Never Resist a Rake (26 page)

Losing at cards doesn't build character. It reveals character.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Blackwood was mightily put out that there was no waltz on the program. He considered the minuet a throwback to the previous generation and had no interest in moves designed merely to showcase a lady's charms. All the other dances were country reels or formations with other couples, which precluded any private speech with his partner. He'd so looked forward to waltzing with Miss Kearsey, so he could whisper under his breath all the deliciously wicked things he intended to do to her later. Watching her flush and go short of breath as she tried to maintain her composure would have been the high point of his public evening.

But he couldn't get near enough to menace her with more than a few glances, which she refused to meet.

No matter. There'd be time enough to bedevil Rebecca Kearsey later. He'd make sure she couldn't look away then if he had to tie her to the bedpost, which, now that he thought about it, was an idea with real appeal.

He chanced to see Lord Arbuthnot and Lord Kearsey slipping out of the ballroom door between sets. Even without their host, Lord Hartley, who couldn't be spared from the dancing, a card game was clearly in the offing. Kearsey had nothing to buy into the pot with except his cuff links, so Blackwood couldn't figure why the gentleman was even bothering to sit in for a hand. But Arbuthnot had yet to be skinned for more than a quid or two.

Fresh
meat.

It would do Blackwood's heart good to make the old curmudgeon bleed freely. Lord knew Arbuthnot had the chinks, right enough. He'd hardly miss the blunt Blackwood intended to win from him. If the cards didn't fall Blackwood's way naturally, he had a special deck in his jacket pocket that would ensure a win. He made his way toward the exit but was stopped shy of it by a feminine hand on his forearm.

“Where do you think you're going in such an all-fired hurry?” Lady Chloe said. “We're already short of eligible gentlemen. Never say you'd leave a ballroom full of debutantes to dance with the graybeards.”

“If all the little darlings want to do is dance, yes, I'm content to let the dotards have them.” He offered her his arm because it made him feel pleasurably male for Chloe to snug against him. Her breast was soft against his elbow as she sidled up to him. “If the angelic young ladies want some carnal adventures, I'll be happy to oblige them, but what I have in mind cannot be accomplished on a dance floor.”

Lady Chloe laughed, the full-throated laugh of a woman who understood and enjoyed pleasure. “I'm guessing it could be accomplished on the dance floor at one of your Daemon Club parties.” She slid a hand from his chest to his waist, stopping their progress toward the door. “I've heard clothing was not required for a full sennight at one of them.”

He grinned wickedly. “You should come to the next party.”

“You know my rules. I must remain chaste…well, relatively chaste,” she amended and turned so they could continue walking on, “until I've found my next husband. And after our nuptials, I'll stay true to him until he's demonstrated an inability to remain faithful to me.”

Blackwood led her on to the door but didn't pass through it. “People like you and me shouldn't be bound by rules.”

“Never fear. I have only one or two, but I do adhere to those few religiously. Not that I think there's one chance in a hundred that I'll ever discover a faithful husband, but it's only sporting to give a gentleman the chance to keep me at his side by remaining by mine. Now, tell me. Where are you off to in such a clandestine fashion?”

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “There's a poque game in the second-floor parlor.”

“Oh, good. I'm ever so tired of playing loo.”

“The table has rather high stakes.”

“All the better. It'll be more interesting that way. Lead on, Blackwood.” She cocked her head fetchingly at him. “Or don't you think the other gentlemen will welcome me at the table?”

The way the neckline of her gown was cut, if Lady Chloe leaned forward to collect her winnings just so, there wouldn't be a man at the table who'd begrudge her the pot.

“No, I'm certain you'll be a most welcome addition,” he said and led her away from the foolish crowd tripping the light fantastic in the ballroom.

* * *

Two hours later, Kearsey was still hanging on in the game, staying fairly even with each hand. Arbuthnot had dropped a small fortune and was determined to win it back. Another couple of players had escaped with their teeth still intact, but little else. They quit the game, claiming the coming midnight supper was calling them, leaving only four players around the lacquered table. The chips had been transferred to a new owner in a decidedly lopsided fashion all evening.

However, the largest pile of winnings wasn't sitting in front of Blackwood. It was stacked up before Lady Chloe so high it almost obscured her magnificent bosom. And a good many of those chips had belonged to Blackwood when the game first started.

“This deck is grown cold,” he muttered. “Let us start with a fresh one.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, only to find it empty.

“What an excellent idea,” Lady Chloe said, opening her beaded reticule and pulling out a deck of cards which looked suspiciously similar to Blackwood's special one.

When had she managed to lift it from him? Oh, yes. When she snuggled close to him in the ballroom. He remembered that her hand had surreptitiously brushed his form. He'd enjoyed it at the time. Now he narrowed his eyes at her, the conniving minx. She was as nimble-fingered as a Whitechapel lightskirt.

“Would you care to cut, Lord Kearsey?” she asked sweetly, as if she weren't guilty of purloining Blackwood's stacked deck.

Kearsey merely rapped his knuckles on the cards and Chloe began to deal.

Blackwood's mind churned furiously. How could he accuse a lady of cheating with a deck he knew to be tainted because it was his? Instead, he concentrated on the cards being dealt. He knew without a doubt what cards each player held. Yes, there was the third jack to him. It was being played out exactly as it should except that Chloe, as the dealer, would receive the winning hand.

The longcase clock chimed a quarter to midnight. The game was expected to break up for the supper following the ball soon, and Miss Kearsey would be waiting for him in her chamber while the rest of the party ate their après-dancing repast. It was time he made his exit from this game in any case.

“I believe I will call it a night.” Blackwood laid his hand facedown and stood.

“Oh, where's the fun in that?” Chloe said. “At least finish this hand. What will you wager?”

“On these cards, nothing.”

“Well, I'm willing to hazard everything I have on mine. Come, Blackwood. If you won't bet a chip, at least wager whatever's in your waistcoat pocket.”

Since there was nothing in his waistcoat pocket, he shrugged and sat back down. Arbuthnot and Kearsey made their bets. This pot dwarfed all the others, so no one wanted to be left out.

Chloe turned her cards over.

She had three tens. It was good, but it wasn't the winning hand Blackwood had expected. The foolish girl had mixed up the cards somehow. He revealed his trio of jacks with mounting excitement. Arbuthnot was holding the anticipated pair of aces, which he tossed down with disgust.

Blackwood could scarcely breathe. He was going to take everything—all of Chloe's winnings in a single lucky stroke.

Kearsey continued to stare stupidly at his cards.

“Throw down, sir. We haven't all night,” Blackwood said.

Hands trembling, Lord Kearsey laid down four threes in a crooked row. “I…I guess…I win.”

“So you do, my lord,” Lady Chloe said with no evidence of envy or displeasure. She pushed her pile of chips in his direction. “Now you, Blackwood. Empty your pocket.”

“There's nothing in—” But there was something in his pocket after all. He'd meant to turn the satin lining inside out to demonstrate its emptiness, but his fingers brushed against a piece of folded paper. He drew it out, unbelievingly.

“What's this?” Lady Chloe snatched it from him, unfolded it, and ran her gaze over it. “My word, Lord Kearsey. It appears double congratulations are in order. These are your own vowels. You just won back a considerable IOU to Lord Blackwood.”

“No, that's not possible,” Blackwood said. But it certainly looked like Kearsey's IOU. It was the same spidery script. “It can't be.”

With no scruples for propriety, Blackwood unbuttoned one side of his drop-front knee britches to fumble with the slit opening in his smalls.

“It's here. I know it is.” He rummaged in his drawers for the slip of paper that had to be there. Hollis had left it on the end of the bed. While the valet helped him dress, Blackwood had tucked the precious IOU into its usual place himself. “It must be here somewhere.”

“Now see here, Blackwood,” Lord Arbuthnot said. “There's a lady present.”

“I pray you, don't fret on my account, Lord Arbuthnot. I'm a widow, remember. The male of the species holds no mystery for me.” Lady Chloe laughed and turned her attention to Blackwood. “My dear viscount, you're not the first to feel himself unmanned by a loss at the poque table, but I assure you, the equipment is still there. It may just take a while for it to work properly again.”

Blackwood glared at her, but then his fingers brushed a piece of paper tucked into the cinched waist of his smalls. He pulled it out and threw it onto the table.

“There! See for yourself.”

Lady Chloe blinked at the folded paper and then said with sugary sweetness, “Considering where it's been, you surely don't expect me to touch that.”

“Dash it all! This will prove the IOU in Kearsey's hand is a forgery.” Blackwood unfolded his paper and found…a blank page staring up at him. “How the devil…”

A vivid recollection of young Hollis placing a piece of paper on the bed scrolled across his mind. Then the valet had smoothed down the front of Blackwood's brocade waistcoat admiringly, remarking on the fine workmanship. The blasted fellow must have performed his little sleight of hand while Blackwood was soaking in the tub. One square of folded paper looked very like another. In hindsight, it was easy to see how he'd been duped.

“Hartley,” Blackwood said through clenched teeth. “It was Hartley. This is all his doing.”

“Ridiculous,” Lord Arbuthnot said, rising to his feet. “Our host is clearly nowhere near this poque table and cannot be held responsible for your losses. Come.” He gave Blackwood a bracing slap on the back. “Take your lumps like a man. And now, my lady”—he offered his arm to Chloe—“may I escort you to supper, where we can commiserate over our losses and lick our wounds?”

“It might be more interesting if we were to lick each other's wounds.” One of Chloe's brows arched naughtily and she took his arm. “But perhaps that's a game for another time.”

Arbuthnot's face lit up. “No time like the present. Some things don't improve with the waiting, my dear.”

He was a widower with grown children and a sizeable estate. Chloe had clearly identified a candidate for husband number five and was preparing to lead him a merry chase until she caught him.

“Come with us to supper, Kearsey,” Chloe called over her shoulder. “Before Lord Blackwood finds something else in his drawers he feels compelled to show us.”

Kearsey skittered after them while Blackwood did a slow burn. He'd lost the leverage he held over the baron and couldn't use Miss Kearsey to settle her father's uncollectable debt.

But Miss Kearsey didn't know that.

He buttoned up his breeches and headed for the guest wing of Somerfield Park. She'd be waiting for him.

He decided he wouldn't go easy on her after all. A gag would do nicely to quiet her screams.

When one is burdened by as many years as I am, people assume I must sigh and shake my head over the past when I was young and foolish. Balderdash! There's no time like the present. Never say I've lived long enough to be done with foolish things.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

It always paid to know the geography of a great house. Blackwood made his way through the dark corridors, tracing the map of the place he carried in his head. He'd followed Miss Kearsey back to her chamber one evening, careful not to be caught lurking around corners, in preparation for this very moment, when he'd need to find her.

He might have lost a king's ransom this night, but by God, no one was going to cheat him of his conquest of Miss Kearsey. As far as she knew, her father was still in thrall to him. She'd do anything for the sake of her family. Blackwood could even pretend to be magnanimous and claim this single night would settle her father's debt.

Yes, that was the ticket. She'd be so pathetically grateful, her participation in her own debauching might not even have to be coerced. He might not have to take. She would give.

Anything.

Blackwood glanced up and down the long hallway to satisfy himself that no one was there to see him. Then he slipped into Rebecca Kearsey's chamber.

She'd left a single candle burning on the dressing table, its flame magnified by the mirror to bring the entire room into a dusky half-light. The lady herself was already abed, but he doubted she was asleep.

What girl would be able to rest knowing she was destined to lose her maidenhead that night?

The covers were pulled up so far that only a lacy nightcap showed above them. She was trying to hide from him. Her modesty was endearing. Quaint, even. An unexpected swell of something that might be called tenderness in another man warmed his chest.

Perhaps he would be gentle with her. At first.

“Wake up, sweeting,” he whispered. “I've been dreaming of making extravagant love to you all day.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that.” The figure in the bed threw back the covers and sat up. Blackwood was horrified to discover the dowager marchioness in all her high-collared, buttoned-up muslin and lace glory. “However, your protestation of designs on my person flatters me, sir; indeed it does.”

“Lady Somerset!” he said, aghast.

“Lord Blackwood. Now that we've established the players, tell me, why are you in Miss Kearsey's bedchamber?”

“Why are you?” he sputtered.

“To keep you from accomplishing your nefarious intent, of course.” Then she raised her voice. “John! You may enter. It appears Lord Blackwood will not be ravishing anyone this evening.”

Hartley, flanked by his half brother, Lord Richard, on one side and Miss Kearsey on the other, strode into the room. Lady Wappington, the
ton
's most malevolent gossip, was also in train, her bug eyes magnified to even greater proportions by peering at him through a lorgnette.

“Blackwood, in making improper advances toward my grandmother, you have shown yourself to be beyond the pale,” Hartley said.

“What? I never—”

“Now, now, Blackwood. Truth is truth. You did claim to have dreamt of making extravagant love to me all day long,” the marchioness put in unhelpfully.

“Oh, I say!” Lady Wappington made a noise halfway between a snort and an owl hoot. Then she turned and fairly ran down the hall in her hurry to spread word of the debacle.

Once the
ton
got wind of this, Blackwood would be a laughingstock. The tabloids would likely pick it up. He could imagine the cartoons now, depicting him slavering over a wrinkled old crone in a nightcap.

He'd never been respectable, but at least he'd been feared. Now he'd face only derision.

“The IOU in my waistcoat pocket, the switching of my card deck, my loss at the poque table, even this ridiculous farce with your grandmother—this is all your doing,” Blackwood accused Lord Hartley.

His former friend executed a flawless bow. “Freely admitted with pride.”

Ire boiled inside him. Blackwood stomped over to Hartley, smacked him with his glove.

“I demand satisfaction.” That drove the amused smirk off Hartley's face. He seemed to blanch at the thought of meeting Blackwood on a field of honor. And well he might. Blackwood had never lost a duel, killing two men and maiming a third.

“No, John, please. Walk away. It's not worth it.” Distress drawing her brows together, Rebecca Kearsey clung to Hartley's forearm, but he gently moved her behind him.

“That very much depends upon what price your beloved sets upon his honor,” Blackwood said with a sneer. “If you feel yourself man enough, my lord, shall we say tomorrow at dawn?”

Hartley nodded. “I'll meet you in the Greek folly.”

“Very well. Since you have been challenged, you may choose the weapons, though I warn you I am equally skilled at pistols and blades.”

“I am forewarned,” Hartley said solemnly.

Blackwood pushed between his former friend and the girl he'd intended to ravish. The total collapse of his plans still stung, but the opportunity to kill Hartley for it and suffer no legal repercussions soothed him immeasurably.

* * *

After Blackwood stormed out, John, his brother, and the dowager left the chamber as well. But Rebecca hadn't even had time to ring for a maid to help her out of her ball gown before John slipped back into her room.

“Oh, thank heaven,” she murmured as she flew across the space and into his arms. “Tell me you are not going through with this ridiculous duel.”

“I jolly well have to.” John pressed a kiss on the crown of her head. “Otherwise, I'll be branded a coward and Blackwood will be vindicated in the eyes of the
ton
.”

“Since when do you care what they think?”

“Since I fell in love with a certain baron's daughter. Don't you see? I want to make everything right for you, love. I can't do that if I let Blackwood get the best of me.”

She ranted after that, though not very loudly, since her reputation wouldn't withstand being caught with yet another man in her bedchamber on the selfsame night. This was precisely what she'd feared when John first promised to take on the problem of her father's debt.

She'd rather give herself to that odious Blackwood a thousand times than have John killed by the man.

She pleaded. She wept, but she couldn't make him see reason. Finally, despair gave way to anger.

“If you won't listen to me, then get out.”

“Now, love, is that any way to talk? No, you're right. Maybe it's best if we don't talk at all.” He kissed her then, claiming her mouth by right. He crowded her senses with his strength and his scent and the wonder of his lips on hers. For a moment, longing urged her to forget the morrow. No one was promised even their next breath. Now was all anyone had.

Why not take the man she loved to bed and forget the rest of the world?

But her head overruled her aching body.

“No, John.” She wedged her hands between them and shoved against his chest. “If you're determined to kill yourself, you'll not take my blessing—or anything else—with you.”

He gave her a long look. “I wish you had more faith in me.”

It wasn't that. She had plenty of faith in his intentions. She just had more fear of Blackwood's reputation with a blade and a pistol. She couldn't encourage him in this foolishness.

“So. That's it, then.” He brushed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Good night, love. Sleep well.”

He was gone before she could respond.

Rebecca wouldn't sleep. This was her worst nightmare, and she didn't even have the option of waking from it.

So weeping silently, she paced the length of her room until the sky lightened to pearl gray. She was still wearing the pink ball gown, but now she wrapped a pale oatmeal shawl around her shoulders and headed for the Greek folly.

The grass was stiff with early morning frost. The cunning slippers Freddie had lent her for the ball would never be the same, but it didn't signify in the slightest. Her chest was a leaden weight. She had no more tears. Nothing mattered but seeing John one last time. Even if she couldn't dissuade him from his course, she'd be with him to the end.

When Rebecca reached the tumbled-down amphitheater, she was stupefied to discover the stone seats were almost filled to capacity by other members of the house party. It was mostly the gentlemen, who loved nothing better than a fight and the opportunity to wager on it. But a few ladies had arrived early enough to claim a good vantage point from which to view the proceedings. Rebecca passed by Lord Arbuthnot and Lady Chloe, who were also both still wearing their formal clothes from last evening.

“Of course, dueling is illegal.” Lord Arbuthnot's breath rose in dragonish puffs while he pontificated to Lady Chloe. “But ignoring a slight to one's honor cannot be legislated.”

“I fail to see how catching Blackwood at his own game is a slight to his honor,” Chloe drawled.

Rebecca scanned the sloping stones toward the stage area and saw Freddie seated beside Lady Wappington. She scrambled down toward them.

“Naturally, I abhor the notion of dueling,” Freddie was saying to her companion. “However, as a cultural phenomenon, it is worth further study. It behooves me to witness one if for no other reason than to prepare a treatise against the practice. Oh, Rebecca, there you are. I'd begun to think you wouldn't come.”

More people were arriving over the rise and taking their places in the amphitheater's stone seating as the sky continued to lighten. Rebecca's sense of unreality grew by the moment. “Did someone send out invitations?”

“I might have mentioned it to one or two people.” Lady Wappington had the grace to look chagrined. “In strictest confidence, you understand.”

“Is John here?” Rebecca didn't bother to call him Lord Hartley for form's sake. She was trembling for reasons that had nothing to do with the chill morning air. None of the silly things society thought was so important mattered one whit. She knew that now. She shouldn't have sent John away. She—

“Yes,” Freddie interrupted her thoughts, “the principals are here, though I gather Lord Blackwood had difficulty finding a second. It seems poor Mr. Pitcairn has been pressed into service.”

On the right side of the proscenium, Pitcairn was helping Blackwood remove his garrick and jacket. The small fellow's face was so wide-eyed, Rebecca didn't doubt he'd bolt if given half a chance.

Then John and his brother, Richard, strode onto the left side of the stage, and the rest of the world faded away. Freddie's droning voice became a meaningless jumble of sounds. The gathered onlookers were shapeless blobs of wool and superfine. All that existed, all that was real, all that mattered was John Fitzhugh Barrett.

Her legs propelled her toward him somehow, but she wasn't conscious of commanding them. She was powerless to stop herself until she stood before him. He let Richard divest him of his greatcoat and jacket, and then took both of Rebecca's hands.

“You shouldn't have come,” he said softly.

“I had no choice.”

“Neither do I.”

“I know that now,” she said. To refuse Blackwood's challenge, he'd have to deny who he was, who he was desperately trying to be—the next marquess of Somerset. “I love you. I'll love you till…till forever comes.”

Despite the grimness of the situation, his face broke into a wide smile. “That's good, love. But don't look so glum. Forever isn't coming today.”

Then he strode to meet Blackwood in the center of the Greek folly's stage. Rebecca hugged her shawl around her tighter, but nothing could warm her. She strained to hear the duelists' conversation over the rumble of the assembled witnesses. Then the crowd finally hushed and Blackwood's voice rang clearly in the open space.

“What will it be, Hartley? Swords or pistols?”

“Neither.”

“You mean to concede and apologize then?”

“Nothing of the sort. You insulted both my grandmother and the lady I love. We'll duel, all right, but not with conventional weapons,” John said. “I choose fists.”

“Fists?” Pitcairn piped up. “There's no precedent. It's simply not done.”

“There's no law against it, either,” Richard put in. “And Hartley, as the challenged party, is allowed to choose his weapons. You may accept his choice or apologize…with significant damage to your honor, of course.”

“Or you can accept with significant damage to your teeth,” John promised with a wolf's smile.

“You can brawl to the death, of course. Men have killed each other with naught but their bare hands before, but I hope you're a bit more civilized than that,” Richard offered, as John's second. “My brother is not a vindictive man. We propose the winner be decided by first blood.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Pitcairn said. “A bloody nose is better than a beating.”

“Shut up, you bird-wit!” An amused titter rose up from the crowd on the amphitheater steps. Blackwood lowered his voice to a low growl. “You'll rue the day you tried to make a fool of me, Hartley.”

“Oh, I think you're doing a fine job of that without any help from me.” John raised his fists in a pugilist's classic stance. “Defend yourself.”

“So be it.”

Then with the skill and lightning reflexes that made him a master swordsman, Blackwood lashed out with a jab to John's jaw. It didn't draw blood, but Rebecca felt the jolt as if the blow had connected with her own face. John staggered back a pace.

Blackwood followed it up with a blow that glanced off John's chin and then another to his gut that connected with a dull thud.

As John doubled over, Rebecca's breath hissed out of her in a rush.

“Hit him back,” she chanted softly, not wanting to distract John as he and Blackwood circled each other, looking for an opening. The rest of the witnesses weren't so thoughtful. They called out suggestions and derision to both boxers as the seriousness and civility of a field of honor degenerated into a mill.