Which only went to prove how little she knew Lord Thomas.
Fired by a desire to win, Carolina fingered her coins and began to watch the play critically. One man in particular seemed to be winning all the money. The others called him Twist. He was very thin and wearing a suit of puce broadcloth loaded with black braid. She did not like his sly pointed face or the flat rather shifty look of his pale eyes as they rested on first one player and then another, but she watched with fascination the flash of the ruby ring on his finger as he threw out the dice.
Watching, she became almost certain there was something wrong with the dice. Old Crump, who had long worked for her father, had in his younger days been something of a gamester and he had told her how dice could be drilled and weighted with lead so they would roll over the way you wanted them to. As she watched she became more and more certain she was in the presence of a professional gambler—and a dishonest one at that.
And if that were true, and she bet as he did, then surely she could not lose! She would startle Thomas!
She began to bet cautiously along with Twist, following his lead, play for play. And she was winning. Twist noticed what she was doing and gave her one of his blank looks, assessing her.
At first she had been afraid to bet very much, but now she grew bolder, spilling several coins upon the table. From the end of the table the other completely sober player, the tall dark-haired gentleman in the tricorne, raked her with his keen gray gaze.
She had hardly noticed him in her concentration first upon the door and then upon the dice and Twist’s agile fingers. Indeed the gentleman in gray had been bent over slightly, studying the play. But now as he straightened up she was aware of a commanding figure with a hawklike face. As she met his hard narrowed gaze she blushed, suddenly uncomfortable in her boy’s clothing, and looked away. But she had observed enough in that one swift glance to remember what he looked like, and the thought passed idly through her mind that although he was not nearly so fancily garbed as, say, the red-bearded gentleman in scarlet who was betting recklessly at the opposite end, he was by far the more arresting figure even in his inconspicuous grays. She looked up and caught the gaze of the dark-haired gentleman again; he was regarding her more quizzically now and she could not fathom the look he gave her. Once again she looked down, suddenly flustered, and found it hard to remember what she had bet.
She had been winning steadily, following the play of the puce-clad professional, and now, with her mind oddly disturbed by the tall gentleman in the tricorne, she decided suddenly on a reckless move. Thomas would surely be arriving at any moment—it would be wonderful if he could see a pile of gold before her! She would gamble all the money she had brought with her and all she had won on the next throw of the dice. In her excitement she did not notice that the gambler whose play she was shadowing had made but a trivial bet this time.
The dice spun out. An eight. Carolina watched with confidence. Those dice would not throw a seven!
The dice rolled over: A four—and a three. Seven.
She had lost!
Carolina looked up, stricken, and her eyes met Twist’s. And although there seemed not a flicker of expression on his pointed face, she saw for a moment something grinning at her from deep in his pale eyes. Triumph, that was it—triumph that he had tricked her.
She stiffened.
“Break the dice!” she cried.
All eyes swung to her and the murmur of voices at the table was suddenly stilled. Even as Twist’s puce-clad arm reached out and he scooped up the dice, she was leaning forward, snatching at his cuff to prevent him from “sleeving” them or whatever it was men did who played with crooked dice and switched them.
“Break the dice!” she cried desperately. “This man is cheating us all!”
A torrent of oaths broke from the puce-clad man before her and he shook her hand from his cuff as if it had been a feather. In a single bound he had cleared the table, almost knocking her down as his boots landed on the floor beside her, and seized her roughly by the shoulder.
“Ye’ll not call me a cheat and live to tell of it!”
Carolina glared into Twist’s contorted face. “You are a cheat!” she screamed, trying to wriggle free and wondering if that hard hand clamped on her shoulder was going to tear her arm from its socket.
Suddenly there was a third entrant in the fray.
From the head of the table the tall gentleman in gray had shouldered his way swiftly through the excited group and his hand closed now over the gambler’s arm with a force that caused Twist’s head to swing about to face him.
“Easy there, Twist,” said a deep attractive voice. “Can’t you see it’s a wench you’re holding?”
Twist turned back to give her a bewildered look. It would be one thing to maim or even to kill a young man who had accused him publicly of cheating, but quite another to injure a girl in men’s clothing. Now his gaze took in again the quality of those ice green garments that he had already remarked and he saw what in his greed he had missed before—the peachbloom smoothness of her fair skin and flushed cheeks. It was brought home to him that the shoulder he was clenching was too soft for a boy’s shoulder. His hand dropped away abruptly. “Ye’d best watch your mouth, wench,” he said in surly warning and Carolina, released, took a wary step away from him.
“Go back to your game,” the tall gentleman in gray advised Twist. “I’ll attend to the wench and join you in a moment.”
Grumbling, Twist went back to the table and the play began again—only this time there was a new hand on Carolina’s arm and it held her as firmly as Twist’s grip upon her shoulder had held her a few moments before —only not so painfully.
“That man cheated me!” she cried wrathfully. “I’ve lost all my money—and it was a Christmas present from my family.”
“Be quiet,” was the imperturbable advice of the man who had hold of her. As he spoke he was dragging her ruthlessly along beside him through the crowded common room. People parted to let them pass; many turned to stare over their tankards.
“Innkeeper.” The man in gray now spoke peremptorily to the worried-looking individual who had heard the commotion and hurried in from the kitchen. “Can ye give me a private room to lock up this wench until she can be dealt with later? She’ll make trouble if she’s left near the table. She cannot be turned loose upon the town at this hour for footpads would make short work of her, and I’ve no mind to leave the game while I’m losing.”
Carolina remembered the innkeeper, but he was looking at her now without recognition. She opened her mouth to tell him who she was and closed it again.
After all, how would it sound to blurt out, You must remember me—Lord Thomas Angevine brought me here recently half-soaked with muddy water from the gutter and ordered up a bath for me! Oh, she could not do it! She closed her mouth again.
The innkeeper looked as if he might protest such summary disposal of the girl in boy’s clothing, but a sudden lowering look from the tall gentleman decided him. “There’s a private dining room upstairs that’s not occupied at the moment,” he admitted. He moved forward, hurrying to a trot, for the tall gentleman’s long stride was threatening to run over him. Carolina too found herself half running to keep from losing her footing as she was propelled along.
“Toss me the key,” said the tall gentleman when they reached the door of the private dining room. He pushed Carolina inside.
Her eyes flashed silver.
“If you lock me in, I’ll scream the house down!” she warned him.
“If you do,” said her tormentor, and there was a wolfish gleam of white teeth as he spoke, “I’ll return and bind and gag you and leave you here till morning when I can let you walk home alone in safety!”
Rage nearly overcame her. She was sputtering as the door was slammed in her face and locked.
The innkeeper made a helpless gesture as the tall gentleman stuffed the key in his pocket and clattered downstairs. Then he threw up his hands. None could say
he ran a bawdy house—a jail would be more like it! He hurried back downstairs, hoping the raucous clamor of the common room would drown out the pounding tattoo of the wench’s fists upon the heavy door.
Meantime the tall gentleman who had locked Carolina in returned to his play as if nothing had happened. His daunting gray gaze with its glitter of steel defied anyone to comment on his summary handling of the wench.
The play continued. The tall man in gray bet only minimally. Twist continued to win. Time dragged on. By now a group of roisterers at the far end of the common room were clinking their tankards and bellowing out one drinking song after another to the accompaniment of merry laughter around the room. All that noise effectively drowned any outraged sounds that might be coming from the private dining room upstairs.
By now Twist had won most of the money on the table and all but two of the players had left, disgusted.
One of those, the red-bearded fellow in scarlet, drained his tankard, bet the last coin he had on him, lost it, and took himself elsewhere.
That left only Twist and the man in gray—whose hands had seemed surprisingly skillful for one who looked more like a soldier than a gambler—as well as a few yawning watchers.
Smirking, Twist made a large bet. He would test the lingerer’s mettle!
It was promptly covered.
“And raise you a thousand guineas,” came the cool rejoinder from the man in gray as he spilled a number of gold pieces on the table.
Twist’s eyes widened. “I have not so much money on me.”
“Oh, surely you have,” drawled his adversary. “I’m even willing to wait while you go to your room to find it—provided these gentlemen watch the table and the innkeeper and I accompany you to make sure you don’t have a sudden change of heart and leave by the back door.”
At this insult Twist’s face turned ugly and he fingered his small sword.
“I wouldn’t,” advised the tall gentleman. His own hand had dropped and now hovered above the steel basket hilt of a very long and serviceable blade that hung inconspicuously at his side, partly covered by his coat.
Twist growled, but something steady in the gray-eyed man’s countenance persuaded him not to bring matters to a head. After all, he had his skillful fingers to count on and he had no doubt that he could bring about an even more satisfactory conclusion—and gain himself another thousand guineas!
He nodded agreement and the three of them went upstairs. There the money was forthcoming—from a leathern box that Twist pulled out from under his mattress.
“Ye should keep that money with the goldsmiths, Twist,” said the landlord gruffly, frowning at the sight of so much gold being stored beneath a mattress.
“I will when I’ve won me a thousand to match it,” said Twist airily. “For my run of luck’s not over yet!”
The man in gray gave him a sardonic smile.
They went back downstairs and play was resumed.
By now everybody in the common room was gathered around watching.
Amazingly, Twist lost.
He looked bewildered and his glance shot upward in alarm at his adversary. The dice must have been switched! he was thinking. These couldn’t be his own— he’d have won! The man in gray had switched the dice!
Now the man in gray was drawing from his finger an enormous pigeon’s blood ruby ring—Twist’s mouth had watered for it ever since he had first seen it. It was worth a fortune! He smiled into Twist’s avid eyes.
“This ring against the contents of your purse and pockets, Twist,” he said. “And that leathern money box we saw upstairs. All your valuables.”
For a moment Twist’s gaze faltered. Then his mouth grew slack with avarice for the ring. His own was a fake, but this one was real! He was almost drooling as he studied it. And now he buoyed himself up by remembering contemptuously how many fine gentlemen had tried some trick to match him—and always ended up losing fat sums.
“Aye,” he said, and wiped his hand across his mouth. “If I throw the dice.”
There was a grim smile opposite him and the tall man nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “With new dice.”
Twist’s point was a nine. The landlord had furnished these and they were honest dice.
Twist knew he could not be sure of his skill in matching that throw. He needed his own dice. He was sweating now and it gave him the excuse to pull out a dirty handkerchief and mop his brow. As he did so he palmed a pair of dice from the kerchief—a pair that could be counted on not to throw a seven. He had no mind to lose!
“Play,” said the man across from him evenly.
With alacrity now, Twist picked up the dice from the table. He had big hands and he needed big hands because he now had four dice held in one of them—two he was maneuvering between his skillful fingers and two—the honest pair—were held rigidly in his palm.
He was about to throw them out when the tall man moved with a speed that none of the company later deemed credible. At one moment he was standing still across the table, then before anyone could blink, he had pounced on Twist. His hard left hand had slammed down on Twist’s right wrist and he was now inexorably turning Twist’s hand around so that the palm came up and four dice were exposed to view.
There were gasps and murmurs of anger from the company.
“We now know how you’ve been winning, Twist,” said the man in gray dispassionately. “All here have seen your method.” His voice rang out. “Can anyone here think of a reason why I should not kill this man?”
There were growls of assent and murmurs of “Good riddance!” The landlord blanched. A killing at his inn? He’d be accused of running a gaming house! But he dared not take Twist’s part, nor did he have any sympathy for the man. Had he known Twist was using crooked dice he’d have denied him access to the table!
Twist knew he was trapped. As the tall gentleman let go of his wrist to pick up the coins he staggered back and clawed at his small sword.
He never got it from its scabbard.
In another lightning gesture the man in gray had his long sword out and its point at Twist’s throat.
Now he looked down that long clean blade into Twist’s terrified face and to Twist those steely eyes held the fires of hell. He yearned to kill Twist but there were reasons, good reasons, why he should not. Twist felt this urge to kill and blanched.
“I give you your life, Twist,” said the tall man softly. “Although God knows it goes against the grain to do so. And I warn you to leave London by the shortest route for if ever you should cross my path again, I promise you no such reprieve.” He laughed. “I will not even give you warning.”
The sword was drawn away.
Twist swallowed. It had been a near thing. Almost holding his breath, he watched the point of that blade retreat and his left hand came up to stroke gingerly the place on his throat where the blade had almost but not quite broken the skin. Yet even in his terror his right hand was creeping to the table’s edge. That sword was about to be sheathed. If he could but upend this heavy table and throw its weight against the sword’s owner, it would give him time to duck past the landlord, who was no force at all, and make it up the stairs. He could grab his gold from beneath the mattress, shinny over the roof and be gone while everybody was still scrambling over everybody else in drunken confusion.
Twist tensed. The moment was now!
But even as his grip on the table whitened his knuckles, his adversary made one more lightning gesture—and this was one that would be talked about by the company for years to come.
So fast that nobody really saw the movement, he brought the hilt of his sword down with crushing force on the hand that was even now raising the table.
Twist let go of the table with a howl. The “ruby” in his ring was shattered, broken into bits of red glass. He staggered back moaning, holding his aching hand to his mouth.
The tall gentleman, who had already become a legend among those present, sighed, sheathed his sword with an easy gesture and stepped back. H
e observed Twist’s pain without compassion. “Shall we upend him, lads, and make him pay his wager?”
There was a bellow of approval and Twist went down as rough hands tore at his clothes. They made a good job of it. They found not only his purse, but the money in his belt and in his shoes. They rushed him upstairs, where Twist’s money box was turned over to the winner, the man in gray, who poured the gold into a couple of leathern purses.
“The rascal has done well these past weeks,” growled one bystander who felt Twist deserved worse than he had got.
“Aye,” was the grim rejoinder from the winner. “And he got most of this gold from my brother—by the same method he used tonight.”
Clutched by so many ungentle hands, Twist was nearly sobbing in pain and fear and fury.
“Here, here, you can’t take all his gold,” cried the innkeeper, waking up to his own position in this thing. “He owes me for his lodgings, he does!”
A pair of bleak gray eyes were turned on him. “He’ll not be paying you with this gold, for he’s already gambled it away. I suggest you sell his clothes. His boots should bring something.”
“You can’t!” screamed Twist, turned pale at this new menace. “You can’t turn me out on a night like this without my clothes! I’d freeze to death!”
“Why, so you might,” said his adversary genially. “And rid us of you for all time.” He turned and clapped the disgruntled innkeeper on the shoulder. “Take heart,” he said, pouring some gold into the man’s hand. “This will buy drinks for the company.”
It was more than a generous amount and a general cheer went up from the group.
The tall gentleman held up his hand for silence and the cheers died down. “I make but one condition as you drink my health,” he said, smiling. “And that is that this devil be gone from the inn by the time I come back down these stairs!”
There was a roar of approval and Twist was seized anew and dragged back downstairs to be divested of all but his smallclothes. To Twist it was a terrible experience. A graduate of the city’s slums, he had lived his entire life by deceit, by stripping gullible fools of their money. And now he was to be turned into the street with an injured hand and without even proper clothes on his back!
Lovesong Page 16
