by Jane Feather
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, Judith thought, hearing the hurt in his voice. She couldn't possibly enter into any discussion about why she hadn't felt able to share her invented curiosity with him. She offered him a slightly helpless shrug of acceptance that he acknowledged with a resigned shake of his head.
"What are we going to do if Gracemere does decide to create a scandal?" She changed the subject.
Marcus's expression hardened. "He won't." It was a sharp, succinct statement.
"But how can you be so sure?"
"My dear Judith, don't you trust me to make sure of it?" he demanded in a voice like iron. "Believe me, I am a match for Gracemere."
Judith, looking at the set of his jaw, the uncompromising slash of his mouth, the eyes like black flint, didn't doubt for a minute that her husband was more than a match for Gracemere, or anyone else who might decide to meddle in his affairs.
And where did that leave his wife? His lying, conniving trickster of a wife. A shudder ripped up her spine, and she crossed her arms, hugging her breasts, staring up at him in silence.
His expression abruptly softened as he saw her shiver. "You need to be in bed," he said. "An evening spent hanging over the commode is enough to exhaust anyone." A smile tugged willy-nilly at the corners of his mouth as he imagined the scene. He could almost feel sorry for Gracemere. He picked up her discarded wineglass and handed it to her, saying lightly, "Be a good girl and finish your port, it'll warm you."
Judith's responding smile was somewhat tentative, but she obediently finished the wine and found it comforting in her sore and empty belly.
"Upstairs now." Marcus took the glass from her. "I'll come up later, when you're tucked in."
"I seem to need to be cuddled," Judith said in a voice that sounded small.
Marcus put his arms around her, holding her tightly against him, feeling her fragility. "I'll hold you all night," he promised into her fragrant hair. "I'll come as soon as Millie's helped you to bed."
He held her throughout the night, and she slept secure in his arms, but her dreams were filled with images of things cracked and broken under a tumultous reign of chaos.
28
A few days later, as he sat over the breakfast table, Marcus received an invitation from his old friend Colonel Morcby of the Seventh Hussars, requesting the pleasure of his company at a regimental dinner in the company of Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington; Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Bliicher; and General Karl von Clausewitz, at eight o'clock in the evening of Wednesday, December 12 at regimental headquarters on Horseguard's Parade. December 12 was the night of the Duchess of Devonshire's ball.
Marcus drank his coffee, wondering how Judith would react if he cried off from the ball. It was the high point of the pre-Christmas festivities, and all fashionable London would be there. Would she feel neglected if she had to go alone? But her friends would be there, and her
brother, he reasoned. It wasn't as if he'd see much of her all evening, even if he did escort her. Besides, Judith was not a woman to demand her husband's company when he'd received an invitation so vastly more appealing. He didn't doubt she'd understand the appeal of the invitation from Colonel Morcby.
He left the breakfast parlor and went upstairs to his wife's chamber. The atmosphere in the room was steamy and scented. The fire had been built as high as safety permitted and heat blasted the room, augmenting the steam wreathing from a copper hip bath drawn up before the hearth. Marcus blinked to clear his vision and then smiled.
Millie was pouring more water from a copper jug into the tub while Judith stood beside the bath, one toe delicately testing the temperature. Her hair was piled on top of her head and she hadn't a stitch of clothiing on.
"Good morning, sir." She greeted him with a smile. "I think that'll do for the moment, Millie. But perhaps you should fetch up some more jugs from the kitchen for later… I'm taking a bath, Marcus," she informed him somewhat unnecessarily.
"So I see." He stepped aside as Millie hurried past him through the doorway, carrying empty jugs.
"I intend to spend the entire morning luxuriating in hot water," she informed him, stepping into the tub. "It's a pity you can't join me."
"Who says I can't?"
"Well, no one." She let her head fall back against the rim, drawing her legs up so that her dimpled knees broke the surface of the water. "I simply assumed, since you're dressed for town, that you were not in the mood for beguilement."
"Sadly, I'm in the mood but unable to indulge," he said. "I'm on my way to Angelo's."
"Ah," said Judith, sitting up suddenly, slopping water over the edge of the bath onto the sheet spread beneath it. "I should like to learn to fence."
"You amaze me," Marcus said, shrugging out of his coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves. "I didn't think there was anything you didn't know how to do. Weren't you able to find an admirer to teach you?"
"Sadly, no," she said, sitting back again, regarding his preparations through narrowed eyes. "Perhaps you would like to take on the task."
"It'll be a pleasure." Marcus picked up the lavender-scented cake of soap from the dish beside the bath and moved behind her. "Lean forward and I'll do your back."
"You'll ruin your pantaloons, kneeling on the floor," she pointed out, remaining with her back against the tub.
"They are knitted, my dear, and mold themselves to my wishes," he observed. "Unlike my wife, it would seem." He slipped an arm around her, bending her forward so that he could soap the smooth plane of her back with firm circular movements, occasionally scribbling down her spine with a tantalizing fingernail.
Judith arched her back like a cat beneath the hard hands, bending her neck for the rough exploration of a fingertip creeping into her scalp.
"Oh, I was forgetting," Marcus murmured, sliding his hand down her back beneath the surface of the water on a more intimate laundering. "I've received an invitation to dine in Horseguard's Parade on Wednesday. Would you mind if I don't accompany you to the ball?" Gentle pressure bent her further over his encircling arm, and the sudden tension in her body, the ripple of her skin, he ascribed to its obvious cause.
"Who invited you?" She tried to sound casually interested, even though she knew the answer. Charlie had engineered the invitation from his own regimental colonel. Initially, he'd been puzzled by Judith's request that he do so, until she'd explained that she wanted it to be a surprise for Marcus, who would find the ball a dead bore and would much prefer to dine with his military friends.
Marcus was unable to hide his pleasure in the prospect of such an evening in such company as he told Judith what she already knew. It was slight balm to her guilty conscience.
Millie's reappearance with fresh jugs of hot water put an end to tantalizing play, and Marcus dropped the soap into the water, dried his hands, and stood up, rolling down his sleeves. "I'll leave you to your bath, lynx."
"Don't forget to tell John to accept the colonel's invitation before you go."
"I won't." Fleetingly he touched the topknot of copper ringlets as he went to the door. "An understanding wife is a pearl beyond price."
Oh, what a tangled web we weave. The desolate refrain seemed to have become a part of her bloodstream these days, thudding in time with the life blood in her veins.
Bernard Melville cast a covert glance at his opponent across the card table. Davenport was drinking heavily. His hair was tousled, flopping untidily over his broad forehead, and every now and again he would run his hands through it with a distracted air. He had been losing steadily for three hours and Bernard felt the gut-twisting excitement of the gamester who has his opponent on the run. He had ceased to keep count of his winnings, and knew from his own experience that Sebastian, in the grip of the same fever, would have no idea how much he'd lost. He had run out of rouleaux long since and now scribbled IOUs without apparent awareness; the pile of vowels mounted at Bernard's elbow.
Twice Bernard had used marked cards, when Sebastian had won the preceding hands a
nd the earl, so addicted now to winning against him, hadn't been able to endure even the slightest possibility of further losses. He could smell blood, the taste of it was on his tongue. In another hour, he reckoned, Sebastian Davenport would be a ruined man.
"Sebastian, you've been at cards all evening." Harry Middkton strolled across to the table, trying to conceal his concern as he took in the vowels and rouleaux at Gracemere's elbow. "Leave it now, man, and come and be sociable."
Bernard was unable to conceal his fury at this interference and his breath hissed through his teeth. "Leave the man alone, Middleton, can't you see we're in the middle of play?"
Sebastian looked up and smiled in rather dazed fashion at his friend. "Devil take it, Harry, but I lost track of the time." His eyes focused again on his cards. "Last hand, Gracemere. I'm all rolled up for tonight." He laughed with an assumption of carelessness and discarded the knave of hearts.
Bernard had no choice but to accept the end of play when, at the end of the hand, Sebastian threw down his cards and yawned. "What's the damage, Gracemere?"
Bernard added up the points. "Ninety-eight."
"Rubiconed, by God!" Sebastian yawned again. "Tot up my vowels and I'll send you a draft on my bank in the morning."
The staggering sum handed to him had its effect. The earl examined him covertly, noting the sudden slight tremor of his hands, the tightening of his mouth. Then Sebastian looked up, raised his eyebrows in an assumption of carelessness, and whistled. "You'll give me a chance to come about, I trust, my lord?"
"But of course-tomorrow, at Devonshire House?" Bernard almost licked his fleshy lips in anticipation.
Sebastian nodded, tried to laugh, but it had a hollow ring. "Why not? It'll be a dull enough affair otherwise, I'll lay odds." Flinging a comradely arm around Harry's shoulder, he strolled off with his friend.
"It looked like you lost a fortune," Harry remarked, giving his friend an anxious stare.
Sebastian shrugged. "I'll get it back, Harry, tomorrow.
"I told you, Gracemere's a bad man to play with."
Sebastian looked down at his friend and Harry saw a different light in his eyes. He spoke softly. "So am I, Harry, as Gracemere is going to find out. You'll see."
Harry's scalp prickled. He had never seen Sebastian look like that, never heard that note in his voice. He suddenly saw Sebastian Davenport as a dangerous man, and he didn't know how or why he should have formed such an impression.
29
"Gregson, when my brother calls you may send him straight up to the yellow drawing room. But I'm not at home to anyone else." Judith crossed the hall to the stairs the following morning, pausing to rearrange a display of bronze chrysanthemums in a copper jug on a marble table.
"Very well, my lady."
"These are past their best," she said, giving up on the flowers. "Have them replaced, please."
"Yes, my lady." Gregson bowed. There was an unusual sharpness in her ladyship's voice this morning, a slight air of irritability about her.
Judith ran up to her own sanctum, where she sat down immediately in front of the chess board. The problem set out was sufficiently complex to occupy her mind for the next hour while she waited for her brother. They would spend the greater part of the day training for the evening's play, separating at the end of the afternoon with time enough to rest and compose themselves before the game began.
It was a pattern they had established long since, on their travels, but it had been many months since they'd used it. Despite her anxiety, the immense value of the stakes, Judith was aware of the old familiar prickle of excitement, the surge of exhilaration.
Sebastian arrived before midmorning. He greeted her briefly, then shrugged out of his coat and sat down in his shirt-sleeves, breaking the pack of cards on the table. "Let's go over the code for aces. The movement you make for the spade is very similar to the one for the heart. I want to see if we can sharpen the difference." Judith nodded and picked up her fan.
They worked steadily until noon, making minor adjustments to the code of signals, then they played a game of chess until Gregson announced nuncheon. Marcus walked into the dining room to find his wife and her brother eating scalloped oysters and cold chicken in absorbed silence.
"If I didn't know you both better, I'd think I was interrupting a quarrel," he observed, helping himself to oysters.
"No," Judith said, managing a smile. "We were just absorbed in our own thoughts. How was your morning?"
Marcus began to regale them with a tale he'd heard at Brooks's, and then realized that they weren't listening to him. He paused, waited for one of them to notice that he hadn't finished the story, and when neither of them did, shrugged and turned his attention to his plate.
"Are you dining at home this evening, Ju?" Sebastian asked abruptly.
"No, at the Henleys'," she answered. "Isobels giving a dinner party before the ball."
"Oh, good." Marcus refilled his glass, smiling across the table at her. "I didn't like to think of you dining alone, lynx."
"Oh, I can usually avoid such a fate, if I wish to," she said with a lift of her eyebrows. "I'm not dependent upon my husband's company, my lord."
Ordinarily, the remark would have been bantering, but for some reason Marcus sensed a strain in the words, and her smile seemed effortful. Perhaps she had quarreled with Sebastian.
"Do you have something important to do this afternoon, Judith, or would you like to ride with me in Richmond Park? It's a beautiful afternoon," he asked at the end of the meal.
She shook her head. "Another day I'd come with pleasure, but this afternoon Sebastian and I have plans that can't be put off."
"Oh." He tossed his napkin on the table, concealing his hurt and puzzlement. "Then I'll leave you to them."
"Oh, dear," Judith whispered as the door closed softly behind him. "I didn't mean to sound so dismissive, but I couldn't think what other excuse to make."
"After tonight, you won't have to make excuses." Sebastian pushed back his chair. "Let's get back to work."
By five o'clock, they knew they had covered every eventuality, every combination of hands that skill and experience could come up with. They knew how Grace-mere played when he played straight, and Sebastian knew what tricks he favored when he played crooked. They now had in place their own system that would defeat the earl's marked cards.
"We've done the best we can," Sebastian pronounced finally. "There's an element of chance, of course, but there always is."
"He's a gamester who's scented blood," Judith said. "We know what that madness is like. Once in the grip of it, he'll not stop until he's at point non plus … or you are."
"It will not be I," her brother said with quiet confidence.
"No." Judith held out her hand. They clasped hands in silent communion that held both promise and resolve. Then Sebastian bent and kissed her cheek and left. She listened to his feet receding on the stairs, before going up to her room to lie down with pads soaked in witch hazel on her eyes, and a swirling cloud of playing cards in her internal vision.
Gracemere escorted Agnes Barret to Devonshire House some time after ten o'clock. They were early, but not unfashionably so, and spent an hour circulating the salons. They danced twice and then Agnes was claimed by a bewhiskered acquaintance of her ailing husband's. "I shall enjoy watching you pluck your pigeon later," she said softly as they parted. Her lips curved in a smile of malicious anticipation, and her little white teeth glimmered for a minute. Gracemere bowed over her hand.
"Such an audience can only add spice to an already delicious prospect, madam."
"I trust you'll have another audience also," she murmured.
The earl's pale eyes narrowed vindictively. "The sister as well? Yes, ma'am. I trust so. It will add savor to the spice.
"It's to be hoped she doesn't vomit over you again." Agnes's soft laugh was as malicious as her earlier smile, and she went off on the arm of her partner.
Gracemere looked around the rapidly filli
ng salon.
There was no sign as yet of Sebastian Davenport, but he saw Judith enter with Isobel Henley and her party and his lips tightened. Since the debacle at Jermyn Street, he had continued to cultivate her as assiduously as ever, although always out of sight of Marcus. His motive now was simple. A beloved sister would watch her brother's downfall. Judith would suffer in impotent horror as she witnessed her brother's destruction, and the earl would have some small satisfaction for the mortification she had caused him. Marcus's pride would be humbled at the public humiliation of his brother-in-law, and Gracemere and Agnes would have Harriet Moreton and her fortune.
The earl made his way over to Judith. "Magnificent," he murmured, raising her hand to his lips. His admiration was genuine. Emeralds blazed in her copper hair and around the white throat. Her gown of gold spider gauze over bronze satin was startlingly unusual, and a perfect foil for her hair.
"Flatterer," she declared, tapping his wrist with her fan. "But, indeed, my lord, I am not immune to flattery, so pray don't stop."
He laughed and escorted her to the dance floor. "Your husband doesn't accompany you?"
"Alas, no," she said with a mock sigh. "A regimental dinner claimed his attention."
"How fortunate." A smile touched his lips and Judith felt clammy. "I don't see your brother here either."
"Oh, I daresay he'll be along later," she said. "He was to dine with friends."
"We have an agreement to meet at the card table," the earl told her, still smiling. "We're engaged in battle."
"Oh, yes, Sebastian told me. A duel of piquet." She laughed. "Sebastian is determined to win tonight, Bernard, I should warn you. He says he lost out of hand last night and must recoup his losses if he's not to be completely rolled up." She laughed, as if at the absurdity of such an idea, and Gracemere allowed an answering chuckle to escape him.
