's deathbed request was obliterated now by the very presence of Southam and her sudden, latent, and very fierce desire to face him down, to take up the challenge of his play and to strip him bare before his peers.
She didn't try to analyze the urge or even the anger. It came from some deep place within her, and it vented itself, as they began play, in some reckless wagering that seemed to shock him and sent the players of lesser skills careening from the table.
Only the glint in his eyes betrayed any feeling: it was the cold hard glitter of the predator matching wits with its prey, finding unexpectedly that he was being led instead of leading. But then, at times she did not know either if she were the hunted or the hunter. It was the most exhilarating moment of her life to find that she could hold Southam, of all people, in the palm of her hand with the turn of a card.
Back and forth it went, a dance of vengeance—she knew it for what it was finally—a duel to the death, eye to eye and hand to hand.
"Your skill is commendable," he said at one point.
"I salute yours as well, my Lord," she answered in kind.
The crowd around them grew with each passing wager. Lady Truscott hovered around the edge of the table, counting pounds and feeling near to fainting as the amounts began to total astronomical sums.
An hour went by, two. There was no polite table talk here; they were adversaries, equals, antagonists on a battlefield, nothing more, nothing less.
"Your play, my lord."
"Your turn, madame."
Another hour passed.
"You are excellent at probabilities, my lord."
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"Do not be too careless at stringing your bets, madame. A word of caution solely."
They played on, with each new commencement of the game marked with a fresh set of cards shuffled, cut and placed within the box, and the win-lose cards drawn immediately and placed beside.
A half hour more elapsed.
"It is a mistake to play the colors for win-lose, my Lord. I believe you are whipsawed," Jainee said as she pulled from the box the last in a series of three cards by which he had wagered.
"Then I will call the turn at the last, madame, and we will have done for tonight."
"As you wish, my lord. Will you play numbers or colors?"
"Colors again. I will see them Black, Black, Red."
"The wager is laid," Jainee said as he put his counter down. She pushed the first card out of the box. "It is black." She felt the tension rivet the room; behind her, every last man and woman toted up the number of counters that now lay between them, win or lose.
She looked squarely into Southam's matte black eyes. It was a moment that would break a lesser man than Southam. But nothing showed in his eyes except that predatory glitter and his expression remained as impassive as ever.
"Proceed," he said and there was no hint of anxiety in his deep voice.
She smiled faintly; the man's nerves were encased in ice. It was rather interesting to watch his face as she slowly slid the next card from the box face up. "It is red, my lord."
He nodded, and she saw not a quirk in his expression as she laid the card on top of the pile next to the mahogany box.
"I make it ten thousand pounds, my lord."
Nor did he protest the sum. "The house must ever win in Faro," he murmured, and snapped his fingers to call for a pen and voucher.
Lady Truscott delivered these to his hands with almost obsequious alacrity and watched hungrily as he filled out the voucher and handed it to Jainee.
"My pleasure, madame," he said politely.
"And mine, my lord. We will perhaps meet again."
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"It is possible," he agreed noncommittally, levering himself upward with that same languid grace that characterized all his movements. "Jeremy? Lady Truscott? I bid you good evening."
Everyone around the table stood transfixed as he made his way out of the room.
Lady Truscott moved first, reaching out to snatch the voucher from Jainee's hand. She smiled complacently as she read the figures once again, and then she turned to her guests.
"But it is still early, my friends. Come, let the games continue!"
******************
She was feeling agitated beyond all reason when Edythe Winslowe came to call the following morning.
"My dear Jainee, calm down," Edythe said dampingly as she took a seat near the fireplace in Jainee's room. "What on earth has put you in such a pelter?"
"That damnable Southam is what," Jainee spat. "Do you know, do you realize ... he did it deliberately and he did it knowing full well only / would realize, only / would understand. Oh, he is a cold cub, that one, and a master at maneuvering others to do his will. No, I did not see that yesterday, but today my eyes are clear. I see him for what he is, damnable man!"
"Well, it is all very fine to be in rage, Jainee, and you do it very well, I might add, but the audience has no idea what the plot is, so why don't you just lay that out for me before you start throwing things," Edythe said pragmatically as she removed her hooded cape and gloves with great care and delicacy.
The movement of her hands arrested Jainee in her tracks. "The man is a monster, and did I not know it from last year's encounter? I should have realized ... I should have known ... he lost to me deliberately, madame, calculatedly, intentionally."
"In spite of the cards, you mean?"
"He used them, he used me. I tell you, I cannot live with myself for being taken in by him," Jainee said vehemently.
"Of course you won't; why should you? Better gamesters than you have been taken in by Southam. Don't despair. No one else will ever know. I, for one, will never tell."
Jainee turned on her heel and stormed to the window which
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overlooked the rear courtyard of the Alices. "I wish you would not take this so lightly, madame."
Edythe Winslowe shrugged. "Perhaps we have different perspectives, Jainee. We have talked often of all the possibilities that could be obtained if you were to remain at the Alices. Last night, I hear that the foremost of these, the appearance of Southam, has indeed come to fruition, and I make haste to ascertain if you are not in transports over the event, and here you are in a rage and not thinking clearly."
"I am thinking too clearly," Jainee growled. "I must have my revenge."
"Your theatrics find no sympathetic spectator here," Edythe said dampingly. "You must consider what is best to do."
"I know what I am going to do. I am going to play his lord almighty again — and / am going to lose!"
Edythe clapped her hands. "Of course! This is per
fect, my girl! How else to put yourself into his power! It is irresistible!"
Jainee turned from the window. "What are you talking about? I merely meant—"
"You merely meant that you are trying to avoid the issue," Edythe interjected. "The moment fmally is at hand for you to take the opportunity you swore to me that you craved. It is the crowning touch to all you have planned and all we have talked I about this year. You must indeed lose to Southam, and if you can do it in a private way, so much the better. Do you take my meaning?"
"It is impossible not to, madame. I am to deliberately lose to Southam and to offer myself in place of my voucher."
"Indeed, my dear Jainee. Your vowels must be but one—‘I,' just as you have planned . . . if you have the fortitude and the will to carry through—and if your desire to breach the stronghold of society is cast in stone . . ."
Jainee shivered and folded her arms across her chest. Edythe
Winslowe was right, of course. She had worked diligently for a
year to come to the place where she would have the advantage of
all the nobs who frequented the Alices. And now she was point
to point with the situation and the reality of it was, at best, a
little sordid.
But then heretofore there had not been such an eligible candi-
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date for her scheme as Southam.
She had conceived the framework of the plan shortly after Lady Truscott had admitted her to the floor to take her place among the attractions of the Alices.
From there, it was easy to see that the house was full at any given time of the year with the bored and the wealthy who would come in residence at select times of the year, and particularly when the Prince of Wales chose to come to town on a whim.
It had simply been a matter of comprehending what was necessary to achieve her ends. By herself, she had no chance at all of going up to London, and she had known this even before she had embarked on the arduous journey from Paris.
So it had been built into her thinking at the outset that she must devise a way that would accomplish both the event of her presence in London and give her the entree she needed to the strata of society in which she believed her father moved.
