Elizabeth Powell (12 page)

“Good luck then, Captain. I shall hope for results.” Then, as Everly watched, Carlisle bent his spine, stooped his shoulders, and transformed himself in the span of a few heartbeats into the aged footman who had first entered the room. The result was like watching a butterfly climb back into its cocoon.

Everly straightened his cravat and hoped he had not overestimated his skills at the green baize. “So shall I.” He turned to say something more to Carlisle, but the earl had vanished. The door to the hallway stood open.

“Like a bloody ghost,” the captain grumbled. “He probably walks through walls.”

Everly had no difficulty locating Locke’s game of vingt-et-un; the din carried to the top of the stairs. The captain observed the group carefully as he approached the table, peering through the thick fog of cheroot smoke that hovered around them. He recognized several individuals, and the company did not please him.

Facing Everly sat Captain Peyton, a rotund man turned prematurely gray; he had a reputation as a brute who flogged his crew for the slightest infractions. Next to him sat Captain Lambert, the fourth son of an earl, a pretentious fop who had risen through the ranks on influence alone. Across from Lambert was Lieutenant Edward Hale, one of Locke’s protégés, a young man with a dangerous temper and a taste for high-stakes gambling. A sterling trio, Everly mused. And at the center of everyone’s
attention was Admiral Locke, who considered his cards and raised the wager.

“Too rich for my blood,” snorted one gentleman, shaking his head.

“Why, you old pirate!” exclaimed Lambert. “I’ll match that wager. I’ll get the better of you yet.”

“That’s enough for me,” grumbled a middle-aged lieutenant. He flung down his cards in disgust and left the table.

Everly moved in to get a better view.

“Apparently Neville doesn’t have the stomach for high stakes,” said Lieutenant Hale with a thin, malicious smile. “Perhaps he should stick to playing Pope Joan with his mama on Sundays.”

A low roll of laughter greeted this remark.

Captain Lambert stifled a yawn. “Shut up and play, Hale. If you were half as good at the cards as you were at flapping your jaw, you wouldn’t find yourself down by five hundred pounds.”

Hale bristled. “Watch yourself, Lambert,” he growled. “I don’t care what rank you hold, or who your father is—one of these days you’ll regret baiting me.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. This is just a friendly game, remember?” Locke revealed his cards with a slight smile. “Twenty-one. I believe this hand goes to me, and the double stakes, as well.”

“Locke, you have the devil’s own luck,” blustered Peyton. The corpulent captain’s face flushed an unhealthy claret color. “You must give me a chance to recoup my losses. One more round.”

“Not for me—I’m out,” announced a rather dandified youth. He scribbled his vowels and added them to the pile of winnings on the table. “As entertaining as this has been, Admiral, I must get ready for the Duke of Atherton’s masquerade. How unfortunate that you will not be able to attend; it is sure to be the social event of the Season.”

Locke’s expression clouded, and Everly realized that the dandy had stung the admiral right where it hurt most.

No doubt Locke had hoped for an invitation from the duke, but hope had eluded him.

“On the contrary, Walbridge,” the admiral drawled. “You might enjoy capering about the dance floor in some ridiculous costume, but I prefer more masculine pursuits. Good afternoon.” Locke turned his attention back to the table, and began gathering cards back into the deck.

Young Walbridge flushed and stormed out from the room, head held high.

The last civilian at the table, a man with red hair and a sharp face, watched him depart. “Pay no heed to Walbridge and his airs, Admiral,” he advised, stubbing out his cheroot. “His father has declared that he must marry this Season—and catch himself a wealthy chit to help him out of dun territory. I hear tell he’s even considering a match with a Cit’s daughter, because no one else will have him.”

“Poor Walbridge. How very … uncomfortable for him,” Locke commented, much to the merriment of the others. He snapped his fingers at two nearby footmen. “You there—more wine. Dammit, man, do you expect me to get it myself? Look lively!”

“Bring the brandy while you’re are it,” chimed in Lambert.

The footmen hurried to do as they were bid. Everly noticed that Carlisle was not among them; he expected that the earl had long since departed. He was on his own. He cut through the ring of onlookers and approached a vacant chair. “Your company has thinned somewhat, Admiral,” he said. “May I join you?”

Locke glanced up. Everly thought he detected a trace of scorn cross the admiral’s face. Then Locke recognized Everly’s uniform, and any hint of disdain vanished.

“Ah, another of our distinguished officers. Of course you are welcome to join us, Captain Everly.” He waved to a vacant seat.

Everly nodded and accepted the chair next to Captain Lambert.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Captain,” continued
the admiral. “I have not seen you since the party last week. You did not stay long, if I recall.”

Everly slouched into his chair. “Forgive me, Admiral, if I seemed a rude guest, but I couldn’t stomach any more condescension from the fashionables. They may call me a hero, but they can’t bear to look at my battle scars. They don’t seem to realize the price we pay for victory.”

“Here, here,” Peyton agreed, lifting his glass in salute.

Locke considered this remark as he shuffled the cards. “Exactly so, Captain. Little does society know the sacrifices we make on its behalf.”

Everly gestured for the footman to pour him a glass of brandy. “And yet they seem to think us beneath them. If it weren’t for our efforts, the French tricolor could be flying over Whitehall.”

Locke uttered a bark of laughter. “Then you find yourself in good company, Captain. You know everyone here, I think, except Lord Sillsby.”

The red-haired lord examined Everly with patent interest, like a fox eyeing a plump pullet. Malice glinted in his dark eyes. “You are rather severe upon the members of the upper ten thousand, Captain.”

Everly nodded. “Not without reason, I assure you.”

“Oh, I do not doubt it. Your name seems familiar, Captain. Have we met?”

Everly met the man’s gaze, unruffled. If Sillsby thought to prompt him into losing his temper, the man was sadly mistaken. “I do not believe so, my lord.”

Locke dealt one card facedown to each player, followed by another card faceup. Everly found himself with the ten of diamonds faceup; an auspicious beginning. He looked at his other card. Hmmm. Perhaps not so auspicious, after all.

“No, I am certain I know your name,” continued Sillsby. A sly smile stole over his lips.

“Your wager, Everly,” prompted Locke.

Everly considered his cards and ignored Sillsby’s needling. “I am feeling lucky today, gentlemen,” he declared. “One hundred guineas.”

A fire kindled in Locke’s ice blue eyes. “We shall see how long your luck holds,” he replied with a calculated smile.

“I’m in,” said Peyton.

“And I,” added Lambert. Hale also followed suit.

“Now I have it,” Sillsby said, brightening. He gave Locke a vague nod to indicate he would wager the same amount, but kept his spiteful gaze fixed on Everly. “About five months ago, wasn’t it, Everly, when your little fiancée jilted you for that pink of the
ton
, Viscount Radbourne? I have it on good authority that she got one look at your limp and ran screaming for her mama. Not surprising that she ended up with Radbourne. Fellow’s got two good legs, a handsome face, and a handsome pocketbook to match.”

Everly clenched his teeth and signaled for another card. He felt the other men’s eyes on him, watching, evaluating. Tension gathered between his shoulder blades. He wouldn’t let Sillsby unnerve him, though he longed to draw the man’s cork. Too much was at stake here, much more than money. “Miss Felicia Harding was a scatterbrained little hussy, and I am well rid of her,” he said in a bored tone.

“Still, it was rather galling, wasn’t it?” Sillsby smirked. “I heard that you came here afterward and got yourself so cup-shot that you challenged everyone in the place to a duel before someone took pity on you and dragged you home.”

Unpleasant memories danced at the edge of Everly’s vision and added their mocking whispers to Sillsby’s. He fought them off, concentrating instead on his cards. He would think about Felicia’s betrayal later. This was battle, and he was not an unlicked cub to be distracted by such crude means. The ten of diamonds, along with the trey of spades and the seven of hearts, made as good as score as he could get with this hand. His eyes flicked to the cards lying faceup before the other players. Only Hale and Locke had hands likely to rival his own.

Sillsby rattled on. “Worse yet, Radbourne is besotted with her. Makes sheep’s eyes at her wherever they go.
Better that she married him than you, Everly, else society might have coined you ‘Beauty and the Beast.”’

A strange calm settled over Everly. Sillsby was the sort of bully who enjoyed the pain of others, given either with words or with blows. “No doubt,” he agreed affably.

“It really is too bad about that leg, Captain. But I’ll wager there are Cyprians aplenty who are willing to overlook it, if you pay them enough.”

“If you say so.” Everly indicated that he stood firm on his hand.

Across the table, Hale sniggered, but kept his eyes on his cards. He was too devoted to gambling to be diverted from the prospect of winning. Sillsby, however, played like an automaton, paying little attention to the stakes and barely glancing at his cards, so intent was he on getting a rise from Everly. Everly kept a lock on his neutral expression and upped the wager again. Let the bastard sink himself.

“Eighteen,” said Locke, turning his cards up.

“Damn!” exclaimed Peyton, throwing down his hand.

“I also have eighteen,” said Lambert silkily. “It seems we have a draw.”

“Not so fast,” said Hale with a sneer. “Nineteen.” He reached for the pile of winnings.

“A moment, Lieutenant,” Everly interjected. He flipped over his cards. “Twenty.” Hale’s face fell. Locke chuckled.

Everly turned to Lord Sillsby. “Unless you have a better hand, my lord.”

Sillsby consulted his cards. His eyes flew to his stack of vowels on the table, and all color fled his face. “No,” he said flatly. He turned his cards facedown. “The hand is yours.”

In ordinary circumstances Everly would have let the man walk away with his pride intact, but today he played a different role. “Oh, come now, Sillsby. We have all revealed our cards. The least you can do is show us the same courtesy.”

He reached for Sillsby’s cards; the man tried to keep them from Everly, but wasn’t quick enough. Everly displayed
the cards and tut-tutted. “You really must learn your mathematics, Sillsby. A six, a seven, a deuce, and a knave make twenty-five.”

Peyton threw back his head and gave a hearty guffaw. Lambert snickered. Hale smiled the nasty smile of a bully who has just seen a rival get his comeuppance.

“Next time, my lord, perhaps you should pay more attention to your cards.” Everly grinned and pocketed his winnings, not bothering to count them.

Sillsby glared at each officer at the table, Everly last of all. His nostrils flared, his lips pressed together in a grim line. “This round goes to you, Captain. Enjoy your winnings. I’m certain you can now purchase any feminine affection you desire.” With this last barb, Lord Sillsby rose and stalked from the room.

Locke sipped his brandy and regarded Everly with amusement. “Well done, Captain. Sillsby’s a rotten little snipe.”

“A snipe with very plump pockets,” added Lambert. “I may not like him, but I’ll gamble with him.”

“He actually thought he could get the better of me with gossip. Men like that don’t understand us,” Everly said, punctuating this pronouncement with a pompous smile. “We’re responsible for ships of the line, while all he cares about is the fall of his cravat. ’Tis no wonder he came out the worse for the encounter. I find that most society bucks have more hair than wit.”

A few of the onlookers took umbrage with this pronouncement; Everly noted how they scowled before departing. He cringed inwardly and hoped his reputation survived this mission.

“It seems that a few of our fellow members disagree with your estimate of their character,” Locke observed.

Everly shrugged. “In all honesty, Admiral, I don’t give a fig for what they think. I’ve had enough of high society to last me a lifetime. I may have come into a title, but were it not for my damned leg I’d be back at sea by now, and I wouldn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances.”

Locke’s gaze slid to Everly’s cane, which rested against the edge of the table. “Yes, a pity about your wound.”

“How long until you get another ship?” Lambert inquired.

“Not soon enough,” Everly grumbled. “The bureaucrats at the Admiralty aren’t convinced of my recovery. They’ll keep me ashore long enough to drive me mad.”

“Then you must find something to occupy your time. Eh, Locke?” Peyton nudged the admiral’s elbow, then leaned close and whispered something in Locke’s ear.

Everly caught the knowing glance that passed between the two men. Anticipation sharpened his senses.

“I believe I might have just the diversion for you, Captain.” Locke inclined his head in Everly’s direction.

“I hope it’s something more appealing than dancing with featherbrained young chits,” Everly drawled. He indicated his cane. “As you can see, I don’t dance.”

“Oh, this is infinitely more appealing.” Lambert’s knowing smile melded with the curved rim of his glass as he took another sip.

“I’m having a little soiree at my house on Saturday,” Locke explained. “For navy officers only.”

“Well, at least the company sounds exceptional,” Everly replied, cautious.

Locke chuckled. “No insipid lemonade or chicken-stakes cards, I promise you. You seem the sort of man to appreciate more adventurous pursuits, Captain. What would you say if I told you that I had arranged for high-stakes gaming, and the company of lovely, willing women?”