Amanda Scott (47 page)

“I was. I began with a thousand that Rigger lent me, and by the time we stopped to eat, I was nearly three thousand ahead.”

“Then how did you come to grief on a single hand afterward?”

“He said he had an appointment, that he’d set himself a limit of what he could lose before he’d have to quit, and that if I was willing, he’d just bet the rest—five thousand pounds, Nick!—on one game. I’d been winning so much, so quickly, and I was absolutely confident that I’d win again.” He had the grace to look ashamed, adding, “I didn’t cheat at first, Nick, honestly. I was winning fair and square, but then when I began losing, I got more and more desperate. Rigger had arranged for us to get those packs to begin, you see. I thought he must have bribed a porter, but I suppose, if Yarborne owns the club, he didn’t have to do any such thing. He’s the one you were talking about, I know, for he’s the one who taught me the tricks of the cards. Dashed if I’m not beginning to think now that this is why it’s always high tide with him.”

“Yes,” Nick said, “and with Yarborne, too. Now I think we know how he amassed his wealth. They are sharps, plain and simple. I won’t be surprised to learn that even the title is spurious.”

“Probably the real name is Yard-born,” Tommy said scornfully.

“I was a fool,” Oliver said.

“Yes, but they set you up, first by teaching you how to cheat and then by easing you into a position where you’d be too desperate to do anything else. They depended on your guilty conscience to keep you quiet while they extorted the amount of your losses from Father. I have more to say to you about all this, which you are not going to enjoy, but that can wait. How did Rigger get you into the game with that Belgian?”

“He lent me my stake, as I told you,” Oliver said ruefully. “He said I couldn’t lose, that the fellow was so nearsighted he couldn’t tell one card from another, and so it was at first. I swear I never meant to cheat, but Rigger had lent me so much money, and I owed other creditors, and”—he drew a deep breath—“and since I knew just how to do it, the temptation grew until it became irresistible. If you hadn’t come along—” His voice broke on a sob. “God, I’d have been ruined, and Father—What he would have said! I-I deserve whatever you do to me, Nick.”

“I own I’d like to horsewhip you, Ollie,” Nick said quietly, “but we’ll talk about it all later. I think we can arrange something slightly less painful. You might as well know that Father knows about the duping. I won’t tell him about your cheating though, and you are not to tell him yourself. It would disappoint him far too much.”

Oliver licked his lips, shoved a hand through his hair, then looked at him again. “I’m grateful, Nick, but the devil of it is that I’ve served you a dashed backhanded trick in return. I don’t deserve what you’ve done for me, and that’s a fact. Melissa’s gone.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“She left, or if she hasn’t gone, she’s leaving. It was one of my fool pranks, because she thinks you don’t care for her, that she’s just a prize in a game you won. She said you were angry with her again, that she can never be what you want.”

“She’s wrong,” Nick said, fighting to control his dismay.

“Lord, I know that. It’s my belief you fell hard for her the moment you laid eyes on her, or you’d never have parted with your blunt like you did. It’s why I told her to go. I knew you’d follow her and bring her back. Even Rigger agreed with me. Half of London must know you’re nutty on her, the way you poker up if anyone so much as—”

“You say Robert Yarborne knew of this? What’s his part in it?”

Oliver looked surprised. “Why, we just talked, the way friends do. There was Seacourt’s body being found and all, and Rigger was saying how his father was a deep one, and how when Rigger thinks he wants someone to do a thing, it frequently turns out that Yarborne wanted them to do something else altogether. Well, he wasn’t making much sense, I can tell you, but it struck a chord with me, so I told him Melissa had said something similar about you. Well, Rigger likes a prank as well as I do, and he said we ought to put it into her head to bolt so that you’d follow like—What?”

Nick looked at Tommy. “I’m thinking that more than one rig has been run today. I just wonder if one sharp is dealing the cards, or two.”

Tommy frowned. “Are you thinking Seacourt’s death is a part of this, Nick?”

“I’m thinking it was a miscalculation,” Nick said. “I think we’d best get back to the house. If Melissa’s already gone—”

“I told her not to go before tomorrow,” Oliver said, “but I’ll wager anything you like that she left the house soon after I did this morning.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Nick said, “and if she’s gone, my lad, you can forget what I said about painless remedies.” He turned to Tommy. “It occurs to me that we might want to lay hands on our Belgian ‘count’ again, if for no other reason than to help shut down Yarborne’s damned club. Will you attend to that? I’ll leave it to your judgment how to manage him, but I’ll support any promises you have to make.”

“Leave him to me,” Tommy said, “but are you sure you won’t need me if you have to go out of town again tonight.”

“I won’t need you,” Nick said, “but if anything happens to Melissa before I find her, Oliver is going to need someone to patch him up when I’m through with him.”

“That just goes to show that you do love her,” Oliver said shrewdly, “but you needn’t worry about her coming to any harm, you know. She promised faithfully that she wouldn’t go anywhere without her maid.”

“You damned well better hope she didn’t lie about that,” Nick said grimly, striding forward to meet the phaeton before his groom had drawn it to a halt.

A
FTER MELISSA’S CAPTORS LEFT
her, she felt the blackness closing in, shutting off the very air she needed to breathe. By moving against the side wall, she managed after some moments to scrape the blindfold off, but even then she could not have seen a hand before her face had she been able to raise one. Since her captor had not spared an ounce of compassion in binding her, she feared the circulation in her wrists and ankles soon would be impeded. No use to hope she might somehow free herself, either. Even the gag was cruelly tight.

Tears welled in her eyes, and for a moment the urge to give way to them was nearly too much for her. But then anger replaced fear. Not for a moment did she believe Oliver responsible for her present position, and if he were not, then someone else had put up the road signs. But who could have done such a thing? Who could possibly have known she would respond as she had, that she would recognize their meaning and obey the final instruction to return to Newmarket, to the Rutland Arms? She realized then that Oliver could not have known so much. Surely no one but Nicholas himself knew her well enough for all that. But even if somehow Nicholas had aided Oliver, he had no motive for such a betrayal—no reason to have her captured, bound, gagged, and left to rot in this dank and dismal shed. Or had he?

Remembering some of the things he had said after finding her at Yarborne’s, but remembering, too, that he had promised on his oath never to lift a finger against her in anger, she wondered if somehow this could be his way of keeping his promise while still teaching her a lesson he thought she deserved. He had commanded her to stay at Barrington House, and he had said he would make her sorry if she defied him. What better punishment than to show her the risk she had run? In her experience, for a man to believe he was keeping his word even when he was doing something hateful like locking his wife in a toolshed to teach her the error of her ways, would be entirely in keeping with the way men generally interpreted their authority over women. Moreover, Nicholas had shown a taste for locking her up from that first night when he had taken her clothes to keep her from leaving the house.

Somehow, though, it was hard to put such a deed in the context of what she knew about him now. She could not imagine him forgoing the Derby to commit such a vile act against her, no matter how errant he thought her behavior. To imagine him sacrificing Epsom to prove his affection for her had been easier, because it fit with his view of himself as a gamester through and through, a man answering a challenge in such a way as to win his point unconditionally.

The night was not cold, but the shed was nippy, and before long, despite her cloak and a pile of what she suspected were burlap sacks beneath her, she could no longer ignore the creeping chill. Wriggling to find a more comfortable position helped get blood moving in her veins again, but she became increasingly uncomfortable and began to fear that she would soon have no feeling left in her hands and feet.

Time passed slowly. She could hear occasional sounds from the inn yard, the clatter of horseshoes on cobbles when a single rider arrived, and the greater noise of iron wheels and a team when a carriage rolled into the yard. Shouts rang out from ostlers and grooms now and again, but the yard was not busy, certainly not so busy as it had been on her previous visit.

A rustling alerted her to the possibility of rats or mice, and she shivered, feeling colder than ever. Would her captor, whoever he was, leave her in this awful place much longer? She tried moaning, but the sounds did not even stop the rustling. Persuaded now that a mouse, if not a horrid rat, shared her quarters, she wriggled again, scraping her feet back and forth along the ground. The rustling stopped.

Knowing she would not sleep, she turned her thoughts to Nicholas again, and to the decision she had made to leave. She had been foolish then and even more foolish to dismiss her postilions before discovering who awaited her at the inn. She wondered how she had ever thought she was sensible enough to look after herself. Clearly, she required a keeper. If she ever got out of this mess, Nicholas would be the first to agree with that assessment, if he did not order her clapped into Bedlam.

A new rustling caught her attention. Realizing that the sound came from outside the shed this time, she struggled to sit upright, wincing at a streak of pain that shot up her arms from her bound wrists. Thumping followed by a metallic rattle and a muffled epithet told her that someone was coming. But even as the hope entered her mind that one of the inn servants had come to the shed to fetch some tool or other, and that freedom was at hand, the door swung open with a screech, two shadowy figures stepped hastily inside, and the door shut with only slightly less noise than before.

“Find some oil, for God’s sake,” muttered a masculine voice, “and slosh some on those damned hinges.”

“Aye, sir, I’ll have a look, but I’ll be needing a bit o’ light if I do, and someone will be bound to see it.”

“Here, I’ve a tinderbox with brimstone matches. No one will notice a small flame, for it will be dawn soon. We didn’t see a soul around, you’ll recall.”

“Nay, for who’d come to a shed at the back of a garden when all’s said and done? Still and all, it don’t do to be lighting the place up too bright, I say.”

“Nor to draw the attention of everyone for miles about by opening that damned door again without we muffle its screech,” the other retorted sarcastically.

Melissa had not recognized their voices, but when, after the metallic scrape of flint against steel, a match flared to life, she was not surprised to see that her chief captor was Robert Yarborne, and his companion the man she had mistaken earlier for a stableboy. Wrinkling her nose against the sulfurous smell of the brimstone match, she remembered Oliver’s saying that he had confided her troubles to his friend, and knew he must have also informed Robert of her intent to depart for Scotland. To imagine Robert Yarborne or the scoundrel with him scurrying about with a paintbrush and pail was certainly much easier than it had been to imagine Nicholas in that role. She could only wonder how they had managed it so quickly.

“I suppose you are surprised to see me,” Robert said smugly as his henchman, finding a lantern, lighted it with a second match and quickly turned it as low as it would go. The soft golden glow set shadows dancing on the walls of the shed, but only after moments had passed without a reply from her did Robert notice the gag. He said in much the same tone as before, “I’ll remove that thing but only if you promise not to shriek. Believe me, you don’t want to be found here with me, for I shall say that we were running away together, and you’d have a dashed hard time, in the circumstances, to prove otherwise. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, wishing she could slap him, wishing she were Charley or, better yet, Lady Ophelia, either of whom would know better than she how to deal with Master Robert. But even as that thought crossed her mind, the name she had unconsciously given him presented a ludicrous image to her mind of Robert as a child, and she began to relax. Charley was right. Courage was all in how one perceived one’s opponent. That, in turn, affected the way one perceived oneself and one’s ability to cope with any situation. She looked directly at him as he leaned to untie the gag, wishing the lamp were not behind him so that she could read his expression and better gauge his mood.

He loosened the gag and untied her ankles, and she had all she could do not to cry out at the sudden pain caused by returning circulation in her cheeks, lips, and feet. Opening and shutting her mouth with care, several times, she licked dry lips and wiggled her toes, glaring at her captor.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“You told me not to shriek,” she said hoarsely. “In any event, I’ve nothing to say to you that you want to hear.”

“A wench ought to keep her mouth shut, in any case, and just do as she’s told,” Robert said, his grin so wide that even though she could scarcely make out his features, she could see his white teeth.

She held her tongue.

“See, Lakey,” he said over his shoulder. “Females just need to be taught to know who’s master, like I said before.”

“I don’t think much of this business,” the man called Lakey muttered. “You shouldn’t ought to be tyin’ up a gentry mort like that ’un.”

“I suppose you think I ought to turn her loose.”

“Not sayin’ that neither,” the man muttered. “Just sayin’ they’ll be some-un coming to this shed before long, and then we’ll find ourselves in the suds, certain.”