by Diane Gaston
One thing was certain. He would learn nothing if he scared her away. He’d play along with this game of hers. He gave her an engaging smile. ‘I confess, I am astonished you possess this knowledge. I told only one person.’
She stood her ground, but her fingers left the glass and braced themselves against the table instead. ‘Do not concern yourself with how I came about my information. Answer my question. What do you want for your silence?’
Oh, what a card to open with! The game was surely to be his if she played so recklessly.
He walked towards her, slowly, like a cat fooling its prey into thinking it posed no threat. When she threw up her hand again, he caught it in his and advanced so close his body brushed against hers.
‘Lie down with me,’ he whispered. ‘Let me show you what delights I can offer, then let me peel that mask from your face and—’
‘No,’ she said, in a voice not unlike one of his old school masters. ‘That is not acceptable.’
He was taken aback. She stepped away from his grasp and put a chair between them.
‘Not acceptable?’ His powers of seduction must have become rusty. From lack of use, no doubt.
‘Such terms are not to be contemplated. I do have money, however. How much to pay for your silence?’
He felt as if he were dreaming the same bad dream twice in one day. ‘Four thousand six hundred pounds,’ he said in a resigned voice.
She gasped. ‘I…I can offer you three thousand.’
If he estimated correctly, that would be about the amount she’d won at whist these past weeks, the amount her foolish suitors threw her way. She was making a sucker bet to wager all her money on one card.
He cocked his head. ‘What is my silence to you, Lady Widow? Do you know Lady Devlin?’
She blinked rapidly, glancing away. Finally she said, ‘Yes, I do know her. It would do great harm for her past to be public knowledge. It would be cruel in the extreme.’
‘Which makes it information of value,’ he added.
She looked at him hopefully. ‘Will you accept the three thousand pounds?’
He stared at her, rubbing his chin.
Her confidence seemed to ebb. She nervously reached under the netting of her cap and adjusted her mask. The light from the lamp hanging above the table illuminated her face. He studied it.
It would make sense if she were Lady Devlin, but the hair colour was wrong. Lady Widow was taller and smaller-breasted, besides. But who the devil was she?
She seemed familiar, though that notion had never struck him before. That anxious look in her eye, that nervous gesture. Where had he seen her before?
She faced him again. ‘You have not answered me.’
He walked a few steps to the side, examining her from another angle. He’d never really studied Lady Widow, he realised. He’d merely accepted her as a whole, delighting in a mystery yet to be solved.
He knew her. He just couldn’t place…
She cleared her throat. ‘Lord Keating told me you knew of Lady Devlin’s past. It was kind of him to tell me, so I could try to make you see reason. To give your word—’
‘My word?’ Zeus. Where the devil had he gone wrong? It seemed the whole world believed he’d honour something as elusive as his word. He would, of course, but it rankled that it was so widely known.
‘You know Lord Keating outside this place,’ he stated, more as fact than question.
She did not reply, but she remained as motionless as a statue. He took a long sip of his champagne, watching her all the time.
Suddenly, he saw her. By God, it was so obvious he’d been a fool not to have recognised her right away! Did Keating know?
Of course, he did! It was all Sloane could do to keep from laughing. Keating had told him. His wife knew all about Lady Widow. Another mark on Keating’s scorecard.
‘I…I know Lord Keating from here,’ she said feebly. ‘Nowhere else. But that has nothing to do with—’
He could not help interrupting. ‘Surely you know him in the biblical sense, my lady.’ She’s his damned wife! He laughed to himself.
She glared at him and amazingly turned back into Lady Widow. ‘Do not speak so crudely in my presence.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
Oh, this is fun, he thought. He just hoped Keating did not show up and catch him with his wife. Sloane had no fancy for pistols at dawn. Besides, he’d started to like Keating.
‘Tell me,’ he said as casually as he could muster under the circumstances, ‘does Keating know who you are?’
‘He does not,’ she said sharply and rather convincingly, Sloane thought. ‘I have no intention of revealing who I am.’
He stifled another laugh. Difficult because this was too amusing. Her husband knew, but she did not know he knew. Delightful!
‘Will you accept my money or not?’ she demanded.
He waved a hand at her dismissively and dropped into a chair. ‘The amount is but a trifle, and, I assure you, I do not need it.’
‘I will not bed you,’ she said.
Yes, that was certainly out of the question now, was it not? Another wager consigned to the dust heap.
‘Then we are at a complete standstill,’ he said, waiting to see what she would do next.
Her eyes bore into him, pained and fearful, like an animal caught in a trap. It made him consider abandoning the game.
She straightened her spine and her expression turned flirtatious. Good. She had recovered her bravado.
‘But you are a gamester, are you not, sir?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Certainly you would not refuse the challenge of a game of cards?’ She shoved the deck of cards towards him.
She certainly has my number, he thought. ‘What stakes?’
She lifted her chin. ‘If I win, I win your silence on Lady Devlin’s behalf.’
Ha! She obviously did not know that prize had been secured earlier. Far be it from him to tell her and spoil the fun.
‘And if I win?’ he asked. What could she offer besides her body? And that was out of the question now as well.
‘I shall remove my mask.’
He grinned. ‘Name your game, Lady Widow.’
Guy pounded on Madame Bisou’s door, his anger increased by winding up in the slowest hack in all of London. Cummings opened the door.
‘Where is Lady Widow?’ Guy demanded, thrusting his coat and hat into the man’s arms.
‘Supper room, last I knew of,’ Cummings said.
Guy took the stairs two at a time. She was not in the supper room, he discovered. He hurried to the gaming room.
From the doorway, his eyes swept the room. She was not there. He looked again, more slowly and carefully. His gaze focused on one gentleman.
Robert Duprey hopped back with a shriek when he saw Guy advancing upon him. There was no escape for him, however.
Guy grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘I would speak with you, Duprey.’ He nearly dragged Duprey out into the hall.
‘Please, Keating…my coat…’ Robert pleaded.
‘Hang your coat,’ Guy said. ‘Where is Emily?’
‘Em…Em…Emily?’ he stuttered.
Guy grabbed the lapels of the young man’s superfine garment and backed him into an alcove. ‘Cut line, Duprey,’ he spat. ‘I know you are behind this Lady Widow business of hers. I ought to call you out.’
Robert struggled feebly. ‘Oh, no! Not a duelling man. Not good at it at all.’
Guy shoved him against the wall and came within an inch of his face. ‘Then why did you bring her here, you fool!’
‘Made me do it,’ shrieked Robert, his voice rising more than an octave. ‘Forced me!’
‘Emily?’ Guy gave a dry laugh. ‘My bet is you put her up to this charade and I demand to know why!’ Guy let go of him with another shove and stepped back, waiting for Duprey’s answer.
Robert cowered. ‘Said…said she wanted money.’
Guy leaned menacingly towards him again. The young man raised his a
rms to protect his collar and neckcloth.
‘Why did she need money,’ Guy demanded. ‘For gambling?’
‘Y…yes,’ stammered Robert. ‘Fool plan, I told her. Couldn’t win enough, I said. All of it yours anyway.’
‘Explain yourself, man,’ Guy said, again reaching for Duprey’s lapels.
Robert tried desperately to protect his coat. ‘Planned to leave you, she said,’ he wailed. ‘Told her it was not the thing!’
Guy dropped his hands. ‘Leave me?’
Robert nodded vigorously. ‘Said she’d buy a cottage where you’d never find her.’
The air filled with the pungent odour of too many hot-house flowers.
‘There you are, chéri!’ Madame Bisou’s perfume had preceded her as she flounced in Robert’s direction.
A relieved look came over the young man’s face. Guy stepped away from him.
‘I have pined for this moment,’ Madame said, throwing her arms around his neck and crushing his coat and neckcloth with her embrace. ‘You will have time for me, no?’
‘Y…yes.’ Robert cast a wary glance at Guy. ‘N…now if you wish.’
‘I do wish.’ She nuzzled his neck and pulled him towards the stairway.
Guy remained frozen. Emily had become Lady Widow in order to leave him. He ran a ragged hand through his hair, trying to reconcile the sweet, compliant, eager-to-please Emily with a woman plotting her escape. From him.
He could not blame her, to be truthful. It had been reprehensible of him to trick her into marriage in the first place, then to all but ignore her in his single-minded quest for money. But this day had offered hope for them, had it not?
He wandered absently to the doorway of the card room. The Duke’s son nearly collided with him.
‘The odds are three to one in your favour, Keating,’ the man said excitedly. ‘Have you placed your bet?’
‘In my favour? What the devil are you talking about?’ Guy asked.
The Duke’s son smirked. ‘Sloane proposed the terms. I suppose he did not like losing the other wager. The odds are three to one he will fail to win Lady Widow from you.’
‘What?’
The man continued, ‘But he’s closed up with her in a room at this moment, so there’s some chance the odds will change—’
Guy did not wait to hear the rest. He ran up the stairs, pounding on two locked doors, and receiving shouts from unfamiliar voices.
What did she think she was doing? Who was this woman that she could bed one man one night and another the next? Then it struck him. She was seeking Sloane’s silence. Would she do so with her body?
The third door was unlocked. He did not bother to knock, but burst into the room. He saw the champagne. He saw the cards. He saw Lady Widow and Sloane seated at the table, each with a fan of cards in their hands. They were, he was relieved to see, fully dressed.
‘Guy!’ cried Lady Widow.
‘Damn,’ cursed Sloane.
‘What goes on here?’ Guy demanded.
Emily felt the air sucked from her lungs. Her legs trembled beneath the table. Her vision blurred.
He had come in search of Lady Widow after all. She could not speak.
Sloane answered him, his voice casual. ‘Why, this is a friendly game of cards, Keating. A private one.’
‘The devil it is,’ Guy growled. ‘I hear otherwise below stairs.’
The room grew dark and the men’s voices echoed through her head. Emily fought the impulse to faint. She pressed her fingers to her temple. Of course, he would presume Sloane brought her here for seduction, would he not? The jealous rage inside him was palpable. Even a gamester did not feel so passionately about a wager already won. His attachment had been to Lady Widow all along.
Where did that leave her? Where does that leave Madeleine? she thought in a panic. How was she to win Sloane’s silence now? She must keep her wits about her. She needed to win the card game. After this, Lady Widow would never return.
Would Lady Widow linger in her husband’s memory? she wondered. Would she always stand between Guy and his wife? No. She mentally shook herself. She must think of Madeleine.
Forcing herself to stiffen her spine, she said, ‘I resent your insinuation, sir!’ Her voice was Lady Widow’s. ‘This is a private game of cards, and I ask you to leave.’
She could feel the rage flaming inside him, putting more colour in his face, more sparks in his eyes.
He strode over to the table and picked up her nearly empty champagne glass, lifting it to the light, then sweeping his eyes over her. ‘Is it indeed a mere card game, ma’am? It must have just commenced, for I see you are completely dressed.’
Emily’s cheeks grew hot. ‘You wrong me, sir,’ she murmured.
Sloane broke in, losing only a tad of his composure. ‘I don’t have a jot of an idea of what you two are talking about, Keating, but, I assure you, cards were the only game played in this room.’
‘Do not take me for a fool,’ said Guy, his voice like a sharp-edged sword. He did not take his eyes off Emily.
‘Alas, it is true.’ Sloane stood, adding, ‘I give you my word.’
Guy shot him a look.
‘Tell you what. You play out my hand. Lady Widow may explain the stakes. Tell me later who won. I’ll honour my part, my word on that, too.’ Sloane ambled towards the door. ‘I must go below stairs. I suspect there are considerable debts to settle.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. With an equally dramatic bow, he fled the room.
All was not lost, Emily realised. To save her sister all she need do was win the game with Guy.
If she failed, however, she must remove her mask and he would see who really played tricks with him.
‘We ought to replay this hand,’ she said, feigning a casual tone so unlike the emotions churning within her. She collected the cards and shuffled them. ‘It is your deal.’
Guy grabbed Sloane’s chair and sat in it. When she finished shuffling, she handed him the cards.
‘What game?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Piquet,’ she replied.
He stared at her for at least half a minute before he spoke. ‘What are the stakes?’
She met his eye. ‘I shall tell you when we have finished.’
He dealt the cards.
Chapter Nineteen
The atmosphere was like in a dream, looking real but unreal at the same time. Sound echoed as if far away. Light seemed excessively bright. Guy felt as if he were in a dream, acting as if it all was perfectly ordinary, sitting across the table from the alluring creature who was his wife and who likely had been prepared to bed another man.
‘What is the score?’ he asked.
She answered in a voice without emotion. ‘The first partie was mine by one hundred seventeen points. This is the first deal of the second.’
‘Do you play for points?’ he asked, in like tone.
‘The most points after the third partie,’ she said.
Guy sorted his hand, estimating what was likely in hers. He chose his play ruthlessly, his anger intensifying concentration, wresting every possible trick from his hand. He did not speak and neither did she, except to make their declarations and responses, call out their points.
The anger boiled inside him with every play of every card, though he was not certain which fuelled it the most. Sloane for trying to bed his wife? Emily for risking her virtue? Plotting to leave him? Or was he angered against himself for letting matters reach this moment, when he might have put a stop to them that first night?
At the end of six hands, he won easily. Guy burned to win the third partie, to discover if he were correct in what he feared she offered Sloane. She would be playing to win Sloane’s silence about her sister’s past, that was obvious, but had she wagered what he feared?
He dealt the cards. Damn Sloane for accepting her challenge when the man had already given his word to Guy. Perhaps Sloane was no better than his reputation suggested, placing a new wager in Madame Bisou’s betting book
. Sloane had lost the first bet about Lady Widow. Guy had no notion that the man would create a second one—the seduction of Guy’s wife.
But Sloane did not know Lady Widow was Emily, did he? He thought the two of them were competing for a woman who frequented a gaming hell and toyed with its patrons. Lady Widow dangled the gentlemen from her fingers like puppets in a Punch and Judy show. She’d not improved Sloane’s perception of her when she played her private game of cards with Guy. If Sloane believed she’d bedded one man, why not another?
She exchanged five cards. He exchanged three.
No, he, Guy, was not innocent in this situation. Plenty of blame could be laid directly at his door.
He’d fallen under her spell as well, even knowing she was his wife. He had not refused her lovemaking. On the contrary, he had revelled in every moment of it.
She led an ace of hearts.
They called out their points as she took several tricks, he others. At the end, the round went to her.
He glanced up at her. She breathed a long sigh of relief, not at all like the gambler he knew she could be. The lines of tension at the corners of her mouth eased slightly.
He shuffled the cards.
She sat stiffly in her chair, gazing down at the table, avoiding looking at him, he suspected. This was nothing like the playful, erotic game of piquet they had played the night before. Even though she wore the gown, the hat and the mask of Lady Widow, this was the woman he had met in Bath, the one who sat across from him at the breakfast table, the one who faded from one’s sight, who hid behind her mask of mediocrity. All liveliness gone. All charm vanished.
Only now he knew what events had forged her need to disappear from everyone’s notice. If she’d given her parents any reason to consider her value, she might have risked being sold as they sold her sister.
A muscle in Guy’s cheek twitched. Her father had sold Emily, in a way, by inventing a way to use her for collateral. Guy had fallen for the ruse, because he’d sought to use her as well.
