by Rakes Reward
The Dowager held out her balloon to be refilled. Obediently, Marina fetched the decanter and splashed some of the amber liquid into it. Lady Luce snorted. ‘That’s not even a mouthful.’ She shook the glass impatiently until Marina added considerably more. ‘Better,’ she said. ‘And you should have some, too.’
‘Oh, no, ma’am. I never drink spirits. I—’
‘Fetch another glass. You will need it. You have a difficult day ahead of you. William will see to that. Just the sort of thing he enjoys.’
The Dowager was right. In the next twenty-four hours, Marina was like to be dismissed. Her stomach turned over at the thought of the coming interview with Lady Luce’s dreadful son. She sipped tentatively at her brandy and gasped as it burned its way down. ‘Good grief,’ she choked out at last. ‘Do people really drink this for pleasure?’
Lady Luce laughed. She reached out her scrawny hand and placed it over Marina’s smoother one. ‘You have courage, Marina. I’ll give you that. And I’ll not let that arrogant son of mine bully you, or send you packing.’
Marina looked up in surprise.
‘Why did you think I took you to Méchante’s tonight? Did you think it was chance?’ She shook her head at Marina’s obvious incomprehension. ‘I have no intention of permitting William to order my life. Not in any way. I took you to that gambling den to show him—and you—that I shall play whenever, and wherever, I wish. He cannot stop me. And setting up a chit of a governess to watch over me will not stop me either.’
Marina felt herself blushing. ‘I…I did not…’
‘No, you did not. I’d have discharged you myself if I had thought for a moment that you were William’s tool. As it is, he promised me a companion, all expenses paid. I shall hold him to our bargain.’
Marina gulped. Life was like to become extremely unpleasant if the old lady and her son used her as a pawn in their endless trials of strength. And with a loss of twelve thousand pounds to sharpen the contest…
Lady Luce held out her glass for another refill. Then she sat for a long time, cradling her brandy and staring vacantly towards the wall.
She must be thinking about the money, Marina decided. She cannot possibly find such a huge sum. Especially not in one week.
‘He was determined on his revenge,’ said the Dowager, musingly. ‘I suppose I cannot blame him. He was word-perfect, too. I should have known he would be.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am? I’m afraid I do not quite follow…’
‘No reason why you should. And I wasn’t talking to you, in any event.’ At Marina’s sharp intake of breath, she softened the merest fraction. ‘Oh, you will come to learn it all in the end, I suppose. Best that I tell you myself. Can’t have you hearing gossip from the servants. Wouldn’t get the facts right, I dare say.’ Lady Luce chuckled a little at her own wit. ‘There is not much to tell. Several years ago, when Kit Stratton was barely out of leading strings, he lost five thousand pounds to me. I was in pretty deep myself at the time and could not afford to give him time to pay…or even an opportunity to recoup his losses. I demanded payment in seven days. I used those very words. He has been waiting his chance for revenge ever since.’
The story did not sound in the least plausible to Marina. Gentlemen lost thousands of pounds at play all the time. Why should Kit Stratton be bent on vengeance? Against a woman, too?
Her doubts must have been obvious, for Lady Luce looked somewhat shamefaced. ‘He paid,’ she said hoarsely, ‘on the nail. I found out later that his brother Hugo had given him the money—out of his wife’s dowry. They had been married less than a week. Kit was sent abroad soon after.’
‘Oh,’ breathed Marina. No wonder Kit Stratton had felt humiliated. And what of the brother? What had Hugo Stratton thought of it all? Had Hugo Stratton really sent his brother into exile? He— Hugo Stratton? Now she knew why the name had seemed familiar!
The Dowager was beginning to ramble. It must be the effects of too much brandy. ‘Can’t say I blame the boy. My own fault. Let him think I was doing it out of malice when it was really William’s fault. Insisted he couldn’t afford to tow me out of River Tick. I couldn’t admit that to young Stratton, could I? But to use the very same words…’ She raised her glass yet again.
‘Do you know Hugo Stratton, ma’am? The brother?’
‘What? Yes. No. Well…we are barely acquainted, but everyone knows about him. He’s as rich as Croesus since his brother died, never mind the money from his wife. Doesn’t come up to London much. Got out of the habit after the war, they say, because he hated being stared at.’
‘Stared at?’
‘He was badly wounded. Waterloo, I think.’ The Dowager frowned. ‘Why all this sudden interest in Sir Hugo Stratton? What is he to you, miss?’
Marina swallowed. ‘I think he may have served with my father, ma’am,’ she said quietly, gazing down at her skirts. ‘In Spain. I think he fought in the battle where my father and my uncle died.’
Lady Luce said nothing. She simply reached for the brandy decanter and tipped a generous measure into Marina’s glass.
Marina tried in vain to find a comfortable position in her bed. It must be nearly dawn. Her head was pounding, but she could not possibly sleep. What on earth had possessed the Dowager to give her brandy? Her brain was refusing to function.
She tried again.
Kit Stratton was Sir Hugo Stratton’s younger brother. And a Captain Hugo Stratton had been her uncle’s closest friend. They had served together for years. According to Uncle George, Hugo Stratton was the best friend, and the staunchest comrade, that a man could wish for. It was partly due to Captain Stratton’s influence that Marina’s father had joined the 95th. It was not Captain Stratton’s fault that the brothers had died so soon after.
Kit Stratton could not be as bad as he was painted. It was not possible. Not if he was Hugo Stratton’s brother. And he must be. It was an unusual name. Perhaps Kit had had other reasons for his hatred of the Dowager. Perhaps his insult to Marina herself was simply an unconscious continuation of his harshness at the card table. Perhaps…
There was no way of knowing, unless she found out for herself.
Yes, that was the answer. She would seek out Kit Stratton and ask him to forgive the Dowager’s debt. If necessary, she would ask him to do it in memory of her uncle and her father—and for his brother Hugo’s sake. No gentleman could possibly deny such a request.
The thought of such an interview made her stomach churn. She would have to abandon the last shreds of her pride to make her appeal, and if he treated her with the same degree of contempt as before… She shivered. She was not sure she could bear that.
Was he a gentleman at all?
It was true that the Dowager had rambled on for what seemed like hours about Kit Stratton’s way of life, his mistresses, his fine clothes, his carriages, his horses… He had all the outward attributes of a very wealthy gentleman. But did he have a sense of honour to go with his high-couraged horses?
Marina smiled weakly. The horses had provided her solution. She rather wished they had not. Kit Stratton exercised his horses in the park every morning, come rain, come shine, no matter how great his indulgence the night before. According to the Dowager, it was one of his few saving graces.
He would be in the park tomorrow morning. No—in just a few hours. She had only to go there and confront him. As a gentleman, he could not fail to listen to a lady’s pleas.
That was not true.
He could spurn her without a moment’s hesitation. He had done so once already, knowing perfectly well that she was a lady. He could do so again, unless she could find some way of breaking through his armoured exterior.
Her own pride did not matter. It was her duty to protect her family—and to do so, she must retain her position with Lady Luce. To save the Dowager, she must challenge Kit Stratton.
Why did he have to ride such a huge animal? Kit Stratton’s bay stallion must be seventeen hands or more. Marina felt completely dwar
fed by horse and rider. Would he even condescend to rein in to greet her? He could not mistake the fact that she wished to speak to him.
Kit touched his crop carelessly to his hat, using his other hand to bring his horse to a stand with practised ease. There was a sardonic gleam in his eye as he looked down at her. ‘You are about betimes, ma’am,’ he said. His gaze wandered lazily around the park before coming back to rest on Marina’s shabby figure. ‘And you appear to have…mislaid your maid.’
‘A companion does not have a maid,’ snapped Marina, ‘as you know very well, Mr Stratton.’
His eyebrows shot up. Then he nodded slowly, once. ‘No. She has the tongue of a shrew instead, it would seem.’
Marina was suddenly sure she was blushing. Confound the man! This was not at all what she had intended for this interview. She swallowed hard. She must start again. ‘Mr Stratton,’ she said, as evenly as she could, ‘I should be most grateful if we might have a private word. About…about last night. I—’
He frowned. ‘You are come as Lady Luce’s envoy? Believe me, ma’am—’
‘No! No! She knows nothing of this, I promise you. I have my own reasons for wishing to…to consult you. You see…’
His expression was changing even as she spoke. He was almost smiling, but there was nothing in the least pleasant in it. Marina felt a sudden urge to flee. She swallowed again. He was doing everything he could to make her position impossible. He had not even dismounted, as any true gentleman would have done. That thought gave rise to a spark of anger. Heedless of risk, she fanned it. He was trying—deliberately—to overset her. He despised her, a poor plain companion, for daring to approach rich, handsome Kit Stratton.
‘You mistake me, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘I am not come at Lady Luce’s bidding but at my own, to ask a…a favour of you.’ There. It was out. And Kit Stratton’s face was dark with anger. ‘Not for her ladyship’s sake—I know that is impossible—but for—’
‘A favour?’ Kit snarled. ‘A favour for whom? For you, ma’am? Believe me, I do not do favours for ladies. Not unless they have earned them.’ He glanced quickly over her thin person, his eyes narrowing.
Marina stood stock still. She could neither move nor speak. This could not be happening. Was he really saying that—?
‘I see that you take my meaning, ma’am. Good.’
He leant down towards her. The fresh, clean scent of his cologne assailed her. It seemed completely at variance with the black-hearted man who wore it. She forced herself to stand her ground.
‘If you wish to…discuss the matter of last evening’s events, ma’am, I will be pleased to give you a hearing. I shall be free at…eleven o’clock this morning. You may present your petition then. In private.’ He gave her an address in Chelsea. To Marina, a stranger in London, it meant nothing.
He sat back into his saddle and took up the slack in the reins. ‘I shall expect you at eleven. Do not be late.’
Chapter Six
Kit looked up from his newspaper as the long-case clock in the hall began to strike the hour. He had done her the courtesy of being here, because she was a lady. But he had known she would not come.
He turned back to his newspaper. He would just finish the report he had been reading, and then he would leave for his club. No doubt the story of his winnings would have done the rounds by now. He was like to hear about nothing else for a se’enight.
He leaned back into his leather wing chair, relishing the peace of the cramped Chelsea sitting room.
Five minutes later, a quiet knock on the door was followed by the entrance of the tiny woman who looked after the house. ‘There is a…a person to see you, sir,’ she said, bobbing a polite curtsy. ‘She will not give a name. She—’
‘The lady is come by appointment, to discuss a matter of business,’ Kit said firmly, to quell the speculation in the housekeeper’s eye. He rose to his feet. ‘Show her in, Mrs Budge.’
The grey lady was liberally spattered with mud. Kit looked quickly towards the window. He had been so absorbed, he had not noticed the rain. Had she walked all the way? Had she no sense at all? She was already unattractive enough, even without the addition of brown mud to her grey appearance.
And still she thought to sway him?
He shook his head wonderingly. She seemed ill prepared for the mammoth task she had undertaken.
He raised his brows enquiringly. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said politely. She had stiffened noticeably. Surely she did not feel insulted by his treatment of her? A woman—a lady—who had come to a private meeting in a gentleman’s house?
He waited for her to speak. He would not help her.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said at last. The poke of her drab bonnet dipped a fraction.
Was that a token bow? It seemed he would receive nothing more. Kit returned it in kind, from his much greater height. She dropped her eyes. She was nervous, clearly. He waited once more.
‘It was good of you to see me,’ she said, as if their meeting was the most normal thing in the world, rather than an outrage against the rules of Society. ‘You said I might… The truth is, I wanted…I wished to ask you to forgive Lady Luce’s debt. Oh, I know it is a fortune, but you are a very rich man, whereas she is old and—’
‘And poor?’ finished Kit sardonically. ‘If your mistress is poor, ma’am, it is because she has gambled away her substance. She has no one to blame but herself. Do you not agree?’
She looked guilty but said nothing. Her silence was beginning to annoy Kit. He realised, in that moment, that he did not know her name.
‘Do you not agree, ma’am?’ he said again. ‘Pardon me, but I have not had the honour of an introduction.’ He bowed politely. ‘You are Miss Smith, I suppose?’ he found himself adding sarcastically. There was something about this lady that vexed him intensely.
She lifted her chin and looked shrewdly up at him. ‘No, Mr Stratton, I am Miss Beaumont,’ she said calmly, holding up her muddy skirts so that she might drop him a disdainful curtsy.
She had the pride of a duchess—in the garb of a scullery maid. If he was not careful, she could best him in this encounter. And that he would never permit. Not from any woman.
‘Well, Miss Beaumont,’ Kit began quickly, motioning her to the second wing chair, ‘just what have you to offer me that is worth twelve thousand pounds?’
She stopped short in the act of sitting down. The colour had drained from her face in an instant. She had become almost as grey as her gown.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said in a voice raw with hostility.
Kit allowed himself to smile down at her. She recoiled gratifyingly, but she did not look away. She had a degree of courage, this grey lady.
‘Many a man has allowed himself to be leg-shackled for a mere fraction of twelve thousand pounds, Miss Beaumont. It is, as you said, a fortune. And yet you would have me forgo it.’ He took a step towards her. They were so close now that the muddy hem of her dress was trailing on his boots. ‘You place a very high value on what you have to offer, Miss Beaumont,’ he said, making his voice almost a caress.
Her head came up sharply and colour flooded back into her cheeks. She made to slap his face.
‘No, Miss Beaumont,’ Kit said, catching her wrist with his left hand and twisting it behind her back. ‘I am afraid I do not permit ladies to strike me.’ He looked down into her face. She had hazel eyes, flecked with gold. They were wide with fear. Was she so naïve that she did not know what she risked, visiting him like this?
He pulled her hard against him, unintentionally twisting her wrist a little in the process. Her lips parted on a tiny cry of pain.
He immediately relaxed his grip, but his gaze was caught by those invitingly parted lips. She needed to learn her lesson, once and for all. He brought his right hand up to cradle her head and lowered his mouth to hers.
She was not willing.
Her free hand clawed at him, her nails mercifully sheathed in her cheap gloves. Without raising his
mouth from hers, he quickly imprisoned both her wrists in one lean hand.
Now she was truly caught.
Gently, unthreateningly, he began to pull at the strings of her bonnet. Her lips parted a little more as if to bid him welcome. She was yielding to him at last. He had expected no less. Women always yielded…sooner or later. He started his assault in earnest…
Without warning, a heavy boot kicked him hard on the ankle.
Kit drew in a sharp, painful breath. Automatically, he pulled away, but he knew better than to let go of his attacker.
What a picture she made! Her bonnet was askew and her dress was filthy, but her slim bosom was heaving and her eyes were ablaze with fury. She had a perfect complexion, he noted absently, especially when she was aroused. What a pity that anger, rather than desire, was the cause.
‘I will thank you to let me go,’ she said hoarsely. She sounded hard put to it to retain even a vestige of politeness.
Kit slid his hands up her arms until she was firmly gripped once more and held her at arm’s length. She was unlikely to attempt another kick from that position. ‘My dear Miss Beaumont, do you take me for a complete fool? I will let you go when I have your word to behave like a lady, and not before.’
Anger changed to embarrassment. She was actually blushing!
‘You have it, sir,’ she said stiffly. ‘Do I have yours that you will behave like a gentleman?’
Kit was surprised into a shout of laughter at her temerity. What an astonishing woman!
He shook his head somewhat ruefully, but did not slacken his hold. ‘Whoever told you I was a gentleman, Miss Beaumont? I fear you have been misinformed.’
She stared up at him. Her eyes were still blazing, but it did not seem to be anger now—or not wholly. ‘I do not believe you, sir,’ she said staunchly. Then she simply turned her head to stare down at the hand that was grasping her left arm. ‘If you please, Mr Stratton…’ She stood absolutely still, waiting.
