by Liz Carlyle
Lady Sharpe had drawn back, her expression wounded.
He turned to fully face her, dragging one hand through his hair. “I beg your pardon,” he rasped. “My language was—”
“Insignificant, really,” she interjected. “There is goodness in you, Kieran. I know that there is.”
“Pray do not bore us both with a recitation of my virtues, Pamela,” he said, softening his tone. “It would be a very short list anyway. I thank you for the compliment you have paid me, but you must ask someone else.”
“But…But we wish you to do it,” she said quietly. “Sharpe and I discussed it at length. We are quite persuaded you are the right person for such a grave responsibility. You, more than anyone, know the importance of bringing a child up properly—or, I should say, the damage done to one who is not brought up properly.”
“Don’t speak nonsense, Pamela,” he said gruffly.
“Moreover,” she continued amiably, “Sharpe and I are not as young as we once were. What if we should die?”
He let his hand drop.
What if they should die? He would be of damned little use to them.
“Xanthia will see to the child should something untoward happen,” he managed. “She and Nash would raise the boy as their own if you wished it. You know that they would.”
“But Kieran, the role of godfather is more than—”
“Pray do not ask me again, Pamela,” he interjected. “I cannot. And God knows my character is too stained even if you do not.”
“But I do not think you under—”
“No, my dear.” With surprising gentleness, Rothewell laid her hand across his forearm and turned her toward her chair. “It is you who does not understand. Now you must sit down, Pamela, and put your feet up. You must. And I must go.”
When they reached the chair, Lady Sharpe braced one hand on the chair arm and sank slowly into it. “When do Nash and Xanthia return?” she asked. “I daresay she will agree to do it.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, gently patting her shoulder. “Ask Nash to serve with her. He’ll be honored. After all, he still isn’t sure we like him.”
“Do we?” Lady Sharpe looked up.
Rothewell considered it. “Well enough, I daresay,” he finally answered. “We must trust Xanthia’s judgment. And now I think on it, I’m dashed grateful to have him around.”
“Are you?” The countess blinked. “Why?”
Rothewell managed a smile. “No particular reason, Pamela. Now, let me bid you good day.”
His cousin gave a pitiful sniff. “Well, we did hope you might stay to dinner, at the very least,” she said, beginning to pick at the pleats of her dressing gown again. “After all, you have no one at home now with whom to dine.”
Rothewell bent to kiss her cheek. “I am a solitary beast,” he assured her. “I will manage.”
The countess craned her head to look up at him, her lips pressed thinly together. “But you and Xanthia lived and worked cheek by jowl for thirty years,” she insisted. “It is only natural one might be lonely, Kieran.”
“Lived, aye, but not worked,” he answered, staring at the door, his escape route. “Xanthia was our brother Luke’s protégé, never mine. They were the peas in the pod, Pamela. I was just…the leftover husk.”
And then, before Pamela could dredge up her harangue yet again, Rothewell strode from the room.
Chapter Two
In which le comte Hosts a Card Party
The Comte de Valigny’s thin fingers writhed like small white eels as he cleverly shuffled his cards. With eyes which were jaded and desultory, his guests observed the flicking of each card as he dealt it, and the shards of sparkling, bloodred color thrown off by his ruby ring in the lamplight.
They were five at the comte’s parlor table on this particular night, each more dissolute than the next. Valigny’s game was vingt-et-un with a fifty-pound minimum, and after long hours of play, the drawing room smelled of stale smoke and even staler perspiration. Unbidden, Lord Rothewell rose and shoved up one of the sashes.
“Merci, mon ami.” Valigny shot a wicked smile in Rothewell’s direction as he slid the last card across the giltwood table. “The game grows fierce, does it not?”
Two of the gentlemen at the table were indeed looking desperate. Valigny himself should have been, but in all the months Lord Rothewell had been playing with the comte, he had never once seen the man hesitate—not even when he should have done. Valigny played deep, lost often, and dealt out his notes of hand almost as blithely as he dealt out his cards. But his wins, when they came, were the stuff of legend. Thus was the addict born.
“Bonne chance, monsieurs.” Initial cards dealt and bets placed, they each chose to draw. The comte was still smiling as he tapped one finger upon his exposed card—the queen of spades.
“Well, I’m damned.” Sir Ralph Henries was slurring his words and squinting at the black queen. “That’s twice in a row he’s had it! Did you give that pack a proper shuffle, Calvert? Did you?”
“You just watched me do so,” Calvert returned. “Good God, what have you to complain of? I’m halfway to the Fleet. Pour him another, Valigny. Perhaps that will keep him from whinging all night.”
Sir Ralph looked up woozily. “I’m not whinging,” he managed. “Wait—what’s become of those girls? Dashers, weren’t they? I liked the one with the…with the—what did you call it? The black leather thing and the—no, wait—am I mixed up, Vallie?”
“That was a few nights past, mon ami.” Valigny patted his hand solicitously. “Tonight we play at cards, hmm? Finish your hand, Ralph, or go home.”
After a cursory glance at his cards, Rothewell half turned in his chair and let his gaze drift round the shadowy depths of the room. He was not perfectly sure why he had permitted Valigny to lure him here tonight. The comte’s coterie of rogues was a low one, even by Rothewell’s standards. But of late he had found himself slipping into lower and lower company, as if searching for the soul-sucking mud at the bottom of society’s cesspool.
In keeping with this philosophy, he had stumbled across Valigny—he’d been too sotted to recall precisely where. But the comte was the sort of man whom one would ordinarily meet only in a Soho gaming hell, for Valigny did not belong to any of London’s finer clubs. Or any of the lesser ones, come to that. If Rothewell was scarcely known within the ton, Valigny was beyond knowing. There had been some long-ago scandal—a ruined countess and a brace of pistols afterward, or so Christine Armstrong had once whispered. Rothewell could have cared less.
“Another, my lord?” The comte edged one card off the pack with his thumb, his foppish lace cuff falling forward to cover half his hand. Rothewell inclined his head. Valigny sent the card sailing across the polished tabletop.
Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock struck one. The game picked up, the play growing ever more reckless. Mr. Calvert, the most decent amongst them, was soon on the verge of insolvency—virtue rewarded, Rothewell thought cynically. Valigny drew a natural twenty-one twice in a row, once with his black queen, then proceeded to throw it all away again.
One of his footmen brought in more brandy and another box of the dark, bitter cheroots which the comte favored. Rothewell lit one. A second servant carried in a platter of sandwiches. Calvert got up to piss—or perhaps puke—into the chamber pot kept tucked in the door of the sideboard. Everything was conveniently to hand. God forbid anything should delay Valigny’s play.
Lord Enders was a vicious player if ever one lived. He knew just how to taunt the comte, and pressed him hard. Rothewell was soon down six thousand pounds—a pittance compared to Valigny and Calvert. But he was still sober enough to find it bloody annoying. He motioned for one of the footmen to fetch the brandy.
The next hand soon dwindled to Rothewell and Valigny, who was betting as if his hand held perfection itself. Rothewell tipped up the corner of his card. The two of hearts and the king of diamonds down. The four of clubs up. Perhaps he had overstayed his luck.
“You are undecided, mon ami?” Valigny teased. “Come, be bold! It is only money.”
“Spoken like a man who has never had to earn his own keep,” said Rothewell grimly. He tossed off half his brandy, wondering if perhaps he should teach Valigny a lesson.
“Perhaps Rothewell’s pockets are not as deep as rumor suggests?” said Enders in a tone which might—or might not—have been facetious.
The comte smiled at Rothewell. “Perhaps you should preserve your cash, my lord?” he remarked. “Indeed, if you are willing, we might play for something a little more interesting than money.”
Rothewell’s hackles went up. “I doubt it,” he answered. “What did you have in mind?”
The comte lifted one shoulder, a study in nonchalance. “Perhaps just an evening of companionship?”
“You’re not my type, Valigny,” he said, pushing a pile of banknotes toward the center of the table.
“Oh, you misunderstand, mon ami.” Valigny’s fingertips stilled Rothewell’s hand, his elaborate white lace stark against Rothewell’s still-bronzed skin. “Keep your money, and turn your card. If you lose, I ask only one simple thing.”
Rothewell lifted the comte’s hand away. “And what would that be?”
The comte cocked one eyebrow. “Just a very small favor, I assure you.”
“Speak, Valigny. You delay the game.”
“I wish for one evening—just one—with the delectable Mrs. Ambrose.”
Rothewell was annoyed but not surprised. “You mistake my arrangement with the lady,” he said darkly. “Mrs. Ambrose is not in my keeping.”
“Non?” The comte looked genuinely confused.
“No.” Rothewell left his money on the table. “She may bestow her favors upon whomever she chooses.”
“And often does,” remarked Enders flippantly.
“Ah, but one can only imagine what favors!” Valigny drew his fingertips to his lips for a kiss. “So by all means, let us play for money, my lord. I shall have need of it, I think. Mrs. Ambrose looks expensive.”
“But worth it, one must suppose,” said Enders, cutting Rothewell a sidelong glance, “if one does not mind her being a little long in the tooth.”
The comte laughed, but nervously. Rothewell had lifted his gaze to Enders’s face. “I hope, sir, that you did not mean your remarks as the insults they sounded,” he said quietly. “I should hate to leave this game early merely to meet you again at dawn under far less hospitable circumstances.”
Enders stiffened. “I beg your pardon, then,” he said. “Your aim—and your temper—precede you, Rothewell. But unlike yourself, Mrs. Ambrose is not new to Town. We have all known her for years. Myself, I simply prefer the women I bed to be younger.”
“Mais oui, much, much younger, if what one hears is true,” Valigny chortled. “Still in the schoolroom with the hair in braids, eh? But what of it? Many men have such tastes.”
Enders was a stout, middle-aged widower with thick lips and even thicker fingers. Rothewell had detested him on sight, and time was doing nothing to alter that opinion. He particularly did not care for the turn the conversation was taking.
Enders was still staring at the comte, his gaze dark. “With enough money, a man can usually get what he wants, Valigny,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”
Valigny laughed again, but this time, there was an edge to it.
Rothewell finished the hand with a near-miraculous win; one which was to be followed by several more. But the conversation had left a sour taste in his mouth.
It was a little late in life, however, to be suddenly plagued by scruples. What business was it of his whom Enders fucked, or what Valigny thought of it? He was the last man on earth who should be pointing fingers. Still, it did bother him. And there was no denying Enders had a reputation for perversions of all manner.
The comte and Enders were still squabbling.
“Gentlemen, lesh not quarrel,” said Sir Ralph, who was now dipping deep enough to be in charity with all mankind. “Youth in a chap’s bed is all very well, aye? But at present, a rish woman should suit me even better. My purse has taken a proper thrashing.”
“Well, good luck to you,” said Enders sourly. “You may trust me when I say rich brides are a bit thin on the ground this time of year.”
“Oui, there is nothing so comforting as a rich wife, eh?” The comte leaned intently forward. “This topic, you see, has been much on my mind of late. But you are already a married man, Sir Ralph, are you not? And you, too, Mr. Calvert?”
Both men agreed. “Tant pis,” said the comte, his expression a little gloomy. “But you, Enders, had no luck at your marriage mart this season?”
“There were poor girls and eyesores aplenty,” Enders grumbled. “Always are. But the young girls with money are spiteful little bitches.”
The comte flashed a wry smile. “Oui, life can be so very hard, can it not, my friend?” he said. “Ah, well! Play on, messieurs!”
But Rothewell was seized by the sudden impulse to simply leave his pile of money and walk out. Wealth had never mattered much to him—and of late it had mattered even less. He wanted, strangely, to go home.
And yet he knew once he got there and began to pace the floors of that vast, empty place, the disquiet would soon drive him into the streets again. To go anywhere. To do anything. Anything which might drown out those devils of the night.
He motioned for Valigny’s footman to refill his glass and forced himself to relax. For the next hour he drank more than he played, refusing to press his luck with another mediocre hand. Calvert wisely withdrew, but remained at the table nursing a glass of port. Sir Ralph was too deep in his cups to pose a threat.
Over the next dozen hands, the play rose to a fevered pitch. If the comte had played like a madman from the start, he apparently meant to end it like a lunatic, all but shoving his money at them. His desperation—and his purpose in hosting this debacle—were starting to show. The chap must be but steps from the sponging house.
Suddenly, Valigny made a grievous error, drawing an eight to the queen of spades and the five of hearts. Lord Enders swept up the winnings—two thousand on the one hand.
“Alas, my dark queen has failed me!” said the comte. “Women are fickle creatures, are they not, Lord Rothewell? Play on, messieurs!”
The next was dealt, everyone taking an extra card. But within moments, Sir Ralph, who had drawn first, was running a finger round his collar as if his cravat was about to choke him. It was the move of a rank amateur. Valigny caught the gesture and pounced like a cat, pushing up the wager again.
Sir Ralph belched and glanced at his down cards.
“Ralph?” the comte prodded. “Do you stand?”
“Bugger all!” said Ralph, flipping over his cards. “Overdrawn! Should have said so lasht round, eh?” He jerked awkwardly from his chair. “Think I’d besht say g’night, lads. Not feeling quite the thing.”
Rothewell glanced over. Ralph did indeed hold twenty-three, and looked green enough to cast up his accounts. Valigny shrugged good-naturedly, then hastened his staggering guest in the general direction of the front door before Ralph could surrender to his collywobbles on the carpet.
Ralph aside, Rothewell did not miss the fine sheen of sweat on the comte’s face as he passed. The air of desperation in the room had heightened. Yes, Valigny needed money, and rather urgently. But playing with Enders—or even with Rothewell himself—was a foolish way to go about it. They were amongst the most hardened gamesters in London. They would likely have the comte beggared within the hour—yet the knowledge brought Rothewell no satisfaction.
The entire evening had been unsatisfactory, really. He was wasting his time—though, in a way, that was the very point of iniquity, wasn’t it? To satiate oneself with revelry—liquor or sex or a hundred other wicked pursuits—which might numb a man to the truth of what his life had become.
But if he were honest, he would have to admit that the pursuit of wicke
dness no longer hid from him who or what he was to even the smallest degree—and drink, he was beginning to fear, no longer numbed him.
Had it begun with Xanthia’s going away? No, not precisely. But after that, everything had simply gone to hell in a thousand little ways.
In any case, there was no point in lingering here. Since sin wasn’t working, there was always gunpowder. If a man wished to hasten God’s will, it might be less painful simply to go home and put a pistol to his head rather than remain here listening to Enders and Valigny pecking at one another.
The comte returned to the table, an expression of amused chagrin upon his face. “Alas, messieurs, Madame Fortune has forsaken me tonight, n’est-ce pas?”
“And Sir Ralph cannot bloody count.” Rothewell began to push away from the table. “Gentlemen, let’s retract our wagers and call it a night.”
“Non!” Something which might have been fear sketched across Valigny’s face. He urged Rothewell back into his chair, his smile returning. “I feel Madame Fortune returning to me, perhaps. May I not have a gentleman’s chance to win back what I have lost?”
“With what stakes?” challenged Enders. “Look here, Valigny, I cannot take another note from you. Even if you win this bollixed-up hand, it is but a pittance to me.”
The tension in the room was palpable now. The comte licked his lips. “But I have saved the best wager for last,” he said rapidly. “Something which might be of interest to you—and a benefit, perhaps, to me.”
Mr. Calvert lifted both hands. “I am but a spectator.”
“Indeed,” said the comte. “I speak to Enders—and to Rothewell, perhaps.”
“Then speak,” said Rothewell quietly. “The game grows cold.”
Valigny braced both hands on the table and leaned into them. “I propose we replay this last hand now that Sir Ralph is gone,” he said, glancing back and forth between them. “The winner shall take everything on the table tonight. Calvert will take the pack as a neutral dealer. We play only one another.”
“Dashed odd way of doing things,” Calvert muttered.
