Patricia Rice (35 page)

The cardplayers looked up in startlement at the hooded
intruder with the muffled voice. Rupert shrugged at the request and shoved Wyatt’s
paper toward the coins mounting in the center of the table.

“My markers are good. I have no need of this faradiddle.” In
truth, he was shaken. The encounters with the whore and the drunken devil had
unnerved him, making him uncomfortably aware of how precarious his situation
was.

If either Eddings or Merrick had any notion of those
incidents, his reputation could be ruined in every fashionable house in town.
And if they had uncovered secrets that deep, they could be very close to the
darkest secret of all. His marriage to Cassandra could not save him then, far
from it.

The knowledge that he had been playing with people who knew
him but whom he didn’t recognize caused a shiver of unease. Rupert studied the
rest of the room’s occupants, but they were mere shadows outside the
candlelight. Remembering the American lounging against the wall, he relaxed. He
had one friend here, even if newly made.

Gathering up his scattered courage, he threw Duncan a shrewd
glance. There was no telling which way that bird turned. Duncan had refused to
reveal his sister’s whereabouts, but neither had he been the one to produce the
documents.

The cowled newcomer glanced at the sheaf of papers in the
table’s center and made a rude noise. “Worthless without a signature. Looks
like good odds to me. Put up a worthless paper and win a fortune. Want me to
take your cards?”

~*~

Cassandra! Even disguised, her voice was unmistakable. Merrick
gritted his teeth and glared at her cloaked figure near Rupert. She must be
sweltering in that outfit. How the deuce had she found them? Or got here in the
first place? He ought to shake her until her teeth rattled, but his first
imperative was to remove her before she was recognized.

“The game’s closed, sir,” he told her. “You’ll have to wait
your turn.”

Rupert grinned. “What are you afraid of, Merrick? Maybe it’s
time we let some fresh blood into this game. Let’s keep it on the square, shall
we? Duncan, why don’t you remove yourself and let our medieval friend join in
the play?”

To allow Cassandra to enter the game would be disastrous,
but at least she had the expertise needed to keep the cards out of Rupert’s
hands. What else she would do was anybody’s guess, but Merrick had to act
quickly. He relied on Duncan’s expertise.

Catching Thomas’ arm, he nodded toward the darkened corner.

Obediently, the less-skilled younger man rose from the
table, carrying his winnings with him. “I’m comfortable for the night, and
paper won’t pay my bills. You’re welcome to take my hand if you will.”

Cassandra accepted his chair. She picked up Thomas’ hand and
threw the brooch holding her cloak onto the pile of coins.

“That’s worth more than a bundle of papers,” she announced
scornfully to the table at large.

The American visibly started, then stepped closer, almost as
if he would protest, Merrick noticed, but the other players drew their next
cards.

The play went swiftly and viciously after that. Under
Cassandra’s and Duncan’s dexterous hands, Rupert didn’t have a chance. The
original plan had called for the winnings to fall to Merrick, but Cassandra’s
interference made it a contest between brother and sister.

Merrick couldn’t play the cards away from them if they chose
to leave him out. This past week of practice had taught him only rudimentary
skills, and he had not yet learned to count the cards as Cassandra did.

With resignation he tried to adopt a new scheme to force
Rupert to sign in the event that the documents fell into other hands. Unsigned,
they were worthless.

“My hand, I believe.” The homespun cloak revealed a slender
arm in a tight sleeve as the winner raked in the pot.

The sheaf of papers lay on top, and Rupert smirked. “Have
joy of your winnings, sir. The documents might be worth a few pounds in legal
fees.”

“You tendered them as markers, sir. I believe a gentleman
signs his markers.” Cassandra shoved a page toward him. “Your signature,
please. These other gentlemen might act as witness.”

Rupert shoved furiously from the table. “Don’t be an ass,
man. I’m not gambling my wife to her lover. Don’t interfere where you’re not
known.”

“Your signature, as a gentleman,” Cassandra demanded. Her
heart was in her throat. She hadn’t meant to do this. She had only meant to
keep Merrick out of her affairs, but the proximity of her husband activated her
instinct for self-preservation.

“I will give you my marker,” Rupert replied arrogantly.

“Your marker is worthless. You wagered your wife, and you
lost. Sign.” Cassandra stood at the same time as Rupert, forcing him to look
her in the eye, daring him to see and defy her.

He was too blind from drink and anger to see. Reacting in
his usual manner to the insult of having his marker refused, Rupert lifted the
dregs of his drink and flung them in Cassandra’s face. “I’ll not be insulted by
a young pup. Name your weapons.”

A gasp ran around the room. Before the growing rumble could
become a roar, Merrick shoved the table aside. “Cassandra, stop it. You need
only sign those papers yourself and my solicitors’ will see them to court. You
don’t need him at all.”

Rupert went white, but rage returned him to his senses as he
reeled in recognition of his caped opponent. “Try it, my darling, and I’ll
fight it through every court in the kingdom. All the world will know what a
willing whore you’ve become.”

Bertie shoved Merrick’s shoulder before he could swing his
raised fist. Shorter but much heftier, the squire’s son pushed the earl from
the fray.

Chairs toppled as onlookers shifted from the fray. Duncan
caught the brunt of Merrick’s weight as he stumbled from Bertie’s push. Before
Cassandra could decide whether to lunge at Rupert’s throat or run to Merrick’s
side, the American silenced the chaos with a voice of command.

“Eddings, your sister has just been insulted. Is it not your
place to see her name protected?”

As Merrick recovered his balance, Duncan glanced around in
bewilderment, rightfully so. Cass studied the stranger. His blue-green eyes seemed
familiar, but neither the rugged face nor the colonial accent had a place in
her memory.

Now was not the time for puzzles. Cassandra cried her
protest at involving her brother in what was, after all, her fight. But under
the stranger’s furious challenge, Duncan had little choice but to agree.

“You can’t duel a female, Percival,” he said, “even if she
is your wife. I’ll stand in her place. Somebody fetch some pistols. We’ll
settle this now, like gentlemen.”

“No, you won’t!” Cassandra shouted furiously. “I won’t be
fought over like a bone between two mangy dogs. I’ll sign that wretched paper
and Rupert can protest it in every court in the damned world, but I’ll not be
his wife!”

Merrick caught her by the shoulders and propelled her toward
the door. “It’s too late now, Cass. It’s not your affair any longer, it’s
theirs. If you’ll leave, I’ll try to talk them out of it.”

“No! I won’t leave! Why can’t you see?” she cried in
anguish. “It’s my life they’ve ruined. It’s my life they fight over. I’ll not
have another man come to harm over me, even Duncan. Let me have the pistol!
Merrick,
let me go!
”

She was near hysterical with rage. Tears rolled down her
cheeks as she fought Wyatt’s greater strength.

The stranger caught Cassandra’s shoulder and swung her rage toward
him. “It’s no longer your fight, young lady. It’s a point of honor between two
gentlemen. Do not disgrace yourself further by these dramatics.”

It was easier to turn her fury on a stranger than Merrick.
Cassandra spit at his feet. “That to honor! They have no honor. Call the watch
and have them thrown in Newgate to cool their heels awhile. They will be alive
when they come out, and their nonexistent honor will not be one whit harmed. I’ll
cut my hair and scar my cheeks so no man will ever look upon me again so this
need never happen again. Just make them stop!”

Her pleas were piercing. Merrick tried to gather her into
his arms, but the American held up his hand to stay him. He brushed back the
hood and touched Cassandra’s creamy cheek with a kind of wonder. A wild mane of
red-gold fire fell loose from its binding, cascading in a glittering waterfall
down her back.

“It’s not your fault, little one. Believe me, you have
nothing to do with this. They are men with their own lives, who make their
choices based on their own greed and desires. You are an excuse, nothing more.
Go home now, and let them settle their differences in their own way.”

Feeling the fury seep out of her, Merrick gestured for
Jacob. The servant looked reluctant, but Cassandra’s sobs would tear him in two
if she lingered longer. “Get Lotta and take them home,” he ordered.

With a desperate lunge, Cassandra broke free. “No, I won’t,
I can’t,” she cried as she pushed past the stranger and ran for the freedom
beyond the door.

“Follow her, dammit!” Merrick roared as Jacob hesitated.

The valet hovered with the box of pistols he had produced.
Shoving the box at Duncan, he muttered, “Not the diamond,” and ran after
Cassandra.

Relieved of their lone obstruction, the men remaining studied
each other uneasily, until Duncan straightened his shoulders and started for a
door in the rear of the room.

“The back garden should be sufficient for our purposes,
gentlemen. Merrick, do you stand with me?”

This had gone much farther than Wyatt had intended. Should anything
happen to her brother, Cassandra would never forgive him. In all likelihood,
she would never forgive him this night’s disasters as it was.

Wondering at the man who had seemed to instigate these
proceedings, Wyatt threw the enigmatic American a narrow-eyed look. Jacob had
said he’d arrived with Rupert. Yet he did not behave in Rupert’s best
interests.

Puzzled, Wyatt turned back to Duncan. “As your second, I
must seek some form of amelioration with Rupert’s man. Rupert, who stands with
you?”

As Merrick suspected, Rupert turned immediately to the
American. “Wyandott, will you second me? It’s a mere formality. We’ll have this
done in a trice.”

The tall silver-haired stranger lifted his gaze to Wyatt’s
hostile look, then nodded. “I’ll act for you. Lord Merrick, shall we discuss
the terms?”

Rupert waved his hand in dismissal of the ritual. “We have
the pistols. The garden isn’t large enough for more than ten paces. There’s
nothing to discuss. Let’s have this over so I can find my wayward wife. It is
past time that she learned her place.”

Every other man in the room tensed. Bertie caught his
younger brother’s shoulder, pressing him into silence. They glanced at Wyatt,
but his normally reasonable expression had turned hard and cold.

~*~

Jacob caught up with Cassandra as she fled down the
darkened city street in the wrong direction. A few more blocks and she would be
in the slums by the river, fair prey to every thief, murderer, and rapist in
the city. She wasn’t thinking clearly, and this wasn’t the time to indulge in
female histrionics. He daren’t grab her, but raced in front of her to hold her
up.

“Don’t, my lady! You’ve got to come back. Them pistols are
rigged. Hurry, now. I ain’t got time to linger.”

The proper valet’s lapse into the vernacular brought Cassandra
up short. She had run senselessly, simply avoiding what she didn’t want to
hear. Jacob’s warning made too much sense of the world as she knew it, and she
turned hastily.

Rigged! Of course they were rigged. Neither Duncan nor
Rupert had performed an honest act in his life. She would take the wretched
pistols to their foul hearts herself. That was the only suitable ending to this
affair.

It might already be too late. Jacob’s long legs carried him
back to the house at a lope Cass could scarcely emulate. Luckily, freed of her
hampering skirts, she arrived at the mews behind the house within seconds of
him.

The men were already spreading out around the garden with
the two duelists in the center. Jacob cursed as he noted they already held
pistols in hand. Holding up his palm, he halted Cass before she could break
through the bushes. It was too late.

Duncan and Rupert stood back-to-back, pistols pointed upward
as Bertie began the count. Duncan looked almost regal with his ebony hair
gleaming in the moonlight, his broad shoulders in their elegant black evening
coat thrown back as he counted out his steps. Rupert, the smaller man, seemed
almost impatient as he moved forward jerkily, paying little attention to the
pace.

At the count of nine, Rupert swung and lowered his pistol.
Cassandra’s warning scream had scarcely passed her lips when Duncan, too, swung
before the final count. But Duncan’s foot slid in the moist grass, and he stumbled
in the same instant that Rupert’s shot fired.

Spun sideways with the force of the first shot, Duncan fired
wildly. Rupert staggered, but he did not fall. Even as the witnesses converged
upon the two men, cursing their cowardice, Rupert reached in his coat pocket to
produce a small gun that he aimed unwaveringly at his enemy.

Caught in a nightmare, Cassandra saw but could not act. Her
feet seemed mired in quicksand. The scream was in her throat, but time stood
still. In horror she watched the gun aim—not at Duncan’s kneeling figure, but
on the man bending to help him up.

“Wyatt!” Her scream split the air in the same instant as the
gun’s report shattered the night.

A fourth shot followed, and Rupert crumpled, leaving the
American standing alone, a smoking pistol in his hand.

~*~

Merrick felt the pain in his side. Grabbing his ribs in surprise,
he lifted anguished eyes to Cassandra’s pale face. Gad! How could this happen
in front of her?