Chapter 11
Mac drifted through the crowd, enjoying the season’s last masquerade as well as watching and listening to ensure that nothing happened to disturb the peace. Damian’s was one of the few public places in London where well-born men and women could dance, drink, and gamble together. He would not allow anything to happen that might drive the females away, since they were what made Damian’s more than just another club.
He scanned the ballroom, looking for his manager, Jean-Claude Baptiste. Lean and dark, Baptiste had fled France and the Terror as a youth, and his years in London had left him with only a faint French accent. Dressed in black evening clothes and a mask, he was easy to find. He was speaking with his friend, Lord Fendall, a most fashionable gentleman who was a regular, and profitable, habitué of Damian’s.
Anonymous in his domino, Mac went unrecognized until he was standing right next to Baptiste. Pitching his voice to be heard through the happy clamor of the crowd, Mac asked, “Any problems?”
Baptiste startled violently. “If I perish of a heart spasm, it will be your fault,
mon ami.
No problems, other than more guests than expected.”
“But of course,” Fendall said with a lazy smile. “Since this is Damian’s last masquerade ball until spring, we must absorb every morsel of pleasure.”
“Every last morsel of lobster patty is going fast, too,” Mac said.
“More are being brought from the kitchen,” Baptiste said. “And extra wine and spirits are being brought from the cellar. A good thing the new shipment arrived today.”
“What about the footmen?” Mac asked. “These aren’t all our usual staff.”
“I invited several struggling actors, promising them free food and drink at the least, and payment for their time if I needed them to work.” Baptiste nodded at the nearest man in black with his tray of champagne. “All have been pressed into service.”
“Good thinking.” Mac had been lucky the day he’d hired Baptiste. The Frenchman was an excellent manager, and he’d taken much of the routine work off Mac’s shoulders. “I’ll take another swing through the gambling rooms.”
Baptiste nodded and they moved off in different directions. Mac listened to fragments of conversation, but heard only the usual flirtations and comments on the entertainment and the recent redecorating.
Mac spent most of his time at masquerades monitoring the different gambling tables. Troublemakers generally stayed away from Damian’s, but Mac knew from experience that masks and dominos increased the opportunities for mischief.
He was almost through his circuit and thinking of trying the buffet when a table in the back of the second gambling room caught his eye. Two players were engaged in piquet and the atmosphere was so tense that Mac could almost see the air thrumming above the table. He strolled over, his experienced gaze analyzing the situation.
One player’s hood had fallen back, revealing fair hair and a sweaty brow. From the sections of face that were visible, he was young and frightened. His opponent was expertly dealing more cards, and several notes were on his side of the table, each probably an IOU for more money won from his young opponent.
Mac’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man’s hands and the expert card-handling skills. Identity confirmed by a small scar on the back of the man’s hand, he stepped up to the table. “Good evening, Digby. How thoughtful of you to give this young gentleman a lesson in cardsharping.” He laid a casual-seeming hand on Digby’s shoulder, his fingers biting in painfully. “Did Digby mention that he was seeking to educate you?”
The young man looked up, desperate hope showing through the eyeholes of his mask. “No. No, he didn’t. Are you saying this isn’t a real game?”
“The lesson is more effective if the fear is real,” Mac said jovially as he scooped up the IOUs. He read the scrawled signature on the top one. “Wait here a few minutes, Mr. Beaton. I’ll tell you more about our educational program after I talk to Mr. Digby.”
The boy nodded, dazed by his good fortune, while Digby muttered a filthy curse under his breath as Mac’s grip forced him to rise. Mac draped a casual arm around the other man’s shoulder as he steered them toward a side door.
“Such language!” Mac said. “I don’t want to see the ladies offended.” He grinned when that produced an even filthier curse, but in such a low voice that no one other than Mac could hear it.
Once they left the gambling room for a service corridor, Mac asked silkily, “When I banned you from Damian’s, Mr. Digby, was I insufficiently clear? Did I say anything to suggest that masquerade nights were an exception?”
Digby flung off Mac’s arm with a growl. “Someone is going to relieve that boy of his money, and it might as well be me!”
“Perhaps, but it won’t happen at Damian’s.” Mac frowned as he ushered Digby along the corridor. “It’s not actually a bad idea to hold classes in cardsharping for innocent lads from the country. It would teach them what to watch out for. The more intelligent will learn to guard their purses better.”
“Others will just learn how to cheat,” Digby grumbled.
“Then you will be well matched.” They reached the outside door. Mac put a hand on the other man’s wrist and twisted. “Consider this a final warning. Appear here again in any guise, and you’ll find there’s a reason I’m called Mac the Knife.”
Digby jerked away. “Don’t worry, I won’t sully your precious club again!” He removed his mask, revealing a ferretlike face.
“How fortunate that we are in agreement.” Mac held the door until Digby left, then locked it behind the man.
Now it was time to deal with Digby’s idiot victim. Mac found young George Beaton still at the table and clutching an empty glass of champagne.
Mac took the chair Digby had occupied, asking mildly, “Whatever possessed you to gamble so deeply with a stranger at a masquerade? Even if you knew your opponent, it’s impossible to read faces properly through masks, which makes it easier to lose.”
The visible part of the boy’s face reddened. “It started out as a friendly game.”
Mac pulled the crumpled vowels from his pocket and leafed through, whistling softly as he totaled up the numbers. “It didn’t stay friendly for long.”
He studied what he could see of the boy’s face. “Are you Alfred Beaton’s son?” When the boy nodded, Mac said, “I heard that he died recently. My condolences.”
After young Beaton muttered thanks, Mac held up the collection of IOUs. “Would he be proud of you for this?”
The face that had been red now turned white. Mac continued relentlessly. “I’m guessing these couldn’t be paid without mortgaging the family estate. You have younger sisters, don’t you? And a newly widowed mother? Will they enjoy living in a hovel if you gamble away their home? I hope your sisters will enjoy being governesses since they might never be able to marry if your gaming deprives them of their portions.”
“I didn’t mean any harm!”
Mac sighed. “Gamesters never do. And somehow, it’s never their fault when they devastate their families. It was the cards, or the dice, or Lady Luck.”
“I was foolish, I admit it.” Beaton stared at the IOUs Mac held. “I will not be such a fool again. Will you return my vowels to me?”
Mac decided the lesson needed reinforcement. “I’m going to keep them for—hmm, three years. If you gamble so recklessly again, I will hear sooner or later, and then I will produce these IOUs for the world to see. You will stand revealed as a dishonorable fool trying to gamble with money you’ve already lost.”
“That will ruin my reputation!”
“As opposed to ruining everyone you love?” Mac said dryly. “Has it occurred to you that it might be wiser to stop gambling?”
“Everyone gambles,” Beaton said defensively. “My father visited Damian’s whenever he was in London.”
“And he never lost more than he could afford.” Mac guessed that tonight’s escapade had something to do with the boy’s loss of his father and wanting to prove himself a man. “If you feel gambling is necessary for your social life, I will tell you how to play without ruining yourself. It’s the method your father used.”
Beaton’s brows drew together. “How can I do that?”
“Decide how much you can afford to spend on an evening’s entertainment. Ten pounds? Fifty? Surely no more than that. Carry that with you in cash, and don’t gamble anything beyond that. As long as you win, you can play as long as you want.
“But when you’ve lost the stake you brought, the game is
over
. Write no IOUs, make no promises.” Mac glanced at Beaton’s empty champagne glass. “And take no more than two drinks in the course of your gaming, even if it lasts all night.”
“You’re talking chicken stakes!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ll be a laughingstock to my friends.”
“Perhaps you need new friends. Those who urge you to ruin yourself for their entertainment are not worthy of the term.” Mac brandished the vowels. “And if you forget yourself and lose a fortune for real, I will be happy to ruin your reputation.”
“You’re blackmailing me,” Beaton said, more in amazement than in anger.
“Indeed I am,” Mac said cheerfully. “Is it working?”
Beaton drew a deep breath. “I . . . I believe it is. I never felt so sick in my life as when I realized how much I’d lost.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I understand now why men kill themselves after losing everything. But I kept playing because the only solution I could see was winning it all back.”
“Not the best strategy, particularly when facing a Captain Sharp.”
“Was he cheating?”
Mac picked up the cards and expertly shuffled through, noting that several were sanded. “Yes. But even if he hadn’t been, he probably would have won because of his skill. No matter how good a cardplayer is, someone is always better. Or luckier.”
Beaton smiled crookedly. “You have succeeded in your lesson. I will no longer let myself be guided by those who don’t have my true interests at heart. I assume you’re Damian Mackenzie himself? My thanks for taking the time to haul me out of the hole I’d dug, and beat me soundly about the ears.”
“Metaphorically speaking. It’s bad business to physically beat guests without a really good reason. Go and enjoy the buffet. It will leave you in a better mood than the gambling.” Mac inclined his head and left. Enormous sums were won and lost at Damian’s, but Mac not would allow underage fools to fall into disaster. At least this lad might have actually learned his lesson.
He paused by the door of the ballroom to scan the dancing couples. He liked seeing his guests enjoying themselves, and he liked dancing. Perhaps after the unmasking, he’d have a dance or two if all continued smoothly.
A figure swathed in black paused beside him, also studying the dancers. Mac froze as sensation blazed through him, going right to his viscera.
Blooming lilacs and subtle spices and irresistible woman.
Without conscious thought, he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her hard against him so her back was pressed into his chest. She was slim and strong as a panther under the concealing folds of fabric. Blood running rampant through his veins, he whispered into her ear, “What mischief brings you here tonight, Lady Kiri?”
Chapter 12
Kiri stiffened when Mackenzie appeared from nowhere and pulled her against his hard, unyielding body. She felt heat from her shoulder blades to her derriere. She didn’t know if she should break away or lean back into him. Choosing neither, she said with matching softness, “I’m here to return the fifty guineas I owe you, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“It wasn’t a loan, Lady Kiri,” he said, startled. “I did what any man would. I didn’t expect to be repaid.”
“Perhaps not. But I do not wish to be in your debt, and fifty guineas is a substantial sum. Or are you too proud to accept money from a woman?”
“I’m never proud where money is concerned.” He released her, his chuckle a warm breath against her ear. “But you shouldn’t hand over such a sum in public. We can go to my office, where I have a strongbox.”
A firm hand on her elbow, he guided her across the left-hand gambling room and through a door unobtrusively tucked into the paneling. On the other side was a long corridor lit by small gas sconces. Closing the door reduced the talking and music to a muted roar so they could speak normally.
“The gas lighting is impressive,” Kiri remarked as she looked down the corridor. “My brother is considering having it installed in Ashton House. I shall encourage him.”
“The light is stronger and steadier than any candle or lamp. Since Pall Mall was the first street in London to get gas lighting, I arranged to have it installed here at the same time.” Hand still on her arm, he guided her down the corridor, which was just wide enough for two. “Did you come alone?”
She shook her head. “I have a companion, and we will have highly reliable transportation home when we leave the club.”
He gave a twisted smile. “Ironic that I expend great effort to make this club safe for all comers, yet I find myself worrying about such a very capable young lady.”
“There is no need to concern yourself with me,” she said tartly.
They turned into a left-hand corridor, then again to the right. “You have a maze of passages here,” she said as they walked toward the back of the building.
He tugged off his mask. “The club was created from three separate buildings. Lots of corridors, not much logic. That door on the right is my office.”
Instead of entering, he gazed at her intently. Then he raised one hand and pulled off her mask, his hand a feather caress on her hair. The air between them rose to simmering point. “When we were in the barn, I collected a nonmonetary reward,” he said huskily. “But since you’re repaying my money, I must give back what I took.”
He drew her into his arms and returned her kiss with interest.
Oh,
damnation!
Kiri thought helplessly as her mouth opened eagerly under his. The blazing reaction she’d had when they first met wasn’t a fluke. She wanted to sink into him, talk to him, laugh with him, and the attraction was as much mental as physical.
But he was a man of the world who had surely desired many women. And acted on that, or he wouldn’t be so very skilled at dissolving her wits. Or at finding sensitive places and teasing her tongue and rubbing her back so that she melted into him.
She forced herself to remember that some of London’s most celebrated beauties were his regular guests, including married women ripe for dalliance. That recognition gave her the willpower to say breathlessly, “Kiss returned in full measure.” She broke away from his embrace. “Once I return the money, our accounts are in balance.”
He stared at her for a long, tense moment before opening the door to his office. She stepped in and was startled to see a dark-haired man standing over the desk as he examined a portfolio of papers. She had a swift impression of alertness and danger.
The man looked up, his expression instantly changing to amiable warmth. Good Lord, it was her brother’s school friend, Lord Kirkland! A wealthy Scottish shipping merchant, Kirkland visited London regularly and called on Adam and Mariah when he was in Town. She’d always found Kirkland courteous, amusing, and rather enigmatic. She had not thought of him as dangerous.
He bowed elegantly. “Lady Kiri. I suppose I shouldn’t ask why you’re here.” He smiled, the tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. “Mackenzie told me the story of your adventure, in case you were wondering.”
“I was,” she admitted as she offered her hand. “I am here to repay a debt, but I also wished to see the dazzling Damian’s of which I’ve heard.”
“I hope you’re enjoying your visit?”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “The club lives up to its reputation.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here tonight, Kirkland,” Mackenzie remarked as he moved a framed satirical sketch, revealing a wall safe with a sophisticated-looking lock.
“Something came up that I need to discuss with you,” Kirkland explained. “Just a small matter of business.” His words were light, but his eyes were serious.
“It’s not generally known,” Mackenzie said as he unlocked the safe, “but Kirkland and I are partners in Damian’s.”
Kirkland shrugged. “Mac does all the work. I helped with the boring financing, and a profitable investment the club has been.”
Mackenzie grinned. “Money may seem boring, but it was essential.”
Reminded of money, Kiri unbuttoned her domino so she could reach the pouch containing the guineas. As she handed the money over, she said formally, “Mr. Mackenzie, my thanks for your courage and willingness to cheat at cards.”
He laughed as he accepted the money, but as his fingertips brushed hers, she felt a tingle like a small electric shock. It would be so much
easier
if the attraction had only been a result of their shared adventure! But there was more to it than that. She felt—connected to him in some way. Keeping her voice light, she asked, “Aren’t you going to count to see if it’s the full fifty guineas?”
Mackenzie’s brows arched. “You’d be more likely to overpay than to underpay.” He tossed the pouch thoughtfully. “But given my vast experience of handling money, I’d say this is exactly fifty guineas.”
He was damnably perceptive. She’d thought of putting more money in the pouch but didn’t know how to price what he’d done for her. “Since my business is done, I shall leave you two gentlemen.” When Mackenzie moved to join her, she raised a hand. “No need, Mr. Mackenzie. I can find my way back. It’s almost time for me to collect my companion and leave.”
“I’m glad to see that you recovered from the kidnapping,” he said politely, but his eyes showed a wary longing that matched hers. At least she wasn’t the only one who was disturbed by this unwelcome attraction.
Kiri opened the office door, wondering what intense, manly things would be discussed when she was out of earshot. As she stepped out, her eye was caught by movement to her right, near the end of the corridor where it intersected another.
She turned to look, then sucked in her breath, shocked. Five masked men were dragging off a smaller figure—who wore a dark purple domino.
“Mackenzie! Kirkland!” she said sharply. “A woman is being attacked!”
She raced down the corridor. As she ran, she undid the last button on her domino and let it fall away to free herself from the enveloping folds of fabric. Behind her, she heard Mackenzie and Kirkland emerging from the office to follow her.
The attackers and their victim disappeared down the cross corridor to the right. When she reached the intersection, she saw that the short passage ended in a door that led to the alley behind the club. The kidnappers were almost at the door, and this close, Kiri confirmed that their victim was the girl she’d talked to earlier.
The struggling girl’s mask had been ripped off and a heavy hand was clamped over her mouth. Why would five men capture an innocent girl? A drunken bet? Desire for gang rape?
Though she couldn’t stop five men by herself, she could slow them for critical seconds until Mackenzie and Kirkland arrived. With warrior exhilaration, she attacked with a banshee wail, using her Kalarippayattu to confuse and disorient the kidnappers.
The men turned, startled by her cry. She leaped into a flying kick, the toe of her riding boot smashing between the legs of the last man in the group. “Thug!” she spat.
He shrieked horribly and folded to the floor, clutching himself. Giving thanks she’d worn a riding skirt and boots, she pulled out the neat little knife she’d taken from a smuggler. When she stabbed the next man, he howled and retreated, the knife so deeply buried in the muscle of his left arm that the handle was wrenched from her hand.
“Out
now!
” a tall man barked in a voice of authority. He seemed to be the leader, and he had the kidnapped girl beside the outside door.
There was no time to waste retrieving the knife when the other men were on the verge of dragging their captive out of the building. Kiri rushed the kidnappers—and found herself looking down the barrel of a pistol held by the largest, most threatening of the men.
Since the corridor offered no place to hide, she began zigzagging and praying that he’d miss when he shot. He smiled nastily and took aim.
A boom echoed through the corridor and the big man’s face disintegrated into smashed bone and blood. A pistol ball had struck dead center. His weapon fired harmlessly into the wall as he collapsed.
Kiri glanced back and saw Kirkland standing at the intersection with a smoking pistol in his hand, his face icily calm as he reloaded. Mackenzie had caught up with the other kidnappers and was using his fists with the ruthless professionalism of a boxer.
The leader reached for the doorknob, his other hand locked on the girl’s upper arm. Kiri caught up with him and kicked the arm holding his captive.
Swearing, he lost his grip. Kiri wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist and dragged her away. The leader lunged toward them to retrieve his captive. “No, damn you! You’re too valuable a pigeon to fly away!”
Something about him said that he was expensive and fashionable. Kiri jabbed him in the throat with stiffened fingers.
He made a gagging sound. Furious defeat in his pale, angry eyes, he wrenched the door open and half fell outside. Two of his men crowded out behind him.
Mackenzie thundered up as the kidnappers escaped. “Bloody bastards!” he swore as he followed them into the dark alley. “They’ll not get away with this!”
As the door slammed shut behind him, Kiri kept a firm arm around the shaking girl. “Are you all right?”
The girl nodded, tears on her cheeks despite her valiant efforts to control them. Though she was attractive, she wasn’t such a raving beauty as to drive men mad. And she looked very, very young. “They . . . they didn’t hurt me.”
Kirkland joined them, pistol pointing toward the floor. “At least we stopped them before they . . .”
His voice fell into stunned silence as he stared at the girl in the purple domino. He sank down on one knee, his head bowed. “Your Royal Highness. Thank God you are safe.”
Your Royal Highness?
Kiri stared at the girl with shock, then sudden paralyzed understanding.
They had just rescued Princess Charlotte, only legitimate daughter of the prince regent, and the heiress of England.