The Earl's Prize (Harlequin Historical)

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘Why not send Patience into the dining room to find your book?’ Amy suggested. Patience was their maid of all work, a terrifying puritan of a woman, who was as skilled as a lady’s maid as she was diligent with a duster. Patience’s stock response to any situation was to disapprove of it. Amy’s lip twitched to imagine what she would make of a group of Richard’s hard-gambling friends.

  Lady Bainbridge brightened, then drooped a little.

  ‘Oh, yes, what a good idea…Oh, I cannot! Patience has sworn that she will not set foot in a room with Richard’s friends after one of them tried to pinch her in a…’ Lady Bainbridge looked embarrassed ‘…in an intimate manner. She swore that she was obliged to box his ears and called them all rogues and scoundrels!’

  ‘It was a brave man to try,’ Amy murmured, her mind boggling a little at the thought of the hatchet-faced Patience receiving the amorous attentions of one of Richard’s cronies. No doubt the man had been in his cups. ‘Well, in that case send Marten in. I doubt that he will suffer such a fate!’

  ‘No, indeed, but Marten has gone to visit his sister this evening and I do not believe he has yet returned.’

  Amy bit her lip. ‘This can scarce be an insuperable problem, Mama! Can you not read another volume instead?’

  Lady Bainbridge looked cast down. ‘Oh, no, my love, for you know that certain books are daytime reading and others are for the evening. The two cannot mix, I assure you.’

  Amy stood up and picked up her shawl, wrapping it about her. ‘Very well, I shall go to fetch your book. It will not take above a second.’

  Lady Bainbridge gave a little squeak. ‘Oh, Amy, my love, you cannot go in there! Why, the gentlemen are gambling—’

  ‘I know, Mama.’ Amy’s expression hardened. ‘I anticipate that they will be so engrossed in their play that they will not even notice me. I doubt that I shall suffer Patience’s fate!’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Lady Bainbridge looked regretful, ‘for no gentleman has ever shown you any partiality, Amy! But that is nothing to the purpose. It would be quite improper for you to enter a room full of gentlemen.’

  ‘One of them is my brother, Mama,’ Amy pointed out. ‘Should anything untoward occur, I shall immediately call upon Richard’s protection!’

  She drew the shawl tight and stepped out into the hall. One candle burned here at the bottom of the stairs and threw long shadows. Amy saw her reflection in the pier glass and thought ruefully that she looked like one of the mummies she had seen at the Egyptology Exhibition the previous year. The shawl was huge, for she liked to have plenty of material to wrap around her and keep the draughts out. The amount of heating available to the Bainbridge household was directly related to the amount of money that Richard gambled away, so she was accustomed to the cold.

  She could hear the sound of voices and masculine laughter coming from within the dining room as she approached the door gingerly. As her mother had pointed out, it was utterly inappropriate for an unmarried lady to enter the room, but Amy felt that the sight of her would be unlikely to inflame the passions of any of the drunken gamblers inside. Most were such hardened gamesters that they would like as not fail to notice her at all, and those who did see her would dismiss her—as ever—as Richard’s dowd of a sister. Ton society worshipped beauty and she possessed little.

  She had always been a little brown dab of a girl and her quietness had not helped. During her one and only London Season, Amy had been so silent that some of the more unkind members of society had dubbed her the Simple ton and after that there had been no more seasons for Amy and no real suitors either.

  She opened the dining-room door and peered in. The scene inside was much as she had envisaged it. The room was hot and smoky, from a combination of a roaring fire and the twenty or so guttering candles that stood about the table. There was no economy practised here. Presiding over the bunch of drunken gamblers was her brother Richard, an empty brandy bottle at his elbow, and a wooden bowl at his side with a few rouleaus still in it. He was lounging in his chair, his face flushed, the dice box grasped in his hand.

  With one swift glance, Amy identified two of her brother’s cronies, though the other two men in the room were strangers to her. Lord Humphrey Dainty was so drunk that he looked in danger of sliding out of his seat. He was wearing a frieze coat inside out, and was sweating copiously in the overheated room. Amy thought that he was likely to fall over in a dead faint soon, his malady brought on by a combination of drink and heat. Mr Hallam, looking even more foolish than Lord Humphrey, was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with more ribbons and flowers than Amy had decorating any of her bonnets. She shook her head slightly. She was accustomed to her mother’s superstitions, but the foolish rituals that gamblers indulged in were another matter again. And Bertie Hallam never seemed to notice that his good-luck charms simply did not work.

  Amy’s gaze moved on. The other two men were strangers to her. One was fair, large and amiable-looking. He seemed slightly more sober than everyone else. As for the other man…

  The draught from the dining-room door set the candle flames dancing and the man looked up just as Amy was studying him. His gaze fixed on her face. She felt a slight shock go through her, not just because his eyes were the most vivid amber colour that she had ever seen, but also because he was looking at her properly. Amy was accustomed to people looking through her or looking over her shoulder at someone prettier or more interesting. This man’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully on her face and his brows rose a fraction. Amy pulled her shawl closer about her and tried to efface herself against the dining-room wallpaper.

  At the same time, it was difficult not to stare. The man was older than Richard, Amy thought, twenty-nine or thirty, perhaps, to Richard’s four and twenty. Long and lean, he appeared relaxed in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, his jacket discarded to reveal a pristine white shirt and a somewhat crumpled cravat. He was quite decidedly the most handsome man she had ever seen, with his tawny complexion and perfect, classical features. There was a huge pile of guineas and rouleaus at his side, in comparison to the others, who had barely any at all.

  Then he smiled at her, and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow, dark auburn hair, thick and straight. Amy frowned repressively. She hardly wanted to encourage gamblers to take the liberty of smiling at her.

  Richard was pushing a new bottle of brandy across the green baize cloth. ‘Fill up, Joss, fill up, Seb! You’re way behind.’ The bottle wavered and almost fell, and Richard looked up and saw his sister. He grinned. The candlelight gleamed on his guinea gold hair. His blue eyes danced.

  ‘’Pon rep, what are you doing here, sis? Come to check on my losses, have you? Blame Joss—he has the devil’s own luck tonight.’

  Amy tore her gaze away from the auburn-haired man, smiled politely and edged around the room. Lady Bainbridge had told her that she had left the novel on the window seat, but now the thick red curtains were closed and it was impossible to tell which of the four windows she had meant. Richard’s guests were beginning to notice her now, which was most inconvenient. Lord Humphrey Dainty was lying with his head on his arm and was mumbling, ‘Y’r servant, Miss Bainbridge, y’r servant, ma’am…’ whilst Mr Hallam had jumped up and attempted a bow, almost overbalancing as the drink went straight to his head. Amy put out one hand and pushed him gently back into his chair. She had known Bertie Hallam since they had been children together and he had proposed to her once a year for the last seven years. She saw no need for either of them to stand on ceremony.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Bainbridge. May I be of service in any way?’

  The large, fair gentleman had left his seat on Richard’s right and was bowing to her. He had a twinkle in his eye and Amy found herself warming to him. She did not wish to do so—her brother’s friends, reprobates and wastrels to a man, had nothing to recommend them. Nevertheless, she found herself smiling back, very shyly.

  ‘Thank you, sir. My mother believes that she has le
ft a book down here and swears she cannot sleep without it—’

  ‘There is a novel on the window seat behind you, Seb,’ the auburn-haired man said lazily. ‘I noticed it when we came in.’

  He made no attempt to help in the search, merely sitting back in his chair and watching them with a faintly mocking smile in his eyes. Amy felt her skin prickle with a curious mixture of awareness and irritation. Despite the thickness and utter respectability of her dress and enveloping shawl, she felt very vulnerable. It was a relief when the large gentleman retrieved Lady Bainbridge’s book from behind the red curtain, and presented it to her with another slight bow.

  ‘I believe this must be what you seek, Miss Bainbridge. My compliments to Lady Bainbridge and I hope it helps her to sleep well.’ He gave Amy another smile. ‘Sebastian, Duke of Fleet, entirely at your service.’

  The Duke of Fleet! Amy just managed to school her features to impassivity. So much for the gentleman’s deceptive air of amiability. Richard was getting in very deep now, for Fleet and his cronies were inveterate gamblers with a reputation for fleecing innocents. Not that Richard could be considered an innocent, precisely. No son of the infamous gamester ‘Guinea George’ Bainbridge, who had been following his father’s example since the age of eighteen, could be considered a complete amateur. Yet Amy knew her brother had not previously tangled with men like these. The Duke of Fleet and the Earl of Tallant ran with gamblers like Golden Ball and Scrope Davies. These men were dangerous. They would gamble thousands of guineas in one sitting and Richard could never sustain such losses.

  Despite herself, Amy’s gaze turned to the auburn-haired man. He was still watching her and she clutched the novel to her breast, feeling ridiculously self-conscious. If that was Sebastian Fleet, then this…

  The man inclined his head. ‘Joscelyne Tallant, at your service, Miss Bainbridge,’ he said, quite as though he had read her mind. His voice was warm and smooth and it caused a little shiver to ripple along Amy’s nerves. She had heard about Joss Tallant, heir to the Marquis of Tallant. Who had not? Gambling was said to be the least of his vices. Gambling and drinking and women, and other excesses that were only hinted at and never explained. As a young man, the Earl of Tallant had been exiled by his father for incurring monstrous gambling debts and almost ruining the family. Whilst abroad he had created another scandal by running off with the wife of his host and in the following five years his name had become a byword for scandal. The Duke of Fleet was still considered to be an excellent catch, redeemable by the love of a good woman, but no one ever suggested redeeming Joss Tallant. The matchmakers would shepherd their charges away with cries of alarm rather than push them forward for his notice.

  Amy realised that the Earl was now looking her up and down with an insolent appraisal that made her heart jump uncomfortably. She was utterly unaccustomed to receiving such looks from a gentleman—generally they were reserved for the most attractive of females and Amy had considered them welcome to such calculated attentions. She twitched the material of her gown into place to cover her ankles. Her dress was a little short—she had had it for four years and she had grown an extra inch at the age of eighteen. She saw a smile touch the corner of Joss Tallant’s handsome mouth as he noted the modest gesture.

  Richard was shaking the dice box impatiently. ‘Your call, my lord! Who’ll play?’

  ‘Pockets to let,’ Lord Humphrey muttered, sliding quietly out of his chair. ‘Tallant’s taken m’fortune…’

  ‘Not I,’ Bertie Hallam said gloomily. ‘Not a damned penny left, saving your presence, Miss Bainbridge!’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Amy murmured hastily. She smiled at Sebastian Fleet as he held the door open for her, steadfastly refused to spare the Earl of Tallant another glance, and slipped out into the welcome coolness of the hall.

  Lady Bainbridge was hovering like a pale ghost at the foot of the stairs. ‘Oh, Amy, my love, you were gone so long I wondered what had happened to you. Are you quite safe?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mama,’ Amy said cheerfully, dismissing the memory of Joss Tallant from her mind. ‘I have come to no harm at all!’

  ‘Bertie Hallam did not propose to you?’

  ‘No, Mama. Mr Hallam was too…busy.’

  ‘A pity.’ Lady Bainbridge sighed. ‘It would have been one less mouth to feed.’ She clutched Amy’s arm. ‘How many candles were there?’

  ‘Oh, two or three,’ Amy lied brightly. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Mama.’

  ‘And the fire?’

  ‘Yes, there was a small fire.’

  ‘Why does Richard need a fire in May?’ Lady Bainbridge mourned. ‘It is so excessive!’

  ‘Well, it is quite cool in the evenings, Mama.’ Amy shivered in the draughty hall. ‘Pray do not upset yourself. I am sure that he is making vast sums of money!’

  Lady Bainbridge brightened. ‘Oh, so you think so, my love? Indeed, he is just like his father! George was a prodigiously talented gambler, you know, and was forever buying me trinkets and treats on the proceeds of his winnings! Well, if that is the case we may all be easy. Now, did you find my book?’

  Amy held the volume out to her. ‘Here it is, Mama. It was on the window seat, just as you said.’

  Lady Bainbridge peered at the book and then recoiled. ‘Oh, but this is the book that Lady Ashworth left with me last week! Oh, no, I positively cannot read this now. It will not do at all.’

  Amy took a deep breath, cursing the distraction that had led her to accept the book without checking its author. She took her mother’s arm. ‘Never mind, Mama. I will make you a cup of milk with nutmeg and cloves just as you like it. It will be warming and most efficacious, I promise you, and if that fails there is always the laudanum. I fear that nothing would induce me to set foot in that room again tonight!’

  Later, when she could hear Lady Bainbridge snoring happily through the wall, Amy lay awake and listened to the roars of laughter floating up from the dining room. Trinkets and treats, indeed! It was extraordinary that her mother only remembered her husband’s generosity and forgot the other, more painful, parts of being a gambler’s wife. Amy had not forgotten what it was like to be a gambler’s daughter. She would never forget, could never do so since she lived her life now in a genteel poverty that was a direct result of her father’s excesses. Least of all could she forget the scandal and misery of two years before, when her father had taken his own life.

  She turned her head against the pillow. Richard was like his father in so many ways, generous but feckless. It made her quite cross with him, but she was also very fond of her brother. He was too likeable for it to be otherwise. It was those others, she thought fiercely, the men of fortune such as Fleet and Tallant, whom she hated. They thought nothing of leading her brother out of his depth and robbing him blind. One day soon Richard would find himself in the same desperate straits that George Bainbridge had been in before him. Amy could not bear the thought, yet felt powerless to prevent the worst from happening. She lived constantly with the fear that history would repeat itself. More than anything she detested the likes of Sebastian Fleet and Joss Tallant for their careless confidence and callous disregard for others. Remembering the cool appraisal in Joss Tallant’s eyes, Amy shifted uncomfortably in the bed. She hoped devoutly that Richard would not make a habit of inviting his gambling friends to Curzon Street. She had no wish to meet the Earl again.

  Chapter Two

  It was past five when Sir Richard’s guests departed. The house was quiet. Marten, the valet, locked the door and helped his inebriated master up the stairs to bed. Richard was disposed to sing, for he had won two hundred guineas, but Marten successfully managed to dissuade him.

  Outside it was a mild May night with the moon shrouded in cloud. The watch called the half-hour. Lord Humphrey Dainty and Bertie Hallam staggered away down the street, their arms about each other for mutual support.

  ‘Youngsters going home to bed,’ Joss Tallant drawled with a contemptuous smile, as he watched their shadows merge
like a drunken spider. ‘What about you, Seb? Can you stand the pace any better?’

  The Duke of Fleet squared his shoulders. ‘What did you have in mind, dear boy? Abbess Walsh?’

  ‘I thought so.’ Joss adjusted the set of his coat. ‘I haven’t seen the fair Harriet in a month. It seems time to make her re-acquaintance.’

  Fleet fell into step beside him. ‘It would be something to do, I suppose.’

  Joss shot him a look. His friend’s sheer indifference amused him, but then they were both cynical about life, albeit for different reasons. ‘No more than that, Seb?’

  ‘A pleasant enough interlude.’ Fleet shrugged. ‘It would lighten the load of these pockets as well. Damned if I ever met a man more talented at losing than Richard Bainbridge! Tonight was the first time I’ve ever seen him make a profit at the tables! One wonders how he manages to maintain any style at all.’

  ‘Through the money-lending of Howard and Gibbs, so I believe,’ Joss said drily. ‘Richard apes his father, but he has none of Guinea George’s flair and all his bad luck. That trifling sum he won tonight was more than he has scored in the rest of the year so far!’

  Fleet laughed. ‘His father was scarcely any more fortunate. George Bainbridge lived so far beyond his income that he was forever having to retreat to his house in Warwickshire whilst his creditors cooled off. Eventually he had to sell that too!’

  ‘I remember that,’ Joss said slowly. ‘Was it not two or three years ago, when Miss Bainbridge had her come-out? Bainbridge lost all his money and shot himself. The family had to sell everything but for that small entailed estate in Oxfordshire and the Curzon Street house. Come to think of it, that doesn’t belong to them anyway. Never saw Miss Bainbridge again until this very evening.’