Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (13 page)

“A comfort to age, my dear,” said the lady beside her.

Lady Chetham’s smile cracked at the edges.
“Some
gentlemen still remember their wives long after they’ve bred the heir. Lord Chetham never forgets an anniversary or a birthday.”

“How I miss my dear Cedric.” Lady Ramsbury sighed, with a pointed glance at her second son. “A gentleman should know that a lady needs a bauble now and then to remind her that she is still appreciated. But nowadays all young men think of is themselves!”

“Dear Quentin was ever generous,” Heloise said wistfully. “I’ve a piece of jewelry to mark each and every ball we ever attended.” She touched the huge square-cut emerald on her right ring finger. “He will owe me several pieces in arrears this season.”

Satisfied that her aunt was agreeably occupied, Clarissa took Emory familiarly by the arm and said, “I think, sir, that I am in need of a reviving cup of punch.”

“Delighted,” Emory answered, glad for any excuse to escape from his mother’s lingering glance of accusation.

He escorted her into one of the side rooms where refreshments were being served. While she waited, he went forward to fetch two silver punch cups, pausing to chat with what were obviously his envious friends. From his gestures and theirs she deduced that the discussion concerned, among other things, whether introductions would be forthcoming. To judge by their expressions as Emory left them, the answer had been an unequivocal “no.”

“Sorry about the delay,” Emory said when he returned with their fruity drinks. “Thought to warn off the lot before they besieged you. Told them theirs ain’t the sort of attention a lady would appreciate.”

His thoughtfulness pleased her, though she knew he had done it as much for his own selfish reasons as for her comfort. “Does your brother not share your enchantment with Assemblies?” she asked after a pause. “He seems to have disappeared.”

“Hadrian cares little for anything beyond his own concerns.”

“Ah, then he is as dull as appearances would make him,” she said in a deliberate attempt to draw him out.

Emory’s brows shot up. “You do not favor my brother?”

She cast her gaze downward. “It is not for me to favor or deny him. In my country a man’s importance is measured by the degree of deference with which others treat him, not by the self-importance he attaches to his own consequence.”

He crowed with laughter. “Never heard a better setdown applied to Hadrian. Not that he’d care tuppence.” Emory glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway. “He’s gambling deep tonight. Stanhope just told me he’s lost nearly five thou’.”

“Five thousand pounds?” Clarissa whispered incredulously.

“Serves him right, refusing a brother—” Emory caught himself and changed the subject. “I know just the thing to go with this punch. Cracked crab. Be back in a jot.”

But the moment Emory left her side, Clarissa put down her punch, which she had no intention of attempting to drink.

Five thousand pounds gambled away! She had seen men beggar themselves on a turn of cards or a roll of dice. But they were usually drunk youngsters or hot-tempered officers with no other outlet for their accumulated tensions. More rarely, she had seen in a man’s eyes the thrill of addiction to danger. Yet this was a facet of Lord Ramsbury’s character she would not have suspected.

Without any plan beyond satisfying her curiosity, she moved across the hall and peered into the entrance to the cardroom.

Clarissa did not stop to answer the question why her heart was beating uncomfortably hard as she stepped over the threshold of this almost-sacred male domain, the cardroom. Yet she found she need not have worried about convention this night. The room was near to bursting with onlookers, a fair number of them ladies.

A dozen tables had been arranged around the room for the convenience of guests who wished to indulge in games of chance. Yet at the moment all but one were empty. Only the green felt-topped gaming table at the far end of the room was occupied.

Emboldened by the presence of so many curiosity seekers, she neared the table. Immediately the onlookers parted, giving her a clear view, and then she saw the reason why. Lady Jarvis, who stood nearly at Lord Ramsbury’s elbow, was waving to her. As Clarissa approached the table, she overheard several comments from the crowd.

“Twelve thou’! ’Pon honor,” one of the young male observers whispered in awe.

“Quite vulgar!” a lady replied in disapproval. “ ’Tis an Assembly, not a gaming hell!”

Then she saw what had attracted all gazes. A silver champagne bucket, overflowing with bank notes, sat like a floral arrangement at one corner of the table. It was a most peculiar sight to see cash being used. Gentlemen, almost without fail, gambled with chips. The open exchange of money was considered strictly “mercantile” and therefore beneath an aristocrat.

When Clarissa reached Lady Jarvis’s side, the lady took her by the arm and pulled her close. “Isn’t it exciting?” she whispered, her voice catching. “I seldom gamble, but I do so enjoy the thrill of a wellplayed game. Lord Ramsbury is accounted an expert card player, yet it seems that luck has deserted him this evening.”

Lord Ramsbury looked up then, the scored lines between his brows a clear indication of his annoyance with the chatter. Clarissa held her breath, but he gave no indication that he noticed her. Instead she heard him say in a lazy drawl that bordered on a slur, “ ’Tis your play, Tibbitts.” Surprise pricked her. He sounded foxed!

“Indeed, my lord.”

Attention turned to the man who had answered Lord Ramsbury. Clarissa saw a man of medium height with medium-brown hair, dull blue eyes, and average features. In fact, nothing about Mr. Tibbitts seemed of any moment. Yet he wore half a dozen rings from which various precious stones sparkled like so many pagan eyes. He sorted through the stack of notes by his place, then tucked an amount into the silver vessel. “Two thousand. I beg your lordship will not mind another loss,” he added as he laid down his cards.

A collective gasp went through the crowd as he displayed a nearly unbeatable hand.

Hadrian’s smile was slow in coming, as though he held the cards to beat the hand in view. Yet he folded his cards without showing them. “Your win, Tibbitts. My congratulations.” He paused to sip his port before adding, “And to show I’m not a spoilsport, I will play you a final round.”

This time the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantel clock.

Tibbitts regarded the earl from beneath bushy brows. “Forgive me, my lord, but are you aware of your losses this night?”

“Twelve thousand,” Hadrian answered promptly. “Shall we play for double that, old man?”

Hadrian sounded half drunk and all puffed up with self-importance. Clarissa could feel the crowd’s stirrings of pity. Her own feelings were closer to disgust and shame on his behalf. She glanced down sharply at him, noting his loosened neckcloth, unbuttoned waistcoat, and the negligent ease with which he lounged in his chair. His hair had been disarrayed by the passage of impatient hands. One thick glossy black tendril now curled over his brow. Even his profile seemed to have undergone a subtle change. The lines had become sharper, the nostrils pinched. A tiny muscle worked constantly in his cheek. A half-smoked cigar lay in a crystal ashtray by his right elbow. An empty glass stood next to it. Was drink to blame for the changes in his appearance and personality? Disappointment pricked her. He had seemed the kind of man who could hold his liquor.

His hand moved then, and to her amazement she spied the glitter of diamonds in his cuff. How had she failed to notice them earlier? Vulgar was the word that came to mind. It was the sort of offensive flash expected of town Toffs with pretenses to the upper class. As if to confirm her thoughts, she glanced again at Tibbitts’s beringed fingers.

Her heart contracted with fresh disappointment. She had expected better of Lord Ramsbury. Yet why should she? In reality, she knew almost nothing about the man. The elegant nobleman who had danced with her and the drunken lord who sat before her were one and the same, a stranger who was about to lose more money than she had ever possessed.

“Another hand, gentlemen?” Hadrian suggested as the silence stretched out.

“Too rich for my blood,” Lord Chetham declared, backing his chair away, “But damme if I won’t watch!”

“I, too, must bow out,” said Lord Bascombe, whom Clarissa recognized from an earlier introduction.

“Tibbitts?” Hadrian challenged.

The man smiled, showing uneven teeth. “Very well, if ‘tis my lord’s pleasure.”

Tibbitts’s condescending tone grated against Clarissa’s nerves like nails on slate.
Someone should do something,
she thought a little desperately and looked around for Emory, but he was not among the ever-growing number of spectators. Someone needed to stop Ramsbury before he further embarrassed and beggared himself. She realized as she met Lady Javis’s avid gaze that none of the onlookers would interfere. Just the opposite: they waited breathlessly to be further entertained and titillated by the spectacle unfolding before them.

Turning to the gentleman nearest her, Clarissa inquired in a carrying voice, “Is that not the supper gong? Yes, I distinctly heard it. Should we not all go in while the service is hot?”

Her words hung in the embarrassed silence like an unprovoked guffaw erupting at a prayer meeting. Only Lord Ramsbury met her glance and though not a muscle in his face moved, she knew he was amused.

Blushing furiously, she backed a little away from the table, but she could not make herself leave. She had been insulted by the very man she sought to protect. Very well, let the fool lose his money. What was it to her? Just because he possessed a smile that made her tinglingly aware of herself as a woman, there was no reason for her to be emotional about his faults, of which she was learning there were many. If he could lose, then she could watch.

The table was cleared for the next game and the two men cut to determine who would deal. Lord Ramsbury chose a trey, Mr. Tibbitts an ace.

As Tibbitts was about to shuffle the cards, Hadrian reached back and signaled a footman. “This calls for a new deck.”

Custom allowed any player to call for a new deck at the beginning of any hand, but Tibbitts’s brows knotted. “My lord, need we break another seal for one hand?”

Hadrian smiled as the servant placed the fresh deck in his hand. “Luck has favored you so far. Allow me to court her as well.”

Tibbitts shrugged. “As you wish, my lord.” He accepted the deck, broke the seal, and began shuffling the fresh pack.

His movements were smooth and deft, those of an expert player. The hair on Clarissa’s nape lifted. She had seen men handle cards like that. There were men who were not soldiers but who appeared wherever there were officers with paychecks. Her father frowned on gambling with civilians, but occasionally it could not be prevented. Tibbitts was the sort of man of whom her father would not have approved.

Clarissa saw the trick. Tibbitts palmed a card as he reached to set the deck before his opponent to be cut.

Her shocked gaze flew to Lord Ramsbury but he did not so much as bat a lash. Had he missed what she had so clearly seen?

As Lord Ramsbury reached out to cut the deck, she briefly shut her eyes. Dear Lord! He did not know he was being tricked. How to warn him? Could she warn him? No, he would not thank her for it, even if it meant he stood to lose twice the amount at risk.

Then, in fresh amazement, she saw Lord Ramsbury slide a card into his cuff as he made the cut. Hysterical laughter pushed at the back of her throat, nearly choking her. Dear
God
! This was no play between hawk and pigeon. They were an evenly matched pair of rogues!

She glanced quickly to her left and right. Did no one else see what was happening? Were they all blind, or was this the way aristocrats gamed these days? She felt a little sick. She had lived a long time among men with quick tempers and a high opinion of their honor. One thing was certain, if either man’s villainy was discovered, there would be challenges and, perhaps, bloodshed.

For the next tense minutes the two men chose and discarded cards. Their faces were equal masks of unemotional concentration. Yet the hand was played conservatively enough, and nothing in the exchange seemed to depend on the theft from the deck. Lord Ramsbury lost two thousand quickly in the first round while Tibbitts thoughtfully chewed his cigar but made no comment.

When it was Hadrian’s turn to deal, he looked up briefly at Clarissa and offered the thought, “I feel Luck’s admiring gaze on me, Tibbitts. Beware.” He shoved his markers forward, all ten thousand pounds’ worth.

“You’ve not yet looked at your cards,” Lord Chetham objected, forced by his friend’s foolhardiness to break the silence surrounding the game.

“Soonest ended, best mended,” Hadrian offered.

The schoolroom rhyme brought nervous laughter to several lips, but the strain had blanched the color from Clarissa’s face, and she dug her nails into her palms as he dealt the final hand. It must be now, she thought. One of them will risk the cheat for a wager of twenty thousand pounds.

Without realizing it, she had shifted closer to Hadrian, drawn by the inexplicable need to side with his deceit over a stranger’s. After all, she reminded herself, Tibbitts had taken the first card. She had no way of knowing that Lord Ramsbury’s cheat had not been fostered by Tibbitts’s. The fact that she needed to find an excuse for his knavery only made her more miserable. Ramsbury played his hands so close to his vest that not even she, who stood behind him, knew what he held.

Clarissa looked across the table to see Tibbitts’s gaze linger a moment too long on the enormous amount of cash in the bucket. For a man of his station in life, she thought, the stakes must represent a future of undreamed-of ease. It would, for a time, make him wealthier than many of the men in this room.

Finally a slight smile sketched the corner of Tibbitts’s mouth and unabashed greed lit his gaze as he said, “I believe, my lord, that I will see your ten thou’, and add five more.”

The silence was deafening. It was as if the entire room’s fortunes were riding on Lord Ramsbury’s reply.

Without a word Hadrian picked up his pen, wrote out a marker, and cast it carelessly on the pile. “Let’s see your hand, Tibbitts.”

Clarissa strangled a cry of dismay as the man laid down two aces and two deuces. As did everyone else’s, her gaze swung to Hadrian’s face.

His expression still glacial, he turned over his own hand. With a casual movement of his forefinger, he fanned out on the table three kings.

Clarissa had not seen it, but she suspected that both men had substituted their stolen cards. Yet, miraculously, Ramsbury had won.

The eruption of laughter and cheers was delayed a fraction too long. In that instant Clarissa realized she had been a fool to think that hers were the only eyes experienced enough to have noted the cheats. Just as she had missed the substitutions, others might have missed the thefts, yet there had been too many sleights of hand for it to all pass unheeded.

Tibbitts must have made the same calculation, for he suddenly pounded the table with a fist. “A cheat!” His chair tumbled over backward as he rose quickly to his feet. “I say, my lord, that you have cheated!”

Hadrian did not rise. He did not even look up. “Do you think so? Perhaps you would like to count the deck.” His hawk-bright gaze suddenly scanned upward, chilling as a talon’s strike. “In front of witnesses.”

Tibbitts glanced about but found only censure on the faces surrounding him. Clarissa saw in his expression the realization that he had fallen into a trap. Yet he had no choice but to bluster. “I—I’m certain there are cards missing. I’ve a head for them.”

Hadrian smiled. He had Tibbitts, had him dead to rights. He opened his hand, producing an ace of hearts. “Is this one of the ones you speak of, Mr. Tibbitts? I think you will find the king of clubs is stuck up your own sleeve. You lifted it before the first hand.”

Lord Bascombe grabbed Tibbitts’s arm as the man jerked away from the table, and the predicted card slipped from his cuff onto the pale-blue carpet, face up.

“I believe, sir,” Lord Bascombe said harshly, “that you owe Lord Ramsbury satisfaction.”

Clarissa did not think she even drew a breath, but she must have made the tiniest movement, for Ramsbury’s gaze slipped sideways. For an instant his jade-green eyes met her dark ones in laughter. “Nothing so drastic, James. A mere cheat has been exposed. A boot will suffice.”

“Done!” cried one of the men standing nearby, and then several pairs of firm hands grabbed Tibbitts.

“See here!” he cried in alarm. “You cheated, as well. Lord Ramsbury cheated!” The accusation did not keep him from being unceremoniously hustled from the room.

Clarissa stared at Lord Ramsbury, her eyes wide with speculation. Was his victory a carefully laid trap, or the successful deceit of the more able gambler? His expression, at once proud and tender, told her nothing.

In the general clearing of the room, which happened quickly for there were many who wanted to witness Tibbitts’s humiliation, Clarissa found herself alone with him.

Hadrian picked up his vouchers and the cash before he rose from his chair. When he turned to her, Clarissa was once again grateful for the partial masking of her face. Her expression was far more welcoming than it should have been.

“Princess Soltana, a pleasure as always.” He reached for her hand, but he did not attempt to salute it. Instead he drew her closer until their clasped hands were all but trapped between their bodies.