Surrender The Night (20 page)

“I . . . went to his house to tell him to leave Jimmy alone. He . . . laughed at me, Katrina.” Anger stiffened Ellie’s spine and voice. “Told me not to concern myself with men’s matters. That I’d see the sense of what he was doing when he gave me some pretty trinkets. As if I was a dog he tossed a bone to. He certainly had no more respect for me than he does for that stray he sometimes feeds.”

Katrina rinsed the handkerchief again, then brought Ellie’s hand up to her cheek to hold the wet square. “Press that gently and maybe some of the swelling will go down.” She sat back on her heels. “Go on, Ellie.”

“He’d been drinking, but that’s no excuse. When he wouldn’tpromisetoleave Jimmy out of his . . . skulduggery, I told him I’d have no more to do with him. Then he got mad. Threatened to take me by force, but I kicked him and he let me go.” Ellie looked at Katrina defiantly, and Katrina lightened the moment by giving her a teasing brush on the chin.

“Good for you, Ellie.”

“That’s when he hit me. I started to run away then, but he called me ugly names and
...”
Ellie trailed to a stop.

“And?”

She finished in a rush. “And he said he’d be maakin’ your acquaaintance soon.” Ellie’s usually muted accent was strong, clueing Katrina to how much this news distressed her. Not for the world would Katrina reveal how her own heart thudded at the thought.

“Don’t worry about me, Ellie. I can hold my own. 1 have with more powerful men than Jack Hennessy. Now, what will we tell your father?”

“That I walked into a tree?”

‘ ‘He’ll see through that in a trice. How about we tell him you tripped over the furze and fell as you came from the bam after checking on the lamb?” Katrina rose and drew Ellie away from the river into the moonlight. “The finger marks are fading. I don’t think he’ll be able to tell what struck you.”

“That’s a good idea.” Impulsively Ellie hugged Katrina. “I’m so glad you came to us.”

“Thank you, Ellie. I’m glad, too,” Katrina responded huskily.

Ellie led the way to the house, but as they opened the door Katrina saw how fixed and shiny her eyes were. So she spun a merry tale about the lamb’s antics as they entered the kitchen. Rachel smeared Ellie’s cheek with homemade herbal liniment without comment, but John’s eyes were suspicious.

When Ellie had escaped upstairs, John caught Katrina’s arm as she was about to follow. “Just a moment.”

Katrina turned slowly. “Yes, John?”

“How es et that you dedn’t catch my lass when she fell ef you was weth her?”

“Er, I tried, but missed her arm in the darkness.”

“I see. Well, I’ll have you know, lettle laady, Ef a certain brawny young man comes near my lass again, he’ll have me to deal weth. Tell Ellie that from me.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about Ellie anymore, John. But I’ll tell her.” Katrina climbed a step, then turned her head. “And thank you, too, for your care for one who is not one of your bairns. Will told me what you said to your men.”

John flicked a big, callused hand in the air. “’Tweren’t notheng. Good night, Katrina.”

“Good night, John.” Upstairs, Katrina let Ellie talk until her throat was raw, but her eyes, thankfully, were dry. Just as she drifted off to sleep Katrina reflected that despite the challenges she’d found somewhere she really belonged. She liked everyone in this family, even Jimmy. She was slowly becoming as well liked in return, she believed. Love and belonging would surely follow. That aching, empty spot in her heart that not even Devon had been able to fill began to shrink.

Not since her father died had she felt this kinship with anyone. Even the good moments with Devon had been rife with emotion. This sense of homecoming was like a bedrock— safe, secure, a foundation upon which to build.

For the first time in years Katrina looked forward to the future.

Part Two

‘And when I feigned an angry look, Alas! I loved you best.”

—John Sheffield,
Duke of Buckingham and Normandy, “The Reconcilement”

Chapter
Six

      
1789; two years later

The air in
White’s most exclusive card room was stuffier than usual. The scents of smoke, stale cologne, and strong cheese mingled, but the miasma of greed overpowered all. A young fop with gold-embroidered waistcoat, purple satin jacket, and clock-decorated stockings sat opposite a lean man attired in ministerial black. The glint in the elder man’s eyes was not benign, however. The other men at the table had thrown in their hands and waited, expressing varying degrees of curiosity, to see the outcome of this do-or-die rubber for the young fop.

With a trembling hand the lad pulled a slim sheath of papers from his jacket and set it atop the pile of chips. “The deed to Farnsworth Hall, Wendover,” he said. His posture, leaning forward, fists bunched atop the table, was defiant, but his voice quavered.

The onlookers gasped and turned as one to Wendover.

After examining the deed, Wendover carelessly threw it back down. “Accepted.”

In a nearby but isolated corner long, powerful legs shifted restlessly beneath a square of newspaper. One foot tapped, then came a muffled curse. Devon tossed his paper aside and angled his chair to watch the game.

He’d always despised the Marquess of Wendover, especially after learning he was a charter member of the Satyr Society. Any man who took pleasure in inflicting pain was corrupt to his soul. His cardplaying habits were no more palatable. The marquess lived comfortably on the fortune his estates and Cornish mines made him, yet he enjoyed fleecing the young pups who came in legions to London. Like Wendover’s other victims, young Farnsworth was about to discover the hard way that town bronze, when acquired too lavishly, decayed a fellow’s prospects rather than enhanced them.

Devon fought the urge to join the game. He’d always suspected that Wendover cheated, but had never been interested enough to try to prove it. If men were so dim-witted as to barter all they had on Lady Luck’s whims, then they deserved to lose all, had been his philosophy. Curse it, the lad’s downfall was already a fait accompli, and it was none of his affair. Yet something drew him to his feet. Sutterfield had been one of Wendover’s sycophants, and the sight of the man who had acted as the owl on that night almost two years ago revived upsetting memories.

The pain Katrina’s desertion could still arouse made him want to strike out; here was a perfect target. But as he sauntered to the table Devon told himself that curiosity alone drew him. Still, an odd little pang gripped him when young Farnsworth
paled to a sickly hue as the hand progressed. Compassion, however, was as new to Devon as uncertainty, and he scowled. “Idiotish young jackanapes,” he muttered beneath his breath. The hand ended as he had known it would.

Farnsworth clutched the edge of the green baize-covered table so hard his fingers scored the felt. He gritted his teeth, but the words seemed forced out of him. “Cheat! ’Twould be impossible for you to predict the cards so well any other way.’ ’ He reeled to his feet.

Wendover thrust back his chair and lifted his hand to strike, but a cool, deep voice interrupted.

“You’ll find me more of a challenge than this young pup.” Devon shot Farnsworth a dismissive look. “I’ve so much more to fleece.” Devon pulled out a chair opposite Wendover and sat down.

“Fie on you, sir! I’ll gladly meet Wendover’s challenge, and yes, yours too!” Farnsworth cried, turning on this apparent new enemy.

Devon threw him a bored glance, then lifted an eyebrow at Wendover.

Several young men caught Farnsworth’s shoulders and dragged him away before he could make another outburst. One of them whispered loudly, “Put a damper on it, man, and leave while you still can.”

None of the remaining bystanders even watched them leave. Instead their gazes shifted between Devon’s negligent posture and Wendover’s brooding one. With a last glare at the closing door Wendover sat back down in his place and began stacking his gargantuan pile of chips into neat rows.

“We’ve seen precious little of you these past two years, Cavanaugh. Have you lost your taste for life’s finer pleasures, or did the chit geld you?”

Several men goggled in shock. They swung toward the Demon.

Devon paused in the act of writing a draft on his bank to purchase chips. His quill tip scored the paper before he finished his signature rather sloppily, but his reply was quiet. “So you have been in touch with Sutterfield. I wondered if you were so impressed by his toadeating as to send him funds. After tonight you’ll no longer have the ready to do so, I assure you.” Devon handed the check and a tip to one of White’s legion of polite servants. “And bring a fresh deck, if you please,” he added. The man moved to obey, but Wendover caught his arm and drew him down to whisper something. He tipped him also, then the fellow melted away. Devon beckoned to another servant and muttered a request. With a peculiar look at him the man hurried off, returning soon after with a bottle and a glass.

.“Do I take that as an insult to my honesty?” Wendover growled, turning back to Devon.

“You can take it however you please. But I always begin a game with a new deck.” Devon poured himself a glass of wine and took a leisurely sip.

“That’s true, Wendover,” said Harley, an old acquaintance of Devon’s.

When the pack was brought, Devon slit open the seal, then handed it to Harley. “Will you deal, please?”

Devon watched closely as the servant set a bottle and a glass at Wendover’s elbow, but if he slipped Wendover another deck, Devon couldn’t see it. Besides, with faro, where one card was turned up at a time, Wendover couldn’t palm a card while another man dealt.

The game commenced. Devon was a bit rusty, since he hadn’t played much in the last two years, but the old facility for keeping an account of the cards in his head soon returned. Faro had always been one of his favorite games for that reason; luckily it was Wendover’s game of choice, too.

Devon lost the first few hands, but deliberately conceded the fourth. When he was down by several thousand pounds, he made a bold bid. “My luck is about to turn, I opine, so shall we double the stakes?” He flung chips equaling three thousand more pounds into the center of the table. Wendover matched him.

When Wendover predicted the order of the next two cards, Devon winced as the marquess dragged in the pot of over ten thousand pounds. “Damme, but that’s put a tidy hole in my income for the quarter.” Devon tossed back his fifth glass of burgundy, but he was careful to keep his goblet away from the candlelight so Wendover couldn’t see that the liquid it held was a paler red than usual. Devon wondered what old White would have done at seeing an earl request watered wine. Have a spasm, probably.

Devon’s smile was lopsided as he unsteadily set his glass down. He glanced at Harley’s frowning face, then quickly away. If his old school chum wasn’t careful, he’d queer the game for him by ruining his charade. Unlike Wendover, Harley well knew that Devon had never mixed cards and drink.

Only ten cards were left. Devon had been counting, and all the face cards, aces, deuces, treys, and sixes had shown. He couldn’t remember if he’d seen two fives and_fours, or three, but he knew he’d only seen one eight and no tens. So that meant seven of the remaining cards were either eights or tens. Of course, they could be in any order, but he’d gone with the odds before and won. The next hand would probably offer even less of a chance.

“What say we really shweeten the deal, Wendover?”

Wendover quite playing with his chips to arrow a superior sneer at Devon. After a scornful glance at Devon’s almost empty glass Wendover took a tiny sip of the same drink he’d been working on all night. “How so?”

“I’ve a tiny lil . . . lit-dle eshtate in the Cotswolshs, er, Cotschwolds, er, well, you know what I mean. Worth over twenty thousand, on last accountin’. I’ll shtake it against F-Farrishworsh’s property.”

Several gasps sounded from the onlookers. Harley stiffened, but this time he kept his gaze on the card bank before him.

Wendover frowned. “That’s not equitable. His acres are well run indeed by his manager, I hear.” He waved away Devon’s interruption. “But I’ve lands in Cornwall that include a copper mine you may be interested in.”

Devon groaned inwardly, but it would be out of character for him to dismiss the offer out of hand. “C-copper?”

‘ ‘The yield was very profitable these last few years. With the land and house it should easily be worth that sum.”

Devon noticed that Wendover didn’t boast about the yield
this
year, but his act would be spoiled if he commented on the omission. “B-blasht the fellow, you know who I mean. I’d rather have his lands. Young pup inshulted me.”

Wendover shook his head. “That’s my offer.” When Devon didn’t respond immediately, he said, “Well?”

Damme, it seemed they’d have to play another game. Wondering what he’d do with a copper mine, Devon said, “Very well. I bet my landsh againsht your mine that the nexsht three cards will show an eight and two tens.”

“In that order?” Wendover’s smile was just short of open contempt at the risky bet.

Devon lowered his eyes over a mean glare. What the hell. He’d-have to be daring to draw Wendover in. If God really did mind fools, then He’d be on Farnsworth’s side, Devon thought.  And his own as well. He nodded vigorously.

“Done.” Wendover didn’t even trouble to hide his rapa
cious smile.

Both players and onlookers held their breath as Harley slowly turned up the cards. Eight, ten, ten.

This time Devon’s lopsided grin wasn’t feigned. The rest of the game was anticlimactic, and when the deck was dealt, Devon picked up the scraps of paper he and Wendover had written their lOUs on. He pocketed them, making as if to rise.

Wendover snapped, “Not so fast, Cavanaugh. As a gentle
man you must give me a chance to recoup. Shall we say Farnsworth’s estates against yours in the Cotswolds and the mine?”

When Devon blinked at him, Wendover slammed one palm against the table. ‘ ‘And you can cease the drunken act. No sot could have known the odds on eights and tens remaining.”

Devon exchanged a rueful grin with Harley, then gave an elegant shrug. “Had you suckered for a while, anyway, Wendover.”

Wendover bit back a curse. “Well?”

“Very well, Wendover. One more game it will be.” Devon settled back in his chair.

As Harley moved to gather up the scattered cards Wendover reached for his bottle. His forearm knocked it over. Wine flooded the table and the cards.

“Satan’s backside!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry. Let’s move venue. I’ll call for a fresh deck.” After they’d seated themselves at a new table, Wendover held up two fingers. The same man who’d served him before brought a new pack.

Devon thought Wendover’s tip seemed a bit generous for the simple service, and he watched narrowly as Harley slit the seal and inspected the new deck. They were lovely cards, with a peacock in full feather centered on the royal-blue background.

Devon looked at them closely, but could see no flaw. As before, they started the game with small wagers, sweetening each bet as they worked up to the big stakes that consisted, at the moment, of scraps of paper. As he played Devon had no inkling of the impact that one small piece of paper would have on his life. He thought of nothing but the cards, and besting Wendover.

When Wendover lost several of the smaller hands, Devon’s nerves tensed. Something in Wendover’s manner bothered him. He was a bit too controlled, too sure of himself. He showed no emotion, whether he lost or won a hand, unlike the last game, when his mouth tightened at every defeat.

Devon stared so hard at the peacock that his vision doubled. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed on the cleverest marking imaginable. The peacock had exactly thirteen eyes on its tail feathers—one for every card from deuce to ace. One of those feathers had a deeper blue in its center, Devon now saw. He counted from left to right. If he was right, the next card should be a jack, matching Wendover’s bet.

Harley slowly turned the card over. A jack of diamonds.
  Devon looked down to hide the gleam in his eyes. It was his turn. This one should be a trey. He watched calmly as the three of clubs was turned over. He and Wendover continued in this fashion, predicting accurately what each successive card would be. When they were halfway through the deck, Wendover began to go a bit green under Devon’s cool stare.

One old fellow who watched from a nearby table trumpeted, “Damnedest streak of luck I’ve ever seen.”

Given that both men could read the cards, the game was even when, near the bottom of the deck, Devon decided to make his move. He shoved all his chips as well as his slips of paper into the center of the table. Wendover hesitated, then reluctantly matched him.

All but one of the kings had shown. “This one will be the king of spades. Appropriate, isn’t it, Wendover?”

“One card’s not good enough for such a stake, Cavanaugh. You must guess the following two, also.”

“Agreed, Wendover. On the condition that I be allowed to look at the backs of the cards, first.”

“Deuced irregular,” the same old man was heard to mutter. “I quite agree,” Devon said. “But if the cards aren’t marked, what difference will it make?” On the words, the servant who had brought the deck tried to slink out the door, but Devon commanded, “Apprehend that lackey!” Two of the onlookers pounced on him. “Inform the manager that the man is susceptible to a bribe.”