by Louise Clark
A few minutes later, Nicholas emerged and strolled directly across the street to the coach where Stephanie waited. Without ceremony, he opened the door and stepped inside.
He settled lazily across from her. Cocking an ironic black brow, he said, "Your jewels are safe, Mademoiselle."
Stephanie raised the concealing veil with languid calm, but her heart beat a nervous tattoo and her stomach felt as though it was filled with butterflies. "How very kind of you, Monsieur. However, I do not believe my jewels were in any danger."
"Am I to understand you were aware of this dastardly scheme, Mademoiselle?" he mocked.
She contrived to look surprised. "Of course I was! The Vicomte—"
"Is a self-centered popinjay who should not be trusted," Nicholas interjected grimly.
"It is most inconsiderate of you to assume I would be taken in by the man," Stephanie retorted, affronted. Her eyes began to sparkle with mischief. She drew the little handgun from her pocket, where she had replaced it once the Vicomte left the carriage.
"Vraiment, he is not very bright, that one. He did not even notice that my weapon was not loaded."
"You brought him here at the point of a gun?"
Stephanie nodded. "I had to, you see, for he kept telling me I must return to Wroxton House and that he would deliver my funds to me there. I could not allow that."
Nicholas leaned forward. Very gently he took the little pistol from Stephanie's hand. "Unloaded or not, pray do not point that popgun at me, Mademoiselle. Be advised, I am not as easily gulled as the Vicomte—"
"Pardon?" she asked, watching with annoyance as he pocketed the weapon.
"Stephanie, the other evening you allowed me to believe you had risked your safety alone, in the middle of the night, in order keep a romantic rendezvous. Why did you not admit your true reason for meeting St. Luc?"
"Vraiment, you know the answer to that, Monsieur le Comte!" She glared at him. "Would you have acted any differently than you did today if you had been warned of my plan?"
A rather rueful smile flitted across the Earl's sensual mouth. "I would have saved us both a trip to the City, and the Vicomte a humiliating set down in front of a shopkeeper."
Forgetting her irritation for a moment, Stephanie began to laugh. "Poor St. Luc, he will be furious with me."
Nicholas smiled at her lack of dismay, more relieved than he had expected at her cavalier opinion of the Vicomte. He touched the tip of her nose in a careless caress as he said, "Remember that, Mademoiselle, when next you think of making use of the hapless Vicomte."
His feather-light touch caught Stephanie unawares and warmed her from head to toe, but moments later the impact of his words chilled her through. "But how am I going to sell my jewels without St. Luc to act as my agent?"
Nicholas caught her hands in his. He said gently, "Mademoiselle, your father's plight is not as desperate as you think. There is no need to take such extreme measures."
His hands held hers tightly, promising strength, while his voice reassured. Stephanie was almost convinced. Indeed, she wanted to be convinced. Then memories of France intruded, augmented by the barrage of reports in the news sheets, all dismally recounting the ever-worsening state of affairs in Paris, and her resolve hardened. Slowly she drew her hands from his and folded them neatly in her lap. "Monsieur, if you had personal knowledge of the current, sad state of France, I would give your words more credit. As it is, I know you mean well, but I cannot agree. I must sell my jewels, so that Papa will have the funds he needs."
There was a brief moment when words seemed to hover on the Earl's tongue, but then he retreated into himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was once more cool and faintly amused. "Very well, Mademoiselle. It seems I must act to ensure that you do not squander your fortune."
Frowning, she demanded, "What do you intend to do?"
"From now on," he said, leaning lazily against the squabs, "I will keep your jewels safe. I will see that your bills are paid and that you have suitable spending money."
Stephanie's eyes flashed. "That is not acceptable!"
Amusement darkened his eyes. "I did not think it would be."
She said hotly, "Bah! You are a dreadful man!"
Nicholas laughed. "And you, Mademoiselle, are stubborn, impetuous, and utterly charming." He climbed down from the carriage. "Coachman, take the lady to Wroxton House. I think she has had enough excitement for one day." To Stephanie, he added, "Mademoiselle, you may rest assured, I shall see your jewels securely stored. Good day to you."
He tapped on the carriage and it lurched into motion, leaving Stephanie without the opportunity to have the last word. She fumed all the way back to Wroxton House.
* * *
Stephanie's defiant mood simmered through a visit to the theater that evening, and well into the next day, for the Earl prudently absented himself from the breakfast table, leaving her without the opportunity to argue or entice. A musical evening at the home of the Honorable Mrs. Freelander was to cap off the day, but Stephanie was not looking forward to it, even though it was to feature many of Mr. Hayden's popular tunes. There would be no opportunity to convince a certain annoying country gentleman to hand over her jewels and the prospect of idle chitchat and superficial discussion that made the evening seem more of a chore than a pleasure.
The Freelander house was a fine structure with an excellent music room, and the chamber quartet was of the finest quality, but the evening was marred from the beginning by the size of the guest list. Instead of inviting a select few to fill the chosen hall, the hostess had asked half of fashionable London to attend. And most of them had apparently decided to come. The perfectly square room, designed to hold perhaps two or three dozen people, was crammed with fifty or more. Until moments before the concert was to begin, servants were busy carting in chairs from all over the house to hold the overflow crowd.
The atmosphere in the room was stifling. Stephanie and Madeleine had been fortunate enough to find seats near the front of the scarlet and gold room, but as the audience continued to expand, Stephanie could no longer remain cooped up. She whispered in Madeleine's ear that she needed a breath of air, and slipped out of her seat before the concert began.
It took Stephanie a good five minutes to make her way to the doorway, as she had to stop here and there to speak to a friend or acquaintance. During one such pause, she noticed Nicholas threading his way through the crowd in the opposite direction. At the sight of him, dressed with sumptuous elegance in a burgundy silk coat, silver waistcoat and black breeches, her heart gave an excited lurch, but she continued in the direction that she had planned. She did not want the Earl, or anyone else, to think she was as drawn to him as a moth to the heat of a flame.
Stephanie escaped into the hallway just before the musicians began a melancholy tune. The scrape of strings shivered along her sensitive nerve endings, making her aware that she would not have been able to sit quietly through an hour or more of music without fidgeting, even before she had identified the Earl in the throng. Idly, she decided to explore the rest of the house.
The sight of a servant disappearing into a room at the other end of the cream and gold hallway attracted her attention. As she neared, she could hear the sound of quiet, almost muted voices. She paused in the doorway and looked in. Her eyes widened as she took note of what the room contained.
Even more people filled this spacious room than were crushed into the Music Room. And it was evident from the hushed conversation and the looks of concentration on the faces that this was a far more serious group than the one she had just left.
For a moment she just stood, watching, as she had many times during her months at the French Court. The occupants of the room were gamblers, indulging in a pastime that was rampant in society. In Paris, gambling over cards was one of the favorite ways that courtiers whiled away an afternoon or evening, and here in England, the fashion was no different. Every hostess was expected to provide a card room, along with whatever other form of ent
ertainment she had planned for an evening.
Stephanie had never indulged in more than the odd hand of Loo during her months at court. The game was considered harmless and was shunned by the more hardened gamesters in Marie Antoinette's inner circle. Stephanie had never reached that exalted level, partly because young women were expected to spend their time on the dance floor, searching for a life partner, but more because her father believed that much of the Queen's poor image sprang from her indulgences, like gambling, and he did not want to see his daughter deeply involved.
The players in this room were a mixture of both sexes, with men predominating. As Stephanie scanned the room, she was able to identify many of the occupants. Her gaze paused to linger thoughtfully on the classic profile and golden hair of Tony Baxter, then moved on to notice the florid countenance of Lord Ashford, a gentleman who had recently been most assiduous in his attentions to her, then skittered past the sharp, predatory features of the Vicomte de St. Luc. Somehow, she was not surprised to see him comfortably ensconced in the card room.
Each of the players had composed their features into carefully hooded expressions of concentration. Whether one won or lost, the expression never changed. Stephanie marveled that anyone could have that much self-control. But perhaps it was not control at all. Perhaps these people did not care about success or failure. Perhaps they only attended to enjoy the play.
One of Mrs. Freelander's servants brushed past Stephanie, murmuring an apology. She stepped aside, and in doing so, accidentally entered the room.
She had not intended to do so, planning to wander through the rest of the house, then return to the music room and rejoin her godmother when an appropriate moment came. But once in the card room, her curiosity got the better of her.
The robin's egg blue room was furnished with small tables used for piquet, an intimate game of skill for two players, larger ones for the four players needed to form a hand of whist, and the fancy kidney-shaped tables used for pharo. Piquet was a popular game at the French Court and Stephanie knew it's basic principles. Whist was more English, but it was the deep, dangerous game of pharo that attracted her.
Baxter and the Vicomte were seated at piquet tables, but Ashford was playing pharo. She wandered over to his table to watch the play.
At first, she had not the faintest idea of the rules, but gradually she began to realize that the players were betting on which cards the dealer, one of Mrs. Freelander's servants, would expose from the carved wooden dealing box in front of him. If the correct card was bet upon, the player won. If it was not, he lost. There appeared to be no strategies, and therefore no skill involved in the game, yet it was fascinating to watch.
Time passed. Money changed hands. The amount of money made Stephanie's eyes widen with amazement. Ideas began to chase themselves around in her ever-fertile brain. Cards, society parties. No danger. No sacrifice. No reason for a certain gentleman to disapprove. Fabulous winnings by simply sitting through a few evenings and ignoring a ball or two. Most importantly, money could be amassed quickly.
As ideas began to crystallize into plans, Stephanie watched with growing impatience. When one of the players who had had the bad luck to lose heavily pushed back his chair with a stifled oath, Stephanie was ready.
The table was made up of ten gentlemen and, in the interval created by the departing player, the remaining nine flexed tense muscles and allowed themselves to relax as they prepared for the next round of play. Lord Ashford looked up, noticed Stephanie nearby, and politely asked her if she was interested in joining the table. She agreed with a pretty show of reluctance, sure of her ability to succeed in amassing a great pile of winnings, even though she had only been watching the game for all of twenty minutes and was only guessing that she understood the rules.
The game began. Using markers for money, Stephanie bet and lost. This did not daunt her, for she did not expect to win right away, in any case.
Playing cards required concentration, she discovered, somewhat surprised that the expressions she had seen on the faces had not been feigned. She became so deeply involved in the game that when a hand touched her shoulder, she scattered the chips she was about to wager all over the green felt surface of the table.
"Devil take it, Baxter!" Lord Ashford said irritably. "You've made Mademoiselle de la Riviére spoil the bet. Now we will have to begin again. You should know one never interrupts during play."
Tony Baxter looked at the pile of promises to pay, scrawled in Stephanie's elegant writing, lying in front of Lord Ashford and thought that someone needed to interrupt this play, and soon. "My dear Ashford. Have you ever heard the old saying about pigeons and plucking?" he drawled, hoping that Stephanie would not realize that she was the pigeon being plucked.
Ashford reddened. He was known to be flying close to the wind and was always in need of ready cash. He was also looking for a rich bride. Tony had noticed him lavishing attention on Mademoiselle de la Riviére. Stephanie, to her credit, had remained blithely unaffected by Ashford's attempts to charm, so now the fellow had apparently decided that if he could not get his hands on her fortune in the traditional way, he would use alternate means.
"The lady was not forced to join our table," Ashford said angrily.
Stephanie added innocently, "Mon Dieu, Monsieur Baxter. I am enjoying myself! Pray do not concern yourself with me! I will stop soon, bien sur, when I have won back some of my markers."
Baxter almost groaned. In Stephanie's voice was the false confidence of those infected with gambling fever. He had heard the tone often enough in his own voice to be sure of what it was. From experience, he knew that there was nothing more that he could do without creating a scene.
Idly, he scanned the room with his quizzing glass, wondering if there was anyone who would help him ease Mademoiselle de la Riviére away from the table. He noted grimly that some of society's most hardened gamblers were present. He knew he would get no help from them. His gaze caught and lingered on the Vicomte de St. Luc's crimson-clad figure. The Frenchman was unabashedly watching the scene, until he felt Baxter's eyes upon him. Quickly, he looked away.
An uneasiness he could not quite define helped Tony make his mind up. Though he had merely intended to take a short break from the game he had been playing, he knew he would not be able to concentrate while Stephanie was being fleeced by the unconscionable Ashford. He had to do something to rescue her from her own compulsion.
He had already learned she would not listen to him. Perhaps there was one person present to whom she would pay attention. He headed toward the Music Room.
Luck was in his favor. There was a brief intermission in the concert, allowing the musicians to refresh themselves while the audience took the opportunity to stretch their legs and partake of an opulent buffet supper.
It took several minutes for Tony to find his cousin in the crush, then detach him from a simpering matron, who had cornered him to introduce him to her shy daughter as soon as the music stopped.
"My dear Tony," Nicholas said, with only the faintest hint of mockery in his voice. "I am forever in your debt. Remind me of it the next time you are in a scrape and need my assistance."
"I'm reminding you right now, then," Baxter said promptly. He took his cousin's arm and guided him to a spot a little distant from the main body of the crowd. Nicholas was regarding him with a hooded amusement; he did not really understand, but he did not have the time to consider the cause right now. "I need your presence in the card room, immediately."
Nicholas replied levelly, "Tony, if you wish me to guarantee your gambling debts, I will do it this once, but never again. Is that understood?"
Baxter was unable to reply for a moment. His own situation was so far from his thoughts that, for an instant or two, he did not understand his cousin's meaning. Then his puzzled frown gave way to a thunderous expression of wounded virtue. "Stephanie—Mademoiselle de la Riviére—is right now being fleeced at pharo by that unprincipled cad, Ashford," he announced indignantly. "I tri
ed to persuade her to leave, Wroxton, but she's been bitten by gambler's greed. She believes she'll win back all she's lost with the next turn of the card."
The amusement fled from the Earl's eyes. "So that is where she disappeared to! How bad is the situation?"
"Ashford holds a great pile of her promises to pay," Tony said with considerably less heat, his wounded pride mollified by the seriousness with which his cousin was responding, now that he realized the true problem. "I couldn't tell how large the individual amounts were, but I think the whole is probably substantial."
Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment. "God's teeth," he growled. "That young woman is going to drive me to an early grave. Every time I let her out of my sight, she contrives to fall into another scrape."
Tony grinned, his good humor thoroughly restored.
Nicholas eyed him irritably. "Very well, let us go and rescue Mademoiselle de la Riviére. One more time."
The card room was smoky from the candelabra lighting each table. Nevertheless, Nicholas easily picked out Stephanie's slender form, clad in an elegant gown of emerald green. Her dark, unpowdered head was bent as she concentrated on the cards. Nicholas grimly scrutinized those surrounding her and swiftly came to the conclusion that the only one who was truly dangerous was the odious Ashford.
A quick scan of the room pinpointed the Vicomte de St. Luc, watching so intently that he had forgotten about his own game.
Silently, Nicholas cursed under his breath. He had followed the Vicomte here tonight and left him safe in the card room, for by now he knew the Vicomte raised much of his income by playing at cards. The last thing Nicholas wanted was to have St. Luc identify Stephanie as a potential victim. It seemed, however, more than likely that he already had done so.
"Ah, Mademoiselle. Ashford. Good evening."
"Monsieur Wroxton!" Stephanie's surprise and the guilty expression on her face told Nicholas all that he needed to know. She had gotten herself into more than she could handle, but she refused to admit it, perhaps even to herself.
