by Rakes Reward
What on earth had made her think that? Marina was suddenly horrified by the picture his lean fingers had conjured up. He was only a gambler. Ruthless, yes, but a gentleman, surely?
Without raising his hand, Mr Stratton slid all four bills from the nine to the ten. The moment he lifted his hand from the table, Lady Luce dealt another banker’s card. Another nine!
The bald man gave a crack of laughter. He made to comment on such amazing luck, but the Dowager frowned him down. It was not surprising that she wanted no distractions in this duel. She dealt the carte anglaise with careful deliberation. This time, the players’ card was a queen. The young man won. With a quick sideways glance, he pocketed his winnings and moved his original stake to join Mr Stratton’s on the ten.
He, too, senses that this is a battle to the death, Marina thought. And he has chosen to side with the men, and with youth, against one solitary old woman.
Marina forced her thoughts back to the cards. Thirteen had been played. She could remember every one. Kit Stratton had staked four hundred pounds on the ten. There were still thirty-nine cards to be faced. And among them were four tens.
Marina was having difficulty remembering the cards.
It had never happened to her before. She had prided herself on that ability, yet now, when it really mattered, it seemed to be deserting her. It was something to do with those strong, lean hands. She could not take her eyes from them. What was it about them? Mostly, they lay relaxed and utterly still on the baize table while Kit Stratton watched the deal of every card. He was like a hawk—a detached, ruthless hunter, ready to launch itself on any quarry that became even slightly vulnerable.
There were only nineteen cards left. And still not a single ten had appeared.
Beyond the archway, a knot of onlookers was gazing across at Lady Luce and her cards. Clearly, Lady Marchant’s table had broken up in order to watch the excitement of the duel between Mr Stratton and the Dowager. Lady Luce frowned across at her unwelcome audience, and then returned her attention to the players. The bald man was leaning back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. The youngster was all excitement. He did not speak, but his eyes kept flicking back and forth from the money lying on the ten to the banker’s set face. There were beads of sweat on his furrowed brow. His fate was bound up with Kit Stratton’s…and the elusive ten.
Lady Luce faced another pair of cards. The bald man’s card won. Impassive, the Dowager pushed his winnings across the table and waited while he decided on his next wager. The pile of paper and coin in front of her was now pitifully small. She desperately needed a winning card.
Marina could see the increasing tension in the Dowager’s fixed smile. Her lips were becoming thinner and thinner. Her hands were absolutely steady, however, as she turned up the next card. A nine to the banker. Useless.
And then the players’ card. A ten.
There was a tiny gasp, quickly muffled, from one of the watchers by the archway. The young man at the table was grinning from ear to ear, but Mr Stratton had not moved a muscle. He was still gazing at the cards.
The Dowager pushed her last two bills across to the young man. With what seemed to be an apologetic glance at Mr Stratton, he pocketed his winnings and moved his stake from the ten to the queen. Lady Luce had no more bills. Rather than count out two hundred pounds in coin, she reached for pen and ink to scribble a vowel for Mr Stratton’s winnings.
His raised hand stayed her.
Marina held her breath, knowing instinctively what was to come.
With a long finger, Kit Stratton indicated that his winnings remained on the table.
This time, Marina herself could not stifle a groan. Kit Stratton was riding his luck. If he won again, the Dowager would have to pay him seven times his stake. That was nearly three thousand pounds!
Lady Luce reached towards the cards. Marina closed her eyes, not daring to look. There were still three tens in the pack under the Dowager’s hand.
A groan from the bald man made her open her eyes once more. The bald man had lost. And Kit Stratton had won with another ten.
This time, Marina knew exactly what he would do. That long finger moved again. All his winnings—against a prize of fifteen times his stake!
Three more deals, and no more tens appeared. The young man lost on his queen. The bald man won on a king.
Kit Stratton sat as if turned to stone.
There were only seven cards left.
Marina forced her whirling mind to concentrate on the cards. What were they? She ought to know.
She frowned into the silence, pushing every other thought out of her mind. Her brain cleared quite suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn back from a chalkboard on which the cards had been written. Two aces, a two, a three, a knave…and two tens.
The bald man had two hundred pounds on the ace. The young man had put his stake on the six. Clearly he had no ability to remember cards.
Mr Stratton’s hand lay carelessly on the green baize, his index finger extended towards one corner of the ten.
It seemed that no one dared to breathe while they waited for Lady Luce to face the next pair of cards. An ace for the banker. And a three for the players.
Lady Luce reached out to remove her winnings from the ace. Marina offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Now, let the same happen with the ten. Please.
The bald man was not prepared to retreat. He looked a little shiftily at the other players and then placed a stake on the ten. It seemed he had decided that Kit Stratton’s luck was in.
With calm deliberation, the Dowager faced her next card. It was a useless two. She paused a moment, then quickly turned over the carte anglaise.
Ten!
The bald man gave a little crow of triumph. It was followed by a pregnant silence as everyone in the room watched to see what Kit Stratton would do. He could take his money now—six thousand pounds—or he could let it ride, in hopes of redoubling his winnings to thirty times his original stake.
For several seconds he sat as still as a statue. What was he thinking? There were only three cards left. Such an experienced gambler must know that the banker now had two chances of winning while the players had only one. The bald man had quickly pocketed his money. He was wise to do so, Marina judged. Surely Kit Stratton could not win again? Only the most hardened gamester would play on.
It seemed that Kit Stratton was a gambler to the core. With total nonchalance he tapped his pile of winnings into place. He never once raised his eyes from the cards.
But, for the briefest moment, an ironic smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.
Marina’s heart was racing. That twitch of the lips had told her everything. Kit Stratton was well aware that the odds were against him, but he was prepared to run with his luck in order to defeat a woman he detested. And if he did not succeed now, he would make sure there were other occasions. He was the Dowager’s enemy.
Marina looked towards Lady Luce. Under her old-fashioned face-paint, her skin was grey. Yet her eyes sparkled angrily. She had accepted Mr Stratton’s latest challenge. Better to risk an unlikely loss of twelve thousand than to pay out on a certain loss of six.
Surreptitiously, Marina crossed the fingers of her right hand. She was not superstitious—she prided herself on being too well educated for such things—but she could not resist the impulse. She must not cross the fingers on her left hand, for that, she remembered a little guiltily, would bring bad luck. She forced herself to watch. Like the Dowager, she would show she was no coward.
Three cards remained—an ace, a knave, and a ten.
Lady Luce’s tiny wrinkled hand hovered over the pack. Then, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, she faced the first of them with a snap. The ace.
Marina dug her crossed fingers into the palm of her left hand. Two cards only. The chances were equal now.
Lady Luce smiled calmly across at the players, but Mr Stratton continued to stare at the table. He could not see the banker’s defiance as she turned the card that c
ould be her ruin.
Ten.
Kit Stratton had won twelve thousand pounds.
With a gesture of disgust, Lady Luce faced the final, useless card. It was over. She had taken on the challenge and she had lost. She visibly straightened her back and waited for her adversary to speak.
He did not. He sat, as still as ever, staring at his winning card. Then, very slowly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth stretched into a taut, venomous smile. It made the hair on the back of Marina’s neck stand on end. There was something almost devilish in Kit Stratton’s expression.
He raised his head a fraction and stared at the Dowager, with that nasty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Marina was reminded of a cobra, its head rising before its victim as it prepared to strike. How could she ever have thought him handsome? Hatred and the lust for vengeance had put hideous lines into that remarkable face. She wanted to look away, but she could not. Opposite Mr Stratton, the Dowager was ashen. She seemed to have shrunk. She looked suddenly very old, and very frail.
Mr Stratton seemed to be waiting for Lady Luce to speak, to concede defeat. Yes, he would enjoy that. He wanted to humiliate her to the uttermost.
Lady Luce did not manage a smile, but she nodded casually towards her opponent as if nothing out of the way had occurred. Then she began to gather up the cards with deft, steady hands.
Marina’s own hands were nothing like as steady. She kept them hidden in her lap. She must do something.
Slowly, languidly, Kit Stratton rose from his seat. He was enjoying this. From his great height, he looked down on Lady Luce, still smiling nastily. After a moment more, he spoke in a soft, sibilant voice. The cobra again. ‘Success is mine on this occasion, I see,’ he said.
Lady Luce scribbled a vowel and pushed it across the table. She said nothing. Her self-control was unbelievable.
‘But I am in no hurry to collect what is due to me.’ Mr Stratton narrowed his eyes balefully and lowered his voice even more. ‘I shall look for settlement of this in, shall we say, seven days?’ He bowed from the neck, never taking his eyes off the Dowager. ‘I shall now bid you good evening, ma’am.’
Lady Luce said nothing. There was no need. The expression of loathing on her face was eloquent. Marina thought she could also detect a hint of fear.
Kit Stratton put the sheet of paper in his pocket and turned to leave. He had triumphed. Marina had fallen at the very first hurdle. The Earl would dismiss her forthwith. Her only chance of employment would be ruined, at a stroke, by this handsome, hateful man. Someone must stop him.
Almost without knowing it, Marina rose from her place and moved to put herself between Mr Stratton and the archway into the adjoining room. ‘Sir…’ she began, putting a hand on his arm to stay him. He turned sharply to look down at her. She had never seen eyes so cold, so hard. He was ruthless, implacable, and full of hate. Nothing would move such a man. ‘Sir,’ she began again, hardly knowing what she was going to ask of him, ‘will you not—?’
She was not permitted to finish her sentence. With a sneering curl of that beautiful mouth, Kit Stratton lifted her fingers and removed them from his coat, dropping them instantly as if they were diseased. ‘No, madame,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Whatever it is you would ask of me—’ he looked her slowly up and down ‘—the answer is no.’ He had a fine cambric handkerchief in his left hand—it seemed to have been conjured out of the very air—and, quite deliberately, he flicked it across his immaculate sleeve where Marina’s touch had sullied it.
Marina was outraged. How dare he?
One eyebrow quirked upwards by the tiniest fraction. He was pleased at her reaction. What a villain he was! Marina could not think of words harsh enough to describe such a man. He was—
He was gone.
And with him went all Marina’s hopes.
Chapter Five
Kit passed out through the silent onlookers who fell back to make way for him. There was awe on some of their faces. Probably none of them would have dared to take such risks.
Out on the landing, the drunk was long gone. The entrance hall below seemed to be deserted.
Kit walked slowly down the elegant staircase, his mind a blank. He could barely remember what he had done, except that he had had his revenge at last. He ought to feel elated, exhilarated, triumphant—but he did not. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He turned to watch Méchante’s luscious figure descend the stairs, swaying seductively. The silk of her gown was almost transparent, leaving little to the imagination. In recent years, Kit had come to prefer his women a little more restrained. Unlike Méchante, Kit’s current mistress did not peddle her wares to every man in sight. The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg offered herself only to him—and to her husband, of course. Kit could hardly object to that.
He waited for Méchante to join him, mentally comparing her with his delectable Katharina and finding his hostess a little wanting. Yes, he would go to Katharina. Losing himself in her body would give him back a measure of sanity after this night’s madness.
‘Must you go, Kit?’ Lady Marchant purred. ‘May we not drink a glass of champagne to your victory? And to old times? I have a fine vintage on ice in my private apartments.’ She gazed at him with wide green eyes and stretched up to whisper in his ear, pressing her body sensuously against his. ‘My guests can do without me for an hour or so.’
Kit’s body did not react at all to her blatant invitation. Bedding a beautiful woman was a pleasure as normal—and as fleeting—as winning a hand of cards. But Méchante left him cold. She had been his mistress once, five years ago, and she had betrayed him.
He lifted her hand to his lips so that she could not read the expression in his eyes. ‘No, my dear,’ he said silkily, ‘I never go back. And I never share.’
‘Be careful, my friend.’ Lady Marchant was not purring any longer. There was an edge of malice in her voice and her feline eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘Your Katharina takes too many risks. Her husband may not be quite so forgiving, now that you are no longer in Vienna. There, he was just another minor aristocrat. Here, he is a diplomatic representative of the Hapsburg Empire. A scandal would ruin him.’ She dropped a tiny, impudent curtsy. ‘And it could happen so very easily, do you not think?’
Clever. And still dangerous. She was well named. Kit looked her full in the face. Yes, they understood each other. ‘I thank you for your invitation, Méchante. And for your wise words.’ He bowed again and turned to take his hat and cane from the servant. ‘Now, I must bid you goodnight. A most interesting evening. I am indebted to you.’
Her brittle laugh followed him down the steps and into the crisp night air.
It was very late. Katharina would have tired of waiting for him. She would have gone back to her husband. She would have been mad to stay till now.
Kit closed the door quietly behind him and made his way up the stairs of the snug Chelsea house he had rented for their assignations. He would sleep here for a few hours. Tomorrow—later today, rather—he would find Katharina and apologise. She would forgive him…probably. And if she chose to exact a penance, well…that would be enjoyable, too.
He smelt her perfume even before he opened the door to their bedchamber. He breathed it in deeply, trying to conjure up memories of her body under his. Such a pity that she had gone.
‘Kätchen!’
The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg lay sprawled across the huge bed, idly leafing through a magazine. She turned in surprise at the sound of her pet name and, for a second, a tiny frown creased her brow. ‘Du kommst spät,’ she began, rolling over on to her back to look up at him with huge dark eyes full of hurt and accusation.
‘Auf Englisch, Kätchen,’ he said wearily. She had every right to complain of his lateness, but he was in no mood for one of her scenes. She need not have waited, after all. He returned to the charge. ‘You are in London now. Here, you must speak English.’
The Baroness made a face. ‘So you say,’ she replied. ‘I do not see wh
y so. We are alone, are we not? We may speak in any language we choose. Français, peutêtre?’
Kit pressed his lips together to suppress a sharp retort. She could be remarkably provocative, his little Austrian. And this was the wrong time. ‘No, madame. English,’ he said firmly, beginning to strip off his coat. He stretched his long body on the bed beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘But words are dangerous. They can betray us…in any language.’
He ran a lazy finger down the inside of her deep décolletage until it came to rest in the shadow between her perfect breasts. He began to stroke her skin as gently as if he were wafting a feather fan across a rose petal. Katharina closed her eyes in ecstasy.
‘And what need have we of words?’ Kit whispered. His lips were so close to her cheek that each word was a caress on her skin. She sighed out a long, shuddering breath.
Kit gazed down at the ravishing picture she made. His body was beginning to heat. At last.
‘You have it exactly, my dear,’ he said softly.
Lady Luce’s hand was shaking as she raised the brandy balloon to her lips and tossed off the contents. ‘I should have left that house the moment I saw him,’ she said bitterly, collapsing into her favourite chair by the window. ‘He is the very devil. With the devil’s own luck.’
Marina nodded her understanding. There was no need to ask who was meant. It was strange to see the Dowager so…deflated.
Lady Luce groaned. ‘And as for William…’ She shook her head angrily at the thought of her son. ‘He will positively relish raking me down. Not that he will be given the chance,’ she added, straightening her shoulders a little. ‘Thought he could fool me. Foisting a gel like you on his mother to keep her in order. Who is the fool now, I say?’
So the Dowager had known all along. Marina was not at all surprised. The old lady was very sharp. And her son was…not his mother’s equal. Not that it made any difference, as far as the companion was concerned. The Earl might be somewhat lacking in brains, but he had the ability to send Marina packing.
