Anne Barbour (20 page)

“Giles Morganton, the man with whom I am staying, is hand in glove with some of the most powerful men in the London underworld. He was most impressed by the speed with which you obtained the money I asked of you. He relayed the news of your success to his friends, and now ... well, now, they want to use your services on a regular basis. If I do not secure those services—permanently—they will be very displeased with me.”

It felt to Alison as though the lovely April day had turned to bitter November. “You are serious, are you not?” she asked in astonished dismay. When Jack made no reply, but continued to gaze at her, unsmiling, she drew herself up and pulled away from him. “You may as well forget this whole mad idea. Jack.  I will not go to London with you as your wife, or in any other capacity. Even your threat to go to Lord Marchford will not sway me. I will go to him myself rather than place myself in thrall to you and your despicable associates.”

Her words possessed more bravado than she felt as she returned his stare straightly. His gaze was skeptical, but he was the first to look away. He sighed heavily. “I will give you a few days to think this over, Alison. In the meantime, I want you to play at the tables for me. If you do not agree,” he continued, observing the rising fury in her eyes, “I shall tell Marchford everything right now.”

After a long moment, Alison nodded her head. During Jack’s revelations, she had realized with blinding clarity that Lady Edith had been right all along; she had made a dreadful mistake in not revealing herself to Lord Marchford long ago. A sick sensation stirred in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps he would have believed that she was innocent of wrongdoing if she had gone to him when Lady Edith had urged her to do so. Was it too late now? If only Jack had not come to Bath to force her to the tables again. March would never be convinced of her innocence now. Nevertheless, she would tell him everything—at the right time. She must choose carefully the moment to speak to him. She could not risk Jack blurting out her story just now.

“Very well,” she said tightly. “But this is the last time, Jack. And let me tell you that a few days will not cause me to change my mind in regard to haring off to London with you.”

“We shall see.” Bringing a hand to the brim of his hat in a mock salute, Jack slapped his reins against his horse’s neck and cantered ahead to join some of the younger members of the party who had stopped to admire the view from the hills above the Avon.

That evening, thinking back on the day, Alison discovered that she could not remember a single event that had taken place after her conversation with Jack. She was aware that she had played badminton with Peter at the Oaks, a lovely old Tudor manor. Luncheon at the Dog and Cart in the village of Step Walford was a blur, as was the ride back to Bath amid the youthful badinage of Meg and her friends. At least, she reflected wearily, she had managed to stay away from Lord Marchford for the most part, and had successfully avoided Jack for the rest of the day as well.

The next day proved uneventful, but after dinner. Lady Edith decided on the spur of the moment to attend the Wednesday night assembly at the Upper Rooms, and now Alison stood before her mirror, checking her appearance. She reflected with grim satisfaction that no one could guess her state of mind by looking at her. Her robe of deep pink, under a net tunic of a paler shade gave her cheeks a false glow, and her eyes sparkled with the tears that lay just below the surface.

The earl, of course, would be present tonight. Lord, did the man not have any social life of his own? She squelched this patently unfair thought—after all, the stated purpose of his presence in Bath was to devote time to his aunt.

She sighed. At any rate, she had become adept at playing least in sight. She would be spending most of the evening in the card room—again.

Unfortunately for her plans. Lord Marchford proved himself to be remarkably adhesive. Looking impossibly compelling in meticulous evening dress, he took her hand in his as they entered the octagonal connecting chamber and, in Lady Edith’s hearing, bespoke a dance immediately in such smoothly courteous terms that she could scarcely refuse him. Alison’s peace of mind further shattered when March’s fingers closed over hers as he led her to the dance floor.

“Did you enjoy the outing yesterday afternoon, Miss Fox?” March’s voice was cool and bland, but it seemed to carry a hidden meaning that Alison found herself unwilling to fathom. As before, she was intensely conscious of the warmth of his hand at her waist, and the nearness of his lips as he spoke caused her heart to thud uncontrollably.

“The outing? Oh. Yes. It was most enjoyable,” she replied, her voice thin and reedy.

“How nice that you and Mr. Crawford at last had an opportunity to renew your acquaintance.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” The thudding of Alison’s heart increased a hundred fold.

“I noticed that you were in conversation with him for some time on your way to The Oaks.”

“Oh,” she repeated. She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes wary. “Yes, we did speak a little. The merest commonplace, I assure you.”

“But, you need assure me of nothing, Miss Fox.”

March gazed down into the blue eyes, shuttered against him. What, he asked himself, was he hoping to accomplish with this exchange. Did he wish to discomfit her? If so, he was succeeding admirably. But, no, that wasn’t it, was it? It came as an unpleasant shock to realize that what he wanted was for Alison to confess her perfidy to him. He wanted her to explain why she had selected his family to victimize. He ached for her to ... To what? Apologize? The idea was ludicrous. Even if she were to tell him of her misdeeds, to reveal all she had done, what could she possibly say in exculpation?

He was conscious of the pain that lay deep within him, imparting a sense that he had lost something precious. If only ...

He straightened suddenly, aware that the music had stopped. Alison murmured something incomprehensible and turned away toward the card room. Moving briskly after her, March managed to stay on her heels as they entered the card room, and when she seated herself at a table at the invitation of two acquaintances, he adroitly slipped into the remaining vacant seat.

Oh, Lord, it needed but this, thought Alison in dismay. She simply could not play successfully in the presence of the earl of Marchford. Was it her imagination, or was there a special significance in the glance he sent her? Good God, surely he could not have heard of the swath she had cut among the gamblers elsewhere in town. No, of course not. She had been in disguise and had used yet another fictitious name.

From under deceptively drooping lids, March watched Alison. Would she pit her skill against him? Would she be tempted to relieve him of his wealth, even though she had already taken pains to display herself before him as a veritable idiot with the pasteboards? Ah, he concluded in bitter satisfaction, it was as he had surmised; she was going into her inept gambler mode. Look at her—her eyes filled with bewilderment, her delicate hands fluttering as she carefully arranged her hand. Her demeanor was that of a child brought down from the nursery to join the grown-ups at dinner. A wave of bitterness swept over him. When she found herself exposed in the near future, and unable to support herself at the tables, she could well consider a career on the boards.

The game progressed in fits and starts, as Alison made one blunder after another, always followed by profuse apologies to her partner. With March so close by her side, Alison thought wretchedly, it wasn’t the least bit difficult to make a show of total confusion.

“Oh, dear,” she choked, after she led a heart and promptly lost the trick to George Maltham, one of the other players. She turned to the earl. “I was sure you had the king.”

Maltham snorted. “Did you not see me play the king of hearts early in the hand?”

“Oh my, no. Did you?” She peered apprehensively at Mr. Maltham and then at the earl. “How very stupid of me, to be sure.
I
am so sorry. But, you know how it is with me.”

“Yes, Miss Fox, I know exactly how it is with you,” returned March coolly, his voice cutting through Mr. Maltham’s derisive laughter. “Now, now, George.” he continued, “we cannot all be expert gamesters. Have a little consideration for Miss Fox’s feelings.”

Alison, who had started at March’s first words, relaxed a little as he spoke to Mr. Maltham. Really, she must cease this ridiculous trembling every time Lord March uttered the most commonplace of remarks. The man was not a mind reader, after all, and there was no way he could be cognizant of her masquerade.

Somehow, she was not reassured by these thoughts, and when the game ended, and the other two players left to repair to the refreshment room, she rose as well, feeling inestimably relieved. March’s next words drove her heart back into its now seemingly customary position in her throat.

“This has been such a pleasant interlude, surely it doesn’t have to end just yet. I challenge you to a game of piquet. Miss Fox.”

“I think not, my lord,” she replied, her voice betraying only the merest quiver. “I am quite weary of cards.”

“But over the last few evenings, you seem to have enjoyed yourself at the tables. Can it be that you simply do not wish to play with me?”

Alison felt the floor heave beneath her feet. “What a ridiculous notion, my lord.” She knew her laugh sounded forced.  “And,” she hurried on. “I was merely offering you a chance to seek out a more skilled player. For you must admit I am no challenge at all.”

March smiled, and to Alison’s fevered senses, he was all glittering eyes and sharp teeth. “Ah, but you must let me be the judge of that. Miss Fox.” He gestured to a passing attendant and requested that a piquet deck be brought. Alison sank back into her chair, feeling very much like a Christian martyr being circled by a large, handsome, and noticeably hungry lion.

“If it is all right with you, Miss Fox, we shall play for chicken stakes, so that neither of us need be concerned about bankruptcy. A penny a point, shall we say?”

Alison nodded numbly, trying to control the trembling of her hands as she picked up the cards dealt casually by her opponent. Unthinking, she discarded her full allowance of five cards and selected their replacements from the stockpile.

“Did I do so badly by you, then?” asked March, laughter in his tone.

“Dreadfully,” replied Alison, pleased that her voice remained steady. “I feel quite ill-used—particularly,” she added with a crooked little smile as March threw down a single card, “since you apparently fared much better. In addition”—she displayed her cards and turned over her previous discard for March to view.  “I have drawn a blank. Not a royal face in sight.”

“Ah,
pauvre petite.
At least your misfortune will net you ten points. Not that that will save you, dear lady.” He twirled an imaginary mustache, sneering evilly.

His badinage warmed her, but she found it impossible to join in. She could only force an inane laugh as she returned her attention to her cards.

The next hour passed with agonizing slowness. Alison, recalling that March had seen her win fairly handily on at least two occasions recently, attempted to ameliorate her wretched performance at whist. She discovered, however, that try as she might, she was unable to defeat her opponent. Whether this was due to his obvious skill at the game or to her own inability to concentrate on anything beyond his golden gaze and his predatory smile, she was unwilling to contemplate.

“I am quite destitute, my lord!” she declared at last, as March swept the last of her coins into the pile in front of him. “And I am perishing for a glass of something cool.” She rose once more, determined this time that the earl would not coerce her into another game. He made no attempt to do so, however, merely offering to accompany her to the tearoom, where they encountered Lady Edith. Immediately after enjoying a revivifying dish of bohea with the ladies, March left to speak with a group of acquaintances just leaving the room.

“You do not look as though you are enjoying yourself, my dear,” Lady Edith observed. “I did not see you dancing.”

“No, I have been in the card room.” When Alison had nothing further to say, Lady Edith peered up into her face anxiously. “What is it? Has something happened to overset you?”

“No—not exactly. I played a few hands of piquet with your nephew, and ...”

“You need say no more,” interrupted Lady Edith with some asperity. “You are still afraid of him, aren’t you?”

“No, I am not. Truly. I fear his condemnation only, for I have decided to take your advice.”

“You are going to tell him that you are Lissa Reynard?” Lady Edith’s brows flew into her hairline.

“Yes. You were right. I should have done it a long time ago. However, I must—oh dear Lord!” Alison’s eyes widened in alarm as she gazed across the room. “It’s Jack! I did not know he would be here tonight.”

“Hmpfh!” sniffed Lady Edith. “From all reports, he’s here every evening the place is open. Apparently, he wishes to speak to you. Shall we go into the Little Octagon?”

“No,” said Alison with a sigh. “He will not be put off. I shall go to him—but I’ll return immediately.” Assuring herself that Lord Marchford was nowhere in sight, she moved toward Jack, who immediately drew her into a corner.

“You have been hard at work, I see,” he said with his facile smile. “Do you have something for me?” The smile broadened in anticipation.

“No, I’m afraid not, Jack,” Alison replied coolly. “I lost all the money I came with.”

“But how can this be? I saw you with Lord Marchford, and he always plays for high stakes.”

“Not tonight. We played for chicken stakes, and I lost.”

Jack’s mouth turned down in a petulant curve. “We cannot afford to waste an opportunity like this, Alison.”

“We?” Alison’s voice was glacial, and she suppressed an urge to rake his cheek with the nails that were biting into her palms.

Jack had the grace to flush, and he continued hurriedly. “That isn’t what I wished to speak to you about. I have come to help you, actually.”

“You could help me by leaving Bath early tomorrow morning, never to return again.”