Lady Alex's Gamble (11 page)
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Lady Alex's Gamble
by Evelyn Richardson
His sister grinned. "Relax, brother dear. I was most circumspect. I merely sauntered along, not calling the slightest bit of attention to myself, but mingling enough to be accepted as one of the crowd."
"I suppose I should be grateful for that at least," he retorted.
"So you should. I was most tempted to try my luck in the subscription rooms, but..."
"You what?" Tony leapt out of his chair.
"Never fear, I know I do not have your knack for picking a winning horse"—Alex looked thoughtful for a moment—"but I might give you some of my winnings to place on a particularly sweet goer."
"Never mind," her brother interrupted hastily, "I shall let you stick to the games of chance. I prefer to risk life and limb against something much more predictable—like gunfire."
"Very well. Tony, but don't say you weren't given a chance to save the family fortune," she teased.
"I consider shepherding you to White's and drinking your port contribution enough to the family fortune," he retorted, shaking his head at her. "Now come along, you have a fortune to win and the evening is wasting away." And so, bantering all the way, they made their way to St. James Street. Their arrival being considerably earlier than the night before, the company was thinner and Alex felt rather more conspicuous, but a welcoming nod from General Scott, who happened to look up from his hand at the moment they entered the gaming room, reassured her.
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Lady Alex's Gamble
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For a time they both stood watching, then a corpulent young man laid down his cards in disgust, exclaiming, "I'll be damned if I'm going to continue playing with you, Reggie. You're in too rare a form tonight for me. I might as well just fork over my blunt to you and save you the effort of playing. Let someone else who can offer you a run for your money take you on." Catching sight of Alex as he waddled away from the table, he continued, "Here is a likely-looking player. How about you, sirrah?"
"I..." Alex was groping for a reply when the young man spoke.
"Here, Nigel won't mind you as a partner. You could hardly have worse luck that I did. What do you say, Nigel?" Thus appealed to, his former partner could only confirm that Colin had had the devil's own luck that evening and he invited Alex to join him.
Not having her partner selected for her as she had had before, Alex was rather uneasy, but she was soon able to read him. By leading her own cards well, she was able to coach him into helping them do quite well for themselves. Well enough, at least, for Nigel to crow sometime later, "It only takes some new blood to make the Goddess of Chance desert you, Reggie."
"That is because the stakes are so blessed low. Raise 'em to a level that makes a man think and then you'll see what we are made of," his friend replied.
"Very well, then, one hundred pounds a point, winner take all." Nigel was not about to be shown up by his opponent. 100
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Alex had a good job of it concealing her dismay, but she managed a laconic nod. Come, my girl, she encouraged herself, this is precisely what you wished to do, challenge your opponents enough to rake in some real winnings. Relax, it is perfect. You already know your opponents; the only thing changed is the stakes, which only works to your advantage. Keeping this little monologue in mind, she was able to accept the cards dealt her with a degree of equanimity. Once she began to examine her hand, she forgot everything as she planned her strategy.
So intent was she on playing, though she did her best to mask this by lounging in her chair and drooping her eyelids, that she was completely unconscious of the little crowd that, attracted by the rise in stakes, had slowly formed around them. It was not until Nigel laid down his last cards with a bewildered shake of his head, pronouncing disgustedly,
"Damn me if I can see how this happened, why I had a hand
... Dame Fortune is kind to you young rustics. But just wait until you have been on the town awhile, sirrah, she'll be as hard on you as she is on the rest of us," that Alex looked up and saw that they had an audience.
And there among them, his gaze fixed intently on her, was Major Lord Wrotham. He smiled and greeted Alex pleasantly enough, but that did nothing to allay the uncomfortable suspicion that he had been observing her very carefully for quite some time.
Though it was not quite her place to invite him, Alex decided to seize the bull by the horns. If he suspected her of cheating, or whatever he suspected her of, it was time to 101
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prove him wrong. "Will you not join us. Major?" She indicated the place vacated by the disillusioned Nigel. An appreciative smile tugged at the corners of Christopher's mouth. So the lad knew he was being watched, did he? He was as clever as the major was beginning to think he was, and bold too, to challenge him so quickly. De Montmorency must be very sure of his card-playing skills—
either that, or he was very cleverly employing marked cards. But Christopher's innate sense of character told him that the young man with the auburn hair, bright green eyes, and determined chin, who was now regarding him with just a hint of wariness, was not the sort to profit by dishonest means. No, if the major knew his man, and he usually did, this one was confident of himself and his abilities, and he was set on proving them in the most demanding of situations. "Why, thank you, I shall, if the others agree." There was a general nod. The major sat down and the cards were dealt. Almost the moment the play began, Wrotham knew he was up against an opponent who was very good indeed. The lad never seemed to give an obvious lead, but that was the very skill of it. Even though Christopher was alerted to this, he was still surprised when the game ended in de Montmorency's favor. The second game the major and his partner most definitely lost because Wrotham was more intent on studying his opponent's play than on his own.
The man seemed less intent on taking the individual tricks than on winning the entire game. Something of a veteran, both of the Peninsula and the card table, Christopher could recognize and appreciate a master plan. A connoisseur of 102
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strategy, he knew he was witness to one unfolding right under his nose, though he still remained uncertain as to its final objective. The more he saw of Alexander de Montmorency and his brother, the more curious he became as to just what that goal might be. Consequently, when their partners lost interest in whist and drifted away to enjoy the riskier but less intellectually taxing rattle of the dice box, he challenged Alex to a game of piquet.
By now quite aware that the hussar with the watchful eyes was more than a little interested in her, Alex was hesitant to take him on in a game that did not provide the distraction of other players. However, it would never do to reveal any sort of reaction at all so she merely nodded as though whatever she did was of supreme indifference to her. Christopher called for another pack of cards while Alex, seeing that for once his eyes were not fixed on her, took advantage of the opportunity to switch her full glass of port for Anthony's empty one sitting next to it. Her brother looked down at her, grinned, and after making a discreet show for her benefit of mopping his brow, downed it in one gulp. Once the waiter had brought the cards and another bottle of port, the play began. Afraid that she had appeared too alert and had thus revealed that she was aware of Christopher's speculative observation, Alex sank lower in her chair and allowed herself to make a few very small blunders, but not so many as to put her opponent on his guard, before she began playing in earnest.
Eventually, ever so slowly, it became apparent to the major that Alex was as formidable an adversary at piquet as 103
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at whist. The youth's memory and skills at calculating the cards that had been played or were in his hand made the major feel as though he were sitting with his own hand in full view. Every once in a while he shot a curious glance at de Montmorency over his cards but the young man continued to lounge in his chair, his face devoid of any expression, seemingly totally uninterested in the drama that was unfolding on the table in front of him as the mound of vowels piled up at his elbow. There was no doubt in the major's mind that Alexander de Montmorency was a cool customer, a very cool customer indeed.
He straightened in his chair, eyes alight with the exhilaration of pitting his own intelligence against a worthy adversary. It had been such a very long time since he had truly matched wits with anyone and he was enjoying it immensely, despite the fact that he seemed to be coming off much the worse in the encounter. Aha, he looked at his hand. Surely the cards remaining made him invincible now. "Quart," he called out triumphantly.
"Ah ... equal," Alex responded, trying to keep from laughing at the dumbfounded look on Wrotham's face. The major was an excellent card player who had a better grasp of strategy than most, but he did not possess her phenomenal memory and the sixth sense for the cards that her father had assured her made her virtually unbeatable. "Alex, my girl," he would often remark, "it is the greatest shame I cannot take you to White's. I have foresworn the place, but I would go back once more just to see you take them all on." Well, here she was, and not doing too badly either. Even Tony had 104
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begun to relax and chat, secure in the knowledge that his sister was more than a match for most of the players here. Certainly Lord Wrotham had looked to be no mean opponent and she had managed to trounce him.
Exhausted by hours of concentration and forcing a tense body into a languid pose, Alex yawned and peered blankly around the room. "Well, I am done for this evening. Shall we toddle along?"
Rising unsteadily, she grasped the back of her chair and smiled blearily at Lord Wrotham. "Fine game, sir, very fine game." She swept up the vowels, crumpled them together, and thrust them in her pocket, then headed for the door with Tony and the major following in her slightly erratic wake. The cool night air felt delicious on Alex's cheeks. The breeze smelled fresh after the stuffiness of White's and the headache, which had started as a tightness in her shoulders and moved up the back of her neck to form a tight, throbbing band around her forehead, vanished as if by magic. She took a deep, gulping breath, straightened her shoulders, and heaved a sigh of relief at having successfully survived another evening.
Alex's relief was short-lived, however, as Wrotham, catching up with the two of them, invited them back to his hotel. "For the night is yet young and I would prefer to hear of someone else's encounter with the French on the Peninsula than the latest
on-dits
at Lady Hadlington's masquerade, and just at present there is nothing to tempt me at either the theater or the opera.
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"Well, I ... we," Tony began awkwardly, rolling a frantic eye at his sister.
"Don't deny me," the major begged. "I am like to expire of boredom if I have to explain one more time that Bonaparte is not a monster, but an exceedingly clever strategist, and that it will take seasoned troops and not some act of God to save us all from him—that is, if anyone is concerned at all about events on the Continent. In the main, they remain totally ignorant of the impending crisis, preferring to worry instead that there is an unsightly wrinkle across the backs of their coats, or that the way they tie their cravat is not as intricate or as original as the next person's." There was no help for it. With the most imperceptible of shrugs for her brother's benefit, Alex responded, "Why, thank you. It is flattering to be considered worthy of rational conversation." Doing her best to recall what she had recently read of the Corsican's latest movements, she strolled along with the two military men who, without further ado, had plunged into a discussion of supply lines and troop movements. They compared the swift travel and flexibility of the French troops who lived off the country to the better-fed English, whose speed was hampered by the vast train of carts and animals that followed behind them.
In short order they reached Bond Street and Stephens's hotel. Making their way among the throngs of military men, they followed the major to a spacious suite of rooms that the invaluable Radlett had managed to secure for them after much greasing of palms.
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That intrepid batman was waiting to welcome them when they arrived, but promptly disappeared in search of the ingredients for making his famous punch. "Radlett is known throughout the regiment for his punch, and many's the time it has kept us all warm even though we lacked any sort of blankets or a place out of the cold and wet to lie down," Christopher remarked as he closed the door behind them.
"But I am sure you had such a person in your regiment as well." He smiled at Tony. "Someone who could be counted upon to produce food from a barren countryside and kindling from what everyone saw only as a rocky wastleland."
"Ah yes. It was Major Neal's Finchin who took care of us. And I must say he had much the look of your Radlett—a sharpish sort of fellow who could barter in any language and seemed to get the best of them, whether it was a Portuguese innkeeper, a Spanish peasant, or upon occasion, a Frenchie with something to trade."
The major nodded. "It is the generals and commanders of regiments who are mentioned in the dispatches, but it is people like Radlett looking after the men following the generals into the breach who are truly responsible for our victories in the Peninsula. What, after all, is a colonel without men to command, and how many of our bold young officers who came over to Spain for the sport of it would have lasted a minute without the care and advice of some grizzled old batman?"