Meanwhile, the younger man in uniform. Captain de Montmorency, was keeping an eagle eye on the play in front of him. Having at last capitulated to his sister's request that he provide her with an entree to White's, he had sought out General Scott, who not only had his consistent and tremendous winnings to recommend him as a mentor, but also had been a crony of their father's as well.
"How do you do," he welcomed Alex in his blunt way.
"Knew your father in his wilder days, damn fine card player. If you're anything like him, you'll be more than a match for the fellows here. Why, I beat 'em regularly, almost as regularly as your father bested me. We missed Alfred sorely when he left us." And with no more ado, he had seen to it that Alex was admitted to that venerable temple of chance, the gaming room at White's.
Alex had strutted into the crowded gaming room with a confidence she was far from feeling. However, a covert glance at those lolling around the green baize-covered tables reassured her that many of the players were much the worse for wear, if the number of empty bottles around were any indication, while others bore the dazed look of those who had been staring at the cards too long to make much sense out of them anymore. She had taken her seat at a table where the general had waved to several acquaintances and introduced her to Sir Gerard Chumleigh as a partner who would not fail him. Alex had settled in nicely and was soon experiencing 79
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gratifying success that she took pains to keep moderate at first.
Having adopted her sponsor's well-known rule for success at the gaming table, Alex had eaten only boiled chicken and toast, and had drunk water so her mind would be clear when she took her place at the table. It was unlikely, given the raffish crowd that her twin ordinarily consorted with, that anyone in town would be at all familiar with his reputation. But just to be on the safe side, she always had a bottle of port beside her, which Tony, whose job it was to ensure the proper setting for their charade, would consume or dispose of while Alex adjusted her speech and movements accordingly, allowing her eyes to glaze over, her words to slur, and her motions to become more erratic as the evening wore on. Even she was not able to capture the full extent of Alexander's bluster and braggadocio, but it seemed unlikely that the types of characters her brother was friendly with would wander into White's. They were more inclined to frequent the less savory companionship of the gaming hells. Besides, if she were to adopt his offensively loud manner, it would attract attention to herself and perhaps also call attention to the fact that she rose from the table each evening a winner—a situation better left unnoticed if she were to continue her scheme.
There was one, however, who did notice. Lord Wrotham, bored with beating partners too foxed or too stupid to offer much challenge, soon left his table and strolled over to the one where Tony stood guard. "I'm Wrotham of the First Hussars," he introduced himself, appraising Tony with the eye 80
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of an experienced commander. He liked what he saw. Fairhaired and boyish though he might be, Captain de Montmorency possessed the steady gaze and self-confident bearing of someone who had been tested often, and who'd met each test with success. The green eyes were alert, observant, and vivid in a face weathered by constant exposure to the elements.
"Captain de Montmorency, First Guards," Tony responded in friendly fashion, taking the proffered hand.
"One of those fellows that crossed the Adour with us, were you?" Christopher inquired, eager to discuss something besides his tailor or the latest incomparable.
"Yes, beastly weather wasn't it? Though you cavalry fellows aren't ever so close to it as we are, slogging along in the mud as we do," Tony replied, his eyes lighting up at the chance to trade stories of more exciting times and places with someone who could appreciate them.
Soon both of them were immersed in life on the Peninsula—the dust, the heat, the unforgiving terrain. The card room and its members receded, to be replaced by foraging parties and battalions on the march. But Christopher was not too immersed in the memories to observe that Captain de Montmorency's companion appeared to be defeating his opponents with stunning regularity. His curiosity piqued at the sight of any member of the
ton
putting his mind to anything, even gaming, he began to watch more closely.
Slowly, he edged inconspicuously to the right in order to catch a glimpse of the cards the man was holding. They were 81
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not at all promising, but the young man sprawled in his chair, feet out-thrust, a blank look on his face as he waited for his opponents to make a move, did not appear in the least dismayed.
"He's done it again, damn me if I know how," one of the young man's opponents sighed.
"If you paid the least attention to your hand or to the game, Ceddie, you would," his partner snorted in disgust.
"Though how he divined that I held those kings, I shall never understand."
"Eh, what?" The young man who was the subject of all this discussion shook his head, peering blearily at his partner.
"Finished, have we?" He smiled muzzily. "I've had it for tonight, lads. What do you say. Tony, shall we toddle along in search of some amusement that isn't so taxing on the brainbox?" He rose unsteadily from his chair and turned around to clap a hand on Captain de Montmorency's shoulder. "And who is this, Tony?" he inquired curiously, eyeing the man who had been sharing military reminiscences.
"This is Major Lord Wrotham of the First Hussars. He was in the Peninsula as well. While you have been wasting your time on a pack of cards we have been discussing the crossing of the Adour. My brother, Alexander," Tony continued, turning back toward his new acquaintance.
"How d' do." Alex fixed a vacuous grin on her face and nodded in a friendly fashion before heading unsteadily toward the door with Tony, who, after smiling apologetically at Christopher, hurried forward in order to put a steadying hand under Alex's elbow.
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Now that he had been apprised of their relationship, Christopher could detect a resemblance between Captain de Montmorency and his brother. While Tony's hair was burnished gold, his brother's was deep auburn, but the green eyes and aquiline features were the same. However, something that he could not quite identify puzzled Lord Wrotham. To all intents and purposes, Tony appeared to be here keeping an eye on his brother who, from the implication of the captain's remarks and the edge to his voice, must spend a good deal of time at the gaming tables. But it seemed from the reactions of the other card players that Alexander de Montmorency had been so consistently successful that there was little enough cause for worry. Furthermore, such concern in an establishment where fortunes were won, and more often lost, every day of the week, seemed incongruous. Christopher did not remember ever having encountered a de Montmorency before and though not a regular, especially in the more recent years, he felt certain he would not have forgotten a player such as Alexander de Montmorency.
Besides all that, there was something different about the man—something that did not quite ring true. Christopher, accustomed to sizing up men in an instant, had been struck by a sense of inconsistency. Alexander's movements were those of a man who was more than a little disguised, yet the look he had initially directed at Christopher before being introduced by his brother had nothing of the blank stare that bespoke a fogged brain. On the contrary, it had been extremely acute and speculative, as though he were taking 83
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the measure of Major Lord Wrotham in a way that few people bothered to do. He had quickly hastened to dispel this impression of alertness by staring stupidly at Christopher during the actual introduction, but not before Christopher had noticed the difference in the two looks. This seeming contradiction had aroused Christopher's curiosity and thus made him extremely sensitive to impressions, such as the lack of the smell of spirits on the breath of a man who had enough empty bottles at his elbow to have befuddled several men.
Lord Wrotham had spent enough time among soldiers to be able to detect the signs of those who had consorted too freely with Bacchus. He had also seen more men than he cared to count insist that they were sober enough to take on any task, men who had learned to sober up enough to walk steadily and look lively, but they had never been able to disguise the pungent aroma of spirits that they exuded. Alexander de Montmorency had not exuded any such aroma. Then he must have been at great pains to convince the rest of the table that he was foxed, Christopher realized. Such a deception could only have been employed for one reason—
he wished to lull the minds of his opponents into dullness and complacency in order to win more easily. He was a man intent upon winning, there was little doubt of that. Wrotham did not think for one minute that the young man had employed nefarious methods, for he had observed him closely enough to see every play and to be assured that it was pure skill and not marked cards that had won him over a thousand pounds mat evening.
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The major's blue eyes narrowed. Yes, Alexander de Montmorency was definitely a man to bear watching—not that Christopher distrusted the man, for he did not appear to be dishonest except in his misrepresentation of the befuddled state of his mind—but because the man was so obviously determined to win consistently and even more determined that no one realize that he was doing this. Why? He did not betray the wild gleam in the eye of the hardened gamester, nor were his bets anything out of the ordinary. In fact, they were so paltry that those devoted to the Goddess Fortune were likely to scoff, but their very modest nature was unusual in itself.
Every indication pointed to a man working toward some goal. A military man himself, the major knew enough to appreciate a well-developed strategy when he saw one, and Christopher felt sure that he was seeing one now. The idea intrigued him. That any member of the
ton
should systematically set out to earn money was highly irregular and made Christopher exceedingly curious about the character of the man behind such an endeavor.
Surely someone bent on winning money steadily, a little at a time, would undoubtedly return the next day, and the next day he, Wrotham, would be there to watch him. It was bound to be more rewarding to observe this man relieve foolish, wealthy players of their money than trying to get an overly cautious Parliament to commit to sending Wellington the crack troops he had commanded in the Peninsula or calling out the militia. Yes, it would be most interesting. We shall see how well your plan proceeds on the morrow, sirrah, 85
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Christopher muttered to himself as he too headed toward the door.
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Alex wove along St. James Street for some distance, her pace as uneven as it had been when she quitted White's. At last, certain that they were beyond sight and sound of anyone who had been at the club, she straightened and let out a sigh of relief. "Whew! At least the initial bit is over. I don't think I did it too shabbily. They were all too foxed to pay much attention to me in the first place, but still I don't think anyone suspected anything in the least bit havey-cavey, do you? Just think of it, a thousand pounds in a few short hours," she crowed gleefully, "and I hardly had to wager any of the money Mama left me at all."
"You used the money Mama left you?" Tony was aghast.
"She only left you and Ally two thousand pounds apiece, and the way Alexander is going, you will need every penny of it to take care of yourselves. I only wish soldiers shared in prizes they way naval officers do. I should be out there in the thick of it winning it all to take care of you and the children, and Alexander could go to the devil with my blessing," he continued fiercely. "He is the most selfish—"
"I know, I know. Tony," his sister broke in soothingly, "but there is so little we can do about it now and I'd as lief have you around as constantly risking your neck in battle for prize money. Though I daresay"—Alex could not suppress the tiny sigh that escaped her—"you will be in thick of it somewhere over there soon enough."
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"Yes indeed. Wrotham is here for that very purpose. He is actually on Wellington's staff, you know. Lucky dog. He's bound to be taking part in the coming dustup." Tony's eyes gleamed with excitement, and there was no mistaking the enthusiasm in his voice.
"How bloodthirsty you young fellows are," Alex drawled in perfect imitation of her twin. "There's nothing like a little saber rattling to win your attention." Tony grinned sheepishly. "Well, it is a great deal more exciting than mounting guard—or wasting one's time at White's, for that matter." He shot a quizzing glance as his sister.
"Now, Tony," she began indignantly, "you cannot say that I am
wasting
my time when I won over one thousand pounds in less than three hours and it was as easy as rolling down a hill."
"Have care, Alex"—Tony wagged a cautionary finger at her—"lest you become another victim. Many men with more town bronze than you have fallen into that trap. Dame Fortune can be most alluring."
"Of all the—" Alex gasped, outraged. Then she saw the twinkle in her brother's eyes. "Really, Tony, I ought to call you out. I am not so green as all that. Besides, luck has very little to do with it all and well you know it. It is not that I think I am so very clever; it is just that most of the others are either disguised or cork-brained, or both. The moment I have the one hundred thousand pounds, I shall retire in good order and probably never set foot out of Norfolk again." She fell silent a moment, pondering a future spent taking care of the 88