T
he Westlake invitation to an evening of cards came as a very pleasant surprise.
Creighton hadn’t even had time to make arrangements to cash Evelyn’s recently arrived draft, or to decide how to spend it, when his aunt’s sour-faced butler brought him the earl’s gilt-edged card. He briefly regretted that there wasn’t even a salver under the envelope, since he’d already pawned it, and such a precious, golden invitation deserved a silver tray.
He might have gone to Crockford’s, or possibly White’s, to wager the five hundred pounds, but there were many men in those establishments who refused to gamble with him, since he had not paid off his losses in some weeks. He could probably paper the walls of this town house with the number of vowels he’d written lately.
A lower class of gaming hell was a possibility, but a house party, especially one held by the esteemed and fabulously wealthy Earl and Countess of Westlake, was a magnificent opportunity. There would be ladies in attendance, ready to be fleeced of their quarterly allowance, ladies who could be flirted with until they were too bemused to notice he was cheating.
And the kind of gentlemen who gambled at house parties were not the deep, knowledgeable players one found in the gaming hells. They were rich snobs who thought themselves morally superior to men like him. None of them knew the intricacies of gambling or cheating the way he did, and none of these lords would go hungry for the loss of a few thousand pounds.
Creighton looked at the draft again, and his mouth watered. It was only five hundred pounds. It would scarcely cover a tenth of his debts. But if he wagered it and won, he could see to his expenses for the whole of the next year.
“Here,” he said, scrawling a note and handing it to the waiting butler. “Send my acceptance to Countess Westlake at once.”
S
injon stood in a curtained alcove of Westlake’s salon and watched the guests arrive. The room was set up with a dozen tables for whist, faro, vingt-et-un, piquet, and loo. It was a veritable banquet for a hardened gambler like Creighton. Everything he could want was laid out for him—rich widows, young lords flush with cash, ladies sagging under the weight of their jewels.
Footmen circled among the players offering champagne to refresh them. At midnight a light supper would be served, and the games would continue, if necessary, until dawn. Sinjon hoped it would be over long before then.
Evelyn knew her role, but Sinjon’s hands sweated. He shifted in his seat impatiently. Westlake didn’t expect trouble or need him here but knew he would want to watch. He had strict instructions not to react, no matter what happened, even if Evelyn lost.
He watched Creighton arrive, making a grand entrance in a scarlet uniform adorned with expensive gold braid. The ladies cast admiring glances at him, and he charmed them with a toothy smile and tossed out compliments that made each lady blush with delight.
The major turned as Evelyn entered. She was dressed in her green silk gown, but tonight was adorned with enough pearls and emeralds to tempt any gambler. Her eyes sparkled, darted around the room, but Sinjon noted the way the pulse at her throat hammered against the jewels like a caged bird as she turned her smile on Creighton, a dove dazzling a wolf.
Sinjon clenched his fists as Creighton took her hand, turned it and kissed the flesh above her glove intimately, as if he had the right to do so.
Evelyn plucked her hand out of his and said something witty, her eyes flashing, and Creighton laughed. Sinjon bristled as he watched the man’s gaze ooze over her body, coming to rest on the emerald that nestled between her breasts.
He recalled the terror in Marielle d’Agramant’s eyes as Creighton pawed her body and tore her gown, and he wiped away a bead of sweat. There was no fear in Evelyn’s eyes as she flirted outrageously, sending Creighton a smoldering glance, the exact look that always turned him hard as stone. She simpered, and laid her hand on the major’s sleeve, let him escort her to a table.
It was exactly what she was supposed to do, but his stomach was tight with nerves. He’d never been jealous, but the desire to punch Creighton for the sin of merely touching Evelyn’s hand was almost overwhelming. He paced in the tight confines of his hiding place.
He looked again, unable to keep his eyes off Evelyn. Creighton was staring at her, his eyes glazed with lust, and pride warred with fury in Sinjon’s breast. Good girl—she had him. She’d charmed Creighton, made him dizzy, distracted him. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the cards, not with her seated across from him.
At least he hoped so.
Or was it simply her jewels that fascinated Creighton? Was he calculating their worth, planning how best to cheat her out them? The man was a master at this game, and Evelyn had learned to play for mere kisses.
“Good evening, Rutherford,” Westlake said, invading his hiding space for a moment. “We’re ready to begin. Can we count on Evelyn to win?”
She laughed at something Creighton said. “The game has already begun,” Sinjon murmured.
“He’s a wily opponent, used to besting hardened gamblers. Did you not say he has a habit of killing the men he owes money to? A man as ruthless as that isn’t going to politely let a woman win, no matter how charming she is.” He stepped in front of Sinjon, blocking his view of Evelyn. “Whatever happens tonight, Rutherford, the lady is not yet free of the taint of scandal, nor are you. I’ll remind you again that you must allow the events of this evening to unfold without interference.”
“You expect me to allow Creighton to walk out of here free and rich if Evelyn loses?”
Westlake’s expression was as hard and unfeeling as marble. “A good rat catcher knows many ways to catch a rat. We may have to wait for O’Neill’s return.”
Sinjon felt frustration bite at him, pent up and caged too long.
Westlake stepped away to peer out at the room. “Ah, they’ve taken their places, I see. I trust Evelyn plays vingt-et-un?”
Sinjon’s heart skipped in his chest. Vignt-et-un was the one game he hadn’t taught her. Faro was Creighton’s preferred game. He had taught Evelyn everything about faro—how to win, how to cheat, how to bid to draw Creighton into the kind of deep play that made a gambler overeager and careless.
He watched a nervous blush rise over Evelyn’s cheeks as she took her seat, and his stomach sank to his boots. What disturbed him most was the look on Creighton’s face. He smiled at her, the all-too-familiar wolf’s grin he had seen him give other players in other places when Creighton knew he couldn’t lose.
He was going to cheat. That was a truth that could not be avoided. But could Evelyn beat the bastard at his own game? Cards riffled and the deal was made. It was up to luck now.
And Evelyn.
E
velyn felt butterflies cascading through her stomach in anxious loops as the next hand was dealt. She was losing.
Creighton’s smile had grown progressively wider as his winnings grew. Lady Wilburn desperately tossed her earrings, heirloom diamonds, into the center of the table. Viscount Stanford added a ruby ring. Mr. Ellerby scrawled a hasty vowel on a scrap of paper and set it atop the glittering pile.
Now it was her turn to wager. Creighton smiled at her expectantly, a cat hoping his prey would try to squirm out from under his paw.
“I notice you are not wearing your wedding ring, Lady Evelyn,” he said lightly. The others at the table gasped and sat forward, intrigued.
Evelyn forced herself to smile, but she did not reply. Instead she slid the gold bracelet from her arm and watched it sparkle on the top of the heap.
Creighton was cheating. She was sure of it but she could not quite see how. He’d been a perfect gentleman all evening, making elderly Mrs. Ellersby blush under his compliments and sending the young viscount into fits of laughter at his jokes. He was exceptionally talented, incredibly wily, and Evelyn could see why others had been gulled by him. Men like Patrick O’Neill, who had trusted Creighton with their lives. Women like Marielle d’Agramant, who thought the dazzling uniform meant the man inside was honorable.
She focused on her cards, felt anger make her sweat. The hand went around, and he won again. He won the next hand as well, taking Lady Wilburn’s tiara and another vowel from Mr. Ellersby.
“Champagne!” Creighton called, snapping his fingers, and a footman came over with a tray. Everyone took a glass, and Evelyn watched Creighton. He slipped a pair of cards off the table, dropping them into his pocket, unobserved by anyone but her. He met her eyes, and she forced herself to smile sweetly.
Lady Wilburn dropped out after the next hand, stripped of her jewelry, and Viscount Stanford lost his allowance for the year and left the table to commiserate with other gentlemen who found themselves with lighter purses.
“Well, my lady?” Creighton asked. “Would you like to continue to play? You still have your necklace.”
“A family heirloom,” Evelyn simpered. “Would you let me win just once?”
His smile was broad, his eyes hard. “You may wager other things, my lady. I will take your vowel, for example.”
“Indeed? How kind of you.”
He leaned closer. “Or you wager yourself, and agree to become my mistress if I win.”
His smile wasn’t charming now. It was a ruthless leer. She tilted her head, hiding her anger behind a teasing smile, but that gambit only made him bolder.
He reached out and traced the pearls, following them down to the emerald between her breasts, grazing her skin. “When I win, I will allow you to keep your necklace. Will you make the wager?”
Evelyn gritted her teeth and forced herself not to flinch at his touch. “For such high stakes, my lord, I must insist on a new deck of cards.”
She watched the smugness in his eyes falter slightly, and he hesitated a moment before he waved a footman over and made the request.
Lord Westlake brought the new deck himself. He sat down to watch the game, his expression bland.
Evelyn won the hand. She took back Lady Wilburn’s jewelry. Creighton’s face reddened, but he smiled graciously enough and dealt again.
His hands shook. “I believe you dropped a card, my lord,” Evelyn said sweetly.
Around Creighton, the crowd murmured. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he mopped them away with his handkerchief and hid an ace in the linen folds.
“What will you wager now, my lord?” she asked.
He tried another cheat. “We are still playing for your favors, my lady. If I win this hand, the game ends, and you become my mistress.”
Her stomach quaked.
Never.
“And if I win?”
“I will marry you, if you wish.”
She smiled at him, genuinely amused by his gall, barely resisting the urge to laugh.
“My husband may object to that arrangement,” she bluffed. “But I have something else to wager, my lord.” She took O’Neill’s letter out of her reticule. Westlake stiffened almost imperceptibly, then frowned. Creighton smiled indulgently as he took the letter, scanned it.
He turned ashen and the grin slid off his face. “Where the devil did you get this?”
Now, she thought triumphantly, he looked like what he was, craven, greedy, and evil. A rapist, a liar, and a cheat.
“Mind your language in front of the ladies, Creighton,” Westlake admonished. He reached for the letter. “I’ll hold the lady’s wager, and since the stakes are so high, I’ll deal.”
A crowd had gathered around them, most of them eager to witness her disgrace at the hands of their favorite hero, Evelyn realized. Ladies smirked and chattered behind fans and gloved palms, delighted that Evelyn Renshaw was about to sink to becoming a courtesan. Others speculated about the contents of the letter.
Creighton was sweating, regarding her with new eyes. He ran a finger under his collar. He could not flee—the crowd was too dense, and fascinated by the deep play between the dashing major and the traitor’s wife.
The cards lay facedown. Creighton turned the first one over. The Jack of Spades smirked at Evelyn. The crowd sighed, and the whispers ascended to the ceiling. “A wager on Lord Creighton!” someone cried.
Evelyn’s heart pounded as she turned her card over. The Queen of Hearts smiled benignly, as if she had no idea what was at stake. The crowd shifted again, and the buzz of voices fell silent. Only the flutter of anxious fans could be heard.
Creighton mopped his face again, and turned over his second card. The Ace of Hearts throbbed. His smile was slow, spreading over his face, lighting his eyes with malice. “I win, I believe.”
“Lady Evelyn still has another card to play, my lord,” Westlake warned.
Evelyn’s fingers shook as she touched the edge of the card, felt the thin edge slip under her fingernail. There was a lump in her throat as she lifted it, her eyes on the card.
She stared, stunned. Another Ace of Hearts lay beside the queen.
The crowd hissed, and the accusation rose to a howl. “Cheating! Renshaw’s wife is cheating!” Angry faces loomed over her, fingers pointing. She recoiled in horror.
“Check the major’s pockets.” The whisper was so quiet she barely heard it, but the people nearest to Lord Westlake picked it up, spread it, amplified it until it became a roar of suspicion and disbelief. Creighton was on his feet, fighting off the hands that snatched at his magnificent tunic, slapping at the fingers that plunged into his pockets. Lady Wilburn screamed when the Queen of Diamonds was pulled from his coat. Viscount Stanford held up another ace, wrapped in yet another handkerchief. Mr. Ellersby hit the major in the jaw.
“Arrest him!” Westlake called, his voice cutting a thin path of sanity through the mayhem.
“For cheating?” someone asked.
Westlake held up O’Neill’s letter. “For treason and false accusation.”
Westlake found a face in the crowd, a colonel in the dark tunic of a prestigious guards regiment. “Perhaps you would do the honors, Colonel?” he asked, holding out the letter. “You’ll find this concerns accusations made against Captain the Honorable Sinjon Rutherford.”
The colonel took the message with a frown.
“Rutherford?” Creighton croaked, his face reddening.
“Rutherford did this?”
He stared at Evelyn in horror, and she let him read the answer in her eyes.