Tender Torment (4 page)

Once in his room at the Stephens, Straeford ordered a light supper to be sent him, preferring solituHe before a small fire
to further contact with a world he scorned.

Ever since the estrangement from his mother and the consequent notoriety, Justin St. Clare had steadily removed himself from
a society so eager to brand him an unprincipled villain. He had become a loner who cherished his isolation.

The solitary man sat regarding the brieht flames in the grate, musing at the red lights glinting from the ruby signet ring
on his left hand. It should be Robert, not himself, wearing the ring of the Earl of Straeford. But Robert was dead too many
years to allow that bitter memory to pain him further.

And yet the pain did not abate with the passage of time. Robert had been too close and loving a brother, and the bond between
them had not been severed by death. Deep within, Straeford maintained a vigil of mourning he would never admit to anyone.
In truth, he wished that his brother had married Adele and supplied the necessary heir to the earldom which now laid so heavy
a burden upon him. He much preferred to steep himself in his life as a colonel of the Horse Grenadier Guards to a life circumscribed
by the conventional duties that went with a title.

Reluctantly, the earl applied himself to the lengthy records containing General Seton’s charges. It would take a miracle to
extricate himself this time from the tangle created by Seton’s folly. No doubt the old dog had sent off the deposition in
a condition of alcoholic excess and was probably regretting it at this very moment. But what to do to salvage the situation
honorably was Straeford’s burden, not the general’s. Just how long the board would delay until the next hearing was not possible
to ascertain.

Whatever the board’s timing, Straeford decided he had had enough of the rebels of Nangore by the next evening and was ready
to join Ed Harding in an excursion to the Golden Hazard, a discreet gaming hell. Entrée to the Bloomsbury establishment depended
mainly on the size of the client’s purse, and many a well-heeled cit
rubbed elbows with gentlemen from the upper strata of society under circumstances not prevailing elsewhere in such a class
conscious world.

No-limit betting drew the inveterate gamblers of London to the Hazard’s tables, and extravagant sums were won and lost there.
It suited the earl’s purposes perfectly, since he hoped to gain a fortune to restore Straeford Park through his efforts at
cards. His cold control had served him rather well in past games of chance, and he saw no reason why he should not succeed
in applying that same style now.

“My dear Lord Straeford! How uncommon surprising to find you patronizing such plebeian environs.” It was Harold Foxworth,
an improvident fop whose supercilious manner placed him high on the earl’s list of fools to be avoided.

“I cannot say that it surprises me to find you here, Foxworth.”

The gentleman tapped Straeford lightly with his silver-headed cane and jeered, “You were ever quick on the uptake, Straeford.
I should not have forgotten. But let me introduce you to Angus Loftus, the luckiest chemin de fer gamester in London.”

Straeford’s attention was instantly alerted. The middle-aged man before him was exactly the opportunity he was seeking. “Indeed
sir, I trust your friend Foxworth speaks with authority on your gaming.”

“Aye, he does. I’ve won more than my fair share, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I hear you don’t do too badly neither, my
lord. Care to match your game to mine?”

The earl’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as he realized the affluent cit with penetrating blue eyes was sizing him up too.

“Chemin de fer is not exactly my game,” Straeford drawled, dissembling his interest.

“If Dame Fortune smiles on you, it don’t matter what the game, I always say.”

Was this a frontal attack or merely a skirmish, Straeford wondered.

“Very astute, sir. I shall be delighted to join you in a
game,” the earl agreed and followed Loftus to the table.

As he walked, his friend Harding whispered, “Lord, Justin, that’s not your game. Stick to Hazard. You’ve always been lucky
with dice.”

“The big money tonight is at the chemin table.”

“But Angus Loftus wins more than he loses,” Harding warned.

“Did you not hear the gentleman’s notions about luck? If the lady grants me her favor, I may be able to reclaim the Van Dycks
and jewels I pawned as collateral to the moneylenders and refurbish Straeford Park. I think the risk is worth it.”

Several hours later Straeford and Loftus were the only two players left at the chemin de fer table. Although they had attracted
an interested crowd of bystanders, the room was very quiet. Cautiously and accurately they had gauged each other’s plays,
but it was the earl who controlled the bank now with £ 15,000 at stake. Straeford had refused the opportunity of passing to
his opponent after the last hand. He was gambling that Loftus would declare “banco” and match Ms £ 15,000. If the earl should
win, Straeford Park was secure.

Betraying none of his inner feelings, he sipped calmly at his wine and smiled genially at the older man who was studying this
imperturbable stranger.

“Banco,” Angus claimed, shattering the stillness and placing his money beside the earl’s. The winner would take all.

The operator handed the box with the cards in it to Straeford, who slid one card out and dealt it to Loftus face down. Then
one to himself. A second card to his opponent, and finally another card to himself. Each man examined his hand with no change
of expression.

Did Loftus have an 8 or 9, Straeford wondered. If so, it was all over for him because he held a total count of four.

“Pass,” Angus Loftus called. The earl sighed silently as he too passed, returning the play to Loftus.

“I’ll stay,” the sturdy cit claimed.

Straeford raised his cigar to his mouth and puffed on it before taking his cards. His opponent probably had a
count of seven. If so, he must draw a 3 to tie or a 4 or 5 to beat him. Anything over a total count of nine and he would lose!
He drew a 2 of clubs.

Harding shifted uneasily behind him although Straeford remained unflinching with defeat yawning before him. There was still
one chance! Loftus had taken the option to stand pat at five points.

“Gentlemen?” the operator questioned.

Loftus studied his cards for one more moment, hoping to stir the younger man to some display of emotion, but the earl remained
impassive. Exasperated, Loftus flipped his cards over one at a time—a 3 of hearts—a 4 of spades!

The earl did not hesitate in revealing his own hand. Although his face paled slightly, his hands remained steady as he tossed
the cards onto the table—an ace of hearts, a 3 of spades and a 2 of clubs for a count of six.

“Mr. Loftus is the winner,” the operator announced.

There was a moment of confusion as the onlookers broke into a noisy babble, and the operator scooped up the money for the
winner.

“Congratulations, sir.” Straeford extended a steady hand to his opponent as he rose.

“You play well, my lord. Perhaps a rematch at another time?” Loftus squinted up at him.

“I doubt that, sir. My blunt is spent.”

“You will oblige me by having a drink with me?”

“Of course,” the earl nodded and dropped into a chair beside him. “Harding,” he looked up at his friend who was frowning unhappily,
“sit down and join us. I’m sure Mr. Loftus won’t mind.”

“Not at all, not at all. I think your friend needs a brandy more than you do, my lord. You too, Foxworth,” he motioned to
the dandy and turned his attention to the earl. “You take your loss admirably.”

“Do I? And how else should a gentleman behave?” Straeford claimed arrogantly as he quirked an eyebrow at the older man.

“I have been witness to many gambling displays in my day, and your coolness surpasses them all.”

“I assure you I have no intention of cutting my throat—or yours, for that matter.”

The old man chuckled. “No, I’m sure you don’t.”

“That’s not the good
Colonel’s
way, is it, Straeford?” Foxworth cut in grinning slyly. “Don’t you know, Angus, this man never displays any emotion. Some
claim he don’t have any. Do you,
Colonel?
Cool as a cucumber while your whole career hangs in the balance,” the silly man taunted.

“If I did have any emotions, you might be enjoying the back of my hand right now, Foxworth,” Straeford warned.

“Be quiet, Harold,” Angus spoke sharply, “or go away. No one is amused by your attempts at humor.”

Harold pouted angrily as he drew a lace handkerchief from his sleeve and touched it to his lips. “It does grow late, and I
do have a morning engagement.” He looked meaningfully at Loftus. “So I shall wish you a pleasant goodnight, gentlemen. Of
course, one wonders how pleasant the
Colonel’s
night will be…” he let the thought dangle. Then, pausing behind the earl’s chair, “Does tonight’s loss mean you will be
forced to sell Straeford Park,
Colonel?
Such a pity, I’m sure. But you’ve spent so little time there it’s not much use to you, is it? Unless you plan to marry soon…” Again he let the thought hang in mid-air.

“Goodnight, Foxworth,” Loftus claimed sternly while Straeford ignored his antagonist.

Foxworth laughed affectedly and sauntered off.

“Pay him no heed, my lord,” Loftus suggested.

“The man’s a popinjay,” Harding added. “His points are so high he risks stabbing himself every time he tries to turn his head.”

This produced a spurt of laughter from the three of them. When it died away, Straeford and Harding rose and took their leave
of Loftus, but as they turned to go the man called to Straeford.

“A word in private, my lord?”

Harding shrugged and left them while the earl eyed Loftus suspiciously.

“Don’t look so fierce, my lord. I have a slight proposition to put to you.”

The earl’s guarded look intensified but he did not speak.

“The sum you lost tonight—an inconvenient amount, I take it.” Loftus waited for the earl to acknowledge his statement, but
Straeford did not reply. Shrugging his heavy shoulders, the merchant continued, “Perhaps a loan ….” He waited again, letting
his eyes rest on the taller man’s impassive face.

Finally Straeford spoke. “And for this loan… you would require some service.” It was not a question but a statement.

“You come straight to the point, my lord. Yes, you might call it a service,” he temporized, “but it is late and we are both
tired. Would you find it convenient to call upon me at my offices about three this afternoon?”

Straeford accepted the proposal. “So be it. Until three.”

After dropping Harding at his home, the earl continued to his hotel, all’ the while mulling over his dilemma. He was not a
sentimental man, he told himself, and as Foxworth had pointed out, Straeford Park had not been his home for years; nevertheless
he could not contemplate losing it. The pride of the St. Clares was too ingrained in him. The estates must be saved, and the
line secured, whatever sacrifice, was demanded of him. He would have to marry, as his grandmother suggested, but he’d be damned
if it would be some climbing cit. His will to sacrifice stopped short of that particular comedown—no matter how great the
fortune of his grandmother’s particular candidate. He’d find an heiress from the
ton.

If only Robert had married Adele and provided an heir. Ah well, that was a dead end, and Adele’s qualifications for Countess
of Straeford left much to be desired. She had proved little better than a slut, coming to him the very night of Robert’s funeral
and offering herself to him. At least he did not have to contend with that bitch!

Women! They were all alike. The meaning of loyalty beyond their perfidious natures. Best restrict one’s amorous pursuits to
those ladies of the night who made no. pretense of their intentions.

Yet marry he must. And the lady would understand from the start that his only motive would be to secure an heir. There would
be no romantic illusions clouding the
picture. God grant he find some sensible female willing to accept the bargain he was girding himself to make.

Of course, there was the slim possibility that Angus Loftus would offer him a worthwhile proposition… But what did he know
about the man except that he was a wealthy textile merchant who had used chemin de fer as a pretext for meeting him? Well,
he would learn more on that score before too many hours elapsed. Dawn was already creasing the eastern sky.

That same afternoon Straeford was escorted into the merchant’s plush office, which was richly decorated in red velvet and
brown leather. The center of the room was dominated by a huge desk behind which sat Angus Loftus. The gentleman welcomed him
and offered the earl a cigar from a heavy bronze box inlaid with a darker metal in a scrollwork pattern.

“Now, let us get down to business,” Loftus proposed confidently.

“By all means.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Lord Straeford, I have had my eye on you for some time, ever “since your return from India.”

“Indeed.” Straeford regarded his host blandly.

“Hope you don’t mind my saying that I don’t hold with the raking-over you’re getting in the press these days. A lot of puffed-up
nonsense pandering to the noisy rabble. Experience has taught me not to judge on the appearance of things. There are always
deeper currents than meet the eye.” He paused. “There now, I’ve said my say and you’ll hear no more from me on that score.”

The earl nodded noncommittally, not allowing himself to react.

Loftus observed his guest and leaned forward confidingly. “I’ll come quickly to the point, my lord.”

“Please do.”

“You and I, Lord Straeford, can be of service to each other in meeting needs… needs each of us is capable of satisfying for
the other. To be blunt about it, you need money, my lord, and I…” he paused again.

“Yes?” Straeford queried, but the merchant was not quite ready to reveal his full proposal.

“I’ll see that Straeford Park and your town house are restored. Also the paintings, jewelry and land which have been sold
over the years are bought back—under the following conditions…”