Too Wicked to Marry (24 page)

Martin did not like to lose. He didn't suppose any man did, but some accepted defeat more easily than others. Not Martin Kestrel. Though fencing was a hobby, it was a serious one. Had the world's wars still been fought by sword-wielding knights on horseback, he might have made his career as a soldier. As it was, he spent his life trying to avoid wars by wielding words, and saved his talent with the sword for bloodless competition with foil, epee, and saber. Though Martin had studied the conventions of the sport with Italian masters, his early and best training had come from his half-Spanish godfather, who claimed to have been among the last of the Barbary pirates in his youth. Wherever the Duke of Pyneham had learned his skill, he'd passed quite a few useful tricks on to Martin, who never failed to use them to his advantage.

And he learned quickly that fencing with Sir Anthony's friends required every dirty trick he'd ever learned. There was a great deal of wagering among the spectators in the long window-lined gallery used for the exercise, and at first none of the betting was on Lord Martin Kestrel. Martin welcomed the challenge and set about ruthlessly defeating every challenger who came against him.

I wish he wasn't taking so many risks
, Harriet thought as she stood among a group of tittering women.

The ladies clapped and cooed at every touch of the tips of the long fencing foils against the padded white garments that protected the competitors' torsos, while the watching men clapped and commented knowingly whether they were aficionados or not. Harriet doubted most of the spectators knew the names of the feints and parries, or what constituted points in the combat of clashing swords. What the women did recognize was that the fencing match was a fine, athletic way for a man to show off his body.

Martin's broad shoulders, muscular thighs, arms, and long legs looked especially elegant and graceful as he moved purposefully up and down the length of the hallway. His black hair and fair coloring were certainly set off handsomely by the white fencing gear. All the women commented on it. Harriet received quite a few envious looks, and actually found herself smiling smugly back a few times.

Honestly, don't be an idiot. He isn't mine to preen over.

But he certainly looked good as he worked up a sweat, his expression showing sharp concentration and fierce determination. The man looked like a medieval warrior. Lady Ellen even commented that she wished she'd offered Martin a handkerchief to wear as her token. Harriet repressed the urge to give the other woman a blistering look.

Harriet would have been happier if the men wore protective masks instead of fighting with their heads bare. The thin fencing foils they wielded were blunted at the tip, but the tip could still prove dangerous if thrust into an eye or vulnerable throat. She was in the habit of being protective of Martin Kestrel even when the danger was minimal. Watching the man's back was an ingrained habit after four years.

Well, that assignment was over. He was a big boy who was voluntarily showing off his prowess and could take care of himself. She even tried to tell herself that Lady Ellen was welcome to him. Then she sidled out of the crowd of women and spotted a group of men who did not seem particularly interested in the fencing. This group stood by one of the tall windows in a warm shaft of sunlight. The windows were flanked by flowering plants in huge blue and white porcelain pots, obscuring her view of the members of this group.

It was such a simple assignment, but proving terribly frustrating to carry out. Where was the man wearing a gold lily stickpin in his cravat or lapel? The courier was a man who knew a man who passed secret information from a Russian double agent in Vienna on through this anonymous chain of spies until the information reached the hands of the British secret service. Her brother Michael was supposed to be the person who represented the British. It was supposed to have been a simple operation that a young man on holiday from university could easily handle.

It was possible that Michael had been tortured into revealing that the courier was to be at this party. It was possible that the courier had heard some rumor that Michael was missing and was being cautious. It was possible that there was a Russian agent at the party hunting for the courier as well. Many things were possible. Harriet felt time nipping at her heels and wanted something,
anything
to happen. Only she had to find the man with the blasted stickpin first!

When she stepped around the potted plant, Harriet was pleased to note that there were at least two men in the group that she had not met before. She smiled and moved closer, but before she could so much as utter a word or even flutter an eyelash, a hand snagged her arm and she was spun around.

"We meet again," Kit said. He looked her up and down, dark eyes glittering and a smile dancing on his wide mouth. "You do clean up pretty," he told her.

"Would that be considered a compliment in America?"

"No, Miss Cora," he answered. "In New Orleans we compliment women in French." He steered her away from her objective and toward a door at the other end of the gallery. While she wanted to scream in frustration and had a childish urge to kick him, he leaned his head close to hers and said, "When we're alone I'll speak to you in French,
chΦre
."

"I'd rather you didn't," she told him.

His smile was irrepressible. The way to the door took them past where the men were fencing. "What other language would you like? I'm fluent in several. Fluent in many things," he added.

"Flirting and teasing being high on the list."

"Would I flirt with you, Miss Cora?"

The fencing foil that was suddenly pressed against Kit's throat interrupted whatever answer she would have made.

It seemed to take forever to look up and up the length of the slender line of metal until Harriet finally met the raging fury in Martin Kestrel's gray eyes. There was a moment of exquisite silence, but his gaze flicked contemptuously over her for only a second before he concentrated his attention on the man he held at sword's point.

"Oh, dear," Harriet murmured, and then became aware of the staring crowd gathering around them. "You are causing a scene, my lord," she warned. The worst of it was, she didn't understand why he was doing it.

"Take your hand off her." Martin spoke quietly, but his low voice was full of threat.

Kit's response was a raised eyebrow and the slightest of shrugs. "Pull a real weapon on me and I might consider it," was his cool answer.

"Gladly," Martin said, and tossed down the foil. "Name your weapon."

"
Martin
." A duel. She didn't believe it. Was he mad? Had he really challenged another man to a duel? "This is the sort of behavior I expect from your brother," she told Martin. She glared at Kit. "And you—"

"Well?" Martin urged Kit. He ignored her.

Kit's smiling attention was completely on Martin. "What are we fightin' over, sir? The hand of the lady?"

Harriet pulled away from Kit. "My hand is not up for barter."

Martin gave a mirthless laugh. His eyes were wild. "It is not her hand either of us is interested in."

Kit showed a hint of anger for the first time. "Really?" He sneered at Martin. "Seems to me that a man who's willing to lose a woman in a fight doesn't deserve to have her in the first place."

"I do not believe I am hearing this." Harriet pulled away from Kit. "You're acting like a pair of idiots."

She looked around at the avid spectators, but there was no use calling for help or sanity from this crowd. The eagerness with which the confrontation was being watched was sickening. Sharks indeed, scenting real blood as well as gossip this time. There was an eager gasp when the man who'd come from America reached into an interior coat pocket.

What he brought out was a deck of cards. He fanned them in one hand and his smile was as sharp as a knife when he said, "My weapon of choice, sir."

"Fine," Martin said, nostrils flared with contempt.

"Martin," Harriet warned. He didn't listen. "Kit!"

Kit only smiled at her. "You're going to be going home with me, little lady."

"I am not."

"You haven't won her yet," Martin informed his opponent.

"Yes, I have," Kit answered. "You, Lord Martin, are a dilettante. Among my many accomplishments,
I
include Mississippi riverboat gambler." He glanced at Sir Anthony, who was standing nearby. "If you'll show the way to your gaining room, sir, we can get this duel started."

There was some laughter, and quite a bit of comment. Bets on the outcome were already being laid. Harriet decided it was best simply to walk away and let the antagonists get whatever was poisoning them out of their systems. She had a man with a lily to find.

But as if being gambled over wasn't humiliating enough, Martin grabbed her by the arm and dragged her off to the gaming room. She protested the whole way, which only drew more attention and comments from the crowd. Shame burned through her, and growing anger. Worst of all was the pain that Martin could think so little of her that he was willing to give her up to the turn of a card. Kit was right about one thing; any man who treated a woman—treated
her
—with such contempt wasn't worthy of being loved.

"Whatever happens, no matter what punishment you think I deserve," she whispered as they stepped through the card room door, "know that you and I are through."

Martin pretended he didn't hear her. Whatever his initial motive was, he knew that he'd taken it too far and that there was no going back. The insane thing was, he almost didn't know how it had started. He remembered that he'd already been annoyed at a bungling opponent's blatant attempts to cheat, and he was already angry with himself for his behavior toward Harriet that morning, and angry for being angry because she deserved any treatment he cared to give her. Into all this confusion and fury, what did he see out of the corner of his eye but Harriet casually strolling off arm in arm with her new American friend, as though Martin didn't matter at all. And she was smiling at the scoundrel.
Smiling
!

That was when the red rage descended on him like a curtain blocking out all sanity, and the next thing he knew he'd challenged Kit Fox to a duel. For some reason, it had all seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. Which made him not only a fool, but the worst sort of dastardly villain. It would serve him right if the American gambler won this card game, for
Martin couldn't back out now. To refuse to fight with the chosen weapon meant he would default the match. Harriet would go to Fox anyway. She could protest all she liked, but Sir Anthony would gleefully ensure that to the victor went the spoils, even if Martin had to be restrained to do it. Sir Anthony would never let anything besmirch the "honor" of his house by letting a man renege on a bet.

Of course, he thought with grim humor, with the spoils went Mrs. Swift. Not that that was any real consolation. Win or lose the game, he realized when he glanced sideways at her hard, unyielding anger, he had lost her before ever really finding her.

"Damn," he muttered, but no one, least of all Harriet, paid him any mind. Everyone was caught up in the entertainment. Actually, Lady Ellen did smile at him when he looked around. Perhaps she thought he'd seek consolation in her arms once he'd lost his mistress to the gambler. "Damn," he said again, even more fervently.

In the wood-paneled gaming room, he paused to strip off the fencing rig and wipe the sweat off his face. Then he sat down in his shirtsleeves opposite Kit Fox. Sir Anthony took a third chair, and Fox passed his deck of cards to their host, to act as dealer.

"I'd prefer a fresh deck," Martin said, his request an open implication that Fox's deck was marked.

Fox didn't complain that he was being called a card cheat, but nodded his agreement. "Straight draw poker," he said when a servant brought the new deck. "You know the game?" Martin nodded. "Good. I wouldn't want to tax Your Lordship's skills with anything more lively."

"Shut up and play," Martin replied.

A stack of chips was placed before him and Fox. Though there was no ante or stakes in this game, the chips were necessary for smooth play. Sir Anthony shuffled and cut the cards, then dealt the players five cards each.

Martin schooled his emotions, his muscles, and his features, and settled down to play. He might not have played on a Mississippi river-boat but he was no less a professional gambler than Mr. Fox. What was the diplomacy he practiced at the highest-level negotiating tables of the world, if not gambling for the most important stakes imaginable? What was winning a hand of cards next to preventing a war? A calm confidence came over him the moment the play began. When all five cards were in his hand, he began to smile.

The room was silent, people barely breathing, all eyes centered on the gaming table. To Martin they became no more than statues, unimportant pieces of furniture. Even knowing that the seething Harriet stood directly behind him had no effect on him. Only he, Kit Fox, and the cards existed. The room was hot and Martin was glad that he was stripped to a white shirt with no coat, collar, or cravat. He welcomed every advantage, and like a good diplomat, or gambler, he took every advantage.

"Bet," Fox said, tossing a chip to the center of the table.

"Bet." Martin repeated the gesture.

Both men studied their hands, drawing out the game for a long time, working on each other's nerves.

Fox finally said, "Raise." He threw in more chips.

"Two," Martin said. He discarded the unwanted cards and took the two Strake dealt him. No matter what he held in his hand, he continued to smile slightly. Beneath lowered lids he studied Fox, and noticed the other man's gaze flicker to Harriet—a gambit to distract him by playing on his jealousy.

"Your bet, Fox," Martin said, pretending he'd fallen for the ploy. He did not rearrange his cards, did not discard what he held. Once he was working, nothing jangled Martin Kestrel's nerves. He didn't like to lose.

"One," Fox said after a few moments' consideration, and took the card from Strake.