Fortune's Son (17 page)

Philip elbowed his way through the hazard room with a mind to locate the object of his obsession and make whatever amends he could for his earlier surly behavior. If she had exercised good sense and deigned to take his advice, he would find her with the dowagers playing at whist or loo.

Giving her the benefit of doubt, Philip meandered into the blue salon, where those not whispering the latest
on-dits
hidden behind ornately painted fans frowned in concentration over their cards. He surveyed the chamber filled with vibrant silks and the white powdered wigs adorning old beaux and grande dames, cerused and patched in the prevailing fashion. Finding no sign of the woman he sought, he groaned in vexed frustration and doggedly went forth to the nefarious gold room.

***

With hands clenched and breath bated, Sukey awaited the next flip of the cards.

“Four wins, seven loses.”

“King wins, six loses.”

The
tallière
continued in an almost soothing monotone, but with every call of the cards, Sukey's pulse rose and abated like an incoming tide.

“King wins, ace loses.”

Disbelieving her ears, Lady Messingham stood mutely, as if stunned. The croupier swept away the five hundred guineas she'd wagered on the ace, half her winnings lost in one fell swoop!

“So very unfortunate how your luck turned,
madame
,” the
tallière
's voice oozed false sympathy. “But should you wish to recoup your loss, a simple request of credit is all that would be required.”

“But I have lost five hundred guineas,” she said. “To win it back would require doubling my current wager.”

“Then you wish for an advance of a thousand?” The
tallière
presented the marker as benignly as an offer of refreshment.

The compulsion to reclaim the fortune that had slipped elusively through her fingers was overpowering. Her hammering heart filled her ears, but dismay at her loss overcame any remaining good sense. Her attention was so engaged that she failed to notice Philip's appearance as she scribbled her initials.

His expression bespoke a gathering storm. “Just what the devil do you think you are doing?” he demanded, but didn't await her reply. “Take your payout and leave the table now, my lady.”

“How can you ask it of her, Drake?” George protested. “She's had but one bad card the whole night. Even you have never had such a run of luck.”

With eyes blazing, Philip spun around to deliver a lambasting to her failed guardian. “I expressly asked you to look after her, George, not bloody encourage her! Surely
you
know better than most that luck is easily
manipulated
for the unwise and unwary.”

George glared. “And what is that remark supposed to mean!”

Ignoring him, Philip's attention shifted between the dealer's resentful glare and his lover's pale-cast visage with an uneasiness he couldn't explain. His initial, rapid assessment had cast the
tallière
as just another mincing popinjay, and probably a sodomite to boot, an unbidden thought that made his anal sphincter reflexively tighten. But the banker had looked upon Sukey with a lingering and predatory interest that couldn't be denied.
Definitely
not
a
sod.

His senses pricked. Philip turned to George in an agitated undertone. “Who is he, Bosky?”

“Who is
who
?”

“The banker, you lackwit!”

“Look, Drake, I've had about as much abuse from you—”

“Just answer the damn question!”

“He's Weston, the fellow we spoke of earlier,” George answered with growing resentment.

“Devil take it,
him
?” Philip cursed under his breath and turned to the croupier. “The lady will accept her winnings
now
.”

“Just what do you think you're about?” she protested.

“Saving you from the repercussions of your damnable, reckless folly.”

“You dare call me reckless when you make your living from these same tables?”

“Yes. Bloody damned reckless! Though I take chances and have experienced my fair share of ill luck, I have never chanced losing over a thousand in a sitting!”

Philip turned back to the
croupier
. “You heard me. The lady will take her pay. Now.”

She turned back to the croupier. “The lady will do no such thing.”
Damn
his
arrogance! Now we are lovers, he thinks he owns me!

Philip seized her arm, twisting her around to face him. “Don't be a fool, Sukey. I warned you about playing deep. You are in well over your head and in jeopardy of drowning.”

Her eyes narrowed in rebellion and she jerked out of his grasp. “Fool, am I? I'll have you know that even after one loss I have parlayed my couch stakes into seven hundred guineas.”

“A handsome sum that would keep you in silks, private coaches, and the comfort of a queen for at least a six-month. Now, for the last time, collect your winnings and leave this table.”

“
Paroli
,” she answered with a defiant glare and bent her queen.

“Devil take you!” Philip cried, his frustration burgeoning to fury at his inability to rein her in.

Her pupils were already dilated as if with fever and her voice pitched higher than normal. “I go
trent-et-le-va
. With so few cards and one queen yet remaining, I have an even chance that she will appear on
my
draw.”

Philip's brows contracted in ferocious admonition as his gaze flickered again from punter to dealer. “The odds are
not
even. The game always,
without exception
, ends in favor of the bank.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” She blanched.

“The final card always goes to the
tallière.
He collects if you lose, but pays nothing if you win. If your queen does not appear
before
the
last
draw
, you've lost. Do you understand?”

Now the color drained even from her lips.

Philip swung around to grasp George Selwyn by the cravat. “Damn your eyes, Selwyn! How could you let her play without having even the most rudimentary understanding of the game?”

“Hell, I've never endured to the end,” George replied with a helpless shrug. “How was I to know the last card went to the bank?”

Having chanced
trente-et-le-va
and unable to turn back, Sukey shut her eyes in an attempt to channel her energy into one thought, as if she could actually
will
the queen to appear. With hands clenched and breath bated, she awaited the next flip of the cards.

“Four wins, seven loses.”

“King wins, six loses.”

The
tallière
continued in an almost soothing monotone, but with every call of the cards, Sukey's pulse rose and abated like an incoming tide.

“Nine wins, five loses.”

Unable to help herself, she peeked through a slit in her lids to fix upon the long white manicured fingers methodically turning over the cards by twos.

“Eight wins, six loses.”

Her heart slammed against her chest and her nails clawed at the thick baize as the deck continued to dwindle with the queen yet to appear.

With only three cards remaining, panic pervaded her.

The
tallière
curled his lips ever so subtly, calling the final cards without even glancing down. “Four wins…
Queen
loses
.”

“Damme, but what a rousing run!” George exclaimed in the drama of the moment. At Philip's death glare, he mumbled his excuses and disappeared into the crowd.

Susannah stared blindly, but when the scales dropped from her eyes the agonizing truth was revealed… the banker had controlled the game all along.

With this comprehension, Sukey's mind whirled like a top. It was gone.
All
of
it. Gone.
The words resounded in her brain like a clanging cymbal. Her stomach roiled and her world came crashing down.

Her widow's jointure was insufficient even to maintain her home and servants. Her carriage was sold and jewels pawned. Now nothing remained. She clutched the table's edge for fear her legs would no longer sustain her.
Oh
dear
Lord, what have I done?

Although Sukey knew the banker could not sue her over a gaming debt, Parliament having long ago taken steps to purge the bowels of jurisprudence with such civil suits, the reigning social order had its own irrefutable laws. Should she fail to make good on a “debt of honor,” social ostracism awaited.

Designing to stall, she appealed to Weston with wide plaintive eyes. “I may require a bit of time, you understand.”

“But of course, madame.” Although his manner was solicitous, the banker's slate eyes glittered beneath hooded lids as if she were a piece of ripened fruit he was hungry to devour. “Perhaps we might repair to a more private venue to negotiate some… acceptable terms.”

She swallowed convulsively, knowing exactly what his terms would be. Overcome with shame, she cursed herself a thousand times over her lack of self-restraint. Although standing in the periphery of her vision, just over her shoulder, Sukey dared not even cast her head in Philip's direction for fear of the recrimination she would find reflected in his eyes.

By sheer recklessness, she had played right into Weston's hand, achieving precisely what she had meant to avoid, her complete and utter ruin… and worse, by the same man who had ruined her once before.

Damn her for putting me in this impossible position!

Philip's blood boiled at Sukey's obstinate refusal to heed his counsel, for George's failure to watch over her, and for his own failure to protect her from a man he recognized as a Greek of the highest order. Lastly, he cursed himself for ever having become involved with her.

She had thoughtlessly brought this travesty upon herself and now threatened to suck him into the vortex. His intuition warned him to escape, but he simply couldn't bring himself to walk away.

“My lady,” Philip spoke lowly, “might I suggest
we
avail ourselves of the gentleman's invitation to privacy?”

The banker lifted a brow in distinctly aristocratic hauteur. “I do not believe we are acquainted…”

Refusing to affect any air of servility, Philip's bow was shallow enough only to mock. “Philip Drake,” he said in introduction, “and the lady is with me.”

Having made his decision to stand by her, Philip placed a hand on the small of Sukey's back. He could feel her tremor even through multiple layers of petticoat, stays, and silk.

A baleful stare pierced Philip at the well-understood gesture of possession. “So you say?” Weston's tone held a subtle edge of threat. “She was quite unattended when I found her, the poor little bird. Perhaps you should not be so negligent in future.” He reached out his beautiful bejeweled hand to Sukey. “Come now, my dove, and let us speak… in private.”

Sukey unconsciously recoiled, whereby Philip interposed himself between them. “Perhaps I wasn't clear, my Lord Weston. Any matters concerning the lady, you may settle
with
me
.”

“Hastings's ignoble wastrel?” Weston laughed outright. “What have
you
to say to anything? Indeed, I begin to think your sire remiss in teaching you manners, a matter I would surely delight in addressing had I not more pressing business with the lady.”

The tension between the two men was palpable and escalating by the second.

Sukey's anxious gaze flitted again between the two men: to Jack, who'd once betrayed and abandoned her, and to Philip, friend, lover, and reluctant defender. Her trepidation increasing, Sukey laid a warning hand on Philip's arm. Philip covered her hand with his own. Her fingers dug through the fabric of his coat and nearly into his flesh, but his pointed look squelched any verbal protest.

Philip turned back to Weston. “As the lady's
protector
, I have every right to speak on her behalf and am quite prepared to assume liability for her losses.” He carefully detached her fingers, one by one, raising them to his lips with an indulgent smirk. “Tsk, tsk, my dear. What a very bad night you've had.”

“You? Her protector?” Lord Weston's nostrils pinched and pupils flared. “The whelp's presumption knows no bounds!” The marquess looked at Sukey with a smile that made her blood chill. “My patience is waning,” he sighed when she still hesitated. “I had thought to spare you, but if you insist on playing this out as a public melodrama…”

He looked meaningfully to the gossipmongers who, scenting blood, had drawn in to circle the trio as vultures over their carrion. Lord Weston elevated his voice only enough to be heard over their low hum.

“
Sukey
, my dove,” he drew her name out in long, sibilant syllables, “for want of a proper
man
in my extended absence, have you now developed a penchant for impudent, posturing jackanapes?”

The blood that had earlier inflamed Sukey's face drained completely. She blanched paler than white. “You knew me all the time… you… you loathsome cad!”

Weston smirked. “You should be flattered, my dear, to be such an unforgettable morsel.”

Philip looked from Weston to Sukey with momentary incomprehension.

They
had
history? Weston was her lover?

Philip turned to Sukey, desperate for a rebuttal that did not come. Pale and wide-eyed, her mouth opened and closed with no sound emerging much like a landed fish gasping its last. His brittle control was slipping fast. The shock of the revelation threatened to be his undoing.

While the marquess had aimed to cut him down, to metaphorically pink a would-be rival, the figurative blade he wielded had penetrated straight to Philip's vital organs. It was a mortal blow, twisting like a dagger in his gut.

He struggled to block the invading visions of
his
Sukey, entangled naked and panting
in
Weston's arms
, and his vision blurred. A conflagration of emotion overcame him in a furious wave—shock, jealousy, pain, and then pure fury.

Masking it was a superhuman exertion, but he managed to signal a porter and hand him a guinea with the command to escort Sukey to her carriage. When she would have protested, he squelched her with a black look. “Good night,
my
lady.
” He spoke stiffly and his manner was chilling.

She bristled at his imperiousness but thought better of flouting him further. With a backward glare of indignation, she accompanied the porter.

When she was out of earshot, Philip turned back to deal with Weston, speaking matter-of-factly. “As I see it, my lord, there are now
two
matters
to settle between us. Shall we continue this
discussion
at Tothill Fields?”

Philip's meaning was not lost. The marquess's lips curved in satisfaction. “With pistol or smallsword?”

“Smallsword.”

“You may send your seconds to Wimbledon Park.”

Philip signaled acknowledgement with a silent inclination of his head.

As if an afterthought, the marquess added the mortal threat, “By the bye, Drake, you might forego the added expense of a physician. Assuredly, you'll have no need of one.”

Philip turned away, flinging carelessly over his shoulder, “I'm sure you are right, my lord… but perhaps
you
may.
”

***

Lady Susannah Messingham nodded abstractedly to her acquaintances as she wended through the remaining late night revelers. She awaited her hired carriage seething with words yet unspoken.

“Just what is he to you?” Philip demanded, startling her from behind.

“Nothing!” she snapped. “He is nothing to me.”

“Then why in God's name would you habit his table?”

“I had no idea at first, and then upon realizing who he was, I was so overcome by shock that I hardly knew where I was, let alone what I was doing. I was overset, confused, not thinking clearly.”

“Overset? Confused? Not thinking clearly? When you have placed a thousand at stake? Good God! I credited you with more intelligence! Yet when I arrived you still had a chance to walk away, but you thumbed your nose at me!”

“I had been winning!” she protested.

“And you didn't walk away. Do you still not understand? It is all part of the game. They let you win to draw you in deeper. I warned you of it, time and again!”

“I did not intend to go so deep.”

“Yet you didn't leave,” he accused.

Failing to summon any words to defend untenable actions, she choked back tears of bewilderment and fury.

They simmered in a protracted silence before Philip asked more calmly, as if speaking to a particularly dull child, “After all I taught you, didn't you even suspect he palmed that last queen?”

She gasped. “If you knew him for a cheat, why did you not warn me?”

“Good God, I tried!” he cried, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You don't listen!”

“What can you expect when you're so infernally high-handed! You could have taken a different approach.”

“Un-bloody-believable! You are trying to cast the blame on me?”

“But you knew he cheated, and you let me fall victim! For one who claims to be my
protector
, you evince little instinct to protect! Why did you not even call him on it?” she persisted.

“
Call him out
, do you mean?”

“Yes!” she cried. “It's the least a proper
gentleman
would have done!”

“Ah, so now you impugn both my honor and my valor?”

“If the boot fits!”

“So sorry to disappoint, my dear, but I don't recall ever presuming to be a
gentleman.
Moreover, I refuse to shed my blood over your fatuous notions. If you hadn't broken every rule and thoughtlessly discounted every lesson I tried to teach you…”

She looked guiltily away.

“I warned you about deep play, Sukey, and you heeded
nothing
I said.
Nothing!
” he continued, growing more enraged. “Instead, I find you deeply embroiled with one of the most notorious gamesters and rakes in London.”

When the vehicle arrived, mutely Philip handed her up into it. She moved stiffly aside to make room for him, but he ignored the gesture and slammed the door.

“But where are you going? We have yet to discuss this.”

“Tomorrow,” he said with a warning look. “We will not speak any more of it until emotions have quieted.”

“I am perfectly composed,” she snapped.

“Tomorrow, Sukey.” He silenced her with a darkling look and signaled the driver.

***

Philip watched the coach depart in a clatter across the cobbles. What the hell had transpired this night? It was almost a blur. They'd arrived in a companionable enough frame of mind, if not precisely in perfect harmony. They'd mapped out a plan whereby Philip would set the punters at hazard. Meanwhile, she would set up the dowagers, frequently the wealthiest and most careless players, by losing a hand or two at loo, a game she played passably well, and follow by winning many more hands.

Philip would later join her at whist, a game in which they were now nearly as in tune as they had become in bed. It was a perfect plan, but not half an hour had passed after their arrival that she'd blown it all to hell.

He stole a deep breath before taking stock of the calamity the evening had become.

He had entered the gold room, well-pleased with his own success, but then he'd sighted her. Admittedly, he'd botched his handling of the matter, but damn her tenfold, she'd broken every cardinal rule he lived by. She had played a game she knew nothing about, and one he'd particularly cautioned her against.

She'd wagered more than she could afford to lose and had lost any self-restraint. She then defied him and resisted his attempts to extricate her from the web in which she appeared intent on entrapping herself. The sum she'd lost was more than he could fathom, and impossible for her to pay.

The worst of it was he'd now committed himself to an actual duel over her.
Bloody
hell.

What had he been thinking? Or rather, his lips curled sardonically,
with
what
had he been thinking?

George had warned him about her that very first night and ol' Bosky had proven a veritable sage. She'd given him so many reasons. Why in the devil's name had he not just walked away?

It seemed she'd become his addiction, akin to laudanum, which temporarily soothes the wounded, easing away pain until one eventually overindulges—when contrary to medicinal, it becomes a poison.

She
was his poison.