Rake's Reward
Joanna Maitland
REFORMING A RAKE…Desperate to support her widowed mother, Marina Beaumont had agreed to become a companion to a dowager countess and found herself in an impossible situation. She had never anticipated the position would force her to deal with Kit Stratton–a renowned rake who would stop at nothing to get the revenge he sought…even if it cost Marina all that she held most dear.For unable to restrain the dowager's gambling habit, Marina soon found herself paying the price for Kit's sweet revenge on the widow. And the only way this rake would agree to her request to forfeit the money he was owed was if Marina gave him the reward he most desired….
“You are, without doubt, the most exasperating woman I have ever met.”
And then Kit kissed her. It was a kiss of anger. Marina knew it was intended to show her that she could not stand against him.
She knew it. And yet she wanted to yield to him. The touch of his lips renewed the encounters of her dreams, when he had come to her in love and gentleness. Her body yearned for him. In spite of everything.
She was a fool!
“No!” she cried, pushing him away with all her strength as he raised his hand to her hair. “No! I will not be a pawn in your games, Mr. Stratton! Even a plain companion has a conscience, sir, and I intend to obey mine. Good day to you.”
Rake’s Reward
Joanna Maitland
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
‘I have been waiting too many years for this, Hugo. Nothing you can say will make one whit of difference.’ Kit Stratton spoke with quiet certainty, smiling calmly across at his elder brother as if they were discussing the turn of a cravat, or a new blend of snuff. He lounged back in his chair, with one immaculately booted leg thrown carelessly over the arm, and watched his brother. It might have been Kit, rather than Hugo, who was the owner of this comfortable, book-lined study.
Sir Hugo Stratton ceased his angry pacing and stood looking down at his brother in obvious exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, Kit, you must be out of your mind,’ Hugo said bitterly. ‘Stratton Magna has been in the family for generations, yet you would risk losing it to that old harridan on the turn of a card. You cannot intend to go on with this senseless charade. Besides, it all happened years ago. Cannot you let it lie?’
‘No.’ Kit shook his head decisively. ‘You forget what she did to me…to us. She acted out of pure malice, Hugo, and I swore then that I would have my revenge on her one day. I mean to do it now.’
‘And it matters nothing to you that you could lose the family estate in the process? By God, I wish—’
‘You wish, now, that you hadn’t persuaded John to leave it to me in the first place, don’t you, Hugo?’
Hugo coloured a little. ‘John will be turning in his grave,’ he said. He sounded very near to losing his temper. ‘And I…’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘What a fool I was. I was the one who persuaded John to leave Stratton Magna to you, instead of to me. I was the one who said that you needed land of your own in England, so that you would stop playing the rake in Vienna. I was the one who thought you would—’
‘Settle down and raise a brood of hopeful children?’ finished Kit sardonically, rising to refill his glass. ‘Never. Unlike you, I have no turn for the infantry, so I am more than content to leave the getting of Stratton heirs to you. You know very well that I have no intention of being caught in parson’s mousetrap. Much too close for comfort with Emma. If she hadn’t chosen you instead…’ He allowed himself a wry smile. He had been the brother who compromised the heiress, but Hugo had been the brother who married her—for Hugo was the brother she loved. Hugo and Emma had been married for five years now, their happiness shadowed only by the deaths of Emma’s father and of John, the eldest Stratton brother. Now Hugo was the head of the Stratton family, a baronet, and enormously wealthy. He had no need of the family estate at Stratton Magna.
Unlike Kit.
‘Believe me, I do appreciate your generosity,’ Kit continued, smiling still. He was determined to retain the upper hand in this encounter. ‘I can guess what you were thinking, you and John, when you decided to leave Stratton Magna to me. But, as the oldest surviving brother, you should have inherited the family estate, not I. If I had known what you were planning to do, I might have warned you of the risks you were running.’
‘Might you?’ said Hugo with biting sarcasm. ‘If I’d known what you were planning to do, I might have held my tongue. As it is—’
‘As it is, Stratton Magna is mine now and I can have my revenge on Lady Luce without breaking my word to you. I swore to you, then, that I would never gamble for more than I could afford to lose. Until I inherited the estate, I was in no position to come back to England and face her. Now, I can,’ Kit finished simply.
‘You could have come back for good when John died,’ Hugo said pointedly.
Kit sank back into his chair. It was now well over a year since John and his wife had died in that terrible carriage accident. The family had expected Kit to remain in England after the funeral, but he had not been prepared to oblige them. ‘I had…other things on my mind,’ Kit said, staring down into his wine. ‘Distractions, you might say, one of whom is now in London.’ He looked up at his brother. He could see that Hugo’s anger was waning now. ‘You may be sure that I learned my lesson well over Emma. Resolved then to devote all my attentions to ladies of…er…experience who would pose no threat to my single state.’
‘Provided their husbands did not catch you in their beds,’ put in Hugo sharply. ‘You might not have come off with a whole skin if they had challenged you.’
‘As it happens,’ Kit said with studied nonchalance, ‘I was caught out a couple of times. And I did come off with a whole skin.’
‘Good God!’ Hugo was laughing in spite of himself. He had always found it difficult to remain furious for long. ‘And how many of the poor cuckolds did you kill?’
‘None,’ said Kit with a bland smile. ‘That would have been ungentlemanly. I was guilty, after all. And the ladies in question were—’
Hugo shook his head decisively. ‘Enough of your diversions, Kit. We are not here to discuss your successes in the petticoat line. Heaven knows, half of Europe seems to be aware of those. We are here to discuss this preposterous proposal of yours. You cannot be serious. You could lose everything to that woman. And after the last time, surely you—’
‘After the last time, I have absolutely no intention of losing to her,’ Kit said emphatically, rising to his feet. He put a hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Nothing you can say will change my mind, Hugo. You cannot imagine how demeaning it was for me to be forced to come to you, cap in hand, to beg for the money to pay those debts. I knew that you would have to take it from the dowry of the lady I had compromised. Can you imagine how that felt? I may have been only twenty-two at the time, but, believe me, Hugo, it rankled. And it rankles still. I was a hair’s breadth away from utter disgrace.’
Hugo paused, gazing up at the huge portrait of Emma above the fireplace. He clearly had his temper well in hand now. ‘I do understand, Kit,’ he said at length. ‘But it was all a very long time ago. Everyone has forgotten what happened. You will simply stir it all up again if you challenge the woman. Let it lie.’
‘No. I cannot. I have spent five years waiting for this moment and I intend to relish it.’ He raised a hand as his brother made to speak. ‘Don’t be so ready to assume that I will lose this time. Believe me, I have no intention of doing so.’
The corner of Hugo’s mouth twitched slightly. The long scar on the side of his face was barely noticeable now, except where it twisted his smile. ‘And precisely how do you plan to ensure that, brother? Are you become a Captain Sharp in your time on the continent?’
Kit smiled ruefully. ‘No, though I have learned to recognise them pretty well. I have no need to cheat. All these years of play have improved my game immeasurably. You know well enough that I was always lucky with the cards and the bones. Nothing has changed there. I am just more practised than before. I have no doubt that I shall win…especially as I hear that Lady Luce seems to have lost her own knack for the cards. Did I not hear that she is called “Lady Lose” nowadays?’
Hugo nodded, somewhat unwillingly.
‘Good. That improves the odds even more. Lady Luce tried to ruin me then. Would have done it, too, if you had not paid my debts. I owe you. And I owe her. With Stratton Magna at my back, I shall see her in the gutter. And I shall rejoice at her downfall.’
Hugo was shaking his head despairingly, as if he did not understand how Kit could harbour such hatred for another human being. And for so many years. But if Hugo had spent years exiled on the continent, he too might have just such a ruthless attitude to Society. Kit had long ago concluded that people were there to be used for his own advantage. It did not pay to become close to anyone. That way lay disaster.
The third Earl Luce was pacing his mother’s opulent drawing room. ‘Mama,’ he said at last, ‘you cannot continue like this.’
The Dowager Countess took a generous mouthful of best madeira, savouring it as she swallowed. ‘For God’s sake, William, stop behaving like a caged elephant.’
The Earl stopped abruptly. He glanced at his reflection in the ornate, gilt-framed mirror—he was nothing like as large as an elephant. How dare she suggest anything so offensive?
She raised her lorgnette and peered at him. That piercing stare had unnerved him since he was five years old. Now, more than forty years later, it still did.
‘Continue like what, precisely?’ asked Lady Luce acidly.
Her son cleared his throat, ready to do battle on the one subject where he knew he had the whip hand. He was intending to enjoy this. ‘You cannot continue to gamble with money you do not have, Mama,’ he began. ‘You—’
Lady Luce used the arms of her chair to push herself into a standing position. Even then, she was considerably shorter than her son, and looked more than twice as wide in her old-fashioned hooped skirts. ‘And who, pray, is going to stop me?’ she said in an awful voice.
‘I am,’ he said, as stoutly as he could, but avoiding her gimlet eye. ‘I cannot afford to continue to pay your debts, Mama. You seem to forget that I have a family of my own to keep.’
His mother snorted. ‘How could I forget? Never seen so many confounded brats. You’re as bad as Clarence.’
‘Mama! How can you say such a thing? It is highly improper for a lady to mention illegitimate children, even if their father is a royal duke. And you know very well that I have never been unfaithful to Charlotte.’
‘No, because no other woman would look twice at you,’ snapped his mother, ‘even if you did have the money to dangle after them. It’s quite your own fault that you have sired ten children. And I do not see why my style of living should be curtailed to pay for them, just because you cannot keep your—’
‘Mama! Please!’
His mother looked hard at him and smiled nastily. She was clearly enjoying his embarrassment. One day, he would…
He turned his back on her and went to the window. If he did not have to look at her, it would be easier to tell her what she was to do. ‘My children are not in question here,’ he said, trying to keep his temper under control. ‘My father provided you with a very generous jointure. You do not even have to pay for the upkeep of this house. You have the means to live in considerable comfort, but you choose to gamble instead, relying on the assumption that I will always stand behind your debts.’
‘Balderdash,’ said his mother roundly. ‘You left me hanging in the wind when—’
Lord Luce spun round furiously. ‘That was five years ago, Mama, and it only happened once. You knew that I could not raise such a huge sum just then.’ He raised his hand to stop her from speaking. ‘Besides,’ he went on rapidly, ‘you came about soon enough, when you won all that money from Kit Stratton, did you not? You had no need of my backing.’
‘Did I not? I’ll have you know, you miserable apology for a whelp, that—’
‘No, Mama, you will not. You will listen to me. You will learn to live within your means. If you come to me just once more to pay your gambling debts, it will be the last time, I promise you. I shall let it be known that I will not pay in future. And who would accept your vowels then?’
‘You would not dare,’ she spat. ‘Your name would—’
‘Balderdash,’ he said, enjoying the feel of the word on his lips. Let her have a taste of her own medicine. ‘Society will agree that I have been too indulgent for too long. You may be an “original,” Mama, but Society tires of such entertainments in the end. I am the head of the family and I mean what I say.’
His mother stamped over to him and poked him in the chest. ‘Do you, William? Do you, indeed? Then understand this. I shall behave exactly as I please. If I choose to gamble, I shall do so, and nothing you can say shall prevent me. I shall stake my jointure and leave all my other bills unpaid. And I shall make a point of telling all of London that the Luce estate stands behind me, since otherwise I should end up in the Fleet. How would that please your sense of propriety, eh? The Dowager Countess Luce in debtors’ prison because her son would not pay her debts. What would all your fine friends think to that? And your sons, too. I am sure it would make for splendid sport at Eton.’
The Earl’s shoulders slumped. She had won again. She was not a woman, she was a witch.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘Mama, you must understand that I cannot afford it,’ he said, adopting a pleading voice. ‘The income from the estate has been poor ever since the end of the war. If there are any more major calls on me, I shall have to start selling the unentailed properties. Surely you cannot wish me to do that? It is all I have to leave to the younger boys.’
Lady Luce grunted. ‘I might think about it,’ she said grudgingly.
His tactics had worked. That was as near to a concession as he had ever won from her. ‘Perhaps if you had another interest, something to divert your mind—’ he began.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my mind,’ she snapped.
‘No, of course not,’ he said, trying to grapple with the brilliant idea that had just struck him, ‘but…a young companion might be just the thing.’
She fixed him with a steely gaze.
He quailed a little but continued. He could not refuse an opportunity to bridle the Dowager, however temporarily. ‘Let me look about for someone suitable,’ he said. Then he added, as a clincher, ‘I will undertake to pay all the costs of her keep. Your jointure shall remain at your sole disposal, as in the past.’
His mother gave him a very strange look. Then, to his surprise, she nodded briefly. ‘Yes, you are right. I could do with a young thing about the place.’
Victory! The Earl bowed over his mother’s hand. His wife’s bosom friend, Lady Blaine, would be bound to know of a suitable candidate. He would enlist her aid this very day. Now, he must make a speedy exit before his mother changed her mind.
He had just reached the door when she said, airily, ‘Just make sure she plays a good hand of piquet, William. At my age, I do not have time to start teaching gels how to play cards.’
‘Miss Beaumont?’
Marina spun round. She was being addressed by a liveried footman who was taking no pains to conceal his disdain at the sight of her shabby travelling costume and worn bonnet. Marina raised her chin a fraction. She might be poor and ill clad, but she was most certainly a lady. She would not allow herself to be daunted by a mere servant.
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at the young man. She was almost as tall as he was, she noted absently. ‘I am Miss Beaumont,’ she said in a frosty voice.
The footman could not hold her stern gaze. After a moment, he looked away. ‘Will you come this way, miss?’ he said, indicating the carriage that stood waiting to convey her across London to her employer’s house.
It was only a small victory—but it mattered to Marina. If she was to live in Lady Luce’s house, she must ensure that the Dowager’s servants treated her with respect. ‘Please see that my baggage is stowed safely,’ she said, pointing to the two old valises that contained everything she owned. The footman did as he was bid, picking them up as though they weighed nothing at all. ‘Thank you,’ Marina said with a smile.
The footman seemed taken aback for a few seconds, as if he were suddenly seeing a completely different person. Then he remembered his place and helped Marina into the carriage where she sank back against the cushions with a sigh of relief. She had arrived in London, at last. And in a very short time, she would be making her curtsy to the Dowager Countess Luce, the old lady who wanted a gay young companion to brighten her declining years. Marina had decided during the journey from Yorkshire that she could fill the role pretty well. She had often acted as companion to her grandmother in her final years, reading to her, playing or singing for her, even playing cards with her. In those last years, Grandmama had become most exacting, almost as if she were still entitled to be treated as the sister of a viscount. Lady Luce could not be any worse. Reclusive elderly ladies were all much the same, weren’t they?
Marina closed her eyes, trying vainly to shut out the noise and the overpowering smells. She had never imagined that London could be so full of raucous sounds—the cries of hawkers, each trying to outdo his neighbour, the shouts of draymen anxious to make their way through the bustle of traffic, the ring of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels, the underlying hum of a huge, pulsating city. At home, she had been used to the sounds and smells of farmyard animals, the cries of wild birds, and the howl of the wind across the moors. Nothing like this. She resisted the temptation to hold her nose or put her hands to her ears. If she was to live in London as companion to Lady Luce, she would have to become accustomed. She might as well start now.
Armed with this new resolution, Marina sat up and looked out of the window. She had no idea where she was, but the streets seemed to have become a little quieter. They were certainly more genteel than before: fewer hawkers, more gentlemen’s carriages. The houses had large windows and imposing entrances, some flanked by columns like a Greek temple. This was much, much grander than anything she had known in Yorkshire.
While Marina was studying the architecture on one side of the street, the carriage drew up at a house on the other. She had arrived! The footman, more deferential now, had jumped down to open the door on the far side and stood ready to help her out. As she stepped down, the front door was opened by a stately old man in black who was almost completely bald. What little hair he still possessed was white as snow and sat round his pate like a frill of cream round a pink pudding. He looked like something out of a fairy tale, Marina decided, though he should have been wearing a wizard’s robe rather than a butler’s uniform.
‘Welcome to London, Miss Beaumont,’ the butler said in an expressionless voice. ‘Her ladyship is waiting for you upstairs in her drawing room. Will you come this way, please?’ He turned and began to lead the way towards the imposing staircase.
Not now! Not yet! Marina looked down at her travel-stained clothing and her darned gloves. She needed time to make herself presentable before she was introduced to Lady Luce. The Dowager would take one look at her in this state and send her back to Mama by the first available coach.
Marina took a deep breath and paused just inside the door. ‘I am sure her ladyship does not wish to meet me until I have rid myself of the dust of the journey,’ she said in a voice that surprised her with its steadiness. ‘Have the goodness to bring me to a room where I may wash and change my dress first. The footman may bring my valises.’ Marina looked back to where the footman was extracting her luggage from the carriage.
The butler stopped short, then turned back and stared at her in apparent amazement for a few seconds. Finally, he coughed and resumed his earlier vacant expression. ‘As you wish, miss. Will you come this way? Charles, bring Miss Beaumont’s bags up to her room straight away.’
‘Yes, Mr Tibbs,’ replied the footman quickly, hoisting both bags with one arm so that he could close the front door noiselessly behind him.
Marina smiled to herself, a very little. She had just learned her second lesson. And so had Lady Luce’s servants.
Chapter Two
Marina looked round her small, sparsely furnished bedchamber. She supposed she should be glad that she had not been banished to the attics, with the servants. As a lady’s companion, she would be neither servant nor gentry, but something indeterminate in between. She must maintain her distance from the servants. Lady Luce and her guests would, in turn, maintain their distance from the companion. Marina would be alone.
The butler had informed her, in a somewhat fatherly manner, that she had been given a bedchamber on the same corridor as her ladyship’s so that she would be within easy reach, should Lady Luce have need of her services at any time. Marina had deduced that she was to be at her ladyship’s beck and call, twenty-four hours a day.
She shrugged her shoulders. What else had she expected? Her own grandmother had been equally exacting—and more than a little querulous towards the end of her life. Marina would just have to summon all her reserves of patience and understanding, and set about ministering to another old lady’s whims.
I shall pretend she is my own grandmother, Marina promised herself as she changed her gown. I learned forbearance then. I can surely do the same for another demanding old lady, especially as, on this occasion, I am being paid for my trouble.
She smiled at the thought of the money she would send to her mother the moment she received her first wages. Mama had said Marina would need to provide for her wardrobe, but surely she could manage with what she had brought from Yorkshire? A companion did not need many gowns to accompany her mistress when she took the air, or to wind her lady’s knitting wool. Marina had long ago decided to confine herself to what she already had. Her first duty was to her own family.
She considered her image in the glass that had been thoughtfully provided. It would do. Her grey gown, though creased from its time in her valise, was clean and neat, and set off with a fresh white collar. She looked like a lady, not a servant, she decided, with a small smile of satisfaction. Her dark brown hair had been neatly rebraided and pinned to the back of her head. Her newly washed complexion glowed with health. Her head was bare—she might be almost at her last prayers but, at twenty-three, she was not yet condemned to the spinster’s cap—and she wore no jewellery except the mourning ring that had been on her finger almost since the day she had learned of her father’s death. She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Lady Luce would see, in her, the model of a demure, biddable lady’s companion, well worth the wage she was to be paid. The Dowager would have no reason to send Marina back to her family. That must be avoided at all costs, for Mama desperately needed every penny Marina could spare.
And now she must go down to meet the lady who would have the ordering of her life for months, perhaps years to come.
Marina took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and made her way out into the corridor. Tibbs, the butler, was hovering not far away, waiting for her.
‘This leads to her ladyship’s chambers,’ he said, indicating a door near the head of the staircase. ‘No one else sleeps on this floor, except when her ladyship has guests. Though now there is yourself, miss,’ he added, apparently as an afterthought.
‘Does not the Earl stay here when he is in London?’ Marina asked.
‘No, miss. Her ladyship and her son…’ He coughed. ‘His lordship has his own house in town. He always stays there.’
‘I see,’ said Marina. It was understandable that a grown-up son would not wish to live under the eye of his mother, even for a day or two. The butler seemed to have been about to say something about the pair, something that had sounded for all the world like the beginning of backstairs gossip. Marina, not being a servant, should deliberately shut her ears to it. And yet she found herself wondering about the Earl and his relationship with his mother. Was she too demanding for his comfort? Elderly ladies often were. And a gentleman’s patience could be quickly exhausted.
The butler led Marina down to the floor below and to a room at the front of the house. With a grand gesture, he threw open the door and announced, in stentorian tones, ‘Miss Beaumont, your ladyship.’
Marina passed through the door that Tibbs was holding and heard it close quietly at her back. This sumptuous straw-coloured drawing room seemed to be empty. She could see no one at all. But surely…? The butler had seemed in no doubt…
Marina hesitated by the door.
‘Don’t just stand there, girl. Come into the light where I may see you.’ The sharp voice came from the depths of a chair by a large window overlooking the street.
Marina moved forward to find the source of that peremptory command. Only when she had reached the far side of the room could she see that the voice had issued from a tiny figure who was dwarfed by the chair she sat in. Lady Luce was richly dressed in plum-coloured silk, but in the style of more than forty years earlier, with wide skirts and an abundance of fine lace at her throat and wrists, and a powdered wig on her head. Although her skin was dry and wrinkled, the delicate lines of her bones showed that she had once been very beautiful. Now she resembled nothing so much as a miniature exotic fruit, so shrivelled and fragile that it might shatter if it was touched.
‘Good gad, they’ve sent me a beanpole,’ Lady Luce exclaimed.
Marina could feel herself blushing. It had been a matter of regret throughout her adult life that she had inherited her father’s height and build. Her slight figure made her seem even taller than she actually was. Compared with Lady Luce, she must seem a veritable giantess. Marina curtsied. ‘How do you do, ma’am?’ she said calmly, trying to manage a smile for the tiny—and extremely rude—Dowager Countess who was to be her employer.
The Dowager did not immediately reply to Marina’s polite greeting. She was looking her up and down, her sharp old eyes missing nothing of her new companion’s dowdy appearance. ‘Thought one of the Blaines would be better turned out,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t give a gown like that to a scullery maid.’
This was not a good start to their relationship. The Dowager must be instantly disabused of the idea that Marina was ‘one of the Blaines,’ or that she could afford to be better dressed. Marina knew she must set matters straight between them, even if Lady Luce sent her packing as a result. She had no choice.
‘I think you must be labouring under a misapprehension, ma’am,’ Marina began. ‘My name is Beaumont, not Blaine. I am only distantly related to the Viscount’s family, through my grandmother, but she was not acknowledged by them, not after her marriage.’
‘Hmph,’ snorted the Dowager. ‘Nothing “distant” about it. Your mother and the new Viscount are first cousins, are they not?’
‘Yes, but not—’
‘You’re a Blaine,’ said the Dowager flatly. ‘The old Viscount’s father was a tyrant and a blackguard, but that don’t change the bloodline, not in my book. Your grandmother was daughter to one Viscount, and sister to the next. You’re a Blaine, all right.’
It was clearly going to be difficult to argue with Lady Luce, perhaps even to get a word in, Marina decided. But, on this delicate subject, she must try.
‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ she began again, ‘but you must understand that the Beaumonts have never been acknowledged by the Viscount’s family, not even when my grandmother’s brother succeeded to the title.’
‘That’s because he was just like his father,’ interrupted the Dowager, with a grimace, ‘which was only to be expected, since all the Blaine men—’ She broke off to scrutinise Marina’s face for a moment and then said, ‘I see you know nothing about your noble relations, young lady. Well, I may choose to enlighten you—perhaps—one day. But there are other, more pressing matters. For a start, we must do something about that frightful monstrosity you are wearing.’
Worse and worse, thought Marina, but before she had a chance to say a word in defence of her wardrobe, the Dowager was laying down the law on dress, just as she had on the subject of blood.
‘It is fit only for the fire,’ pronounced Lady Luce. ‘Or the poorhouse. Though, even there, I dare say the women would turn their noses up at it. Have you nothing fit to be seen, girl?’
‘I do have one evening gown, ma’am. Apart from that, I have very few gowns, all similar to this one. What spare money we have must be spent on my brother’s education. Harry is at Oxford,’ she added, with sisterly pride, ‘and he is destined for the Church.’
‘Don’t approve of spending every last farthing on boys,’ said Lady Luce quickly. ‘You educate them, and where does it get you? Eh? Take your every penny and fritter it away. If it’s not land drainage, or enclosures, or something equally unnecessary, it’s fast living and loose women.’
‘Harry does not—’
Marina’s protest was cut short by another disapproving snort. ‘Not your brother. Don’t know the first thing about him. He may be a pattern-card of rectitude, for all I know. But the sons of noble families…’ Lady Luce shook her head. Her message was clear. The sons of noble families were not to be trusted with money. Presumably that also applied to her own son?
‘A lady has to be independent enough to lead her own life, in just the way she wants,’ said Lady Luce, warming to her subject. ‘Especially once she is widowed,’ she added meaningfully.
At last, Marina understood. Lady Luce’s unusual views on female independence were clearly to be applied to her own case, and probably to that case only. It was unlikely she would care about the plight of Mama, or any other gently bred widow who had fallen on hard times.
‘You give ’em an heir and your duty is done,’ said Lady Luce. ‘Least a husband can do in return is to provide for a comfortable widowhood. But husbands seem to think that the heir should have charge of everything, even his mother!’ She stopped, looking up at Marina once again. ‘And just what do you think you are laughing at, young madam?’
Marina had not realised she had begun to smile at the old lady’s spirited defence of her own interests. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she lied quickly, ‘I was thinking only that you reminded me of my own dear grandmother. I miss her greatly.’
‘Balderdash,’ said Lady Luce roundly. ‘You were thinking that I was talking dangerous nonsense, but that I could be forgiven my revolutionary views because of my great age. Well? Were you not?’
Taking a deep breath, Marina said, with sudden resolution, ‘Yes, ma’am, I was. I admit it. But I see now that your arguments should not be dismissed on such spurious grounds. You are obviously a redoubtable opponent, for woman or for man, and your great age has nothing to do with the case.’
Lady Luce gasped. For a second, Marina held her breath, thinking how foolhardy she had been to speak so. The Dowager would ring a peal over her head and then despatch her post-haste back to Yorkshire. But nothing of the sort happened. Her ladyship stared sharply into Marina’s face, now mercifully straight, and then said, with a crack of laughter, ‘Yes, you’ll do. Once we have done something about your wardrobe, of course. I shall see to that tomorrow. You are not fit to be seen as you are. Turn round.’
Obediently, Marina turned her back.
‘Again,’ said the Dowager.
Marina turned to face her once more.
‘Sit down, girl,’ said Lady Luce, nodding towards a low stool at the side of her chair. ‘It’s giving me a stiff neck trying to look up all that way.’
Marina allowed herself a small smile as she obeyed. The Dowager’s bark was extremely frightening, but Marina now fancied that her ladyship’s bite was a little lacking in teeth, like a pampered old lapdog, yelping and snapping uselessly at every visitor.
‘Now, Miss Beaumont. Tell me about yourself,’ began her ladyship. She was obviously pleased to see that Marina, once seated on the stool, was shorter than she was. ‘What do they call you?’
‘Marina, ma’am,’ replied Marina, puzzled. How could Lady Luce have agreed to employ a companion when she did not even know her given name?
‘Marina. Hmm. Unusual name, is it not?’
‘I am not sure, ma’am. I was named for my father’s mother, I believe.’
‘Foreign, was she?’ Lady Luce’s voice betrayed her distaste.
‘I understand so. I never knew her. My father’s family had served in the army for generations. All the women followed the drum.’
‘Your mother, too?’ Lady Luce’s voice had a clear undertone of disapproval now. She probably felt that such behaviour was not appropriate for a niece of the Viscount Blaine.
‘Yes, ma’am. But after the Peace of Amiens, my father decided that his wife would be better in England, since my brother and I were so small. We settled in Yorkshire.’
‘And your father? What was he?’
‘He was a captain in the 95th Rifles, ma’am. He died nine years ago, at the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo, along with my uncle.’
Lady Luce nodded in understanding. Marina wondered whether she, too, had lost loved ones in the wars. Many titled families had.
‘But your mother was provided for?’ Lady Luce clearly had no qualms about enquiring into the most intimate detail of her companion’s circumstances. And she would doubtless persist until she received her answer.
‘No, ma’am. At least, not well.’ That was true, though it was not the whole truth. ‘My mother supplemented our income by taking pupils.’ Seeing her ladyship’s look of surprise, Marina added, ‘My mother is very well educated, ma’am. Her father was a great scholar. He educated his daughter exactly as he educated his son.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Unlike my mother, my uncle had no inclination for scholarship. He was army mad, almost from his cradle. A great disappointment to my grandfather.’
‘Hmph,’ said Lady Luce. It was not clear whether she approved or not. ‘And who was he, this scholar grandfather of yours?’
Marina was beginning to dislike her ladyship’s sustained questioning very much, but she did not think she could refuse to answer. ‘He met my grandmother when he was the Viscount Blaine’s private secretary, I believe, ma’am.’
Her ladyship smiled suddenly. ‘And he was remarkably handsome, too, was he not? Tall, with fine features and dark hair, and a beautifully modulated speaking voice?’
‘Why, yes. Grandmama did describe him in much that way,’ Marina replied. ‘Did you know him, ma’am?’
Her ladyship continued to smile, a rather secretive smile, and a faraway look came into her eye. ‘Aye, I knew James Langley. All the girls were mad for him, I remember. Handsomest man we had ever seen…but quite unsuitable…quite.’ She looked sharply at Marina as if looking for some resemblance. ‘Your grandmother kicked over the traces for his handsome face, did she, eh?’
Marina blushed and nodded dumbly. Her ladyship’s salty turn of phrase was not what she was used to in Yorkshire with her very proper mama.
‘And her father cast her off as a result?’
Marina nodded again.
‘Just what I’d expect from that family. Don’t hold with such cavalier treatment. Don’t hold with it at all.’ Lady Luce shook her head so vigorously that a little cloud of powder rose from her wig. ‘If I had had a daughter—’
The door opened to admit the butler. Bowing stiffly, he announced, ‘His lordship is below, your ladyship, and begs the favour of a few minutes’ conversation with Miss Beaumont.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ said Lady Luce, frowning.
Marina was astonished. What on earth could Lady Luce’s son want with the companion?
‘I suppose I must humour him, in the circumstances,’ her ladyship said, grudgingly. ‘Conduct Miss Beaumont below, Tibbs.’
Wonderingly, Marina followed the butler out of the room and down the staircase to the bookroom on the ground floor. Perhaps the Earl wished to look over his mother’s companion, to decide whether he thought her suitable? But what if he did not? Marina doubted that her son’s objections would make any difference to Lady Luce, not once she had made up her mind.
The Earl was standing by the window, looking out into the street. He was several inches shorter than Marina, and noticeably corpulent. Unlike his mother, he wore the newest fashions, even though tight pantaloons did not flatter his figure at all.
He waited until the door had closed before turning. He made no move towards Marina. And he did not attempt to shake hands.
Marina understood. To the Earl, she was only a servant. She curtsied, waiting for him to speak.
Like his mother, he surveyed her keenly. Marina caught his lofty expression and responded automatically by lifting her chin. Had not Lady Luce just insisted she was a Blaine?
‘Miss Beaumont,’ he said, in an affected drawl, ‘you have arrived at last. We had looked to see you somewhat sooner than this.’
Marina did not attempt to make excuses for the timing of her arrival. His lordship might travel post, but she could not afford such luxury. She looked calmly across at him, waiting.
‘However, it is of no moment now. We have more important matters to discuss.’
Marina’s surprise must have been evident in her face, for he said, ‘I take it Lady Blaine did not tell you about my requirements?’
‘No, sir. Lady Blaine said nothing at all about the nature of the post. She wrote only—’
The Earl clearly had no interest in what Marina wished to say, and no compunction about interrupting a lady who was no better than a servant. ‘What her ladyship wrote is of no interest to me, Miss Beaumont. What matters here are the instructions that I shall give you. Your role in this household is to prevent my mother from indulging in extravagant foolishness. No doubt you have heard that she has a predilection for gambling?’
Marina shook her head. ‘I know nothing at all about her ladyship’s manner of living, sir.’
The Earl snorted. He sounded worse than his mother. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Very well. The facts are these. My mother is overfond of gambling. On occasion, she has been known to risk considerably more than she can afford. Your role, Miss Beaumont, is to ensure that she does not.’
Marina gulped. How was she supposed to ensure such a thing? Surely Lady Luce would never have agreed to have her son’s agent foisted on her? ‘I do not understand, sir,’ Marina said.
‘It is quite simple,’ snapped the Earl. ‘Even a woman should be able to grasp it. I am employing you to stop my mother’s gambling. The means I leave to you.’
Ignoring his rudeness, Marina tried to grapple with his astonishing statement. ‘I had understood that I was employed by the Dowager Countess,’ she began, but she was permitted to go no further.
‘Ostensibly, but all the costs of your position fall to me. I am employing you. And your role will be as I have described.’
Marina swallowed hard. The task was impossible, surely? And the Earl was obnoxious. ‘Is the Dowager Countess content with this arrangement?’ she asked quietly. It would sound presumptuous for a mere companion to speak so, but the question had to be asked.
The Earl was beginning to look angry. ‘I require you to say nothing to her on the subject. If you do, you will be discharged instantly.’
Marina paled.
Lord Luce smiled nastily as he continued, ‘Remember, Miss Beaumont, that it is I, not my mother, who pay you. And that it is to me you will answer, if you fail in your appointed task. That is all I wish to say to you. You may go.’
There was nothing more to be said. Marina automatically dipped a brief curtsy and left the room. Her heart was pounding madly. She understood at last why Lady Blaine had written that short, cold letter to Mama. At the time, Marina had wondered why her haughty relation should suddenly offer to recommend her to a comfortable position, after decades of estrangement. But since pride was a luxury that the Beaumonts could not afford, Marina had had to accept the crumbs from the rich man’s table. Now, too late, she could see that the crumbs were laced with poison.
She was trapped. And she was alone in London. She could turn to no one for advice. If she was loyal to Lady Luce, the Earl would dismiss her. If she acted as the Earl’s instrument, Lady Luce would soon suspect and send her packing. After all the money that had been spent on her passage to London, it seemed she would soon become a burden to Mama all over again. She would have squandered her only chance to help her family.
She shook her head defiantly. No. She must do her duty. Somehow, she must find a way to satisfy both the Earl and his mother, and to earn the money to send home to Yorkshire to keep Mama from penury.
She must.
She would.
Chapter Three
‘Good gad! I thought you said you had an evening gown. Is that the best you can do?’
Face flaming, Marina stood rigid as the Dowager’s sharp little eyes travelled over every detail of her drab appearance. She was wearing the best of her meagre Yorkshire wardrobe, a dove-grey gown made high to the neck, but relieved with a tiny ruff of precious lace. It was plain, and not in the least fashionable, but it was clean and neat. And, unlike most of Marina’s other gowns, it bore no visible evidence of mending.
Lady Luce’s distaste was manifest in the narrowing of her eyes and the slight thinning of her lips. She rose from her chair, shaking out her wide silken skirts. The fall of fine lace at her bosom quivered indignantly. ‘I suppose that is your evening gown?’ she said in withering tones.
‘You are correct, ma’am,’ replied Marina, refusing to drop her gaze. She would not be made to feel ashamed of her appearance. Her dress was perfectly adequate for a near-servant. ‘This is quite my best gown,’ she added daringly, remembering the lesson she had learnt when she first arrived. The Dowager relished a sharp opponent.
Lady Luce gave a snort which might have been suppressed laughter. With a tiny shake of her powdered head, she said, ‘We shall see to your wardrobe tomorrow, as I promised. Don’t suppose it will matter much tonight. Shouldn’t be taking you to Méchante’s in the first place, of course, not a gel like you.’ She turned for the door, talking all the while. ‘Too prim and proper by half. Just what I’d expect from William.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ began Marina, daring at last to interrupt her ladyship’s meanderings, ‘but who is Méchante and why—?’
‘Why should you not go there?’ Lady Luce spun round to face Marina. She seemed remarkably nimble for her years. Her eyes were full of wicked laughter. ‘My dear, Méchante—Lady Marchant—is not a proper person for a lady to know. She is the daughter of a Cit, and her history is…ah…more than a little colourful, besides. Most of the company at her card party tonight will be male. As to the ladies you may meet there…’ She chuckled. ‘Suffice it to say that you would do best to pretend never to have set eyes on them. You would be wise to make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. Try to blend into the background.’ She looked Marina up and down once more. ‘In that gown, it should not be difficult.’
Marina stared, but Lady Luce was already making for the door which opened, as if by magic, just as she reached it. The butler stood in the hall, waiting. No doubt he had been listening to every single word. Before morning, Marina’s plight would be the talk of the servants’ hall. She could feel herself flushing yet again as she followed Lady Luce to the door, head held high and eyes fixed on the Dowager’s ramrod-straight back. The servants might mock in private, but they would never detect the slightest sign of weakness in Marina’s outward behaviour.
Throughout the short journey through the still-bustling streets, Marina worried at the information about the dubious Lady Marchant and her card party. Méchante— Marina knew it meant naughty, or wicked, in French. If the lady’s past was as colourful as the Dowager had hinted, she probably deserved her nickname.
Marina quailed inwardly at the thought of this first test. Why did it have to come quite so soon? She began to rack her brains for ideas to stop the Dowager’s gambling but came up with nothing practicable. If she claimed she was ill, the Dowager would simply send her home. If she tried to intervene in the game itself, the Dowager might well dismiss her on the spot. And if she betrayed the Earl’s instructions, the Dowager would probably stake every penny she had, and more, just to spite him, for she had made no secret of the fact that she despised him. Marina chewed at her bottom lip. It did not help.
‘Pull yourself together, child,’ said the Dowager sharply. ‘Méchante won’t eat you, you know. You might even enjoy yourself…get rid of that Friday face. You do play cards, I take it?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Marina quickly. As a companion, she might be lacking in many ways, but she could certainly hold her own at the card table. Her father had delighted in teaching her how to play cards, and she had been an apt pupil, but she had never yet had an opportunity to discover whether she had inherited his appalling luck. Nor did she wish to. Captain Beaumont’s gambling losses had been the major cause of his family’s poverty. ‘However, I never gamble. I believe that—’
‘What you believe is of no importance. You will soon discover that everyone gambles, whether they can afford it or not.’ She stared hard at Marina for a second. ‘I collect that you have no money?’
‘I believe that gambling is wrong, whether one has money or not,’ said Marina stoutly. ‘It ruins too many lives.’
The Dowager continued to stare, narrowing her eyes assessingly, but she said nothing until they had reached their destination and were preparing to alight. ‘Do not share your puritanical opinions with the guests tonight, Marina,’ she said. ‘It would do no good. And it could do you a great deal of harm.’
Marina nodded dumbly and followed Lady Luce into the brightly lit entrance hall of Lady Marchant’s extravagant London house.
‘Why, Lady Luce, is it not? Good evening, ma’am.’
The Dowager stopped so suddenly that Marina almost collided with her. As it was, she stepped on the hem of her ladyship’s train and had to extricate herself carefully from the fine material. By the time Marina looked up once more, Lady Luce was staring coldly in the direction of the handsomest man Marina had ever seen. He had stationed himself between Lady Luce and the staircase and his presence seemed to fill the marble hallway. He was extremely tall and dark, with beautiful features that would not have looked out of place on a statue in a Greek temple. His exquisitely cut clothes seemed to have been moulded to his form, yet he wore them with an air of nonchalance.
‘Such a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am.’ The gentleman’s drawl had an unpleasant edge to it, Marina noticed, and his finely shaped mouth curled in disdain as he looked down at the tiny lady whose path he was blocking. ‘It must be…what?…all of five years? I look forward to making your acquaintance again. You do still play, I take it?’
‘Oh, I play, Mr Stratton, you may be sure of that.’ Lady Luce’s voice was acid. ‘I had not thought Méchante was quite so short of guests, however, as to need to invite just anyone to make up her numbers. I see that I shall have to take more care in deciding which invitations a lady should accept.’ With that, she marched forward, forcing her tormentor to make way for her. He did so with easy grace, Marina noticed, and he continued to watch with narrowed eyes as the Dowager mounted the elegant branching staircase to the reception rooms above. He spared not one glance for the grey companion.
By the time the Dowager reached her hostess’s drawing room, she was white with anger. Her thin lips were pressed tightly together as if to prevent her from speaking words that she might regret.
‘Ma’am—’
‘Have nothing to do with Kit Stratton, child,’ said Lady Luce sharply before Marina had time to begin her question. ‘He is dangerous. More dangerous than you could ever imagine.’
‘But—’
‘Good evening, Méchante.’ Lady Luce was holding out her claw-like hand to a voluptuous blonde dressed in a gown of diaphanous pink silk. It was doubtful whether Lady Marchant wore much by way of petticoats beneath her gown. It seemed to cling to her almost like a second skin.
Marina had never seen anything so brazen. She caught herself staring and forced herself to look away. Their hostess’s nickname was well deserved. She seemed to relish it, too. At Lady Luce’s impudent greeting, Lady Marchant smiled contentedly, accentuating her slanting green eyes. There was something remarkably feline about that look, Marina decided. She was probably devious, as well as wicked.
Marina longed to ask questions, but could not. Who was the haughty man in the hallway? His name seemed vaguely familiar, but she could not place it. What was between him and Lady Luce? Enmity, for sure, but why? Marina had no opportunity to say a word, far less ask a question, for Lady Luce and her hostess were already mingling with the throng of guests. There was no sign of the incredibly handsome Mr Kit Stratton.
Marina forced her thoughts back to practical matters. She must not stand alone in the doorway as if she were an outcast. She must heed the Dowager’s warning and blend into the background. The huge draped velvet curtains would provide just what she needed. They were far enough away from the candelabra to cast quite a deep shadow. In her grey gown, Marina would appear to be almost a shadow herself.
Safe in her dark corner, Marina surveyed the company. Almost all the guests were men. There were soldiers in scarlet coats, some of them quite senior, some of them so young that they still had the downy cheeks of a girl. Marina was forcibly reminded of her younger brother, Harry, and how very proud he had been on the first application of his cut-throat razors.
Of the non-military gentlemen, a few were dressed in expensive and well-cut coats, but most reminded her of Lord Luce. They looked well fed and well-upholstered and, in more than one case, well on the way to an early grave.
The ladies—no, that was too flattering a term—the women were few. Apart from Lady Marchant and Lady Luce, there were only three, none of them in the first blush of youth. They wore fine but slightly grubby gowns, all very low cut indeed. Two of the women had painted their faces. Lady Luce was right. Méchante’s house was one that no virtuous young lady should ever enter. Why then had she been so insistent that Marina should accompany her tonight?
The noise in the room was almost deafening. It seemed that all of the gentlemen were well into their cups and each was almost shouting to make himself heard above his fellows. Marina found herself shrinking somewhat into the velvet shadow and wishing that she had been able to avoid coming to this place.
Where was Lady Luce? She and her hostess seemed to have disappeared. Marina supposed they must have gone into an adjoining room. Should she follow her employer? Or should she stay here where, for the moment at least, she seemed to be relatively safe? She hesitated, but only for a moment. It was her duty to protect the Dowager, somehow, from her gambling folly. What if she were gambling in the very next room?
Marina straightened her shoulders. She must follow her employer and do her duty.
‘Well,’ said a male voice at her elbow.
Marina smelt the nauseating mix of stale alcohol and sweat even before she turned. Where had this man come from? She was being accosted—there was no other word for it—by a middle-aged man in a rusty-black evening coat. He was quite as raddled as the worst of those in the room. His skin was almost as grey as her gown; he had the eyes of a man who had not slept for days on end.
She gave him the look that had cowed many an upstart in Yorkshire and made to pass on. It was not to be. The man’s hand grabbed her arm and forcibly brought her to a halt.
‘Not so fast, missy,’ he said, in a drawl that sounded half drunk, half affected. ‘And who might you be?’
Marina tried to shake him off, but failed. ‘My name is of no moment, sir,’ she said in icy tones. ‘I will thank you to let go of my arm.’
‘Indeed?’ His red-lidded eyes narrowed nastily. He looked her up and down. ‘This one has her nose in the air,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t see why.’ His contempt was obvious from the set of his lips. ‘With looks like yours, you should be glad that any man deigns to take notice of you. Don’t reckon you’re worth a guinea of any man’s blunt.’
Marina gasped. She knew just what he thought her to be.
With a final, rather undignified wrench, she pulled her arm free and ran through the doorway, praying that her employer would be in the room beyond. She was disappointed. The adjoining room held only card tables where little groups of gentlemen were deeply engrossed in piquet and whist. At the table nearest the door, one of the gentlemen, clearly disturbed by her hurried entrance, indicated irritably that she should be silent.
Marina felt herself flushing. She halted her headlong dash. The man who had accosted her might not think her a lady, but she would try to behave as she had been taught. Even in a house such as this.
Head held high, she walked slowly and calmly through the room to the doorway on the other side.
It was another room for gambling, but considerably less decorous than the previous one. A noisy dice table stood near the door; on the far side, there was a roulette wheel, with a number of players clustered eagerly round it, including two more painted ladies.
Marina suppressed a shudder. There must be a way out of this nightmare. Where on earth could Lady Luce have disappeared to?
Kit watched with narrowed eyes as Lady Luce mounted the stairs to the galleried landing. Five years seemed to have changed her very little. She was as rude as ever, but he had expected nothing less. Did she suspect his intentions? Possibly. She was bound to know of the change in his circumstances. Society tabbies such as the Dowager made it a point of honour to know everyone’s business.
He took out his gold snuff box and tapped it with a manicured fingernail. Mechanically, he opened it and took a minuscule pinch. His eyes were still on the landing above.
Where was she? Would she dare to play when she knew he was here, watching, waiting his chance?
Of course she would. Lady Luce was a soulless harridan but she was no coward. She might avoid Kit if she decently could but, faced with a direct challenge, she would never retreat. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. One day, it would come. Perhaps even tonight?
With a little nod of satisfaction, Kit mounted the staircase. Unlike Lady Luce, he did not take the branch leading to the reception rooms. He had long ago made it his business to spy out the layout of Méchante’s labyrinth of a house. He knew precisely where the high-stakes games would be played. And, like a skilled hunter, he knew that the best tactic was to conceal himself and lie in wait for his prey.
Marina was bewildered. She had made her way through room after room encountering only drunken gamblers with too ready hands. It seemed to have taken hours to come this far. Now she was back on the landing, but still there was no sign of Lady Luce.
At the far side of the landing, a door opened. A slurring voice said, ‘So this is where you are. Don’t think you fool me by pretending to run away. I learnt the tricks of your trade before you were born. And I know exactly what you have in mind. Exactly.’
Marina whirled round, took one look at the man weaving his way round the gallery towards her and instinctively backed away. Feeling a doorknob against her side, she quickly entered the room, leaning back against the door with a sigh of relief.
Here was yet another gambling room. This one was much smaller than the others and was generously hung with deep blue damask. A pointed archway in the wall led through to the adjoining room, also blue. In each, there was a large oval table where a group of gamblers was playing in complete silence. Marina looked in horror at the piles of coin, notes and vowels heaped on the green baize. The guests here were playing for very high stakes.
From her position by the door, Marina could not see any sign of Lady Luce. Perhaps she was not gambling, after all?
At the table in front of Marina, Lady Marchant was acting as banker. Marina took half a step forward, but stopped when Lady Marchant gave her a slight shake of the head. Obviously, Marina’s presence was unwelcome here.
What was she to do?
Behind her, someone tried vainly to open the door. A second later, it was pushed sharply into Marina’s back. Surprised, she stumbled forward.
Lady Marchant frowned and shook her head angrily at the interruption, motioning to Marina to leave the room immediately. Unjust though it was, Marina knew better than to protest. She turned to do as she was bid. What choice did she have?
She stopped abruptly. There in the doorway, propping himself up against the jamb, was her drunken pursuer, the man she had been trying so hard to avoid. He was leering at her, waiting.
He thinks he has me now, Marina thought. But I will not allow myself to be used like a common street-walker.
She pulled herself up to her full height—which was a little taller than the drunk—and stared haughtily down at him. Her flashing eyes dared him to approach her. But in his befuddled state, would he heed her warning?
Through the archway, there came a cry of triumph. It was Lady Luce’s voice. She was in the very next room!
Marina spun on her heel and cried out as she collided with a man directly behind her. He must have risen from Lady Marchant’s table just as Marina turned.
For a split second, Marina felt herself falling, but then strong arms gripped her and held her upright. She found she was staring at a gold cravat pin in the shape of a swooping bird of prey, its cruel head set off by a blood-red ruby eye. She could not move. She was standing transfixed in a man’s arms while the warmth of him invaded her limbs. Her mind was refusing to function. She could think of nothing but the obvious fact that he was even taller than her father.
Then she glanced up into his face.
It was Kit Stratton. And he had the hardest eyes she had ever seen.
Chapter Four
Kit set the grey lady back on her feet. It crossed his mind that she had no business to be in a house like Méchante’s where all the females were either members of the muslin company or hardened gamesters like Lady Luce.
The grey lady seemed remarkably tongue-tied. Perhaps she was simple? That would certainly help to account for her presence here.
Kit looked over the grey lady’s head to the swaying figure in the open doorway. Even in his cups, the man had a predatory look. Kit glanced down at the grey lady, wondering what the man could have seen in her. She was hardly worth pursuing, unless to puncture that strange air of ‘touch-me-not’ surrounding her. Yes, that must be it. It might be amusing to watch how she dealt with her would-be lover.
The drunk took a step towards them. ‘I’ll thank you to unhand my woman,’ he said, enunciating each word with exaggerated care. ‘I saw her first,’ he added, as if to clinch the matter.
Kit stiffened at the man’s brazen challenge. Not even drink could excuse it. He stepped smartly round the grey lady and confronted her pursuer, bending down so that their heads were almost touching. He forced himself to ignore the stink. ‘You are out of your depth here, my friend,’ he said in a low, menacing voice, ‘and I find your presence offensive. Go and put your head under the pump.’
The man goggled up at him.
It seemed that hard words were not enough for this man. Kit seized him, spun him round and quickly twisted one arm up his back. Then he propelled his squealing victim out on to the gallery and threw him to the floor. Kit smiled grimly at the sound of bone crunching against wooden balusters. Stone would have been preferable, he thought, closing the door on the sprawling figure.
The grey lady had turned to watch. She was looking at Kit through narrowed eyes. Clearly, he had been wrong about her. There was nothing in the least simple about this female.
‘Good manners require me to thank you, sir, for saving me from a fall,’ she said in a voice of cold, educated politeness. She did not meet his eyes. ‘As to the other—’ she glanced briefly towards the closed door ‘—I shall try to pretend that I was not witness to such a vulgar display.’ With a moue of disgust, she turned and moved serenely through the archway.
She holds herself like a duchess, Kit noted absently. How very strange.
He felt a sudden desire to laugh. For once, he had rescued a damsel in distress instead of ravishing her. And his reward? She had simply looked down her nose at him. He should have known better. Women were all the same. Next time—why should there be a next time with such a woman?—if there was a next time, he would make her sorry she had ever tangled with Kit Stratton.
Marina was glad to be able to seek out her protector on the far side of the arch. Kit Stratton was Lady Luce’s enemy. Everything about him shrieked danger. Beneath that fine, polished veneer, the man was a flint-hearted savage. It had taken every ounce of her self-control to conquer her body’s weakness and give him the set-down he so richly deserved. She was proud of her actions. She had shown she was a lady still.
At the table, they were playing Faro. Lady Luce had clearly been there all the time, hidden by the dividing wall.
Marina’s heart sank when she realised her employer was acting as Faro banker. This was no mere flutter. This was serious gambling. Heavens, why did this have to happen? And why Faro? Faro was the game that she hated above all others, the game that had ruined her father. It could be a game of infernally high stakes and incredible losses. Men played and played, always hoping to recoup their losses on the next card, until eventually they had nothing left to stake. Faro had led many a man to blow his brains out. Her father might eventually have done the same, if he had lived through the war.
No one had taken the least notice of her entrance. She leaned back against the wall alongside the arch, trying to steady her rapid, anxious breathing. She forced herself to think logically and sensibly. She must not panic. Surely Lady Luce would not play for higher stakes than she could afford? And besides, as banker, she would certainly have the odds in her favour. There must be a good chance that she would leave the table a winner. At that thought, Marina began to feel less uneasy and craned her neck a little in order to watch the play without disturbing those at the table.
There were five players besides Lady Luce. All were men. All had their backs to Marina. Lady Luce was gathering up a pile of coin and notes. Her crow of triumph had been justified, to judge by the amount she was pulling towards her. So far, she looked to be on top. With expert fingers, she broke a new pack and began to shuffle the cards. The discarded pack had been swept to the floor.
The only noise to be heard was the slap of the cards. The players seemed to be frozen in their seats. Then a deep voice broke the silence from beyond the archway. ‘You seem to have remarkable luck, ma’am,’ it said. ‘Do you dare to raise the stakes for this next deal? Shall we say a minimum of twenty guineas? Or would you prefer to pass the bank?’
Marina did not need to look round in order to recognise the speaker. It was Mr Kit Stratton. His tone was light, but mocking. It was as near an insult as it was possible to be.
Marina saw the spark of indignation in Lady Luce’s eyes and the sudden frown as she looked across at her rival. ‘By no means, Mr Stratton,’ she said in remarkably even tones. ‘I have no intention of surrendering the bank just yet. But I certainly agree that the stakes have been too low. Did you suggest twenty? Why, I would not dream of proposing such a paltry sum. What say you to fifty?’
The gentleman sitting opposite the Dowager rose immediately. ‘Too steep for me,’ he said and left the room.
Mr Stratton strode forward and very deliberately put his hand on the back of the vacant chair. He and Lady Luce stared each other out. Marina knew, even from behind, that he was daring her employer to continue. She also knew that Lady Luce would never back down against this man.
What was Marina to do? She racked her brains, but for some reason she seemed unable to think straight. In her very first day in her new post, she was failing to prevent her charge from gambling for enormous stakes. What on earth was happening to her?
At length, Mr Stratton’s voice replied, ‘Fifty? Certainly. Unless you wish to go higher?’
Marina prayed silently that Lady Luce would not accept this further challenge. Surely it was bad enough with the stakes they had already agreed?
Lady Luce smiled slowly, first at Mr Stratton, and then at the other players. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘as banker, I will accept any stakes that Mr Stratton cares to name.’ She looked across at him once more. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was sure of her victory now.
For what seemed a long time, Mr Stratton said nothing at all. Then, in a very quiet, calm voice, he said, ‘Madam, you do me too great an honour, but it would be ungentlemanly to disappoint you. A lady’s whims must always be humoured. Shall we say…two hundred pounds?’
This time the gasp echoed round the room. Two more of the gentlemen made to rise, muttering excuses. Such stakes were almost unheard of.
Mr Stratton did not move an inch as the players left the table to congregate by the archway. He laughed, though Marina could detect no mirth at all in the sound. ‘It shall be a snug little party, then, my lady,’ he said, pulling out his chair.
Marina was beginning to feel quite light-headed. She put a hand against the wall for support. This could not be happening. Two hundred pounds was a fortune—and it was to be staked on the turn of a single card. She moved a couple of steps nearer, in hopes of drawing the Dowager’s attention to herself. Perhaps she could signal to Lady Luce, distract her, somehow make her stop?
The movement caught Lady Luce’s eye. ‘So there you are,’ she said caustically. She pointed to an empty chair at the far end of the table. ‘Sit down, and do nothing. This is too important to allow of any distraction.’
Marina moved across the room and sank into the chair. The Dowager’s sharp glance indicated very clearly that she must neither speak nor move.
She closed her eyes and rested her chin on her hand. If only she could do something. Her only hope was that Lady Luce would win. Her overpowering fear was that Mr Stratton—bold, ruthless Kit Stratton—would ruin her mistress.
And herself into the bargain.
Kit watched the tiny hands deftly shuffling the cards. Keeping his eyes fixed on the cards helped his concentration. It also helped him to spot any sign of cheating though, in this case, he expected none. Lady Luce was much too proud to stoop so low, even if she knew how, which he doubted. No. This would be a straightforward test of skill and nerve. Kit’s well-trained memory for cards would probably cancel out some of the banker’s inbuilt advantage.
After that, it was all down to luck.
Lady Luce gathered her cards together and pushed the pack towards Kit. ‘Do you care to shuffle them yourself, sir? Perhaps one of the other gentlemen would cut?’
Kit stretched out a hand. ‘I am sure the cards are well enough mixed already,’ he drawled carelessly, not bothering even to glance at his opponent. ‘I will gladly cut, however. Then, perhaps, we may get to the business of the evening?’ He cut the cards to her with a decided snap.
Marina saw how the Dowager’s lips thinned under the lash of his scorn. Mr Stratton seemed to be seeking to force a quarrel on her, in addition to everything else. How could two people have come to detest each other so? It was quite beyond Marina’s understanding.
‘Stakes, gentlemen, please,’ said the Dowager in a hard voice.
Without hesitation, Mr Stratton extracted a fat pocketbook and, peeling off two banknotes, laid them on the nine in the livret of cards on the players’ side of the table. Lady Luce watched impassively, waiting for the other two gentlemen to decide on their wagers. The bald man nearest Marina scribbled a vowel but then sat undecided, his hand hovering between the five and the six in the livret. The very young man at the far end was much more decisive, quickly pushing a heap of notes and coin on to the queen.
As the bald man’s hand continued to hover, Lady Luce cleared her throat ominously, staring across at him. He coloured slightly and dropped the scrap of paper on to the six.
Marina held her breath, waiting for the first card to be faced. Her father had always said that it was an omen for the whole game. Normal Faro deals consisted of two cards—the banker won on the first, and the players on the second—but the first and last deals were banker’s cards only. Papa had been convinced that if the banker won on that first card, the players would lose heavily throughout the game. Marina had never really believed it—it had not prevented her father from losing his shirt—and yet she found herself offering up a little prayer that the Dowager’s card would win. It needed to be a six, or a nine, or a queen. Best of all if it matched Mr Stratton’s nine. She wanted to see him lose.
Lady Luce took her time. Indeed, she smiled round at the three men before she even touched the deck. She seemed remarkably confident.
She faced her first card and laid it to the left of the deck. Nine!
Lady Luce gave a little nod of satisfaction and collected the stake from Mr Stratton’s losing card.
He did not even blink. Marina decided he now looked even more like a marble statue—beautiful, cold and stony-hearted. Greek gods had been said to amuse themselves by treating human beings as pawns in their Olympian chess games. Kit Stratton looked as if he felt exactly the same about his opponents.
He threw two more bills on to the nine in the livret, never once raising his eyes to look at the banker or at any of the other players. He seemed to be focused totally on the cards.
Marina recognised that stare. She had seen it on her father. Mr Stratton was almost certainly a practised player with the ability to remember every card played. She had been taught to do the same herself. The knowledge helped improve the odds, especially towards the end of the game when few cards remained to be dealt. Kit Stratton was very definitely playing to win.
The Dowager faced the cards for the next deal. A king for the banker, followed by a two. No winners. With so few players, there could be several such barren deals. If the banker moved quickly through them, it would be more difficult than normal to memorise the cards. Marina set herself to doing so, too. The task would help her to remain calm, especially if Mr Stratton were to win.
Three more barren deals followed in quick succession. Marina knew exactly which cards had been played. Did Kit Stratton? It was impossible to tell from his face.
Lady Luce faced a six on to the banker’s pile to the left of the deck. The bald man groaned and muttered an oath as his stake joined the heap in front of the banker. He started to scribble his next vowel even before the players’ card had been dealt. The man at the far end drew an audible breath. Another nine! Lady Luce placed it carefully on the heap of players’ cards. Then she picked up the two bills that Mr Stratton had lost earlier and, holding them between finger and thumb as if they were contaminated, dropped them on to the nine in the livret.
Mr Stratton smiled down at the money for just a second before returning to blank-faced impassivity. He laid his hand flat on the bills, fingers spread in possession. He had well-kept hands, Marina noticed, momentarily distracted from the cards. Strong, too. Marina doubted they were gentle hands. He would like nothing better than to put those long fingers round the Dowager’s throat and squeeze the life out of her.
What on earth had made her think that? Marina was suddenly horrified by the picture his lean fingers had conjured up. He was only a gambler. Ruthless, yes, but a gentleman, surely?
Without raising his hand, Mr Stratton slid all four bills from the nine to the ten. The moment he lifted his hand from the table, Lady Luce dealt another banker’s card. Another nine!
The bald man gave a crack of laughter. He made to comment on such amazing luck, but the Dowager frowned him down. It was not surprising that she wanted no distractions in this duel. She dealt the carte anglaise with careful deliberation. This time, the players’ card was a queen. The young man won. With a quick sideways glance, he pocketed his winnings and moved his original stake to join Mr Stratton’s on the ten.
He, too, senses that this is a battle to the death, Marina thought. And he has chosen to side with the men, and with youth, against one solitary old woman.
Marina forced her thoughts back to the cards. Thirteen had been played. She could remember every one. Kit Stratton had staked four hundred pounds on the ten. There were still thirty-nine cards to be faced. And among them were four tens.
Marina was having difficulty remembering the cards.
It had never happened to her before. She had prided herself on that ability, yet now, when it really mattered, it seemed to be deserting her. It was something to do with those strong, lean hands. She could not take her eyes from them. What was it about them? Mostly, they lay relaxed and utterly still on the baize table while Kit Stratton watched the deal of every card. He was like a hawk—a detached, ruthless hunter, ready to launch itself on any quarry that became even slightly vulnerable.
There were only nineteen cards left. And still not a single ten had appeared.
Beyond the archway, a knot of onlookers was gazing across at Lady Luce and her cards. Clearly, Lady Marchant’s table had broken up in order to watch the excitement of the duel between Mr Stratton and the Dowager. Lady Luce frowned across at her unwelcome audience, and then returned her attention to the players. The bald man was leaning back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. The youngster was all excitement. He did not speak, but his eyes kept flicking back and forth from the money lying on the ten to the banker’s set face. There were beads of sweat on his furrowed brow. His fate was bound up with Kit Stratton’s…and the elusive ten.
Lady Luce faced another pair of cards. The bald man’s card won. Impassive, the Dowager pushed his winnings across the table and waited while he decided on his next wager. The pile of paper and coin in front of her was now pitifully small. She desperately needed a winning card.
Marina could see the increasing tension in the Dowager’s fixed smile. Her lips were becoming thinner and thinner. Her hands were absolutely steady, however, as she turned up the next card. A nine to the banker. Useless.
And then the players’ card. A ten.
There was a tiny gasp, quickly muffled, from one of the watchers by the archway. The young man at the table was grinning from ear to ear, but Mr Stratton had not moved a muscle. He was still gazing at the cards.
The Dowager pushed her last two bills across to the young man. With what seemed to be an apologetic glance at Mr Stratton, he pocketed his winnings and moved his stake from the ten to the queen. Lady Luce had no more bills. Rather than count out two hundred pounds in coin, she reached for pen and ink to scribble a vowel for Mr Stratton’s winnings.
His raised hand stayed her.
Marina held her breath, knowing instinctively what was to come.
With a long finger, Kit Stratton indicated that his winnings remained on the table.
This time, Marina herself could not stifle a groan. Kit Stratton was riding his luck. If he won again, the Dowager would have to pay him seven times his stake. That was nearly three thousand pounds!
Lady Luce reached towards the cards. Marina closed her eyes, not daring to look. There were still three tens in the pack under the Dowager’s hand.
A groan from the bald man made her open her eyes once more. The bald man had lost. And Kit Stratton had won with another ten.
This time, Marina knew exactly what he would do. That long finger moved again. All his winnings—against a prize of fifteen times his stake!
Three more deals, and no more tens appeared. The young man lost on his queen. The bald man won on a king.
Kit Stratton sat as if turned to stone.
There were only seven cards left.
Marina forced her whirling mind to concentrate on the cards. What were they? She ought to know.
She frowned into the silence, pushing every other thought out of her mind. Her brain cleared quite suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn back from a chalkboard on which the cards had been written. Two aces, a two, a three, a knave…and two tens.
The bald man had two hundred pounds on the ace. The young man had put his stake on the six. Clearly he had no ability to remember cards.
Mr Stratton’s hand lay carelessly on the green baize, his index finger extended towards one corner of the ten.
It seemed that no one dared to breathe while they waited for Lady Luce to face the next pair of cards. An ace for the banker. And a three for the players.
Lady Luce reached out to remove her winnings from the ace. Marina offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Now, let the same happen with the ten. Please.
The bald man was not prepared to retreat. He looked a little shiftily at the other players and then placed a stake on the ten. It seemed he had decided that Kit Stratton’s luck was in.
With calm deliberation, the Dowager faced her next card. It was a useless two. She paused a moment, then quickly turned over the carte anglaise.
Ten!
The bald man gave a little crow of triumph. It was followed by a pregnant silence as everyone in the room watched to see what Kit Stratton would do. He could take his money now—six thousand pounds—or he could let it ride, in hopes of redoubling his winnings to thirty times his original stake.
For several seconds he sat as still as a statue. What was he thinking? There were only three cards left. Such an experienced gambler must know that the banker now had two chances of winning while the players had only one. The bald man had quickly pocketed his money. He was wise to do so, Marina judged. Surely Kit Stratton could not win again? Only the most hardened gamester would play on.
It seemed that Kit Stratton was a gambler to the core. With total nonchalance he tapped his pile of winnings into place. He never once raised his eyes from the cards.
But, for the briefest moment, an ironic smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.
Marina’s heart was racing. That twitch of the lips had told her everything. Kit Stratton was well aware that the odds were against him, but he was prepared to run with his luck in order to defeat a woman he detested. And if he did not succeed now, he would make sure there were other occasions. He was the Dowager’s enemy.
Marina looked towards Lady Luce. Under her old-fashioned face-paint, her skin was grey. Yet her eyes sparkled angrily. She had accepted Mr Stratton’s latest challenge. Better to risk an unlikely loss of twelve thousand than to pay out on a certain loss of six.
Surreptitiously, Marina crossed the fingers of her right hand. She was not superstitious—she prided herself on being too well educated for such things—but she could not resist the impulse. She must not cross the fingers on her left hand, for that, she remembered a little guiltily, would bring bad luck. She forced herself to watch. Like the Dowager, she would show she was no coward.
Three cards remained—an ace, a knave, and a ten.
Lady Luce’s tiny wrinkled hand hovered over the pack. Then, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, she faced the first of them with a snap. The ace.
Marina dug her crossed fingers into the palm of her left hand. Two cards only. The chances were equal now.
Lady Luce smiled calmly across at the players, but Mr Stratton continued to stare at the table. He could not see the banker’s defiance as she turned the card that could be her ruin.
Ten.
Kit Stratton had won twelve thousand pounds.
With a gesture of disgust, Lady Luce faced the final, useless card. It was over. She had taken on the challenge and she had lost. She visibly straightened her back and waited for her adversary to speak.
He did not. He sat, as still as ever, staring at his winning card. Then, very slowly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth stretched into a taut, venomous smile. It made the hair on the back of Marina’s neck stand on end. There was something almost devilish in Kit Stratton’s expression.
He raised his head a fraction and stared at the Dowager, with that nasty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Marina was reminded of a cobra, its head rising before its victim as it prepared to strike. How could she ever have thought him handsome? Hatred and the lust for vengeance had put hideous lines into that remarkable face. She wanted to look away, but she could not. Opposite Mr Stratton, the Dowager was ashen. She seemed to have shrunk. She looked suddenly very old, and very frail.
Mr Stratton seemed to be waiting for Lady Luce to speak, to concede defeat. Yes, he would enjoy that. He wanted to humiliate her to the uttermost.
Lady Luce did not manage a smile, but she nodded casually towards her opponent as if nothing out of the way had occurred. Then she began to gather up the cards with deft, steady hands.
Marina’s own hands were nothing like as steady. She kept them hidden in her lap. She must do something.
Slowly, languidly, Kit Stratton rose from his seat. He was enjoying this. From his great height, he looked down on Lady Luce, still smiling nastily. After a moment more, he spoke in a soft, sibilant voice. The cobra again. ‘Success is mine on this occasion, I see,’ he said.
Lady Luce scribbled a vowel and pushed it across the table. She said nothing. Her self-control was unbelievable.
‘But I am in no hurry to collect what is due to me.’ Mr Stratton narrowed his eyes balefully and lowered his voice even more. ‘I shall look for settlement of this in, shall we say, seven days?’ He bowed from the neck, never taking his eyes off the Dowager. ‘I shall now bid you good evening, ma’am.’
Lady Luce said nothing. There was no need. The expression of loathing on her face was eloquent. Marina thought she could also detect a hint of fear.
Kit Stratton put the sheet of paper in his pocket and turned to leave. He had triumphed. Marina had fallen at the very first hurdle. The Earl would dismiss her forthwith. Her only chance of employment would be ruined, at a stroke, by this handsome, hateful man. Someone must stop him.
Almost without knowing it, Marina rose from her place and moved to put herself between Mr Stratton and the archway into the adjoining room. ‘Sir…’ she began, putting a hand on his arm to stay him. He turned sharply to look down at her. She had never seen eyes so cold, so hard. He was ruthless, implacable, and full of hate. Nothing would move such a man. ‘Sir,’ she began again, hardly knowing what she was going to ask of him, ‘will you not—?’
She was not permitted to finish her sentence. With a sneering curl of that beautiful mouth, Kit Stratton lifted her fingers and removed them from his coat, dropping them instantly as if they were diseased. ‘No, madame,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Whatever it is you would ask of me—’ he looked her slowly up and down ‘—the answer is no.’ He had a fine cambric handkerchief in his left hand—it seemed to have been conjured out of the very air—and, quite deliberately, he flicked it across his immaculate sleeve where Marina’s touch had sullied it.
Marina was outraged. How dare he?
One eyebrow quirked upwards by the tiniest fraction. He was pleased at her reaction. What a villain he was! Marina could not think of words harsh enough to describe such a man. He was—
He was gone.
And with him went all Marina’s hopes.
Chapter Five
Kit passed out through the silent onlookers who fell back to make way for him. There was awe on some of their faces. Probably none of them would have dared to take such risks.
Out on the landing, the drunk was long gone. The entrance hall below seemed to be deserted.
Kit walked slowly down the elegant staircase, his mind a blank. He could barely remember what he had done, except that he had had his revenge at last. He ought to feel elated, exhilarated, triumphant—but he did not. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He turned to watch Méchante’s luscious figure descend the stairs, swaying seductively. The silk of her gown was almost transparent, leaving little to the imagination. In recent years, Kit had come to prefer his women a little more restrained. Unlike Méchante, Kit’s current mistress did not peddle her wares to every man in sight. The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg offered herself only to him—and to her husband, of course. Kit could hardly object to that.
He waited for Méchante to join him, mentally comparing her with his delectable Katharina and finding his hostess a little wanting. Yes, he would go to Katharina. Losing himself in her body would give him back a measure of sanity after this night’s madness.
‘Must you go, Kit?’ Lady Marchant purred. ‘May we not drink a glass of champagne to your victory? And to old times? I have a fine vintage on ice in my private apartments.’ She gazed at him with wide green eyes and stretched up to whisper in his ear, pressing her body sensuously against his. ‘My guests can do without me for an hour or so.’
Kit’s body did not react at all to her blatant invitation. Bedding a beautiful woman was a pleasure as normal—and as fleeting—as winning a hand of cards. But Méchante left him cold. She had been his mistress once, five years ago, and she had betrayed him.
He lifted her hand to his lips so that she could not read the expression in his eyes. ‘No, my dear,’ he said silkily, ‘I never go back. And I never share.’
‘Be careful, my friend.’ Lady Marchant was not purring any longer. There was an edge of malice in her voice and her feline eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘Your Katharina takes too many risks. Her husband may not be quite so forgiving, now that you are no longer in Vienna. There, he was just another minor aristocrat. Here, he is a diplomatic representative of the Hapsburg Empire. A scandal would ruin him.’ She dropped a tiny, impudent curtsy. ‘And it could happen so very easily, do you not think?’
Clever. And still dangerous. She was well named. Kit looked her full in the face. Yes, they understood each other. ‘I thank you for your invitation, Méchante. And for your wise words.’ He bowed again and turned to take his hat and cane from the servant. ‘Now, I must bid you goodnight. A most interesting evening. I am indebted to you.’
Her brittle laugh followed him down the steps and into the crisp night air.
It was very late. Katharina would have tired of waiting for him. She would have gone back to her husband. She would have been mad to stay till now.
Kit closed the door quietly behind him and made his way up the stairs of the snug Chelsea house he had rented for their assignations. He would sleep here for a few hours. Tomorrow—later today, rather—he would find Katharina and apologise. She would forgive him…probably. And if she chose to exact a penance, well…that would be enjoyable, too.
He smelt her perfume even before he opened the door to their bedchamber. He breathed it in deeply, trying to conjure up memories of her body under his. Such a pity that she had gone.
‘Kätchen!’
The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg lay sprawled across the huge bed, idly leafing through a magazine. She turned in surprise at the sound of her pet name and, for a second, a tiny frown creased her brow. ‘Du kommst spät,’ she began, rolling over on to her back to look up at him with huge dark eyes full of hurt and accusation.
‘Auf Englisch, Kätchen,’ he said wearily. She had every right to complain of his lateness, but he was in no mood for one of her scenes. She need not have waited, after all. He returned to the charge. ‘You are in London now. Here, you must speak English.’
The Baroness made a face. ‘So you say,’ she replied. ‘I do not see why so. We are alone, are we not? We may speak in any language we choose. Français, peutêtre?’
Kit pressed his lips together to suppress a sharp retort. She could be remarkably provocative, his little Austrian. And this was the wrong time. ‘No, madame. English,’ he said firmly, beginning to strip off his coat. He stretched his long body on the bed beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘But words are dangerous. They can betray us…in any language.’
He ran a lazy finger down the inside of her deep décolletage until it came to rest in the shadow between her perfect breasts. He began to stroke her skin as gently as if he were wafting a feather fan across a rose petal. Katharina closed her eyes in ecstasy.
‘And what need have we of words?’ Kit whispered. His lips were so close to her cheek that each word was a caress on her skin. She sighed out a long, shuddering breath.
Kit gazed down at the ravishing picture she made. His body was beginning to heat. At last.
‘You have it exactly, my dear,’ he said softly.
Lady Luce’s hand was shaking as she raised the brandy balloon to her lips and tossed off the contents. ‘I should have left that house the moment I saw him,’ she said bitterly, collapsing into her favourite chair by the window. ‘He is the very devil. With the devil’s own luck.’
Marina nodded her understanding. There was no need to ask who was meant. It was strange to see the Dowager so…deflated.
Lady Luce groaned. ‘And as for William…’ She shook her head angrily at the thought of her son. ‘He will positively relish raking me down. Not that he will be given the chance,’ she added, straightening her shoulders a little. ‘Thought he could fool me. Foisting a gel like you on his mother to keep her in order. Who is the fool now, I say?’
So the Dowager had known all along. Marina was not at all surprised. The old lady was very sharp. And her son was…not his mother’s equal. Not that it made any difference, as far as the companion was concerned. The Earl might be somewhat lacking in brains, but he had the ability to send Marina packing.
The Dowager held out her balloon to be refilled. Obediently, Marina fetched the decanter and splashed some of the amber liquid into it. Lady Luce snorted. ‘That’s not even a mouthful.’ She shook the glass impatiently until Marina added considerably more. ‘Better,’ she said. ‘And you should have some, too.’
‘Oh, no, ma’am. I never drink spirits. I—’
‘Fetch another glass. You will need it. You have a difficult day ahead of you. William will see to that. Just the sort of thing he enjoys.’
The Dowager was right. In the next twenty-four hours, Marina was like to be dismissed. Her stomach turned over at the thought of the coming interview with Lady Luce’s dreadful son. She sipped tentatively at her brandy and gasped as it burned its way down. ‘Good grief,’ she choked out at last. ‘Do people really drink this for pleasure?’
Lady Luce laughed. She reached out her scrawny hand and placed it over Marina’s smoother one. ‘You have courage, Marina. I’ll give you that. And I’ll not let that arrogant son of mine bully you, or send you packing.’
Marina looked up in surprise.
‘Why did you think I took you to Méchante’s tonight? Did you think it was chance?’ She shook her head at Marina’s obvious incomprehension. ‘I have no intention of permitting William to order my life. Not in any way. I took you to that gambling den to show him—and you—that I shall play whenever, and wherever, I wish. He cannot stop me. And setting up a chit of a governess to watch over me will not stop me either.’
Marina felt herself blushing. ‘I…I did not…’
‘No, you did not. I’d have discharged you myself if I had thought for a moment that you were William’s tool. As it is, he promised me a companion, all expenses paid. I shall hold him to our bargain.’
Marina gulped. Life was like to become extremely unpleasant if the old lady and her son used her as a pawn in their endless trials of strength. And with a loss of twelve thousand pounds to sharpen the contest…
Lady Luce held out her glass for another refill. Then she sat for a long time, cradling her brandy and staring vacantly towards the wall.
She must be thinking about the money, Marina decided. She cannot possibly find such a huge sum. Especially not in one week.
‘He was determined on his revenge,’ said the Dowager, musingly. ‘I suppose I cannot blame him. He was word-perfect, too. I should have known he would be.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am? I’m afraid I do not quite follow…’
‘No reason why you should. And I wasn’t talking to you, in any event.’ At Marina’s sharp intake of breath, she softened the merest fraction. ‘Oh, you will come to learn it all in the end, I suppose. Best that I tell you myself. Can’t have you hearing gossip from the servants. Wouldn’t get the facts right, I dare say.’ Lady Luce chuckled a little at her own wit. ‘There is not much to tell. Several years ago, when Kit Stratton was barely out of leading strings, he lost five thousand pounds to me. I was in pretty deep myself at the time and could not afford to give him time to pay…or even an opportunity to recoup his losses. I demanded payment in seven days. I used those very words. He has been waiting his chance for revenge ever since.’
The story did not sound in the least plausible to Marina. Gentlemen lost thousands of pounds at play all the time. Why should Kit Stratton be bent on vengeance? Against a woman, too?
Her doubts must have been obvious, for Lady Luce looked somewhat shamefaced. ‘He paid,’ she said hoarsely, ‘on the nail. I found out later that his brother Hugo had given him the money—out of his wife’s dowry. They had been married less than a week. Kit was sent abroad soon after.’
‘Oh,’ breathed Marina. No wonder Kit Stratton had felt humiliated. And what of the brother? What had Hugo Stratton thought of it all? Had Hugo Stratton really sent his brother into exile? He— Hugo Stratton? Now she knew why the name had seemed familiar!
The Dowager was beginning to ramble. It must be the effects of too much brandy. ‘Can’t say I blame the boy. My own fault. Let him think I was doing it out of malice when it was really William’s fault. Insisted he couldn’t afford to tow me out of River Tick. I couldn’t admit that to young Stratton, could I? But to use the very same words…’ She raised her glass yet again.
‘Do you know Hugo Stratton, ma’am? The brother?’
‘What? Yes. No. Well…we are barely acquainted, but everyone knows about him. He’s as rich as Croesus since his brother died, never mind the money from his wife. Doesn’t come up to London much. Got out of the habit after the war, they say, because he hated being stared at.’
‘Stared at?’
‘He was badly wounded. Waterloo, I think.’ The Dowager frowned. ‘Why all this sudden interest in Sir Hugo Stratton? What is he to you, miss?’
Marina swallowed. ‘I think he may have served with my father, ma’am,’ she said quietly, gazing down at her skirts. ‘In Spain. I think he fought in the battle where my father and my uncle died.’
Lady Luce said nothing. She simply reached for the brandy decanter and tipped a generous measure into Marina’s glass.
Marina tried in vain to find a comfortable position in her bed. It must be nearly dawn. Her head was pounding, but she could not possibly sleep. What on earth had possessed the Dowager to give her brandy? Her brain was refusing to function.
She tried again.
Kit Stratton was Sir Hugo Stratton’s younger brother. And a Captain Hugo Stratton had been her uncle’s closest friend. They had served together for years. According to Uncle George, Hugo Stratton was the best friend, and the staunchest comrade, that a man could wish for. It was partly due to Captain Stratton’s influence that Marina’s father had joined the 95th. It was not Captain Stratton’s fault that the brothers had died so soon after.
Kit Stratton could not be as bad as he was painted. It was not possible. Not if he was Hugo Stratton’s brother. And he must be. It was an unusual name. Perhaps Kit had had other reasons for his hatred of the Dowager. Perhaps his insult to Marina herself was simply an unconscious continuation of his harshness at the card table. Perhaps…
There was no way of knowing, unless she found out for herself.
Yes, that was the answer. She would seek out Kit Stratton and ask him to forgive the Dowager’s debt. If necessary, she would ask him to do it in memory of her uncle and her father—and for his brother Hugo’s sake. No gentleman could possibly deny such a request.
The thought of such an interview made her stomach churn. She would have to abandon the last shreds of her pride to make her appeal, and if he treated her with the same degree of contempt as before… She shivered. She was not sure she could bear that.
Was he a gentleman at all?
It was true that the Dowager had rambled on for what seemed like hours about Kit Stratton’s way of life, his mistresses, his fine clothes, his carriages, his horses… He had all the outward attributes of a very wealthy gentleman. But did he have a sense of honour to go with his high-couraged horses?
Marina smiled weakly. The horses had provided her solution. She rather wished they had not. Kit Stratton exercised his horses in the park every morning, come rain, come shine, no matter how great his indulgence the night before. According to the Dowager, it was one of his few saving graces.
He would be in the park tomorrow morning. No—in just a few hours. She had only to go there and confront him. As a gentleman, he could not fail to listen to a lady’s pleas.
That was not true.
He could spurn her without a moment’s hesitation. He had done so once already, knowing perfectly well that she was a lady. He could do so again, unless she could find some way of breaking through his armoured exterior.
Her own pride did not matter. It was her duty to protect her family—and to do so, she must retain her position with Lady Luce. To save the Dowager, she must challenge Kit Stratton.
Why did he have to ride such a huge animal? Kit Stratton’s bay stallion must be seventeen hands or more. Marina felt completely dwarfed by horse and rider. Would he even condescend to rein in to greet her? He could not mistake the fact that she wished to speak to him.
Kit touched his crop carelessly to his hat, using his other hand to bring his horse to a stand with practised ease. There was a sardonic gleam in his eye as he looked down at her. ‘You are about betimes, ma’am,’ he said. His gaze wandered lazily around the park before coming back to rest on Marina’s shabby figure. ‘And you appear to have…mislaid your maid.’
‘A companion does not have a maid,’ snapped Marina, ‘as you know very well, Mr Stratton.’
His eyebrows shot up. Then he nodded slowly, once. ‘No. She has the tongue of a shrew instead, it would seem.’
Marina was suddenly sure she was blushing. Confound the man! This was not at all what she had intended for this interview. She swallowed hard. She must start again. ‘Mr Stratton,’ she said, as evenly as she could, ‘I should be most grateful if we might have a private word. About…about last night. I—’
He frowned. ‘You are come as Lady Luce’s envoy? Believe me, ma’am—’
‘No! No! She knows nothing of this, I promise you. I have my own reasons for wishing to…to consult you. You see…’
His expression was changing even as she spoke. He was almost smiling, but there was nothing in the least pleasant in it. Marina felt a sudden urge to flee. She swallowed again. He was doing everything he could to make her position impossible. He had not even dismounted, as any true gentleman would have done. That thought gave rise to a spark of anger. Heedless of risk, she fanned it. He was trying—deliberately—to overset her. He despised her, a poor plain companion, for daring to approach rich, handsome Kit Stratton.
‘You mistake me, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘I am not come at Lady Luce’s bidding but at my own, to ask a…a favour of you.’ There. It was out. And Kit Stratton’s face was dark with anger. ‘Not for her ladyship’s sake—I know that is impossible—but for—’
‘A favour?’ Kit snarled. ‘A favour for whom? For you, ma’am? Believe me, I do not do favours for ladies. Not unless they have earned them.’ He glanced quickly over her thin person, his eyes narrowing.
Marina stood stock still. She could neither move nor speak. This could not be happening. Was he really saying that—?
‘I see that you take my meaning, ma’am. Good.’
He leant down towards her. The fresh, clean scent of his cologne assailed her. It seemed completely at variance with the black-hearted man who wore it. She forced herself to stand her ground.
‘If you wish to…discuss the matter of last evening’s events, ma’am, I will be pleased to give you a hearing. I shall be free at…eleven o’clock this morning. You may present your petition then. In private.’ He gave her an address in Chelsea. To Marina, a stranger in London, it meant nothing.
He sat back into his saddle and took up the slack in the reins. ‘I shall expect you at eleven. Do not be late.’
Chapter Six
Kit looked up from his newspaper as the long-case clock in the hall began to strike the hour. He had done her the courtesy of being here, because she was a lady. But he had known she would not come.
He turned back to his newspaper. He would just finish the report he had been reading, and then he would leave for his club. No doubt the story of his winnings would have done the rounds by now. He was like to hear about nothing else for a se’enight.
He leaned back into his leather wing chair, relishing the peace of the cramped Chelsea sitting room.
Five minutes later, a quiet knock on the door was followed by the entrance of the tiny woman who looked after the house. ‘There is a…a person to see you, sir,’ she said, bobbing a polite curtsy. ‘She will not give a name. She—’
‘The lady is come by appointment, to discuss a matter of business,’ Kit said firmly, to quell the speculation in the housekeeper’s eye. He rose to his feet. ‘Show her in, Mrs Budge.’
The grey lady was liberally spattered with mud. Kit looked quickly towards the window. He had been so absorbed, he had not noticed the rain. Had she walked all the way? Had she no sense at all? She was already unattractive enough, even without the addition of brown mud to her grey appearance.
And still she thought to sway him?
He shook his head wonderingly. She seemed ill prepared for the mammoth task she had undertaken.
He raised his brows enquiringly. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said politely. She had stiffened noticeably. Surely she did not feel insulted by his treatment of her? A woman—a lady—who had come to a private meeting in a gentleman’s house?
He waited for her to speak. He would not help her.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said at last. The poke of her drab bonnet dipped a fraction.
Was that a token bow? It seemed he would receive nothing more. Kit returned it in kind, from his much greater height. She dropped her eyes. She was nervous, clearly. He waited once more.
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