Barbara Metzger (19 page)

The viscount was going to walk away. This time he really was. If Miss Lattimore wanted to play ducks and drakes with her good name, that was her business, none of his.

“Please, gentlemen,” he heard her say as he walked past, a quaver in her voice, “I really do not want to play anymore. See? I have no money left. You’ve won it all back, so you cannot say I was a poor sport.” The viscount’s feet refused to take another step, no matter what his head ordered.

A sharp-featured man said they’d take her vowels, and that fat old court-card Bishop Nugee claimed she owed him twenty pounds, for his stake. Lord Mayne was prepared to let Sydney stew a while, to teach her a lesson. Then he saw someone put his hand on her shoulder. Then he saw red.

The viscount brushed the spectators aside like flies.

“No, I did not owe anyone,” Sydney declared. “I won’t take any of your money or your advice. I am going home.” She did not know if these scoundrels would let her; she did not know if her legs would carry her. She did not even want to think about walking out of there on her own, in the dark, with no one beside her.

Grandfather always said never show fear, so she raised her chin. “I do not think you play fair.” Just then someone tossed a roll of coins over Sydney’s shoulder toward the bishop. She turned to refuse before she was in deeper water, if that was possible. Or if it mattered, now that she was drowning anyway. “I didn’t ...” The words faded when she saw who stood behind her chair.

The breath she did not know she was holding for the last hour or so whooshed out of her. Safe! Like dry land to a shipwrecked sailor, like a sip of water to a sun-drenched jungle wanderer, rescue was at hand. Sydney almost jumped up and hugged her savior, until she got a better look at Lord Mayne’s granite face and saw the whitened knuckles clenched around the rungs of her chair back. Like a shark to the shipwrecked sailor, like a tribe of cannibals to the soul lost in the jungle, some fates were worse than death.

Sydney fumbled in her reticule for the few shillings she carried there. “On second thought, I think I shall play a bit more.”

Another roll of coins landed on the table, this time right in front of her. “New cards,” she heard him call like the sound of doom. “The lady deals.”

* * * *

Sydney did not have to concentrate on the rules or the cards or her bets. The viscount tapped his quizzing glass on the card he wanted her to play, and just as silently indicated how much she should wager. No one else spoke, for the gamblers had to look to their own hands rather than count on a rigged game to pluck the little pigeon of every feather she had. Now the dark lady held the deal and Mayne’s reputation kept them honest. No one dared to mark the cards or switch them. It was a fair game.

There were no more ribald comments and no taunts aimed at flustering Sydney, which would have been too late by half anyway. Her hands made the motions of passing cards from the shoe to the players, pushing forward the coins and markers, collecting the winnings.

As the pile in front of her grew, so did her trepidation at the unnatural silence. She thought they must all hear her knees tapping together or the frantic pounding of her heart or the drops of nervous perspiration slipping down her back. She had to wipe her hands on her cloak to keep the cards from sticking to them.

“Please.” She turned to beg when it seemed the game would go on for another lifetime. “Please may I go home now?”

The viscount gestured to a hovering servant who immediately produced a silk purse, into which he scraped the winnings. The rattle of the coins was the only sound. The viscount pushed some of the markers aside for the house share and some for the servants, then nodded for one of the dealers to exchange the rest for cash. Only then did he pull back Sydney’s chair and help her to rise with a hand under her elbow. He kept it there as he guided her out of the hushed room. She could hear the whispers start behind them, but Lord Mayne kept walking at a measured pace, not hurrying. And not talking. He nodded to some of his friends, cut others who tried to catch his attention. Sydney hadn’t realized the rooms were five miles long!

Finally they reached the entryway, which was empty except for the butler and some footmen. Forrest merely had to dip his head for his cane, hat, and gloves to be handed over, his carriage sent for, the winnings carried to him.

That sack of coins seemed to loose the flood of words he’d been striving to contain until they were alone. Shoving it into Sydney’s hands, too furious to care who heard, he growled: “Here, madam. I hope the gold was worth this night’s cost. You have gambled away your reputation, gambled away your sister’s future, all to repay a debt no one wanted.”

“But, my honor—”

“Your honor be damned. There was no dishonor in accepting a gift when you needed it, only a blow to your stubborn pride. And what is honor but your good name? You have done everything in your power to see yours dragged through the mud, blast you.”

Sydney was trembling, his arm the only thing keeping her standing. Still, she had to make him understand. “But the household was counting on me! What else could I do when they all depend on me?”

“You can bloody well let me take care of you!” he shouted for the edification of the servants, the gamblers who were crowded in the doorway to watch, the butler who stood holding the door, and the three carriages passing by.

Scarlet-faced, Sydney shook off his arm. “Thank you, my lord. Now we can
all
be assured my ruination is complete.” She loosened the strings of the purse and tipped it over, coins spilling at his feet and rolling across the marble foyer, pound notes fluttering in the breeze from the still-open door. One footman maintained his pretense of invisibility; the other scurried crabwise along the floor to collect the bills and change.

“And as for the winnings, my lord, I do not want anything from either you or this foul place. I did not earn it, I shall not earn it, and I would not take it—or you—if I were starving. If my sister was forced to take in washing,” she shouted as she ran through the open door, past the open-mouthed butler. “If Grandfather had to reenlist. If Wally had to wrestle bears. If Willy had to ...” Her voice faded as she was swallowed up in the dark, rainy night.

“That’s not what I meant,” the viscount murmured, but only the footman handing him the refilled purse heard. Lord Mayne absently handed him a coin, then he looked at the crowd gathered in the hallway and repeated so they could all hear: “That’s not what I meant.” The bishop nodded and held his finger alongside his nose. The rest of them leered and winked.

“Blast. Very well, let me put it this way: Nothing untoward occurred tonight. Anyone who believes differently had better be prepared to meet me. Likewise anyone who might feel the need to mention the lady’s name, if you know it, had best be ready to feel cold steel. Swords, pistols, fists, it matters not. And now good night, gentlemen.”

* * * *

Forrest called her name and Sydney walked faster. He caught up with her before she reached the corner of Park Lane and did not stop to argue. He scooped her up and tossed her and the silk purse into his carriage. Before getting in, he ordered the driver to go once around the park before returning Miss Lattimore to her home. Then he took the seat across from her, his arms crossed on his chest.

Sydney pulled her cloak about her. She was damp, chilled, and shaken, now that her anger was not heating her blood. For sure she was not going to receive any warmth or comfort from Lord Mayne, sitting there like a marble sculpture, handsome and cold. The streetlights showed the muscle in his jaw pulsing from being clenched so tightly.

“I won’t take it,” Sydney said quietly, moving the purse to his side. “It would make me feel soiled.” He nodded. She continued: “And I shall repay the loan, for I do not wish to be beholden to you.”

He nodded again. “So I surmised. But tell me, did you really intend to finance the rest of your sister’s Season, support your household, and reimburse me, by gambling? Not even you could be so addled to think that. Don’t you know the house always wins? You would only end up more in debt, losing what you had to start.”

Sydney gathered some dignity around her—it was more rumpled than her sodden cloak—and pulled a small notebook from her pocket. “I have never been the wantwit you consider me, my lord. I did not go there to gamble, but to observe. I wanted to know how such an enterprise was run. See? I made note of the staff and the rooms and tables. I thought that if things got desperate, we could turn the ground floor of our house into a gaming parlor, for invited guests only, of course.”

The viscount’s lip was twitching. “Of course.”

“Don’t patronize me, Lord Mayne. I was led to believe that only the highest ton were invited there. I admit I was wrong, but the principle is sound. As you said, the house always wins. I could see that Lady Ambercroft is making a fortune, and maybe I could too. She is providing for herself and she is still accepted everywhere.”

Forrest was not about to discuss all the ways Lady Ros was earning her bread. “Lady Ambercroft is a widow, not a young deb. Furthermore, she is accepted, not necessarily welcomed, and that more for her husband’s title and despite her present occupation. And finally, one of the places where she is not accepted and never will be is the marriage market. Gentlemen like Baron Scoville do not countenance their prospective brides shuffling pasteboards in smoky rooms. They don’t even like to be related to in-laws in trade, Mischief, much less a sister who runs a gaming den.”

“Oh, pooh, I scratched Baron Scoville off my list ages ago. I never liked him anyway, and Winnie seems determined on your brother. I thought we could use him as a dealer, since he is familiar with such places. That way we could save money on the staff and give him a respectable income so he doesn’t have to make the army his career.”

“A respectable—” He was laughing too hard to continue. “Mischief, your mind certainly works in mysterious ways. Bren has two small estates of his own and will come into a moderate fortune from our mother. The only reason he has not bought himself a commission, indeed why neither I nor my father has seen to it for him, is that Mother threatens to go into a decline if he signs up. She would purchase his cornetcy herself, however, rather than see him become a knight of the baize tables. But thank you, poppet, for worrying about my brother’s reformation. As a croupier!”

While he was laughing again, Sydney thought about her plan to reform Forrest Mainwaring as well as Brennan. She could see her strategy needed more refining, especially since she could not resist laughing with him.

Lord Mayne moved over to her side of the carriage and put his arm around her. “Listen, Mischief, we are partners, more or less, aren’t we?” Sydney allowed as how they might be. “Then I get to have a say in how the money is spent. That’s fair, isn’t it?” She nodded her head, dislodging the hood. He brushed the damp curls off her cheek. “Then I absolutely, categorically, forbid our blunt being used to set up a gambling den, no matter how polite. Is that understood?”

“You needn’t worry, Lord Mayne, after tonight I would never consider such a thing.”

“That’s Forrest, sweetheart. I really think we are on familiar enough terms to stop my-lording and my-ladying each other.”

Sydney felt they were on quite too familiar terms, her cheek tingling from his touch. She trembled and inched as far away from him as she could on the leather seat.

Forrest was not entirely convinced that she had abandoned her latest scheme. Reliving the horror of finding her in such a place, he said gruffly, “You know, having his granddaughter set herself up as a child of fortune would break the general’s heart.”

“Having a granddaughter instead of a grandson already broke his heart. I thought I’d let him operate the roulette table,” she said with a giggle. “No one could accuse him of stopping the wheel with his foot under the table.”

Forrest did not think she was taking his warning seriously enough. “I swear, Mischief, if you ever mention starting such a place, if you so much as set foot in such a place, I’ll turn you over my knee and beat some sense into you, which should have been done years ago. As a matter of fact, it’s not too late.” Seeing that she was shivering—from his threats or the cold—Forrest reached out to pull her onto his lap. Sydney screamed until he stopped her mouth with his.

Whatever sense she ever had flew right away, for she let him kiss her and hold her and touch her. And she kissed him and held him and touched him back, and enjoyed it mightily.

Such a heavenly embrace might have led heaven knew where, but they were home, and Willy—or Wally—was opening the door, looking mad as fire to find Missy sitting in his lordship’s lap. The footman plucked her out like a kitten from a basket and stood glaring at the viscount. Forrest could not tell whether it was the twin with the glass jaw or not, and did not feel like finding out the hard way. He tapped his cane on the carriage roof and left, smiling.

The guard outside, his own paid watchman, called after the coach: “Lordy, you never said I was supposed to keep her safe from you!”

Chapter 20

High Ton, High Toby

Sydney had a cold, and cold feet about meeting the ton. As soon as word spread that the younger Miss Lattimore was afflicted with a chill, however, even more bouquets of flowers arrived at Park Lane from suitors, along with baskets of fruit from well-wishers and pet restoratives from various dowagers. By some miracle—or Lord Mayne—Sydney had squeaked through another scrape with her reputation intact. She was too miserable to care.

Her nose was stuffed, her plans had gone awry, her heart was in turmoil, and her wits had gone begging. How could it be, she asked herself, that of all the men in London, she was attracted to one with no principles? How could it be that whenever she was with him she forgot her own? As for his taking care of her, he could do that when cows gave chocolate milk! Sydney blew her nose and pulled the covers over her head.