Duel of Hearts (11 page)

“Yes, but no doubt there are two of them.”

T
he second time Tony saw Christopher Hawkins, the boy was getting fleeced. Having decided that Leah needed an evening alone with her ailing parent, he'd gone to White's, prepared to endure both curiosity and a good ragging over his betrothal. And even as he handed his hat and stick to an attendant, his acquaintances hailed him, berating him for everything from desertion to a mesalliance. The overbearing Baron Bagshot was attempting quite openly to pry into the nature of the settlements when Tony's eyes caught sight of the boy.

“Just spoke t' the duchess t'other day,” Bagshot confided. “‘Lyndon's a fine figure of a man—real Corinthian, that is—out-and-outer, if you was to say it. ‘He'll come about,' I told her, and damme if he didn't!” Turning to Tony, he asked outright, “How warm d'ye think Old Cole'll cut up when 'tis done—hundred thousand?” But Tony was watching Hawkins push his money forward on the green-baize-covered table. “Well, from all I have heard,” the baron answered himself, “it could be even twice that even—I doff m'hat t' ye for your good fortune, old fellow. Why, there's some as don't like it one bit that the chit's a Cit, but I say for that sum, I'd take a Turk!”

“Your pardon,” Tony murmured, his attention riveted on the play, as he decided to intervene.

“What the devil ails him?” Bagshot demanded as he left. “Didn't bother to answer me even!”

“And for that you may be grateful,” Gil retorted. “Tony don't like to bandy about his affairs, you know, and if he'd been listening, he might have called you out.”

“Over a Cit?” the baron scoffed.

“Over the lady he's wedding.” Now even Gil's curiosity was whetted. “By the looks of it, ‘tis Skeffington with another green 'un primed to fleece. But it ain't like Tony . . .” Shaking his head, he watched his friend bow to Lord Skeffington and greet the boy. “Well, daresay he must know 'im.”

“Lyndon!” Hawkins beamed up at Tony with the enthusiasm of a pup. “My lord, ‘tis Lyndon himself,” he announced to his partner, unaware of that lord's scowl. “Do you join us, sir?” he asked Tony eagerly. “I apologize for our last meeting, my lord—hadn't been to town long enough to know who you was. Why, when I told m'uncle I'd met Viscount Lyndon, he said you was a real Corinthian—a true whip—and allowed as you must've thought me a veritable gapeseed.
Have
you boxed with Jackson, sir?”

“I am certain that Lyndon is wishful of supping,” Skeffington cut in hastily. “Whist is scarce his game.”

“Actually, I like it, and am a fair hand at it. And I cannot say I have boxed so much as I have studied the science of it,” Tony answered both of them. “Deal me in, my lord,” he addressed Skeffington.

“And I should like to play also.”

The baron whitened visibly at the sound of that chill voice. “Egad, my lord!” he expostulated. “But you ain't a hand to play.”

“Perhaps it affords me amusement tonight.” Rotherfield's voice was silky, his eyes hard. “Unless, of course, there is some reason you do not wish Lyndon and me to play?”

“No … no. 'Course not—heh-heh,” Skeffington tittered nervously. “Just surprised, that's all.”

“Hallo, Marcus,” Tony greeted him without turning around. “Hawkins, you remember Rotherfield.”

Gil pulled up a chair and straddled it to watch, his interest now thoroughly piqued. Jason Skeffington was not known amongst the
ton
as Jason of the Golden Fleece for nothing, having earned a reputation for introducing green youths to the pitfalls of gambling. More than once the baron had been accused of cheating, but as his victims were almost always nobodies, the charges had never stuck. Well, if it were just Tony against Skeffington, Gil would wager his friend would not lose a farthing, but the fact that Rotherfield had chosen to join them was cause for concern. It was not usually the earl's lay to insinuate himself into games, and the fleeting thought crossed Gil's mind that he meant to take on Tony.

Obviously Skeffington had been outmaneuvered by both Lyndon and Rotherfield, for he sat glowering from beneath heavy brows at both of them, while his victim blithely welcomed them. Tony immediately called for a new deck from an attendant, broke the band on it, and shuffled.

“Whist, is it?” he asked Hawkins, ignoring the baron. “Oh . . . and keep the sherry coming,” he ordered the attendant who'd brought the cards. “Cannot play without it.”

It was equally obvious that Tony had not only come to play, he'd come to win. Pushing the first bottle toward the boy, he told him to drink up, and that also surprised Gil Renfield, for Tony usually kept a clear head when he played.

“My lord, I'd as lief be called Kit, if you do not mind it—all of my friends call me thus.”

Shuffling quickly, Tony dealt deftly, wagered moderately, and won the first game. It was as though he were testing the waters, so to speak, to determine the sort of money best wagered. After three more hands, of which he won only one, he suggested higher stakes, raising brows amongst those who'd gathered to watch once word had spread that 'twas Lyndon against Rotherfield. The assumption was immediate and unspoken that the viscount meant to come about at the tables.

“Thought he'd found a rich Cit,” was the lone furtive whisper that further expressed everyone's opinion. “Didn't think he needed to play deep.”

But play deep he did. In less than an hour, Skeffington withdrew and attempted to persuade Kit Hawkins to leave with him, suggesting supper, but the boy held to his determination to play until he could come about. Skeffington's place was taken by a dandy who immediately went down a hundred pounds.

Rotherfield played judiciously, neither winning heavily nor losing, choosing to pass on some games, playing on others, and all the while watching Lyndon with that enigmatic look he affected so well. Bleary-eyed gamesters gathered to watch as the hour grew late, and drifted away to waiting carriages when it turned early, and still Kit Hawkins played desperately in the hope he could recoup his losses, which were mounting at an alarming rate. Empty bottles now littered the table and were strewn about on the floor beneath them.

Long before dawn, the boy ran out of his purse and pressed Tony to take his vouchers. Against the protest of Gil and several others, Tony agreed. Rotherfield finally withdrew from play altogether, announcing his departure. Leaning over the table behind Tony, he murmured, “You've had the devil's own luck tonight, Lyndon. ‘Twas my intent to speak with you on a matter of some import between us—perhaps I should call later today?”

“No, I am committed elsewhere, Marcus, but I shall be at home tomorrow.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight is the Wicklow affair.”

“Until tomorrow then.” Nodding a curt farewell, he left.

“Didn't know you was friendly with him,” someone observed to Tony as he again shuffled the cards.

“Neither did I,” Tony admitted. His eyes met Christopher Hawkins' across the table. “Do you wish to quit?”

“Can't,” the boy mumbled, his head drooping from fatigue and too much wine.

“Tony, he's had enough,” Gil insisted. “He cannot come about.”

“Have you had enough?”

“Got to come about.” Kit's speech was softly slurred now, but his determination was firm.

This time, Tony risked five hundred pounds, and the boy wrote furiously to cover it. Winning again, Tony picked up the slips of paper that littered the table and stuffed them into his already bulging pockets. Behind them, the attendants swept the floor, picking up coins carelessly dropped in play, and still Kit Hawkins clung to hope.

Slivers of gray light filtered through the front windows, and the watch outside cried eight o'clock. Finally Tony Barsett pushed back from the table and announced he was done. Gil, who'd observed the entire debacle, watched in disgust as he collected his winnings. It was the first time he'd ever seen Lyndon deliberately set out to fleece anyone, least of all a green youth.

“I am for home then,” Gil announced heavily. “Do you need taken up?”

“No, I told my driver to come back this morning.” Tony's own eyes heavy, he turned to the boy, who now slumped over the littered table. “I am taking him home.”

“Can't go—got to come about,” Hawkins mumbled.

“Another time. Come on, up with you.” Tony hoisted him to his feet, balancing him against his shoulder, and began walking him to the front of White's.

When the boy stumbled, he righted himself, muttering thickly, “Pardon.”

Tony walked him, weaving from Hawkins' weight against him, to the front of the establishment, where he collected both their hats and his own stick. Once outside, Kit Hawkins revived slightly in the cool morning rain. One of the coachmen jumped down to help Tony get his companion into the closed carriage.

Pushed, the boy lurched across the seat to lean his head against the cool pane. As the coach moved into the street and picked up speed, he was silent—so much so that Tony feared he was sick. Finally Christopher Hawkins turned a stricken face to him.

“How must dith . . . did I loosh?” he managed thickly.

Tony pulled out the wad of banknotes and vouchers from his pocket and hazarded, “About three thousand pounds.”

“Three th-thous-thousand?” The boy fell back, scarcely able to comprehend the enormity of what he'd done. Sobered suddenly, he stared out into the London Street. “I . . . you . . . pay you,” he mumbled almost incoherently as tears welled in his eyes.

“Actually, I think it may be a little more than that, but I shall not know until I have a chance to count it fully. I am uncertain as to what I had to begin with, but I do not recall more than five hundred pounds.” After he finished emptying the rest of his pockets, he straightened the wad of banknotes and separated out the vouchers. Peeling off and pocketing several notes, he reached to press the rest into the boy's hand.

“ 'Tis a bitter lesson, is it not? Pockets to let and no money to refill 'em—a debt bigger than a quarter's allowance.”

“I . . .” Kit blinked, trying to make sense of what Lyndon had done. “I don't . . .”

“No. I have kept approximately one hundred pounds of your money for the lesson. Suffice it to say that Skeffington is a known fleecer—he gets his money from fellows like you, fellows too green to know what they are about even.”

“Got it all wrong. I was—”

“You were winning. They always do at first, some for longer than others, depending on how badly he is dunned by the tradesmen. But after a night or two, he takes 'em to the hells he frequents, and then they always lose.” Tony tapped on the roof to remind his driver to stop. “But we have arrived at your uncle's.”

“Must think me a fool,” Hawkins muttered.

“Yes, but hopefully a wiser one.”

“Got t' pay . . . gennulman pays if he plays.”

Tony shook his head. “I never fleece the infants, Kit—play me again sometime when you reach your majority.” Leaning down to retrieve the boy's hat, he picked it up and set it over the reddish locks. “Now, begone with you—and don't play where you cannot pay.”

Kit Hawkins stumbled from the carriage and had to be helped to his door by a coachman, while Anthony Barsett watched and wondered why he'd bothered with the boy. Leaning back against the squabs, he slid his own hat forward to shade his itching eyes. His obsession with Leah Cole must be making him dicked in the nob.

T
he room was crowded, the air stifling at the Wicklows' ball, for Lady Wicklow was determined that Miss Amanda's come-out should be a success. And, given the thinness of the social calendar on this particular evening, the event had turned into a true crush. The dance floor had narrowed by the press of people until it was overheard that “ 'Tis far too crowded for a country dance, and so close that the waltz becomes positively indecent.”

Tony had no more than relinquished Leah's hand to a dashing young Irish peer than the Earl of Rotherfield edged his way through the departing dancers to her side. His black head gleaming beneath the gaslights, his dress characteristically both expensive and austere, his manner abrupt in the extreme, he managed to insert himself between her and her would-be partner.

“Ah, Barrasford—I believe I am promised this dance with Miss Cole.”

Not ready to give up the field tamely, the handsome Barrasford raised a barely civil eyebrow. “A Banbury tale, if I ever heard one, Marcus. You are but just arrived, and Tony put her in my care.”

“Ask Miss Cole.” Rotherfield shrugged indifferently and waited for Leah's answer.

Perplexed, she looked from one man to the other, and her interest was piqued by the earl's self-assurance. “Yes, 'tis true,” she heard herself say to the disappointed Barrasford, “but I did not see Lord Rotherfield and thought he meant to forget me.” She smiled apologetically at the younger man, murmuring, “But I shall be happy to save another one for you.”

“Now, that was well done,” the earl approved as he led her onto the crowded floor. “You are learning early how to keep them dangling, aren't you?”

“How could you have known I would do that?” she asked, looking up at his face. “I did not know it myself.”

“I knew it.”

“Well, I think it quite shameless of me, actually.”

“You could have said I was mistaken.” He spoke softly, drawing her into his arms.

“I suppose I wished to thank you for taking me home the other night—'twas most kind of you. I find it difficult to reconcile what is said of you with the man.”

“Lyndon will tell you I am quite dangerous.” He smiled down at her, and for once his black eyes were warm. “You ought to listen to him.”

“ 'Tis a case of the pot calling the kettle black then, I am sure,” she responded easily, “for there's naught that can be said of you that cannot be said of him.”

“Almost true,” he agreed readily. “But thus far, no one has accused him of killing a man.”

Her eyes widened and she nearly missed her step at the casualness of his admission. “You are a duelist then?”

“In my youth.”

“And you are so positively elderly now, my lord, that you are ready for the grave,” she teased lightly. Then noting the sudden sobering of his expression, she grew serious. “Well, I daresay you were exonerated.”

“Your pardon—I should not have touched on a matter I have no wish to discuss. As for my age—I am seven- and-twenty, no matter how old I appear to you. A misspent youth sits heavily on one's face, you know.” His black eyes warmed again as he looked down on her. “You cannot know, Miss Cole, how utterly refreshing it is to meet a female who does not either recoil from my reputation or simper at my title.”

“Actually, I like you,” she admitted candidly.

“You must surely be quite brave to voice such an unpopular viewpoint, my dear. Tell me—how is it that you find yourself betrothed to the irrepressible Tony Barsett?”

“I thought you knew—indeed, I think everyone does.” She colored slightly, remembering the gossip she'd overheard, and spoke into his shoulder. “ 'Tis but a simple business arrangement between him and my father—his title for Papa's money, if you would have the truth of it.”

“What—can it be that you are so unlike other females that you have not fallen victim to Lyndon's charm?” he quizzed her. “Can it be that you are impervious to the dashing Tony Barsett?”

“ 'Tis difficult to be charmed by a rakehell and a gamester, my lord,” she retorted stiffly.

“Your pardon. 'Twas not my intent to overset you.”

“I am not overset.”

Suddenly he stopped almost mid-step and quickly turned her away, putting himself between her and something. Curious, she craned her neck to see what he'd seen, only to have him step into her line of vision.

“What is it?”

“I'd not have you unnecessarily wounded, Miss Cole.”

“I do not wound easily, my lord, and neither do I suffer from an excess of sensibility,” she snapped irritably. “I do not even have a delicate constitution.”

Even as she spoke, he allowed her to turn in time to see her betrothed escorting Mrs. Chandler from the crowded room. Those around them stared at her, spitefully waiting for her reaction, only to be disappointed when she smiled coquettishly at Marcus Halvert and did not even miss a step.

“Well done, Miss Cole,” Rotherfield commented above her ear. “ 'Twill be said that you do not care.”

Her earlier charity with Tony Barsett forgotten, she answered, “I do not. I do not care a fig what he does—'tis all of a piece with what I know of him, anyway.”

“Perhaps in the months before the wedding, your father will come to realize he has chosen unwisely.”

“Months? You mistake the matter, my lord,” she answered bitterly. “We are to wed by Special License.”

“Without the banns?” For once, the earl's face betrayed his dismay, and then he recovered almost immediately.

“ 'Tis mutually agreed between them—Lyndon cannot wait for Papa's money, and my father fears he will not live to see me a lady, I suppose. Please—I would not discuss it.”

He nodded sympathetically, his mind working to digest her startling news. “I own I'd heard he was badly dipped, but lately I thought he'd begun to come about. When I saw him last night, he was winning heavily of young Hawkins at White's—beggared the boy, in fact,” he mused aloud.

“Hawkins?” This time she did miss a step. “But he is but a boy!” Collecting herself, she sought to refute the idea. “Surely Lyndon would not . . . That is, I cannot think he . . .”

“Do not overset yourself unnecessarily, my dear—I should have held my tongue. Er . . . I'd forgotten you knew the boy.”

“Yes . . . no—that is, I do not precisely know him. You were there also—'twas when his curricle jumped the curb. Poor Mr. Hawkins.”

“Well, 'tis no uncommon thing to introduce young men into gambling establishments, after all,” Rotherfield offered as an excuse for Lyndon.

“To think he would stoop so low as to take a boy's money—I do not care how deeply he is in debt—and when he is to get Papa's also.” Her disappointment in Lyndon was rapidly growing.

Satisfied that he'd accomplished enough, the earl turned the subject away to the polite inanities, discussing the spring flowers, the weather, Hyde Park, and the Princess Charlotte's interesting condition, expressing the commonly held hope that the baby would be male. As for Leah, this brought forth her assertion that she rather agreed with Jane Austen, who despised the Regent for his treatment of his wife, the Princess Caroline.

“Then you cannot have ever seen her,” Rotherfield murmured, “for an uglier, more uncouth female cannot exist.”

Her reply was lost as the music ended. Abruptly the earl grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the double French doors leading to the Wicklow garden, where a hundred gaily festooned lanterns winked and floated in the cool air. “ 'Tis too hot for speech in here, my dear.”

Just as they reached the doorway, Leah turned back to see Lord Lyndon returning without Mrs. Chandler. His face darkened thunderously when he saw her with Rotherfield, and he began pushing his way toward them. The earl's hand clasped her arm in reassurance, but she shook her head. “ 'Tis my quarrel, my lord.”

Without a word to Rotherfield, Tony grasped Leah's hand and pulled her into the garden after him. She would have resisted, but she was loath to provide further amusement for the gossips, and therefore she held her tongue until they were out of hearing. Rotherfield stood there watching, a slight smile playing at his lips, knowing that Tony Barsett was about to make a cake of himself.

“This is unseemly, my lord,” Leah protested as soon as they cleared the terrace steps into the garden itself. Wrenching her arm free, she turned angrily to face him.

“Unseemly? Miss Cole, I do not intend to tolerate your want of conduct!” Tony snapped.

“My
want of conduct! Just who do you think you are, Anthony Barsett? If you think you can read me a peal for dancing with Rotherfield whilst you dally with that . . . that
brazen
jade, you are very much mistaken! 'Twas not I who arranged a little meeting with
my
bit of fluff! It seems to me, my lord, that 'tis you who wants conduct!”

“I cannot fathom what nonsense you are speaking, Miss Cole, but I warn you, I will not tolerate your association with the likes of Rotherfield!”

“And I do not mean to tolerate your public pursuit of that woman!”

“Pursuit?” he fairly howled. “You have a dashed queer notion of pursuit, if that is what you think I was doing. If you must pry, I was telling the fair Elaine to cease pestering me!”

“Oh, 'tis rich, that is! Are you so filled with conceit that you believe I will swallow that tale whole? If 'tis as you say, then why did you have to take her outside?”

“Would you have me humiliate her publicly?”

“You humiliate me!” Clasping her arms against her in the chill night air, she flung away from him and hurried back toward the glittering ballroom.

“Just a minute, Miss Cole.” Catching up to her, he grasped her shoulders and yanked her back. “If you would discuss humiliation, let us discuss the gibes and barbs you have cast my way since the day we met!” Catching the martial light that flashed indignantly in her eyes, he continued, “I have done my best to rectify my first mistake with you, you know. This betrothal is not without constraints on me also—I have given up some of my more nefarious pleasures for you.”

“Oh? You must think me blind! You court my father for his money, and everyone knows it,” she spat at him. “And I fail to see that you have given up anything—you are
still
a rake and a gamester!”

“What the devil are you speaking of?” he demanded.

“Her!
Oh, I know 'tis fashionable amongst the
ton
to sport mistresses, but I will not countenance it, I take leave to tell you! And you fleeced that poor Hawkins boy!”

“I collect you had that from Rotherfield?”

“It doesn't make any difference where I had it, does it? 'Tis evidence of one of your nefarious pursuits you have not abandoned—and Mrs. Chandler is evidence of the other!”

“Ah, so I only have two vices, at least! Well then, Miss Cole, would you like me to enumerate your shortcomings also?”

“Yes!” Then, her face highly flushed, she caught her breath and spoke more calmly, retorting in a clipped voice, “They cannot possibly compare with yours, after all.”

“I scarce know where to begin, my dear,” he told her sarcastically. “In the first place, you seem determined to twit the very society you wish to enter, reminding everyone at every stop and turn that you are a Cit by your total lack of modest behavior.”

“You know full well 'tis not I who wish to be what I am not, and as for modesty, would you have me turn into a simpering fool just to please you?”

“I'd have you cut Rotherfield before everyone cuts you.”

“If you would ever take the time to stay and watch, you would see that I am already cut. Do not think I am so deaf that I cannot hear what is said of me.”

“You have not yet been given the cut direct. If you would but attempt to be all that is pleasing, you just might take.”

“Pleasing to whom? Stiff-necked snobs who are too worthless to work a day in their lives?”

“In the second place, you put yourself forward as a bluestocking, Miss Cole, and 'tis not fashionable for a female to attempt the discussion of anything beyond an occasional novel.”

“Oh, I see.” This time it was her voice that dripped sarcasm. “ 'Tis only men who are allowed any intelligence, is it? You wish me to be as empty-headed as those insipid misses who line the walls waiting to be noticed by some gentleman, too fearful of being left on the shelf to venture even the smallest original thought.” Her bosom heaving with indignation, she blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “ 'Tis a pity you were not born earlier, else you could have told Mary Wollstonecraft she had no right to a mind.”

“Well, I should scarce hold her up as all a female should be,” he shot back. “She was quite free with her favors as well as her mind, from all I have read. And that brings me to another fault of yours—I heard of your climbing boy from your father, Miss Cole—you are a deuced reformer!”

“If we had to depend on
your
class to right any of the wrongs of this world, we should be in sad case indeed!” The strand of hair fell forward again, and she brushed it back irritably. “Indeed, 'tis the fault of fancy lords like yourself that there are climbing boys being beaten, starved, and burned every day.”

“I have never beaten, starved, or burned anyone, Miss Cole!”

“Well, if you really wished to do something worthwhile with your life, you'd speak in the House of Lords on the problem—'tis the lords who refuse to stop it.”

“Aha! And now I am to be faulted for the ills of the world also! What about the members of your class—those rich merchants who are so ready to turn a profit that they do not care whom they cheat?”

“I do not have to listen to this!” Once again she turned to leave, flouncing angrily up the narrow rock steps set amongst the foliage.