One Night Is Never Enough

by Anne Mallory

  Trant had insinuated to Roman that he’d be interested in purchasing Chatsworth’s debts if the price were right. Had danced around the issue on two separate occasions in so many weeks. But Trant hadn’t been willing to commit to the high sum that came along with commissioning the collateral exchange and, frankly, although Trant was wealthy, he didn’t have enough money to acquire all of Chatsworth’s debts. Trant would have to gamble and purchase just enough of Chatsworth’s debts if he decided to go that route.

  Roman had never agreed to take on the project though.

  Roman watched the man tuck his final card in with the others before Trant pulled the hand toward his chest.

  It was little wonder what Trant would do if Roman chose to purchase Chatsworth’s London debts, combine them together, then relinquish the lot to Trant’s possession. What Trant could force Chatsworth to cede. Charlotte Chatsworth was a diamond of the first water. Even with her father’s pockets to perpetual let, she sparkled like a gem amidst paste.

  A wedding gem. Which Bennett Chatsworth counted upon—bet upon. That she would restore the family fortunes and increase their status.

  Roman thought about her confident chin, about what the flesh of her jaw would feel like when he put his fingers beneath to watch the emotions tumble through her dark blue eyes.

  He would put his money on Charlotte Chatsworth succeeding.

  There was something about her. A proud tilt to her head, some survival spark that he seldom found in the wealthy.

  At least not the ton wealthy.

  Those like him, self-made men, tended to have it in spades.

  That she was beautiful and obviously intelligent didn’t hurt. He wasn’t above a pretty face or a witty repartee. But there was always a pretty face to be had. And there were plenty of well-read and sharp courtesans who intermingled with his establishment’s clientele.

  No, there was something else about her that stuck with him. Like the points of her little pin.

  He had seen her fleetingly in the market a month past. Just a glimpse of her face and the expression upon it as she’d looked at the cages filled with fowl, the penned creatures shoved together with barely room to breathe. But it had been enough of a glimpse to ignite something inside him. He had seen her before that, as beauty such as hers stood out, but it was that particular glimpse of her that had attached some sort of invisible cord to her within him.

  He rarely emerged during the day, except for the rare occasions like that afternoon. His world was that of dark, soaked nights and the blurred eyes of early morning. Quite the opposite of the girl who was the toast of the social scene.

  The dove of London.

  The feel of the metal bird echoed between his finger pads.

  He’d heard all about her, of course. She was in the papers frequently, for her charity work and her beauty, and the patrons or her father spoke of her at the tables—as happened with many of the people of society. Roman could run his own gossip column with the amount of information he casually collected.

  And he knew exactly how much financial trouble Chatsworth was in. Deeper than he let show. He was liable to do something stupid soon.

  That Roman felt a spark at the thought was troubling. He closed his eyes, his thumb and forefinger going to the bridge of his nose, then pushing over his eyelids, rubbing in opposing directions. He really needed to get the girl out of his thoughts.

  Else he was liable to do something stupid.

  “Turning it in already, Pomeroy?” Trant said, the edge of a sneer mixed with something approaching excitement in his voice.

  Roman didn’t look up to see what was going on with the two men at his right. Instead, with his open fingers resting in a bridge over his brows, the weight of his head pressing down to his elbow on the table, he looked across the table to observe Bennett Chatsworth more closely. The slope of the man’s nose. The set of his eyes, which at the moment were gazing at his cards in undisguised, drunken glee—more so the fool to continuously drink true spirits when desperation clung fiercely and pots grew large. A once-distinguished man, though more hunched and furtive now, there was a hint there, a promise, if one looked closely enough, of the beauty held by the girl this afternoon.

  A chair was abruptly pushed back. Roman let his hand fall and looked over to see Pomeroy stuffing a pocket watch into place. “Gads. Just remembered I’m supposed to be at the Winphors’. The missus is going to have my privates. ’Pologies about leaving midhand. Have an extra five crown on me?” He didn’t wait for a response, just tossed the coin into the pot. “Evening, all.” He rushed from the table like the devil was at his heels.

  Downing, at Roman’s left, threw his cards to the center as well. It was obvious that Chatsworth finally had a winning hand. Roman was about to throw his in too when he caught sight of Trant’s eyes, narrowed on Chatsworth, determination in their depths.

  Roman placed his cards facedown on the table instead, curling his fingers around the edges of the hard paper.

  “Pomeroy was nearly drained anyway. And Chatsworth, I see you are at the end of your night’s credit,” Trant said, after a moment of letting Chatsworth examine the hand he held. “But I’m feeling indulgent, and a bit reckless. What say we up the stakes?”

  “Oh?” Chatsworth’s eyes went from his cards to the pot in the center.

  Roman felt the rim of the cards denting his skin. The feeling that had been curling in his midsection, the tug, sent out sharp tentacles, waiting, on edge.

  A sliver of respect wound through him as, like the others at the table, he watched Trant. The man had finally taken a look at what opportunities surrounded the ladder, broken as it was with Chatsworth’s continued denials and the amounts of money it would require to force him to capitulate. All of the little tells on Trant’s face spoke to his excitement, to his determination and fierce motivation.

  Roman could have clapped.

  He might have, if his fingers weren’t clutching his cards.

  “Say my ten thousand . . .”

  Chatsworth’s eyes flashed and lit on his cards once more.

  “To your . . . oh, what can you put up . . . say, a night in your daughter’s company?”

  Movement at the table stilled. Downing carefully set his drink on the table. Too carefully. Chatsworth’s eyes narrowed on Trant but then turned shrewd and greedy as he reviewed his cards.

  Roman kicked back in his chair. “What an utterly tasteless suggestion, Mr. Trant,” he said, as lazily and indifferently as he could manage over the tug of fate, the pull, which was growing stronger, wrenching at him. “I’m shocked.”

  Trant didn’t look his way, his gaze concentrated fully on Chatsworth, the only person who mattered to him at the moment. Trying to determine how the man might respond so Trant could react accordingly. “I hardly think you could be shocked by something so banal, Merrick.”

  “Banal? This is the most exciting thing that has happened all evening. I applaud your tastelessness in earnest.”

  Downing shot both of them black, furious looks, to which Roman issued a lazy grin.

  “Chatsworth, don’t be a fool,” Downing said bitingly, turning his body, a cutting move against Trant. “More fool than you already are, that is.”

  Yes, Roman had always liked the man.

  Chatsworth’s jaw clenched, but there was a glimmer of pause in his drunken, watery eyes.

  “Downing, you are out of this hand,” Trant said quickly, and as dismissively as he dared. “You have no say in the wager. You turned down the gentle lady’s presence two seasons ago.”

  Roman stroked his finger along the edge of his cards, his dead hand that Trant, even though he had jumped the starting gun in his excitement, in all correct likelihood, expected him to throw in. Roman had given no sign that he had anything other than rat shit.

  “That doesn’t preclude me from telling you that you are a bastard to even pose such a bet.” Downing was beyond furious. “And Chatsworth is more ass than fool for not telling you immediate
ly to go to Hell.”

  “What do you care, Downing?” Red spots of pride and embarrassment dotted Chatsworth’s cheeks. Embarrassment giving way easily to anger. “Turned my girl down, didn’t you?” He looked back at his cards abruptly. “I’ll take the bet.”

  Roman could see the rusty, gin-soaked cogs in Chatsworth’s brain turning. If he lost, he wouldn’t lose everything. Granted, Trant was nowhere near the top of Chatsworth’s high list, but then again, Chatsworth had great cards.

  And he needed to win a large hand.

  Ten thousand pounds more, on top of the already generous pot on the table. Roman could almost hear the devil whispering in Chatsworth’s ear.

  “And you seek to ruin her instead?” Downing asked in his deep, clipped tones.

  But Chatsworth was ahead of himself in dreaming up new ways to gamble away his prospective winnings—unable to mask the emotions flitting across his face.

  Roman should have cut the man off three hands and two whiskeys ago and sent him packing, but he’d been thinking about other things, distracted.

  Thinking about the man’s daughter, ironic as that was now.

  The lady who was about to find herself gracing the bed of the man to his right. For Trant held the best hand. It didn’t take Roman’s well-honed instincts to sense it. Trant had waited for just the right hand to make the bet. Had waited for Chatsworth to get into his cups and to have some decent cards.

  Had waited to place the bet when only two men would witness the wager. One, a man who was utterly devoted to his wife, and whose wife was a close friend of the lady of the bet. Who would hold the scandal secret. The other, a man who held the debts and markers of over half of London’s citizens. Who would make sure the wager took place. Who wouldn’t interfere—for it was his business not to interfere.

  It was his business to be impartial and ruthlessly fair. Their gaming halls and the collateral exchange thrived on their lack of meddling. It was part of what made their reputations so fierce and successful. As long as you kept within a Merrick law, you were fine, but step one foot outside . . .

  Trant was going to win this hand, no matter what Chatsworth could scrounge from the deck. He would take Chatsworth’s daughter. Ruin her. Use it to gain her in marriage, as he no doubt sought. And for quite a cheap price.

  Roman should be pleased with this turn of events. He knew how Trant worked, knew how to manipulate him, if he chose. And given a year or two, Charlotte Chatsworth would undoubtedly need a lover. He could lie in wait, possibly strike up a rummy friendship with her. Be there just when she needed a shoulder to cry on. One-eyed Bill swore by the tactic.

  Roman had never been patient, however. That was Andreas’s cold trait. Roman would much rather seduce her into descending the latticework next to her window. To throw her over his shoulder and carry her into the night.

  And the vision of the girl he had met earlier that day lying beneath another man, his for the night, to do with whatever he wished, made Roman’s hand twist around his cards, nearly crushing them. His dead cards.

  “Ten thousand, Chatsworth.” Trant shrugged idly. “To my dismay, it does look as if your luck is turning.”

  His nearly dead cards.

  Luck and fate that Roman needed one particular card. The card near the bottom of the deck, a deck that couldn’t be moved from its position without causing comment. A very particular card indeed.

  Roman felt the hard smile slip over his lips as Chatsworth nodded tightly, accepting and confirming the wager again. A coiled, springy sensation tightened in Roman’s gut. A sensation he hadn’t felt since he’d been on the streets, throwing dice for bread, needing that extra bit of luck so they wouldn’t starve.

  Andreas was going to kill him.

  “Stanley.” Roman called over one of the young boys who ran errands between the tables and rooms. “A round of drinks for the table.” He motioned a circle with his finger. “And tell Andreas to come round. To bring the luck of the streets for Chatsworth.”

  Stanley’s head bobbed, and he disappeared from view.

  Chatsworth was avidly examining his cards, a tight smile about his lips. Liable to do something stupid? Roman had thought no more than a minute previous. Sometimes his revelations had the rottenest timing.

  Trant was silently gloating. Downing looked as if he were contemplating murder. Two of them. Possibly even throwing in Roman for good measure if he thought he could get away with it.

  It didn’t take the whisper of twenty ticks of the standing clock before Andreas appeared in the doorway, eyes moving around the room in short order. Trying to determine if there was a physical threat he hadn’t been alerted to.

  “Merrick,” Downing greeted, eyes returning back to the table’s participants and hardening again. He tapped his fingers against the table. “Come to witness the debacle?”

  Andreas met Roman’s eyes. Fiercely questioning what the bloody hell was going on.

  Roman gave a tilt of his head. “A bit of an extra bet to oversee. Tonight, Trant chooses to amuse and annoy.”

  Trant shot him a look but said nothing.

  It was a lovely trick of theirs. For even with Roman’s tendency to be chatty with the aristocracy—so much easier to extract information when people thought you a friendly face—when the two of them were together, even weathered old dukes grew silent. Intimidated. Unsure of the disparities they displayed and the absolute hardness that snapped together when they chose. Of course, too, Andreas could sometimes just be a fiendish beast.

  Andreas strode forward, passing behind Roman, behind Trant, continuing to the right side of the room and standing in front of a messy pile, where he withdrew a ledger. He turned to face them, leaning back against the counter and lifting a pen. “What should I record?” he asked in the perennially bored, irritated tone he used in public and with anyone not close to him.

  “Oh, I doubt Chatsworth will want it on the books, isn’t that so?”

  Chatsworth looked up, and something about the whole bet seemed to be sinking in to his gin-soaked mind, because a fine line of sweat had gathered on his brow. “No, no, leave it off.”

  Andreas snapped the book closed and turned his back to toss it to the counter, obviously annoyed. “Well then?”

  “Chatsworth has just put up a night with his illustrious daughter against Trant’s ten thousand.”

  Andreas stilled, his fingers tightening on the pen as he replaced it in the well. Just for a hair of a moment. Too short for anyone else to catch it. Anyone who hadn’t been tossed to the streets and then spent twenty years with another person, scrapping together, watching each other’s backs, forming an uncompromising bond.

  Andreas didn’t turn around, didn’t look at Roman. He didn’t have to. Every line of his body said what he was thinking.

  Neither of them needed to win a hand for a paltry ten thousand pounds.

  A boy entered with drinks, pulling the table’s attention briefly as he set them down. Roman turned his attention to the boy as well, keeping the movements of the other men in his peripheral sight. Andreas’s boots harshly struck the boards behind, his long strides eating up the floor, as he brushed Roman’s chair. Roman leaned forward, catching the falling paper surreptitiously as it slid down his back, then scooting his chair forward to cover the actions.

  “Consider it witnessed,” Andreas said without turning, as he strode from the room, anger in motion.

  “Your brother is barely polite these days, Merrick,” Downing observed, a little too casually. As if his own fury had suddenly been partially contained. Vibrating under the lid of its box.

  “He’s never polite.” No, Andreas was angry. Furious. Livid. Enraged in the way that Roman knew he was going to be called every obscenity in his brother’s vast vocabulary—every gutter jab known to the lower east side, every intellectual snub the hoi polloi used as verbal swords. “But he comes through.”

  Roman folded the fan of his cards and slid Charlotte Chatsworth’s fate in between, discarding the d
ud into his sleeve in one easy motion. He tapped his cards on the table. “Now then, I don’t have a daughter to bet, so I believe I’m in for ten thousand as well.”

  He pushed a marker to the center of the table, and the wild, coiled sensation exploded.

  Chapter 3

  Charlotte descended from the carriage, lifting her skirts to avoid the puddles that littered the road. Not giving in to the volatile impulse to drag the edges through. To dirty the far-too-expensive gown.

  “Your father is sure to be displeased.” A grim, sardonic little smile curved Viola Chatsworth’s lips. “Marquess Binchley watched you behind his glasses of port all night, and you didn’t speak with him more than two minutes at a time. Tut, Charlotte, you will be old and unmarried, and we will be poor and ruined if you don’t fall in line with your father’s grand plans.”

  Fall in line. As if Charlotte had been anything other than a foot soldier her entire life. She had coolly made her way through each party tonight—and had done everything short of violently flirting with all of the men and women alike. Of course, she hadn’t flirted, she’d likely give the whole of London the vapors should she be seen frolicking.

  And speaking with Binchley required fortitude. Two minutes was an eternity.

  Charlotte met her mother’s gaze steadily, nodding in agreement with the words of her failure. Charlotte had learned long ago simply to agree with her mother. For her unpredictable moods, especially around anything concerning her husband, could prove devastating otherwise.

  The creases around Viola’s eyes pinched, and she crisply handed their items to the butler. “I believe I feel an oncoming megrim,” she told the butler. “Send Anna up with my herbs. I doubt I will be available come the morning. Tell anyone who comes by tomorrow that I am with Aunt Edith.”

  Viola strode into the bowels of their house without further comment.