Patricia Rice (34 page)

“Oh, no, you really wouldn’t rather see,” she admonished. “I
am not what I once was. After what you did to me, I had no choice but to sell
my favors elsewhere, you see. I was too green to avoid the dock taverns back
then. I thought one man the same as any other. They didn’t all have your
polished manners, but some were much kinder, I discovered.”

She ground against his arousal as the last of the veils fell
to the floor. At the sight revealed in the candlelight, Rupert gagged in
disgust and swiftly gained his feet. The whore sat up and taunted him as he
averted his eyes and arranged his clothes, rubbing his hands against the cloth
with revulsion. Her ravaged face wore an expression of contempt as she watched.

“Some of those sailors carried the French pox, I fear. Does
that disturb you, Rupert? I’m still a good lay, ain’t I? I know a lot more than
the day you raped me, Rupert. Don’t you want to see what I’ve learned?”

He would swear he had never seen the creature before. No one
could prove he had anything to do with it. She was in all likelihood quite mad.
But the memory of a sunlit day in his sixteenth year and a buxom dairymaid flitted
into memory as she spoke with the accents of his home.

He strode out without a second look back. He’d find Eddings
and demand to know why poxed whores were on the premises. It was enough to turn
a man’s stomach. Why, he could have... It didn’t bear thinking about.
Remembering her impassioned kisses, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and
reached for another drink on the tray of a footman.

The damned darkness made it difficult to discern faces. He
wasn’t even certain what disguise Eddings wore. Cursing, Rupert stumbled into a
room of eager dice players. His drink was replaced as he stepped up to the
table, and he indulged in a small wager while examining the company.

A heavyset devil eased into an opening at his side. Wheezing
drunkenly, he pitched his coins on the table. “Never thought I’d do this again,”
he muttered to no one in particular. “Not since Teddy got taken that way.
Demmed shame, that. Lost everything he owned at the tables, left his widowed
mother and sister homeless. Saw them in the streets just the other day. I’ll
spit on that fellow Percival if I ever find him. He ruined that family, and no
need of it, I hear. Has guineas up his nostrils, they say. I say, don’t know
the fellow, do you?” the devil demanded.

“Never heard of him.” Leaving his bet on the table, Rupert
hurried from this company.

Damn Eddings, anyway. He probably had every rumormonger in
town in here. That story about Teddy Wilhoite wasn’t common knowledge. It would
be if that drunken devil kept on about it. He’d be ruined in what little
society was still open to him.

What was Eddings up to with this charade? Rupert wasn’t a
superstitious man, but he suffered a shiver of apprehension and tried to hang
on to his anger as he searched for his host.

Finally feeling the effects of drink, he stumbled into the
marquess. Before he could take him to task for the rudeness of the company, Eddings
caught his shoulder and steered him toward a private parlor.

“I’ve been looking for you. We have a lively game going in
here, more your sort than those others. Can’t introduce you to the company, don’t
recognize them all myself, but I wager we’ll figure them out by the way they
play their cards.”

Reassured by his friend’s bluff heartiness, Rupert took a
chair at the table. Duncan Howard was a fool, but he had friends in the right
places who gained him access to a more exalted society than would otherwise
welcome him. Once he had Cassandra in line, invitations to these affairs would
start pouring in. The Howards might be a beggarly lot, but even Prinny
recognized their stature. He glanced around surreptitiously to see if any of
the company rated royal status.

Recognizing only the American who rose from the table to
give up his place, Rupert picked up his cards. Gambling was merely a game he
played in order to forward his acquaintance among the
ton
. In time, given the right connections, he might persuade a more
noble title from the pockets of the perpetually bankrupt nobility. A small
barony somewhere might be found in return for a large enough sum to the right
party. Opportunities abounded if one knew the right people.

He craved a “Lord” before his name. Duncan was the last of
the Howards, and he didn’t appear ready to perpetuate the line. Married to
Cassandra and willing to change his name to hers, it might be possible... In
the event anything happened to Duncan, of course.

Rupert lost the first and second rounds but didn’t count the
sum. He gestured for another drink. He had already dropped a few hundred pounds,
but his markers were good everywhere.

Rupert scanned the company again, trying to deduce their
identities. The man in the black domino seemed familiar. He didn’t speak, so he
had no clue to judge by. He knew Eddings and Wyandott, the American, of course.
The fourth player seemed rather young, but he was raking in quite a bundle.
Whom did he know with that color blond hair who could wield cards like a
professional? He couldn’t think of any that age who were so proficient, other
than Cassandra.

Remembering the first time his treacherous wife had cheated
him out of his purse, Rupert smirked. He knew where she was now. It would just
be a matter of days before she graced his bed. He might have to kidnap her and
tie her down until she became used to the idea, but she would break soon
enough.

He could almost vow that St. Wyatt didn’t know any of the
tricks Rupert had learned to keep a wanton woman in line. The thought of what
he could do to that haughty wife of his once she was strapped to the bed made
his loins ache.

~*~

Cassandra beat furiously at Wyatt’s door knocker. There
was only one lamp burning in the townhouse window, but she knew he had to be
there.

She would not give in to the fear that he had called out
Rupert.

Cassandra lifted the knocker to slam it again. The door
swung open, nearly pulling her inside, so fierce was her grip.

The elderly butler looked at her with condescending inquiry.
The London staff didn’t know her. She daren’t proclaim herself Wyatt’s wife
unless he were here to confirm it. She drew herself up haughtily and refused to
give any name at all. “I must see Lord Merrick. Let me in.”

The butler’s unblinking expression did not change. “His
lordship has gone out for the evening.”

Cassandra’s hopes plunged into the blackest hole. He couldn’t
already be meeting Rupert. It had taken her days to slip away from Wyatt’s
watchful servants. It had taken her even longer to manage the chain of coaches
and chaises necessary to reach London. She was exhausted, wet, and nearly ill
from worry. Her efforts could not be for naught!

“It is a matter of life and death,” she said. “I am the Lady
Cassandra Howard. You must tell me where I can find him.”

This time the butler blinked and offered her entrance. “There
was to be a masquerade this evening, my lady. His lordship did not know when he
would return. He dismissed most of the staff for the evening.”

A masquerade! She was worrying herself into a state of
paralysis and he was out playing child’s games! She knew about masquerades.
Duncan had told her about them. Costumes gave shameless people the license to
behave shamelessly in public. She would have his head on a platter for this.

“I must find him,” she asserted. “Have you any idea where
the masquerade is to be held?”

Helping her off with the dripping cloak, the butler
stiffened. “At Lord Eddings, I believe.”

Cassandra issued a curse that sent the servant’s eyebrows
into his hairline. Sweeping off her wet garment, she started for the stairs. “You
must have some old costumes in this place. Where are the attics? Are Lotta and
Jacob here? Send them to me.”

With a sigh of resignation the butler followed in her path. “Lotta
and Jacob have gone out for the evening, my lady. I will send a maid to you. If
you will wait, I’ll have the housekeeper prepare a room.”

It was two hours later before the attics were successfully
rummaged for a costume, and it could be adapted for Cassandra’s use. Some young
Merrick must once have disguised himself as Robin Hood. The surtout was not
meant for female wear, but it was loose enough on her to almost disguise her
breasts.

Unfortunately, it was short, and if any tunic had been worn
beneath it, no evidence could be found of its remains. The close-fitting tights
that went under the costume convinced Cassandra the costume was meant to be
worn without tunic, but on her the result was as shameless. She gazed at her
long forest-green-clad legs beneath the dark surtout and blanched. Wyatt would
kill her.

Or Rupert would kill Wyatt. With that thought in mind,
Cassandra grasped the brown homespun cloak the servant provided. If she kept it
pulled about her, she would pass. A hood effectively disguised her countenance,
hiding her hair as well as her features.

Merrick had left the landau in Sussex, but the curricle was
available. It was uncomfortable in the rain, but the distance to St. James wasn’t
great. Cassandra suffered it in silent terror.

Duncan and Rupert must have set some trap, but she could not
fathom Wyatt walking into it. So why would he attend what he had to know would
be one of Duncan’s drunken orgies?

When the driver let her out at her former home, Cassandra
gazed up at the heavily draped dark windows in puzzlement, but without a qualm,
she let herself in.

No one came to take her cloak, but that was scarcely
unusual. What was unusual was the hellish decor and the crowd of people crushing
the normally unused front rooms. Cassandra gaped at the black-draped walls and
flickering lanterns and shivered. This was worse than some of the worst
gambling hells she had seen.

It was damned difficult to make out her hand before her
face, but she knew Merrick would be here somewhere. And Duncan. And Rupert.
That name made her cringe, but Cassandra kept up her steady search. There would
be an end to this, and soon.

She spotted a towering Roman soldier she would swear was
Jacob, but he disappeared down a hallway to the private salon. That seemed a
better place to start than this mass confusion of the public rooms. Working her
way around drunken monks and amorous Sir Walter Raleighs, Cassandra sought the
quieter hall she had seen the Roman soldier enter.

In minutes she was in the shadows outside the candlelight of
a table of card players. Several others leaned against the walls to watch the
play, but her gaze focused on the players. She recognized Duncan and Rupert,
since they made no attempt to disguise themselves.

Despite his domino, Merrick was easily recognized by his
height, at least to her eyes. From the talk or lack of it around the table, she
wasn’t certain that everyone knew him. The light was dim, after all, and
Merrick sat far back in the shadows. The single candle made it difficult to see.

Rupert was across the table from Merrick.

That didn’t make sense. If Duncan and Rupert were creating
some kind of trap,
they
should be the
ones in disguise. Her gaze drifted to a fourth player. He seemed vaguely
familiar, but his mask hid his features. She would have suspected Bertie, but
he seemed younger, perhaps a little taller. It was difficult to tell, but he
didn’t sit like Bertie.

How could she get Wyatt out of here without a commotion?
None of the men had paid any attention to her entrance. There had to be some
way of removing Wyatt before the trap was sprung. What devious plan could
Duncan have devised now?

She counted the winnings before each player, but did not
feel relief even when she saw Wyatt’s coins were as high as Duncan’s. Duncan
could be leading him on to bigger stakes. It was an old trick, but not one she
had taught Wyatt. He could start gambling recklessly on the basis of this lucky
streak, only to find it all lost on the turn of a well-placed card.

Rupert was the only one doing badly, but he did not seem to
mind. A number of empty glasses littered the table before him, and she knew he
was drunk. He was dangerous when he had had too much.

As Cassandra watched the cards go around, she realized they
were wagering for incredibly high stakes. Duncan didn’t have that kind of money
to lose, although the sum in front of him might cover a round or two.

Cassandra glanced uneasily at Merrick. She knew he was
wealthy, but she suspected much of his wealth lay in his lands. Should he lose
at these rates, he would have to put up some of his estate for collateral. Why
in the devil was he doing this?

The next round brought her answer. Cassandra blanched as
Rupert laid his scribbled marker on the table and Merrick leaned over to shove
it back. Rejecting a gentleman’s marker just wasn’t done.

From behind his domino, Merrick spoke without inflection,
breaking the eerie silence. “There is only one piece of paper with your
signature on it that we’ll accept from you.”

As a sheaf of papers appeared on the table before him,
Rupert stared at them in drunken shock.

Not so backward, Cassandra leaned forward to read the large
print at the top of the legal documents. She had to strain to pick out the
letters in the candlelight, but she finally made them out: Petition for
Annulment.

She fought an urge to scream and overturn the table. She
wanted to berate them all, to tell them just exactly what she thought of them
for playing behind her back this way, and then she wanted to flee in the face
of her overwhelming embarrassment. But those were the reactions of a much
younger Cassandra. She was older than that now.

With casual aplomb, Cassandra drew her cloak closed and
stepped forward into the candlelight. “Gentlemen, may anyone join this game?”