Joia groaned. ‘Twould have been better if he had, then Oliver couldn’t make his vile proposal. She should have accepted Lord Hopworth last year, drool and all. No, then Oliver would only blackmail Holly, the next daughter in line. Joia groaned again.
“Surely he didn’t refuse someone you were interested in, for I think Papa would approve Mr. Humphreys’s suit rather than go back to Almack’s.” When that effort didn’t win her a smile, Holly tried a different tack. “No, the only gentleman remotely plausible is Lord Comfort, and Papa would be dancing for joy if he made you an offer, gouty foot or not. But you swore you’d never many such a rake, didn’t you?”
Joia groaned louder.
* * * *
With Lady Carroll anxious to check on her daughters, the other ladies of the house party decided to retire early. Since Aubergine couldn’t remain the only female downstairs, she was forced to seek her chamber, too, and just when she could have had the viscount to herself, without the Carroll chit to distract him. Pouting, she did manage to whisper him a hint that she’d never be able to fall asleep for ages yet. She’d welcome company, there in the fourth room on the right in the west wing with the other lady guests, in case he grew bored. Comfort gave a noncommittal smile as he bowed over her hand. It didn’t take a genius to suspect he’d never leave that room without a pair of legshackles.
The gentlemen, not surprisingly, decided to play cards. The surprise was that Viscount Comfort invited Oliver Carroll to play piquet with him.
“I understand you are a prodigious player,” his lordship said, either noting that Oliver was proficient with the pasteboards or commenting that he was a confirmed gambler. Since he was in such an expansive mood, Oliver chose to be complimented. He bowed, fluttering the ruffles at his throat and sleeves. “And we haven’t had much opportunity to become acquainted, have we?” the viscount asked.
Since the only intercourse they’d had was the out-and-outer’s fist hitting Oliver’s cheek—purely by accident, Comfort swore—Oliver could only agree. His luck was certainly changing, with this plum landing in his plate. Why, the diamond in Comfort’s neckcloth could pay off half of Oliver’s creditors. No, Oliver decided, he could have the stone set into an engagement ring so he wouldn’t have to waste good blunt on a gewgaw he wasn’t going to wear. First, of course, he had to win the bauble, along with every other groat he could wring out of his high-and-mighty lordship’s pockets. Oliver did not intend to lose.
Craighton was content to let the cards fall Oliver’s way. He merely signaled the butler to refill their glasses of brandy. “You may as well leave the decanter here, my good man, for it looks to be a long night.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Oliver seconded, raising his glass—and the stakes.
The two men stayed gaming long after most of the others had retired. A large pile of Comfort’s cash was now on Oliver’s side of the table, and Oliver was about to nudge him into putting the diamond stickpin there, too. Then Comfort’s hand slipped. His brandy spilled all over the table and the cards. Oliver grabbed his winnings out of harm’s way. The butler was there in an instant, mopping up, sweeping the ruined deck onto a silver dustpan.
“Terribly sorry, Bartholemew, isn’t it? Must have had too much to drink. Better call it a night, eh, Carroll?”
Oliver was more than ready.
“As long as you promise me a rematch tomorrow night.”
Oliver was even more ready for that. He’d never had a pigeon so ripe for the plucking, and here he’d thought Comfort was a downy bird. He whistled all the way up the arching marble staircase, and all the way down the east-wing corridor to his room across from Comfort’s, not caring for those already asleep.
The viscount stayed below, helping the butler clean up the mess.
“This is not at all necessary, my lord,” Bartholemew argued, his eyebrows raised to see a peer of the realm invade the butler’s pantry, his private sanctuary, to wipe off a deck of cards.
“Oh, but it is, Bartholemew. Believe me, it is.” Once the cards were dried, the viscount inspected them more closely, looking for pinpricks or minute marks on the reverse sides.
“Ah, now I understand.”
“Ah, indeed. Look at this. The edges have been shaved.”
“I am not surprised. Master Oliver always was somewhat of a loose screw. Not what we can admire in the heir. Lord Carroll will have to be told, of course. Shall I?” The butler held his gloved hand out for the deck.
Instead, the viscount pocketed the evidence. “Not quite yet. I think I’d like to win back some of my blunt tomorrow, using an honest deck, before the earl gets involved. But first, I think you and I should have a little talk.”
The butler’s eyebrows rose even higher than before. “I’m afraid your lordship has indeed imbibed too freely this evening. Might I suggest a cup of coffee?”
‘‘Excellent, and get one for yourself, because I’m afraid Lady Joia has a problem that I cannot help her solve without more information. In great houses like Winterpark, butlers of your long-standing tenure always know everything that’s going on. They say a gentleman cannot keep secrets from his valet, but I’ve found them to be a fickle bunch, changing employers with the fashions. No, it’s old family retainers like yourself who hold the confidences of their employers.”
Bartholomew drew himself up in rigid affront. “I am sorry, sir, I do not gossip about the family.”
“Would you rather see Lady Joia marry Oliver?”
“I’ll get the coffee.”
Chapter Seven
“Did you find out anything? Do you have a plan?” Lord Comfort knew Joia was really asking if there was any hope. They were out riding, visiting a few of the tenants. By prearrangement they had left before breakfast to keep Joia from having to give Oliver any kind of acknowledgment. The viscount also thought she’d be happier not facing her father over kippers and toast. Merry was along for propriety, but she and her dog were off on rabbit tangents.
Joia was as beautiful as ever in her military-style riding habit, but she still looked pale to Craighton, as if that leech Oliver were already sucking the life out of her. The viscount didn’t feel so well himself, having stayed up half the night with old Barty. Once the venerable butler had unloosened, assured that Lord Comfort meant to aid the family against the encroaching Oliver, he’d grown positively voluble. Before Craighton had the information he wanted, he’d had two cups of coffee, then one with brandy, then half a bottle of Lord Carroll’s finest cognac. Barty’d had the other half. The viscount hoped the old rascal felt half as bad as he did this morning.
“I learned a bit,” Comfort told Joia now. “Did you know, for instance, that Oliver cheats at cards?”
Joia stopped along the leaf-strewn path to offer him a roll from the basket tied to her saddle. “He did as a child, so I’m not surprised he’s still at it. I mean, a swine who would stoop to blackmailing his own family surely isn’t above hiding cards up his sleeve.”
“No, I wasn’t surprised, either.” Comfort held out an apple in exchange.
“What, did you play with him? I assume he’s as bad a card-sharp as he is at everything else.”
“Quite easy to detect, as a matter of fact.”
She shrugged. “That’s why he’s never in funds, I suppose. So what will you do with your information? You did swear not to call him out, remember.”
Comfort remembered no such promise, but Joia’s worried look was gratifying to him. Of course, she might just care about him because he was helping her, but for now that was enough. “I thought of showing your father the shaved cards.”
“What good would that do? Papa would throw Oliver out, but it wouldn’t change anything. He’d still have his filthy secret and he’d be even more desperate for my dowry.”
Killing the worm was beginning to seem the best course, but Comfort knew Joia wouldn’t agree, so he tossed his apple core toward a chattering squirrel and said, “I found some information about your father, too.”
“Never say he uses loaded dice.” Joia’s voice wavered. “Although I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your father is a gentleman, an honorable, respected peer.”
“And no peer cheats at cards?” she asked bitterly. “No gentleman cheats on his wi—” She didn’t finish.
“I discovered some information, enough to judge the danger to your family, about an episode eight or nine years ago. I don’t think the scandal would be as damaging as you assume. As you say, infidelity is not such a rarity among the ton. The gossip would be a nine days’ wonder, is all. No one but the highest sticklers will be appalled by it.”
“Mama will be.”
The viscount rode alongside Joia, so he could take her hand. “I have every reason to believe that your mother knows. Wives usually do. Perhaps not all the details, but enough. And she has forgiven your father for his onetime lapse. Can you?”
“I... I don’t know.”
He took his hand away. “I was hoping you had more of your mother’s loving-kindness, that could overlook a man’s faults.” He was wondering if she could forget about a man’s past altogether.
Joia was wondering how a man could be so compassionate and still be a rake. Papa, of course. “How could she ever trust him again?”
“I believe that’s where ‘love conquers all’ comes in. We’ll never know, for I can’t think you mean to question your mother about her feelings on the matter.”
Joia didn’t even want to examine her own feelings on the matter, so she changed the subject from men’s pasts to her own future. “But what about Oliver and his poisonous threats? No matter what you say, I couldn’t bear to see my family’s dirty linen washed in public.”
“Of course not. No, we have to defang the little viper. The fuzzed deck is a start, but I have some other cards up my own sleeve. Just avoid him for now and leave everything to me. The houseguests believe you are ailing anyway, so you should be able to keep out of his way without drawing comment. Especially with the ball tomorrow, they’ll all think you are resting to regain your strength.”
“But what about you? What are you going to do?”
“First, I intend to win my money back from our Captain Sharp. Then we’ll see.”
“That’s your plan? Disaster is one day away and you are worried about your gambling losses?” Joia threw her apple, smashing it against an innocent tree.
Comfort drew his horse closer again, so his thigh brushed against her leg in the sidesaddle. “Now is the time to start learning to trust, sweetings. I’m not sure how the game will play itself out, but I swear that your family will not be hurt and you will not have to marry Oliver. I’ll marry you myself, first.”
Joia almost fell off her horse, but she wasn’t as surprised as the viscount to hear those words come out of his mouth. “It won’t come to that, I’m sure,” he quickly added. “Trust me.”
* * * *
How many women had listened to how many men say, “Trust me”? And how many women had been disappointed by their handsome, smooth-tongued rogues? Joia had the headache for real. She didn’t go down to dinner, to her father’s perturbation.
Deuce take it, Lord Carroll muttered into his mutton. How the devil was a man supposed to enjoy his meal with all the intrigues going on? He knew there was some argle-bargle over Oliver. Dash it, there was always some disturbance when that cabbage head came to call. At least he didn’t bother the maids anymore, after the housekeeper threatened to come after him with a butcher knife two summers ago.
According to Bartholemew, Viscount Comfort was handling the difficulty, which was, also according to the almost omniscient butler, a Good Thing. Barty thought Lady Joia might look more kindly on the raffish nobleman if he could perform this small service for her. Barty hoped for Great Things from that young man. Well, so did Lord Carroll, namely a grandchild, if his obstinate eldest daughter could be convinced to sit next to the chap. Instead she was taking to her bed, and the viscount was taking that blasted widow to his, from all appearances. Why, they were practically drinking out of the same cup at the dinner table. Why not? They were nearly sitting in the same seat. The eel in aspic tasted like ashes in Lord Carroll’s mouth.
And there was worse news. Having informed the viscount of all that he thought the gentleman needed to know, Bartholemew had loyally reported to his employer all that he felt the earl needed to know. Joia, it seemed, had gotten an inkling of the Secret. Hellfire and tarnation, no wonder she’d been looking at her poor old father as if he’d crawled out from under a rock. The earl waved away the rack of lamb. Instead of losing his little girl to another man, which was hard enough for Lord Carroll to accept, he was losing her to his own folly.
* * * *
All of the pieces were coming into place. Not necessarily the right place or the proper place, Comfort thought, so thank heaven Joia wasn’t there to see him flirting with Aubergine Willenborg. The widow was in black tonight, but if she was mourning anything, it was the loss of her underpinnings. The dress was so sheer, Craighton could swear she had nothing else on. If this were London a month ago, he’d have taken her somewhere to find out before the dessert course was served. Now the mousse was more tempting.
He must have given a convincing performance, though, from the sour looks he was receiving from the earl and the countess, their two youngest daughters, and the butler. Comfort wouldn’t have been surprised if the chef came out to give an opinion of his behavior. Aubergine’s opinion was obvious, as obvious as her charms. She was relieved. If she could get him into her bed, she could get him to the altar.
“But not your chamber, my goddess,” Comfort whispered to her during Holly’s masterful performance on the pianoforte after dinner. “It’s too near the countess’s, and I understand she is a light sleeper. No, you must come to mine in the east wing. If anyone sees you, say you were hoping Lady Carroll was still awake, for you need her opinion of your gown for tomorrow. My chamber is the second one down. I’ll place a playing card under my door so you’ll know which one.”
“The knave of hearts, perhaps?” she cooed in his ear under cover of her waving fan.
“What else?” he answered, almost gagging on the heavy perfume sent wafting his way. Joia smelled of lilacs and lavender. “Oh, and you’d better wait an hour or so after everyone retires, my queen. I promised to teach young Carroll how to play piquet.”
* * * *
Oliver was eager to resume play as soon as the music was over. Craighton kept losing. He also kept signaling Bartholemew for refills of his and Oliver’s wineglasses. On one of the butler’s trips to their table in a secluded corner of the library, Comfort angrily gathered up the cards and tossed them onto Barty’s silver tray. “Stap me if this ain’t an unlucky deck,” he drawled, falling back in his seat. “Bring us a new pack like a good chap.”
“And some coffee, my lord?”
“What, are we out of cognac?”
When the butler left, sniffing his disdain, Oliver leaned toward the viscount. “Don’t worry about old Prune Face. He disapproves of everything. I intend to put him out to pasture as soon as m’cousin sticks his spoon in the wall.”
Comfort pretended to adjust his stocking to avoid Oliver’s sour breath of stale wine in his face.
The new deck proved fortuitous indeed. The viscount started winning the occasional hand, then nearly every hand.
Oliver yawned. “ ‘Pon rep, it’s past my bedtime. What say we continue the game tomorrow?”
“Can’t quit now. Only honorable to let a chap try to recoup his losses when his luck is in. ‘Sides, tomorrow is the ball. Got to do the pretty.”
All of Oliver’s financial troubles would be over then, so he agreed to play on. His opponent was drunk as a lord anyway. He couldn’t win much longer.
Comfort could, and did. Oliver lost back this evening’s gains and last night’s, too. Still the viscount wanted to keep playing. “Give a certain lady time to get ready, eh?” he said
with a wink, one man of the world to another.
Oliver kept playing and kept drinking along with his new boon companion. He kept losing, too. “Dash it, ain’t it time to switch back to my lucky deck?” But the ever-efficient Bartholemew had told him that he’d taken that deck to the dustbin since the edges seemed a shade dog-eared. Oliver started signing chits.
“Are you sure, old man?” Comfort asked after the third or fourth.
Oliver waved his manicured hand. “M’cousin can’t live forever, don’t you know. Besides, you’ll be wishing me happy soon enough, and the dibs’ll be in tune then.”
“Why, I’ll wish you happy tonight,” the viscount declared as he won yet another hand. “Barty, how about some champagne?”
Oliver didn’t see Comfort’s signal to the butler, and he didn’t taste the powder that got mixed into his glass. He did hear the sum of his debts. “I... I don’t feel quite well, my lord. You’ll have to excuse me.”
As soon as Oliver staggered off to his bed, shaking his head like a dog with water in its ears, Bartholemew placed a cup of coffee on the deal table. He placed Oliver’s “lucky deck” beside it.
Craighton gathered up his winnings, leaving a neat stack of pound notes on the table that was beneath either man’s dignity to notice or discuss. He held up Oliver’s vouchers. “It seems I made myself a fortune tonight, Barty.”
The butler shook his head. “I hope you don’t grow as old as I am, my lord, waiting to be paid.”
Comfort stood and put the marked deck in his coat pocket. “Oh, I fully intend to collect.”
Then he went to his room and undressed, coat, waistcoat, neckcloth, shoes, and stockings. He debated about leaving his silk shirt, but compromised by undoing the topmost buttons. Over the shirt and his breeches he put on a maroon velvet robe. Then he opened his door and listened. Sure enough, he could hear Oliver snoring from the room across the hall. Pulling a card from the deck Bartholomew had handed him, the viscount slid it half under the door—of Oliver’s room.
The Christmas Carrolls Page 5
