Cynthia Bailey Pratt (6 page)

Then the top half of Sir Carleton’s face, hairline, eyebrows, eyes and the bridge of his nose, appeared around the edge of the door. How much of her he could see she could not be sure, but he undoubtedly saw a female figure where none should be.

“Er,” said Lord Framstead.

Danita clearly saw Sir Carleton’s right eyebrow rise up in an inquisitive arch. She spread her hands and shook her head, searching for words. Sir Carleton’s expressive forehead furrowed. He withdrew and said, “Have you been to Herr Grabelein’s establishment in Murfret Street, Framstead? I’ll be happy to introduce you there.”

“Thanks. Er.” Obviously Lord Framstead was a man of some tact for he forbore to mention his host’s temporary aberration. “Still, er, gaming then, Blacklock?”

“Aye, but I’ve given up horses. After such a piece of luck, I’m afraid I shall find no more in that direction.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear it. You ever were one of the knowing ones. I’ve made more from your advice than from my trustees’.”

“You’re free of them now, at any rate.”

They went out of the house. Danita slumped against the wall, thankful for her deliverance. But she could not tarry. There remained the possibility of discovery by the servants and she could not imagine that any of them would be so gallant as their master.

Holding the skirt of her cloak in her hands, she tiptoed out into the hall and slowly opened the front door. The street was empty and she was surprised to see how much light still remained in the pink-streaked sky. She felt as though she’d been in Sir Carleton’s house for hours. The next time she had money to return to him, she promised herself, she would send it through the mails.

Not entirely forgetting caution in her relief, Danita once more took a wandering way home. The burning spot between her shoulder blades grew so intense that twice, despite her desire to behave normally, she turned completely around. No one was behind her, yet the second time, she thought she’d heard the slap of leather on the pavement. Spinning about without warning, she searched the shadows. Seeing no one, she put her nervousness down to a guilty conscience. Obviously, she thought, I have no talent for guile.

All the same, what else could she have done? Safe in her room, Danita went again over the same ground she’d traversed since seeing Sir Carleton in the Gardens two days before. Her honor demanded he be repaid as soon as possible. And yet, to talk to Sir Carleton, or even to send him a note, would leave her open to severe questioning by her great-aunt.

Though nothing had ever been said about her going out in the evening while Berenice and Mrs. Clively were making their social rounds, Danita knew her great-aunt would not approve. She could not imagine Mrs. Clively taking a tolerant view of any of her relations consorting in any fashion with a known gamester and companion to questionable, even if noble, persons. If Mrs. Clively came to hear about Danita’s expedition this evening, her displeasure would be obvious and stated repeatedly.

Look with what care Mrs. Clively made certain Berenice should meet no one whose family line could not withstand the closest scrutiny. She had actually refused to allow her granddaughter to dance with one young man, otherwise unexceptional, because his grandfather had been something of a loose screw.

“Mr. Newland bowed so sadly,” Berenice had said that morning when telling Danita of the previous night. “I wish you might have seen him. He laid his hand on his heart and bowed low, first to me and then to Grandmamma. She said it should have been the other way around. I don’t see what his old ancestor’s club had to do with my dancing the second polonaise with Mr. Newland. The Honorable Mr. Newland.”

“Club?”

“Yes,” her cousin answered, the flush on her cheeks deepening. “She said it was called the Hellfire Club. She called Mr. Newland a mushroom, but how can he be if his grandfather was a lord?”

* * * *

The gaming house was crowded. Men whom Carleton had often seen in London gathered around the table, two and three deep. Bath was quick to marry a man off, but slow to amuse him on the way to the altar. Gambling had declined from the great days, when Nash, a gambler himself, had set the rules for the town. Now, those who came scorned brandy, preferring tea, and Patience was the game of choice, not hazard. There were tabbies and milky maids to spare, and even, if called for, some of the muslin set, but for non-female entertainment, only two houses served the need. And only one of those was honest, more or less.

Herr Grabelein’s was not Brook’s or White’s, but neither was high play discouraged as it had been of late at those two clubs. Nor were matters as likely to get out of hand, as at Watier’s. Grabelein ran a respectable gaming house, or tried to.

However, he was no more pleased at seeing one winner take all than any of the others would be. Such a thing tended to make the less-fortunate players lose heart. Herr Grabelein stood behind Carleton now, watching every turn of the cards. Carleton knew he was there, and could virtually see the tapping of his heavy foot in its pump.

This fact did not make him nervous. Tonight, he could not seem to lose. Every card he took was the right one. The pile of counters in front of him had not ceased to grow since he’d taken his seat at the round table. He tried to box that knowledge off in some hidden portion of his brain, to keep it a secret from his nerves. Once let out, his entire body would begin to tingle with the excitement of a second fortune gained and then farewell to the impassivity cultivated by every gaming gentleman.

The men around him admitted it, however, and the whispers jumped from lip to ear, hung for an instant and passed on.

“A thousand pounds.”

“Try five.”

“He’s cool enough.”

“Make room, for Dame Fortune stands at his shoulder.”

“Again!” said several voices at once, as the tiger once more passed to him, creating a still larger pile of counters. Carleton looked only at his cards, save an infrequent glance at the other players and Lord Framstead, who had taken a seat but who did not play. No one else seemed to want to take his place.

The three others were wealthy men, who could lose thousands of pounds each and scarcely feel it. Yet, one sweated profusely, one’s cheeks had become a trifle leaner as the game progressed and the other sat preternaturally still, save for the slow movements of his right hand.

“Last round, I think, gentlemen?” Sir Carleton said. He turned his head to summon Grabelein. Suddenly, he noticed how hot the room was and the smell of the sweat rising from the excited men nearby. He was also conscious of a great thirst warring with exhaustion.

“I trust. Sir Carleton, a draft on my bank, Messrs. Clement, Tugwell, and Mackenzie, in the High Street, will be acceptable to you?” That was Grabelein, only his precise English marking him as a foreigner.

“Of course.”

“If you will accompany me to my office, I shall draw it up without delay.” The proprietor summoned a liveried footman to come and collect Sir Carleton’s winnings.

With a glance at Lord Framstead, Carleton excused himself from the table. Several men reached out to brush his sleeve as he passed. Walking away, he was aware of a concerted rush to claim the lucky seat. He let out his breath in a gusty yet silent sigh and permitted a small smile of satisfaction to reach his lips.

“My heavens,” said Lord Framstead, “I’ve never seen nor heard of such gaming. Fox’s losing a plum in a single sitting was nothing to it. Nothing!”

“With the slight alteration in that I won.”

“Indeed you did. That’s what I mean. Anybody can lose. I think I need to send for a dry shirt.” Entering an empty salon, Framstead sat down. “Waiter, brandy. In fact, bring the cask.”

“Yes, my lord. At once. Mr. Grabelein says whatever the gentleman wants.”

Sir Carleton betrayed his relief in the way he seized upon the glass when it came and drained off the red-amber liquid. “I wonder who she was,” he said.

“She? Oh, the girl you followed. Easy enough to find out. Go round there in the morning. Most likely one of your servants brought a wench into the house, heard you coming, and abandoned her to her fate. Not sporting, but understandable.”

“Serving wenches don’t use the front door. It was me she came to see, but she did not count on you. She wanted to see me alone, I think.”

“Well, you know your own business best. Think of the girls you’ve known recently and it will come to you. Some grisette or other, no doubt.”

With a smile, Carleton asked, “Are you still pining over that female in London? What was her name?”

“If you mean Miss Dembly, no. Nor is it the act of a gentleman to bandy a lady’s name in public.”

“I never mentioned her name, Framstead, you did.” He drank again and added, “I wondered because you seem to have lost your respect for womankind. So far, you have decided my visitor was a servant, no better than she should be, or a prostitute. I refuse to believe it. Is there no other explanation?”

“What other could there be?”

Before Carleton could wring his tired brain for another suggestion, Herr Grabelein approached, offering an oblong piece of paper. Without glancing at it, Carleton pushed it carelessly into his pocket and called for another glass. The proprietor did not refuse one drink but would not stay for another. Murmuring that Sir Carleton must play any time he wished, Grabelein bowed himself away.

“And that, I fancy, is our invitation to be gone.”

“I thought the fellow civil enough,” Framstead said, following.

“Oh, he is. Has to be. Only I’m not so good for business. I don’t drink, very much, and I don’t play against the house, as it does not pay. It’s to be hoped I don’t have to give up cards as well as horses.”

“By the way, what do you do in Bath? I should have thought this was the last place on earth a man of your talents would choose.”

“With all the hells in London skinned of company, where else should I come? All the money is here, so here am I.”

“Speaking of money, how much did you win?”

“Gentlemen, a word, if I may?”

The two men turned. The player who had sat so very still at the table came up to them. He had a finely-bred, high-nosed face and walked leaning on a cane. “You must permit me, sir, to thank you for a most enjoyable evening. I trust we shall play again, to perhaps even the score?”

“When and where you will, Your Grace.”

The nobleman coughed. “I had not been aware, at first, that you were not of some degree. I do not as a rule play with any one below the rank of viscount.”

“And I do not usually play with dukes.”

The face before them did not change, even when Lord Framstead smothered a laugh. “No doubt. Nevertheless, you will permit me to inquire into the nature of your title.”

“I am a baronet, Your Grace, of County Sligo, Ireland.”

“Oh, an Irish baronet.”

“I have that honor. And in common with my countrymen, I must tell you I am so ill-accustomed to holding my temper in my two hands that I will bid Your Grace a good evening.”

Once out in the open street, Edward Clarence Stowe, the Earl of Framstead inhaled vastly. “You overdid it just a trifle there, Blacklock. He keeps his own bully-boys, you know.”

“I know. But not in Bath. His mother resides here and she’s ever had the whip hand of him. Besides, he won’t have me beaten until he’s beaten me himself.”

“Eh?”

“At cards, you great ninny. Come on, let’s find ourselves a drink that hasn’t been watered fifty percent.”

“Brandy? No, champagne. You’ve something to celebrate, remember. How much is that cheque for?”

“Cheque? Lord, I forgot to look.” Stopping by a lighted window, Carleton pulled the paper from his pocket.

On tiptoe to see over his friend’s shoulder, Edward whistled. “You’ll be able to buy an estate, at least. And a wealthy wife as well.”

“I already have one, in Ireland.”

“A wife?”

“No, an estate. Three thousand useless acres, half-sod, half-sea. An Irish baronet,” he mimicked as the two men walked on. “By God, if I’d lost, he’d not care where my title comes from. Push in here, Framstead, and we’ll have that drink.”

Over bumpers of champagne, Edward asked, “Er, where does your title come from?”

Carleton smiled, as with a fond remembrance. “My great-grandfather was the last acknowledged bastard of Charles the Second. Being a man ever chary of his children, the king wanted to do some good by the boy and his mother but all the empty English titles had been filled, so he gave them Irish properties.”

As though an answer to a long puzzled over question had been given to him, Edward said, “That’s where you get it!”

“Get what?”

“Well, you’re a damn tall fellow, Blacklock, and there’s the king’s reputation with the ladies. You’ve got that, too.”

“I’ve been lucky all my life,” Carleton said modestly.

“It’s a good business that girl didn’t see you or you’d never have been rid of her and wouldn’t have won that money.”

“Ah, yes, the girl. You know, Framstead, tomorrow after visiting the bank, I shall have to visit a drapers’.”

“Drapers’? What in heaven’s name for?”

“A handkerchief. Dainty as morning dew.” He winked into the younger man’s astonished face and poured more champagne.

Chapter Four

“How do you spell relief, Danita?” Berenice asked.

Looking up from her periodical, Danita spelled it for her. The pen scratched quickly over the page for a moment and then slowed. Sucking on a ribbon sweet from the jar at her elbow, Berenice rolled her eyes at the ceiling as though searching for inspiration among the cornices. She sighed. “I can’t think of anything else to say. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to write Mama. Something exciting might happen.”

“Your grandmother said you should write today,” Danita reminded her gently. “What have you said so far?”

“Dear Mother and Father: I am well. How are you? Grandmamma is finding much relief from the gout.” Berenice looked to Danita for approval. A thought brightened her face as she bit down on her candy. “Oh, yes!” She wrote again and then read out, “The weather keeps fine.”