Scot Under the Covers

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Are we in for some trouble again, my lady?”

  “I believe we may well be. Arrange to send one of the footmen to lurk about outside of Boodle’s. I wish to be informed immediately if anything untoward happens.”

  “I’ll see to it, my lady.”

  In the meantime, she would try squeezing some additional information out of Niall. The MacTaggert brothers, though, tended to become a veritable wall of stone whenever she attempted to cajole one of them to speak about another. It made her proud to see them so close and so loyal, but at the same time their stubbornness was absolutely maddening. And whether they’d been apart for seventeen years or not, she still worried about them—and about the one who supposedly most resembled herself, in particular.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aden brushed street dust from the shoulders of his coat and stepped into the Boodle’s gaming room—half a dozen tables with a fair amount of space between them and no windows to speak of. Determined gamers didn’t always wish to know how late an evening had gotten. This afternoon only half the tables were occupied, with Vale sitting by himself at the very center. The captain wanted to make a show of this, then. Well, he was going to have one, even if it likely wasn’t the spectacle he expected.

  Without preamble he took the seat opposite Vale. “Generally when a man calls me a coward and a bounder, or whatever it was ye wrote out and had someone else deliver to me, it means I’m about to be in a fight. Ye seem to want to play cards, though, so let’s get to it.”

  “You’ve been busy, I hear,” Robert Vale said. “From what I’ve been able to determine, you have what, eight hundred quid left in your pockets with which to win back what Matthew Harris owes me? Unless you were very lucky wherever it was you were last night, that is.”

  The vulture didn’t know everything, then. And Aden had only five hundred twenty quid left to his name. “Oh, I was lucky. Just nae playing cards.”

  Vale sat forward a little, placing a crisp, fresh deck on the table between them. “Good for you. That is your goal, though, is it not? To purchase Matthew’s debt and set him and his lovely sister free?”

  “Mayhap,” Aden returned, gesturing for a plate of roast chicken and a glass of whisky. The bits he’d eaten before his five minutes of sleep hadn’t been enough to keep a mosquito alive.

  “Not maybe,” Vale corrected. “It’s a fact. Matthew told me that you’re … what was it? ‘Coming for me.’” He lowered his voice beneath the hearing of the men seated around them. “He also told me that you despoiled my bride-to-be. A cowardly way to attempt to win a game, but an unsuccessful one.”

  “Ye talk a lot,” Aden drawled, and rapped his knuckles on the deck of cards. “What’s yer game?”

  “What isn’t my game? I enjoy faro, hazard, vingt-et-un, and whist, though it’s difficult to find a competent partner for the latter. Piquet is good, and it has the benefit of not requiring a dealer or a banker.”

  “Aye. Just ye and me. Piquet it is, then. Low card deals.”

  “Not so fast, MacTaggert. You are an eager brute, aren’t you? A hundred quid that I draw the low hand.”

  Pure chance didn’t much appeal to Aden; he preferred relying on his skill. In the end it likely didn’t much matter, except that if Vale truly meant to rely on nothing but chance and happenstance, winning—or losing—might take some time. “From the size of the deck it looks like ye’ve already pulled out the cards we’ll nae be using, aye?”

  “Of course I did.” The vulture lifted one arched brow. “Thirty-two cards. It didn’t take much insight to know you would choose to play piquet.”

  Robert Vale didn’t lack confidence. “Cribbage would work, but I reckoned ye’re anxious to prove yerself, and piquet is a wee bit faster-paced. A wee bit. A hundred quid for the low card, then.” His gaze on the captain’s raptor eyes, Aden reached over and cut the deck, turning over the stack over in his hand.

  It was Vale who looked down at it first. “A ten. Well picked.” Once Aden set all the cards back into the stack, the captain in his crisp blue uniform cut even deeper and turned a seven. “Ah, the low card,” he said. “You couldn’t beat that even if I gave you another chance at it.”

  Aden reckoned it had more to do with Vale prearranging the deck than with good fortune, but he kept that to himself. They had a long way to go yet, and he needed to pay attention, not get caught up in trying to prove some simple trick. “As ye say.” He produced a hundred quid and set the money on the table.

  “No argument? Hmm. I’d heard that Scotsmen were poor losers.”

  “We’re nae accustomed to losing, so aye, I reckon some of us are bad at it. But I’m nae some Danny Pierce to get a whiff of trouble and jump overboard.”

  A muscle in Vale’s cheek jumped, though his fingers didn’t falter as he shuffled. “That’s an odd saying,” he noted. “Wherever did you pick it up?”

  “Ye’ve nae heard it before? It’s used to describe a lad who gets picked on by his betters and pays dearly because he doesnae fight back. Nae a man wants to be called a Danny Pierce and get bullied by some smug bastard who can do as he chooses and nae face a consequence.”

  Vale dealt them each twelve cards. He’d won first deal, which meant Aden would have the last—not a good position in which to be. With six deals in the first partie, Aden would have to be well ahead to have a chance to take the game. “I should ask what stakes we’re playing for,” the captain said conversationally, arranging the leftover cards into two stacks and sliding the more generous one in front of Aden. “I do hope it’s not a penny a point. This is not some cheap gaming hell, and I am not a clerk in some warehouse.”

  “Twenty quid a point?” Aden suggested.

  “Promising. Let’s make it fifty, shall we? To be settled at the end of each partie? Or it might be more fun to settle at the end of our contest. Then the meager amount in your pocket won’t send you home too early.”

  That was Vale’s plan, then, to push him into debt and make him keep playing in an attempt to win back points before they settled up. A quick road to ruin, that was. And an obvious one. “I reckon I’d prefer to settle up at the end of each partie. I’ve nae idea when ye’ll decide to turn tail and run.”

  “As you wish, then.”

  Halfway through the third partie, with Aden ahead by some forty points and twenty-five hundred quid on top of that, Matthew and Lord George Humphries appeared. Both of them looking like beaten dogs, they took seats behind their master.

  “So ye had a chat with Vale, did ye, Matthew?” Aden commented, countering the captain’s queen of diamonds with her king and taking a point.

  “I think it’s more interesting,” Vale cut in, before Matthew could respond, “that very soon both you and I, MacTaggert, will be brothers-in-law to Matthew. You through your dear sister Eloise, and me through his ravishing sister Miranda. You’ll be surrounded, won’t you, Mr. Harris?”

  Matthew frowned. “Apparently.”

  “Aye, he will be surrounded,” a low drawl sounded behind Aden. “By three MacTaggert men and their wee sister.”

  A large hand clamped down on Aden’s shoulder, and he twisted his neck to see Coll, Niall close behind him. “How did ye get in here?”

  Niall sidestepped, and his father-in-law, Charles Baxter, came into view. “Turns out I do know someone who’s a member of the club,” the youngest MacTaggert said with a slight grin.

  “And I dressed like a damned Sassenach for the occasion,” Coll added.

  “Why are ye here at all?” Aden asked, discarding the two of clubs and giving a point back to Vale.

  “To make certain everything here stays honest,” Coll answered, dragging up a chair and dropping into it. He swiped a chicken leg off Aden’s plate and bit off a generous chunk of it. “I nae made it to Cornwall,” he went on conversationally, chewing. “Found a wee place in Taunton that might suit, and got distracted. Just got myself back to Oswell House thirty minutes ago.”

  Everyone else except perhaps for Niall
would likely believe Coll. He was big and tended to be blunt, and people translated that into stupidity. But Coll was far from stupid; he’d simply never bothered to correct anyone else’s perception because he didn’t give a damn what any Sassenach thought of him.

  Aden saw it quite plainly, though—his older brother was lying. More than that, Coll should have been in Cornwall for at least another day or two. It all led him down one path: Coll had found something significant.

  “Aye?” he said aloud. “Let me finish this deal, and ye can tell me about it while I get myself some more food.” He played his last card, taking one more point. “Ye can add it all up, but ye seem to be behind in this round by two thousand fifty pounds, Vulture Vale.”

  Some of the men around them, their numbers having increased as the afternoon wore on, took up the epithet in a growing wave of amused murmurs. Vale’s face lost a bit of its wan color. “I concur. Are you surrendering, then? Halfway through a round? Very gauche.”

  “Nae, but I am going to stretch my legs. Niall, keep yer eye on the table. And the cards. And the captain.”

  “I am not going to sit here and wait for you, MacTaggert.”

  “Four damned minutes, Sassenach.”

  Vale pulled out a fine-quality pocket watch and clicked it open. At the sight of it, Lord George frowned and sank lower in his chair. “I’m counting. You’ll owe me a thousand pounds for every minute you’re late.”

  Rather than arguing with that, Aden pushed away from the table and stood. With Coll on his heels asking about where to get more of the roast chicken, he left the gaming room for the much more sparsely populated library. “What did ye find?”

  “I cannae be entirely certain it’s the same man, but the time and description fits.”

  “What, then? I’ve only three thousand quid in my pocket.”

  Coll scowled. “If ye’d put that brain of yers to serious wagering, we’d nae need Francesca and her blunt at all. We could go home still bachelors.”

  “Coll. Tell me yer tale.”

  “Fine.” The big Highlander shifted a step closer. “I started down the southern coast, figuring to work my way around and then through the middle. The fifth or sixth village—I lost count because they all look so bloody similar—was called Polperro. I asked for any interesting tales about a man with a face like a hawk’s, and at a tavern called Naughts and Crosses a man said that sounded like old Tom Potter’s boy, young Tom.”

  “Tom Potter,” Aden repeated. “And who is he?”

  “Glad ye asked. It’s nae often, ye ken, that I know more of someaught than ye, Aden.”

  “Gloat later. If I’m three minutes late getting back to the table I’ve nae blunt to wager with.”

  “Oh, aye. Tom Potter, the elder one, was a smuggler. On board a ship called the Lottery loaded with smuggled lace and brandy, he murdered a customs officer who was rowing out to confiscate the cargo. Another smuggler, one Roger Tom, informed on him, and they dragged him off to the Old Bailey and tried and hanged him.”

  Aden absorbed that bit of information. “That’s the da, then. What of the boy, young Tom?”

  “Vanished when the redcoats came after his da. Some say he took money to hang a lantern outside when his da had drunk enough brandy and fallen asleep, but nae a thing for certain. Rumors that he went on to rob a coach or two, took to cheating at cards for money, may even have killed a man and used the navy commission in the lad’s pockets for himself.”

  “That would explain the name change,” Aden mused.

  “Aye, but it’s still naught but stories told in exchange for a shilling or a beer. I tried nae to lead a tale in the direction I wanted, but I’m nae certain it didnae happen.”

  The odds said that they might have eventually found some information about the hawk-faced man in Cornwall. The stories in Polperro could therefore be true, and Coll had just lucked into finding Vale’s—Potter’s—birthplace sooner rather than later. It seemed Aden would have to trust in luck a little, after all. “I’ll risk it.”

  “So ye mean to sit there and play for yer lass? That’s yer grand plan? To win her back?”

  Aden scowled. “Nae. But I need to make a good fight of it.”

  “Ye’ve lost me.”

  “I need to be angry enough that he doesnae feel safe.”

  “Then hit him.”

  Shaking his head, Aden turned back toward the gaming room. “I dunnae have time to explain, Coll, but he needs to reckon that he beat me, that I cannae come after him again at the table—but that I do mean to come after him.”

  Coll put a hand on his shoulder again, stopping him. “I dunnae ken everything ye have in that head of yers, but if ye lose and then threaten his hide ye’re going to have the devil of a time finding a gaming hell anywhere in London that’ll allow ye through its doors.”

  Aden shrugged. “I realized that some time ago, bràthair. My lass doesnae like wagering.”

  “Now ye’re putting me off the idea of falling in love, after ye and Niall nearly convinced me.” The viscount gave a shudder. “If I find a lass who doesnae approve of brawls or horseback riding, I reckon I’ll walk away.”

  “I hope ye get the chance to see that the choice isnae all that difficult, when it comes down to it. Now let’s get back, aye?”

  “So ye’re going to sit there for hours and hours, working yer strategy to get close to winning and then lose and make some pointed threats?”

  “That’s what I said, ye lummox.”

  “And ye being tired and in a foul mood, anyway?”

  “Aye. What’s yer damned point?”

  “As far as London is concerned, ye’re a fucking Highlands barbarian. Like I said before, ye could just hit him.”

  Coll brushed past him and on into Boodle’s gaming room. Aden stayed where he was. There were times when his brothers and his father had declared that he was too clever for his own good. He understood that; he liked intricacy and minutiae, and was good at them. His older brother was a fighter; if it came to a choice between solving something with his fists or his words, Coll would choose his fists every time.

  Here Aden needed to consider the end result. With the tremendous money advantage Vale had, it would literally take hours of precise, careful play to turn this into an actual fight. And that was unless Vale realized he was being outplayed and Aden wasn’t going to become his cowed dog, and he walked away from the table.

  Neither was he entirely at his sharpest, which Vale had known when he sent over his note. And then there was that misleading gambler’s confidence, that voice inside his head that knew he could win it all, win Miranda’s freedom, without any tricks or alternative plans. But he’d made his plan, put all his pieces on the chessboard where they needed to be. He didn’t need to win. He just needed to make a fight of it.

  Rolling his shoulders, he walked back into the gaming room. At least a dozen more men, evidently sensing that this wasn’t just a friendly game, had gathered to watch the play. Ignoring them, Aden took his seat.

  “Before we continue,” Captain Vale said, his hawk’s eyes assessing, “you owe me one thousand pounds. You were away for five minutes and twelve seconds. I’ll forgive the twelve seconds.”

  Aden nodded. “As we agreed, then.” Willing his hands to stay steady, he deducted the amount from the paper in front of him he’d been using to keep score. Twenty-five hundred left, then. And forty-seven thousand five hundred left to go.

  “That’s it? No argument?” One eyebrow dipped, giving the captain the quizzical countenance of an owl. “You’re aware, I hope, that I’m about to marry the woman you’ve been pursuing, and in a matter of hours I’m going to own you, MacTaggert.”

  “So ye say. I disagree.”

  Vale flipped a card back and forth in one hand. “Was she wet for you?” he murmured.

  He’d kept his voice below the hearing of the onlookers, because of course he wouldn’t want anyone else to know that the lass he meant to use to buy his propriety had been taken by another
man, but Aden heard it. Loud and clear. “Deal the cards.”

  “I’ve asked myself, you know,” the captain went on, returning the stray card to the deck and shuffling, “what use I could make of you. Certainly you would be a good inducement to make certain my repayable debts are properly collected. I’m thinking, though, that perhaps having you watch while I fuck her might be truly satisfying.”

  Aden tilted his head, briefly wondering if the red he was seeing would be visible to anyone looking him in the eye. “Ye’re trying to rattle me, aye? To make me falter, miss a declaration of cards, drop a few points here? Get ye to extend me the favor of some credit so I can continue play until I’ve lost far more than I can afford?”

  Vale shrugged. “I don’t care that you know. You still have to play.”

  Nodding to himself, Aden picked up his cards. “Thank ye.”

  The captain snorted. “Why, for the devil’s sake, are you thanking me?”

  “I was thanking him.” Aden cocked a thumb in Coll’s direction. Then he coiled his fist and punched Robert Vale squarely in the beak.

  Neat uniform and all, the captain went over backward, crashing to the floor. Aden overturned the table, cards, paper, pencils, whisky, and chicken flying as he shoved it out of his way. He landed another blow as Vale tried to roll free of his chair. Insults to himself didn’t trouble him. Insults to Miranda didn’t overly concern him when whispered for effect. No, what made him clench his teeth and dive into a tangle of bastard and chair was the idea that this man meant his threats. If he could manage it, he would do exactly as he said. To her. To Miranda.

  When the captain hooked his leg, Aden made sure to fall elbow-first onto the bastard’s rib cage before he took a quick dig through his pockets. No damned promissory notes, damn it all. That would have made things much simpler. “I’m a damned Highlander,” he snarled, taking a punch to the jaw and lifting Vale by the front of his coat before he slammed the captain down again. “Ye dunnae insult a lass in my presence. Nae that one, ye beaky bastard.”