Rake's Reward

By the time the Dowager reached her hostess’s drawing room, she was white with anger. Her thin lips were pressed tightly together as if to prevent her from speaking words that she might regret.

‘Ma’am—’

‘Have nothing to do with Kit Stratton, child,’ said Lady Luce sharply before Marina had time to begin her question. ‘He is dangerous. More dangerous than you could ever imagine.’

‘But—’

‘Good evening, Méchante.’ Lady Luce was holding out her claw-like hand to a voluptuous blonde dressed in a gown of diaphanous pink silk. It was doubtful whether Lady Marchant wore much by way of petticoats beneath her gown. It seemed to cling to her almost like a second skin.

Marina had never seen anything so brazen. She caught herself staring and forced herself to look away. Their hostess’s nickname was well deserved. She seemed to relish it, too. At Lady Luce’s impudent greeting, Lady Marchant smiled contentedly, accentuating her slanting green eyes. There was something remarkably feline about that look, Marina decided. She was probably devious, as well as wicked.

Marina longed to ask questions, but could not. Who was the haughty man in the hallway? His name seemed vaguely familiar, but she could not place it. What was between him and Lady Luce? Enmity, for sure, but why? Marina had no opportunity to say a word, far less ask a question, for Lady Luce and her hostess were already mingling with the throng of guests. There was no sign of the incredibly handsome Mr Kit Stratton.

Marina forced her thoughts back to practical matters. She must not stand alone in the doorway as if she were an outcast. She must heed the Dowager’s warning and blend into the background. The huge draped velvet curtains would provide just what she needed. They were far enough away from the candelabra to cast quite a deep shadow. In her grey gown, Marina would appear to be almost a shadow herself.

Safe in her dark corner, Marina surveyed the company. Almost all the guests were men. There were soldiers in scarlet coats, some of them quite senior, some of them so young that they still had the downy cheeks of a girl. Marina was forcibly reminded of her younger brother, Harry, and how very proud he had been on the first application of his cut-throat razors.

Of the non-military gentlemen, a few were dressed in expensive and well-cut coats, but most reminded her of Lord Luce. They looked well fed and well-upholstered and, in more than one case, well on the way to an early grave.

The ladies—no, that was too flattering a term—the women were few. Apart from Lady Marchant and Lady Luce, there were only three, none of them in the first blush of youth. They wore fine but slightly grubby gowns, all very low cut indeed. Two of the women had painted their faces. Lady Luce was right. Méchante’s house was one that no virtuous young lady should ever enter. Why then had she been so insistent that Marina should accompany her tonight?

The noise in the room was almost deafening. It seemed that all of the gentlemen were well into their cups and each was almost shouting to make himself heard above his fellows. Marina found herself shrinking somewhat into the velvet shadow and wishing that she had been able to avoid coming to this place.

Where was Lady Luce? She and her hostess seemed to have disappeared. Marina supposed they must have gone into an adjoining room. Should she follow her employer? Or should she stay here where, for the moment at least, she seemed to be relatively safe? She hesitated, but only for a moment. It was her duty to protect the Dowager, somehow, from her gambling folly. What if she were gambling in the very next room?

Marina straightened her shoulders. She must follow her employer and do her duty.

‘Well,’ said a male voice at her elbow.

Marina smelt the nauseating mix of stale alcohol and sweat even before she turned. Where had this man come from? She was being accosted—there was no other word for it—by a middle-aged man in a rusty-black evening coat. He was quite as raddled as the worst of those in the room. His skin was almost as grey as her gown; he had the eyes of a man who had not slept for days on end.

She gave him the look that had cowed many an upstart in Yorkshire and made to pass on. It was not to be. The man’s hand grabbed her arm and forcibly brought her to a halt.

‘Not so fast, missy,’ he said, in a drawl that sounded half drunk, half affected. ‘And who might you be?’

Marina tried to shake him off, but failed. ‘My name is of no moment, sir,’ she said in icy tones. ‘I will thank you to let go of my arm.’

‘Indeed?’ His red-lidded eyes narrowed nastily. He looked her up and down. ‘This one has her nose in the air,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t see why.’ His contempt was obvious from the set of his lips. ‘With looks like yours, you should be glad that any man deigns to take notice of you. Don’t reckon you’re worth a guinea of any man’s blunt.’

Marina gasped. She knew just what he thought her to be.

With a final, rather undignified wrench, she pulled her arm free and ran through the doorway, praying that her employer would be in the room beyond. She was disappointed. The adjoining room held only card tables where little groups of gentlemen were deeply engrossed in piquet and whist. At the table nearest the door, one of the gentlemen, clearly disturbed by her hurried entrance, indicated irritably that she should be silent.

Marina felt herself flushing. She halted her headlong dash. The man who had accosted her might not think her a lady, but she would try to behave as she had been taught. Even in a house such as this.

Head held high, she walked slowly and calmly through the room to the doorway on the other side.

It was another room for gambling, but considerably less decorous than the previous one. A noisy dice table stood near the door; on the far side, there was a roulette wheel, with a number of players clustered eagerly round it, including two more painted ladies.

Marina suppressed a shudder. There must be a way out of this nightmare. Where on earth could Lady Luce have disappeared to?

Kit watched with narrowed eyes as Lady Luce mounted the stairs to the galleried landing. Five years seemed to have changed her very little. She was as rude as ever, but he had expected nothing less. Did she suspect his intentions? Possibly. She was bound to know of the change in his circumstances. Society tabbies such as the Dowager made it a point of honour to know everyone’s business.

He took out his gold snuff box and tapped it with a manicured fingernail. Mechanically, he opened it and took a minuscule pinch. His eyes were still on the landing above.

Where was she? Would she dare to play when she knew he was here, watching, waiting his chance?

Of course she would. Lady Luce was a soulless harridan but she was no coward. She might avoid Kit if she decently could but, faced with a direct challenge, she would never retreat. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. One day, it would come. Perhaps even tonight?

With a little nod of satisfaction, Kit mounted the staircase. Unlike Lady Luce, he did not take the branch leading to the reception rooms. He had long ago made it his business to spy out the layout of Méchante’s labyrinth of a house. He knew precisely where the high-stakes games would be played. And, like a skilled hunter, he knew that the best tactic was to conceal himself and lie in wait for his prey.

Marina was bewildered. She had made her way through room after room encountering only drunken gamblers with too ready hands. It seemed to have taken hours to come this far. Now she was back on the landing, but still there was no sign of Lady Luce.

At the far side of the landing, a door opened. A slurring voice said, ‘So this is where you are. Don’t think you fool me by pretending to run away. I learnt the tricks of your trade before you were born. And I know exactly what you have in mind. Exactly.’

Marina whirled round, took one look at the man weaving his way round the gallery towards her and instinctively backed away. Feeling a doorknob against her side, she quickly entered the room, leaning back against the door with a sigh of relief.

Here was yet another gambling room. This one was much smaller than the others and was generously hung with deep blue damask. A pointed archway in the wall led through to the adjoining room, also blue. In each, there was a large oval table where a group of gamblers was playing in complete silence. Marina looked in horror at the piles of coin, notes and vowels heaped on the green baize. The guests here were playing for very high stakes.

From her position by the door, Marina could not see any sign of Lady Luce. Perhaps she was not gambling, after all?

At the table in front of Marina, Lady Marchant was acting as banker. Marina took half a step forward, but stopped when Lady Marchant gave her a slight shake of the head. Obviously, Marina’s presence was unwelcome here.

What was she to do?

Behind her, someone tried vainly to open the door. A second later, it was pushed sharply into Marina’s back. Surprised, she stumbled forward.

Lady Marchant frowned and shook her head angrily at the interruption, motioning to Marina to leave the room immediately. Unjust though it was, Marina knew better than to protest. She turned to do as she was bid. What choice did she have?

She stopped abruptly. There in the doorway, propping himself up against the jamb, was her drunken pursuer, the man she had been trying so hard to avoid. He was leering at her, waiting.

He thinks he has me now, Marina thought. But I will not allow myself to be used like a common street-walker.

She pulled herself up to her full height—which was a little taller than the drunk—and stared haughtily down at him. Her flashing eyes dared him to approach her. But in his befuddled state, would he heed her warning?

Through the archway, there came a cry of triumph. It was Lady Luce’s voice. She was in the very next room!

Marina spun on her heel and cried out as she collided with a man directly behind her. He must have risen from Lady Marchant’s table just as Marina turned.

For a split second, Marina felt herself falling, but then strong arms gripped her and held her upright. She found she was staring at a gold cravat pin in the shape of a swooping bird of prey, its cruel head set off by a blood-red ruby eye. She could not move. She was standing transfixed in a man’s arms while the warmth of him invaded her limbs. Her mind was refusing to function. She could think of nothing but the obvious fact that he was even taller than her father.

Then she glanced up into his face.

It was Kit Stratton. And he had the hardest eyes she had ever seen.

Chapter Four

Kit set the grey lady back on her feet. It crossed his mind that she had no business to be in a house like Méchante’s where all the females were either members of the muslin company or hardened gamesters like Lady Luce.

The grey lady seemed remarkably tongue-tied. Perhaps she was simple? That would certainly help to account for her presence here.

Kit looked over the grey lady’s head to the swaying figure in the open doorway. Even in his cups, the man had a predatory look. Kit glanced down at the grey lady, wondering what the man could have seen in her. She was hardly worth pursuing, unless to puncture that strange air of ‘touch-me-not’ surrounding her. Yes, that must be it. It might be amusing to watch how she dealt with her would-be lover.

The drunk took a step towards them. ‘I’ll thank you to unhand my woman,’ he said, enunciating each word with exaggerated care. ‘I saw her first,’ he added, as if to clinch the matter.

Kit stiffened at the man’s brazen challenge. Not even drink could excuse it. He stepped smartly round the grey lady and confronted her pursuer, bending down so that their heads were almost touching. He forced himself to ignore the stink. ‘You are out of your depth here, my friend,’ he said in a low, menacing voice, ‘and I find your presence offensive. Go and put your head under the pump.’

The man goggled up at him.

It seemed that hard words were not enough for this man. Kit seized him, spun him round and quickly twisted one arm up his back. Then he propelled his squealing victim out on to the gallery and threw him to the floor. Kit smiled grimly at the sound of bone crunching against wooden balusters. Stone would have been preferable, he thought, closing the door on the sprawling figure.

The grey lady had turned to watch. She was looking at Kit through narrowed eyes. Clearly, he had been wrong about her. There was nothing in the least simple about this female.

‘Good manners require me to thank you, sir, for saving me from a fall,’ she said in a voice of cold, educated politeness. She did not meet his eyes. ‘As to the other—’ she glanced briefly towards the closed door ‘—I shall try to pretend that I was not witness to such a vulgar display.’ With a moue of disgust, she turned and moved serenely through the archway.

She holds herself like a duchess, Kit noted absently. How very strange.

He felt a sudden desire to laugh. For once, he had rescued a damsel in distress instead of ravishing her. And his reward? She had simply looked down her nose at him. He should have known better. Women were all the same. Next time—why should there be a next time with such a woman?—if there was a next time, he would make her sorry she had ever tangled with Kit Stratton.

Marina was glad to be able to seek out her protector on the far side of the arch. Kit Stratton was Lady Luce’s enemy. Everything about him shrieked danger. Beneath that fine, polished veneer, the man was a flint-hearted savage. It had taken every ounce of her self-control to conquer her body’s weakness and give him the set-down he so richly deserved. She was proud of her actions. She had shown she was a lady still.

At the table, they were playing Faro. Lady Luce had clearly been there all the time, hidden by the dividing wall.

Marina’s heart sank when she realised her employer was acting as Faro banker. This was no mere flutter. This was serious gambling. Heavens, why did this have to happen? And why Faro? Faro was the game that she hated above all others, the game that had ruined her father. It could be a game of infernally high stakes and incredible losses. Men played and played, always hoping to recoup their losses on the next card, until eventually they had nothing left to stake. Faro had led many a man to blow his brains out. Her father might eventually have done the same, if he had lived through the war.

No one had taken the least notice of her entrance. She leaned back against the wall alongside the arch, trying to steady her rapid, anxious breathing. She forced herself to think logically and sensibly. She must not panic. Surely Lady Luce would not play for higher stakes than she could afford? And besides, as banker, she would certainly have the odds in her favour. There must be a good chance that she would leave the table a winner. At that thought, Marina began to feel less uneasy and craned her neck a little in order to watch the play without disturbing those at the table.

There were five players besides Lady Luce. All were men. All had their backs to Marina. Lady Luce was gathering up a pile of coin and notes. Her crow of triumph had been justified, to judge by the amount she was pulling towards her. So far, she looked to be on top. With expert fingers, she broke a new pack and began to shuffle the cards. The discarded pack had been swept to the floor.

The only noise to be heard was the slap of the cards. The players seemed to be frozen in their seats. Then a deep voice broke the silence from beyond the archway. ‘You seem to have remarkable luck, ma’am,’ it said. ‘Do you dare to raise the stakes for this next deal? Shall we say a minimum of twenty guineas? Or would you prefer to pass the bank?’

Marina did not need to look round in order to recognise the speaker. It was Mr Kit Stratton. His tone was light, but mocking. It was as near an insult as it was possible to be.

Marina saw the spark of indignation in Lady Luce’s eyes and the sudden frown as she looked across at her rival. ‘By no means, Mr Stratton,’ she said in remarkably even tones. ‘I have no intention of surrendering the bank just yet. But I certainly agree that the stakes have been too low. Did you suggest twenty? Why, I would not dream of proposing such a paltry sum. What say you to fifty?’

The gentleman sitting opposite the Dowager rose immediately. ‘Too steep for me,’ he said and left the room.

Mr Stratton strode forward and very deliberately put his hand on the back of the vacant chair. He and Lady Luce stared each other out. Marina knew, even from behind, that he was daring her employer to continue. She also knew that Lady Luce would never back down against this man.

What was Marina to do? She racked her brains, but for some reason she seemed unable to think straight. In her very first day in her new post, she was failing to prevent her charge from gambling for enormous stakes. What on earth was happening to her?

At length, Mr Stratton’s voice replied, ‘Fifty? Certainly. Unless you wish to go higher?’

Marina prayed silently that Lady Luce would not accept this further challenge. Surely it was bad enough with the stakes they had already agreed?

Lady Luce smiled slowly, first at Mr Stratton, and then at the other players. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘as banker, I will accept any stakes that Mr Stratton cares to name.’ She looked across at him once more. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was sure of her victory now.

For what seemed a long time, Mr Stratton said nothing at all. Then, in a very quiet, calm voice, he said, ‘Madam, you do me too great an honour, but it would be ungentlemanly to disappoint you. A lady’s whims must always be humoured. Shall we say…two hundred pounds?’

This time the gasp echoed round the room. Two more of the gentlemen made to rise, muttering excuses. Such stakes were almost unheard of.

Mr Stratton did not move an inch as the players left the table to congregate by the archway. He laughed, though Marina could detect no mirth at all in the sound. ‘It shall be a snug little party, then, my lady,’ he said, pulling out his chair.

Marina was beginning to feel quite light-headed. She put a hand against the wall for support. This could not be happening. Two hundred pounds was a fortune—and it was to be staked on the turn of a single card. She moved a couple of steps nearer, in hopes of drawing the Dowager’s attention to herself. Perhaps she could signal to Lady Luce, distract her, somehow make her stop?

The movement caught Lady Luce’s eye. ‘So there you are,’ she said caustically. She pointed to an empty chair at the far end of the table. ‘Sit down, and do nothing. This is too important to allow of any distraction.’

Marina moved across the room and sank into the chair. The Dowager’s sharp glance indicated very clearly that she must neither speak nor move.

She closed her eyes and rested her chin on her hand. If only she could do something. Her only hope was that Lady Luce would win. Her overpowering fear was that Mr Stratton—bold, ruthless Kit Stratton—would ruin her mistress.

And herself into the bargain.

Kit watched the tiny hands deftly shuffling the cards. Keeping his eyes fixed on the cards helped his concentration. It also helped him to spot any sign of cheating though, in this case, he expected none. Lady Luce was much too proud to stoop so low, even if she knew how, which he doubted. No. This would be a straightforward test of skill and nerve. Kit’s well-trained memory for cards would probably cancel out some of the banker’s inbuilt advantage.

After that, it was all down to luck.

Lady Luce gathered her cards together and pushed the pack towards Kit. ‘Do you care to shuffle them yourself, sir? Perhaps one of the other gentlemen would cut?’

Kit stretched out a hand. ‘I am sure the cards are well enough mixed already,’ he drawled carelessly, not bothering even to glance at his opponent. ‘I will gladly cut, however. Then, perhaps, we may get to the business of the evening?’ He cut the cards to her with a decided snap.

Marina saw how the Dowager’s lips thinned under the lash of his scorn. Mr Stratton seemed to be seeking to force a quarrel on her, in addition to everything else. How could two people have come to detest each other so? It was quite beyond Marina’s understanding.

‘Stakes, gentlemen, please,’ said the Dowager in a hard voice.

Without hesitation, Mr Stratton extracted a fat pocketbook and, peeling off two banknotes, laid them on the nine in the livret of cards on the players’ side of the table. Lady Luce watched impassively, waiting for the other two gentlemen to decide on their wagers. The bald man nearest Marina scribbled a vowel but then sat undecided, his hand hovering between the five and the six in the livret. The very young man at the far end was much more decisive, quickly pushing a heap of notes and coin on to the queen.

As the bald man’s hand continued to hover, Lady Luce cleared her throat ominously, staring across at him. He coloured slightly and dropped the scrap of paper on to the six.

Marina held her breath, waiting for the first card to be faced. Her father had always said that it was an omen for the whole game. Normal Faro deals consisted of two cards—the banker won on the first, and the players on the second—but the first and last deals were banker’s cards only. Papa had been convinced that if the banker won on that first card, the players would lose heavily throughout the game. Marina had never really believed it—it had not prevented her father from losing his shirt—and yet she found herself offering up a little prayer that the Dowager’s card would win. It needed to be a six, or a nine, or a queen. Best of all if it matched Mr Stratton’s nine. She wanted to see him lose.

Lady Luce took her time. Indeed, she smiled round at the three men before she even touched the deck. She seemed remarkably confident.

She faced her first card and laid it to the left of the deck. Nine!

Lady Luce gave a little nod of satisfaction and collected the stake from Mr Stratton’s losing card.

He did not even blink. Marina decided he now looked even more like a marble statue—beautiful, cold and stony-hearted. Greek gods had been said to amuse themselves by treating human beings as pawns in their Olympian chess games. Kit Stratton looked as if he felt exactly the same about his opponents.

He threw two more bills on to the nine in the livret, never once raising his eyes to look at the banker or at any of the other players. He seemed to be focused totally on the cards.

Marina recognised that stare. She had seen it on her father. Mr Stratton was almost certainly a practised player with the ability to remember every card played. She had been taught to do the same herself. The knowledge helped improve the odds, especially towards the end of the game when few cards remained to be dealt. Kit Stratton was very definitely playing to win.

The Dowager faced the cards for the next deal. A king for the banker, followed by a two. No winners. With so few players, there could be several such barren deals. If the banker moved quickly through them, it would be more difficult than normal to memorise the cards. Marina set herself to doing so, too. The task would help her to remain calm, especially if Mr Stratton were to win.

Three more barren deals followed in quick succession. Marina knew exactly which cards had been played. Did Kit Stratton? It was impossible to tell from his face.

Lady Luce faced a six on to the banker’s pile to the left of the deck. The bald man groaned and muttered an oath as his stake joined the heap in front of the banker. He started to scribble his next vowel even before the players’ card had been dealt. The man at the far end drew an audible breath. Another nine! Lady Luce placed it carefully on the heap of players’ cards. Then she picked up the two bills that Mr Stratton had lost earlier and, holding them between finger and thumb as if they were contaminated, dropped them on to the nine in the livret.