The Marker (2 page)

“Slavery isn’t legal here, and I don’t want to be responsible for some woman for the rest of her life. Sounds too much like marriage. I like my life just fine, thank you.” Drunken laughter rang out as the men surrounding him laughed at his joke.

Markland eyed Nicholas’s money. “How much you got?”

Nicholas counted. And then he had to recount because somewhere in the middle he’d lost track. “Enough to cover the wages of a maid for about a year. I guess your daughter could serve in my household for that length of time.”

“She comes back untouched?”

“I don’t beat my staff, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Markland regarded him for a moment with troubled eyes. He caught Nicholas watching him and glanced meaningfully at the men gathered around him. Leaning forward in his seat, he said in a voice so soft Nicholas had to strain to hear the words, “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“No, I’m sure it’s not,” Nicholas responded with an amused smirk. Anyone who frequented the taverns and gambling halls in Sacramento had heard of Nicholas’s reputation as a notorious rake. Nicholas enjoyed the fairer sex, and he had recently ended an entanglement with a beautiful, wealthy widow. Soon, he would be on the hunt for female companionship, but he didn’t make it a practice to bed virgins. Never had. Virgins always seemed like far more trouble than they were worth, and while he didn’t mind scandals, he’d never been one to drag the innocent or naïve into them. He wasn’t an honorable sort, but even
he
had a line he wouldn’t cross.

He preferred his women savvy to the ways of men, anyway.

“I’m not in the habit of bedding my staff,” Nicholas responded with a shrug. “
I
am not wanting for companionship.” He glanced over toward the parlor and saw a prostitute loitering in the doorway. He didn’t want her either, but he winked and blew her a kiss. Just to make Markland daft.

“Untouched.” Following Nicholas’s gaze, he said with a scowl, “I want her back untouched.”

Nicholas smiled, enjoying himself. “I make no guarantees,” he said, just to be difficult. “If you’re so worried, call with your ninety and take the pot. And, if she’s as honorable as you say she is, I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you?”

Markland fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the table again. “All right, I’m in.”

Nicholas gave a breath of wry laughter and sat back in his chair. He had thought, by making his reputation clear and giving Markland no assurances, he would back down, his honor overcoming his greed. Secretly, Nicholas hoped his opponent
would
back down—not only was there a certain delight in having everyone wonder if he had won the hand on a bluff, but a part of him long since silent didn’t care for the direction the betting had taken.

With a shrug, Nicholas pushed his uneasiness aside and said, “All right.”

Twenty minutes later, the contract had been drafted and signed. James Campbell, Nicholas’s business partner and a frequent companion on his trips to the gambling hall, had written it, and the intent of the agreement was clear: should John Markland lose, his daughter would pay his debt by working as a servant in Nicholas’s household. Once she earned enough to pay back what her father owed him, she would be free to go.

“You don’t need to do this, Nicholas,” James said in confidence. “Your reputation will be ruined if you claim her. So will hers. This isn’t a good idea.”

Nicholas shrugged and glanced up at the gentlemen who, drawn by the drama unfolding, had come to stand around the table. James’s disapproval of the arrangement did give him pause. A notorious womanizer like Nicholas, James wasn’t known for his strict adherence to conventional morals. While everyone liked James, he claimed few people as friends—and fewer still did he hold had any allegiance to. What others did on their own time was none of his business. For James to actually voice censure was something of a novelty. Nicholas frowned. He wanted to win this hand, but even he recognized the bad form in allowing Markland to go through with this wager. The tatters of his honor rose up in angry protest. Did he really want to destroy a girl in exchange for his own, short-lived pleasure?

Nicholas focused on the sound of the jaunty tune being played on the piano, using it to drown out both his long-ignored conscience and the low voices of the men who had come to witness the bargain being struck for the fate of a woman. He raked his hands through his hair, considering James’s words. If her father were willing to do go through with the wager, why should Nicholas have any qualms? He owed neither the girl nor her father any allegiance.

With a sigh, Nicholas said, “Her reputation’s her father’s problem, not mine, and mine’s not going to suffer. I know what I am. I’m not folding my hand.”

“You’re drunk,” James told him. “You know you’ll regret this in the morning.”

“Probably,” Nicholas responded with a reckless grin.

“The girl doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t matter who she is or who her father is. She doesn’t deserve this. You’re better than this, Nick.”

“No I’m not.”

James sighed. “Why don’t you just go home and sleep it off?”

“Because he bet. You really want me to fold and lose my money—our money—because you don’t approve of the other man’s wager? It’s not my fault he wagered what he did and is gonna lose.”

“Not his daughter’s either.”

“Maybe not, but that’s not my problem.” The odd twinge of guilt intensified, but Nicholas wasn’t going to let James ruin the glow of good booze and a great hand of poker. Besides, embroiling himself in a good scandal might serve as an interesting diversion.

“You’re really going to do this?”

“Yup.”

James shook his head and warned, “This is stupid.”

“Yup.” He threw back another shot of whiskey, ran his hand through his hair and asked, “You gonna stop me?”

“No,” James said.

“Then put the contract in the pot and let’s be done with this.” He glanced at Markland, who stared at the cash at the center of the table with greed lighting his eyes. Disgust rolled through him for this man who was willing to risk his own daughter for the sake of the game, a man so weak he didn’t recognize when he had been bested. “You can still just call the hundred,” Nicholas urged, carefully enunciating his words to keep them from slurring. “There is no dishonor in betting only what belongs to you.”

“Scared, Wetherby?” Markland asked, his lips curving into a smug sneer, and Nicholas fought the sudden inclination to punch him in the face. “I’ve placed my bet. You can call or fold.”

Nicholas shrugged and leaned forward to push the remainder of his cash into the center of the table to join the rest of the goods in the pot, and he heard James’s wry breath of laughter. Under his breath, James muttered, “You’re right. He does deserve it.”

If anything had sealed the girl’s fate, it had been her father’s words.

“Fine,” Nicholas retorted. “I call.”

Flipping over his hand, Markland said, “Four eights! Beat that, Wetherby!”

Nicholas whistled, stunned to find the Markland had a far better hand than he had thought. “That’s a...a good hand,” he said, and the older man leaned forward to eagerly begin collecting his winnings. With a wave, Nicholas stopped him. “Not so fast, my friend.”

Markland stared up at him in bewildered surprise. “You know I have you beat. You said so yourself. I have a good hand.”

“It’s a good hand, but I never said it was the best.”

With the back of his hand, Markland wiped away the sweat dotting his brow as he backed away from the pot. “The jacks and queens are out, so I know you don’t have those,” he said, and Nicholas could almost smell the desperation leeching from his pores, much like the cheap tobacco and equally cheap alcohol already did. “You can’t have the kings or aces—I think Campbell had at least one of those. I have the best hand.”

With a smile, Nicholas said, “I don’t have four of anything, that’s true.”

“Then what?” But even as he said the words, Nicholas watched Markland’s face fall as the older man finally realized which hand he hadn’t taken into account.

Nicholas leaned forward, and to Markland’s dismay and Nicholas’s everlasting delight, he turned over the best hand in poker: the royal flush. Without another word, Nicholas collected his winnings and the contract. The crowd gathered around the table dispersed, seeking out the next big drama. Looking back at Markland, who sat at the poker table with his head in his hands, Nicholas said, “I’ll be by tomorrow to pick up the marker. Make sure she’s ready.”

With those parting words, Nicholas left the hall.

Lexie Markland dusted off her skirt as she answered the insistent pounding at the door. Expecting the usual ruffians who came to collect payment for some creditor of her father’s, Lexie was surprised to find the most attractive gentleman she had ever encountered standing on her sagging front stoop. Tall and broad, dressed in fawn colored pants and a dark, finely tailored day coat, he had tawny blond hair swept back from his forehead and bright, blue-green eyes the color of a turquoise stone her mother had once owned. Her breath hitched as she stared at him, for he was handsome in a way she couldn’t define, as if he glittered when he walked. What business could such a man possibly have here? People like him didn’t do their own dirty work. They had others do it for them.

He studied her, his bright eyes interested as they searched her face. After a few moments, she noticed the papers he tapped in his hand. Dismayed, she said, “If you’ve come to collect a debt of my father’s, we haven’t much left to sell.”

He made a noncommittal movement of his shoulders, as if to concede he understood their financial situation. “May I come in?”

Lexie shivered at the sound of his voice, deep and seductive, but stepped aside to allow him entrance. A man like him wouldn’t come by her house except to collect a debt owed by her father—over the years, she had become accustomed to it. But this man was no debt collector, and obviously didn’t need the money. What had her father had promised that had driven a man of his status to her section of town? Their little house, with one foot in the slums, was a long way from his neighborhood. Given her father’s latest foray into gambling, some nights they barely had enough to eat. Lexie hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday, and she harbored little hope of getting anything before supper.

“Of course,” she answered evenly, struggling to keep her expression neutral. “I’ll go get my father. I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid we just ran out.” She paused for a moment and then made the only allowance she would to her circumstances, the only acknowledgement they were flat broke. “You must understand, my father can sometimes be...unreliable.”

“Oh, your father’s proven reliable enough with the one thing that interests me,” he said in a voice dark with promise, and her eyes shot to his face in surprise. Even she didn’t believe her father’s word anymore. Extending his hand, he said, “I’m Nicholas Wetherby.”

“Alexandra Markland.”

“Alexandra,” he said, giving her the impression he tasted her name as it rolled off his tongue, and she tried to suppress the rush of excitement coursing through her at the sound of it on his lips. Taking his hand, she was startled when he laid a solicitous kiss upon the top. Her skin burned where his mouth moved against it, a touch so primal and searing she wondered if he had left a mark. Warmth spread across her belly, like she’d had too much to drink. Her head began to spin and she felt faint.

When she tripped over her own feet, he was instantly by her side, holding her elbow to keep her steady. Embarrassed, as she regained her equilibrium and her composure, she said, hoping he believed her, “My apologies. I’m afraid I haven’t had anything to eat yet, and I’m a little light-headed.” She had never had such a reaction to anyone in her entire life, and she thought about his hand on her arm, the warmth of his skin where he touched her, and the smell of him, masculine and clean. Her corset suddenly too tight, she struggled to catch her breath.

His gaze burned when he asked, “May I assist you to the sitting room?”

Lexie laughed, feeling a little giddy. She turned in the direction of the sitting room, but thought better of it. She didn’t want him to see what they had left. They had nothing in the sitting room but a threadbare rug the debt collectors hadn’t seen fit to take.

“Why not come with me to the kitchen?” she offered.

He nodded, and as they walked in that direction, Lexie became aware of his hand on the small of her back as he guided her. Surely such a simple touch shouldn’t have her heart racing, but it did. Pulling away from him as they approached her father, Lexie said softly, “Father. We have a guest,” and laid a gentle hand on his back.