Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

By Way Of A Wager (19 page)

BOOK: By Way Of A Wager

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What could it mean? She was in no state to grapple with its significance. The duke had spoken of love. Was it possible? Possible that he'd offered marriage out of affection, not duty? Adoration not chivalry? The thought was too precious to just dismiss. She'd ponder it on the trip back. Tonight she'd just savor for what it was. Time alone with her heart's delight.

“Do you play cards?” Miles pulled the belt of his rope tighter and looked Cassandra directly in the eye. If only she knew how much he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away the madness. Still, life with her could never be said to be boring!

“Cards?” Cassandra was lost.

“Yes! Piquet, poker, rummy, that type of thing. Go in for a little flutter now and then?”

It was on the tip of Cassandra's tongue to deny she ever gambled. She stopped midthought, the vision of the challenge she'd thrown to the duke fresh in her memory. It might be interesting to get a glimpse of his style. Not cheating, really. Just a little firsthand observation.

“Yes. Yes, I do from time to time.”

Miles looked at her quizzically. From out the great desk came a new deck, clean and glowing in the half light.

“You cut?”

Cassandra nodded. There was no way she was going to get any more sleep that night. Not with Miles so very close. This evening was precious. The last they'd ever spend together. It surprised her how much the thought pained her. She dealt the cards quickly. The duke was impressed by her expert handling. Obviously no novice, this one. A lady of many talents!

Cut after cut. Deal after deal. They were well matched, Cassandra fiercely concentrating, the duke languid. The first few rounds went to an exhilarated Miss Beaumaris. The duke hardly seemed perturbed.

The next few went to himself. After that, there was no stopping him. It seemed that the more Cassandra concentrated, the more he won from her. It was annoying and delightful at the same time. The man offered a real challenge to her intelligence. Not even her wily brother could hold his own as well as this man did. If truth were told, Cassandra was actually having fun, the large pile of nutshells gradually diminishing before her eyes as the duke systematically won them all back. Thank heavens the stakes were so manageable! Cassandra could not help but breathe a satisfied sigh.

By the time they finally did fall asleep, he over his wine, she over her last remaining nutshells, the sun was just beginning to dawn over the horizon.

EIGHTEEN

Consistent with their reputation, Messrs. Longey, Longey and Brandon had done the duke proud. The
Prince Regent
was a vessel to be reckoned with. Stable and strong, it bore little resemblance to the dingy that had ferried Cassandra and Rupert across the morning before. His Grace's yacht could well have been regarded by some as a national treasure.

What was more encouraging was that its crew comprised a good deal of the trusted servants of His Grace's household. Though Pickering and Pomerey were absent, Vallon was to be spied brandishing a full set of ducal coat hangers and any number of well-starched neckties. Familiar, too, were a couple of poker-faced footmen who, with much aplomb, graced the portals of the castle on sea.

The duke was led to remark that it was a pity the grooms had not come along, too. He could have done with a morning's ride. Cassandra detected the humor lurking behind the chance remark, and her eyes gleamed. What fun the duke was when one got to know him! Not at all the man she'd imagined. Had she really called him a gilded lily? The thought made her want to cringe. How could she have?

The duke exuded more forcefulness and energy than ever she had seen in a man. Though he gambled, he gambled with purpose. And he won. Always he won. Cassandra thought of her impetuous challenge and sighed. Her wager had been too precipitate by far! Perhaps, now that circumstances had altered, he'd release her from the contest. She hoped so. Or did she? Her heart was crying treason. It was best she busied herself with something else.

Rupert was at her side. “You all right?”

Cassandra nodded.

“Look, I'm awfully sorry about this whole mess,” he said.

Rupert looked so contrite Cassandra had to laugh. “Don't be. It was me who got you into it, not the other way round!”

The young man eyed her ruefully but did not have it in him to gainsay her. “I think you're an awfully good sport you know.” His smile deepened, shyness returning.

“Well, I thank you.” Cassandra made a grand bow. “I confess I'll be very pleased to see land again. Also, a long, clean lacy dress would not go all that amiss. I can hardly stand to wear these breeches any longer. As for this hat, well, it's so scratchy I can hardly bear it, and my hair keeps threatening to come tumbling out! I have the most unmanageable mass, you know.”

Viscount Lyndale grinned. “Yes, I'd gathered! Not long now, Mr. Marshall. I've rather missed Miss Beaumaris you know.”

“Have you?” Cassandra cocked her brow. “I daresay she's missed you too!” Her tone altered. “I expect she'll be utterly delighted to see Frances.”

“Yes. Don't forget, it's imperative you act surprised. Miles has the most uncannily suspicious mind, you know. He'll skin me alive if ever he gets whiff of this exploit.” Rupert looked whimsical.

Cassandra grimaced. “Well, we've made it this far. Let us hope our luck continues. Harrington is in for a shock! I can hardly wait to see his face when Frances walks in. Violet will have an apoplexy, I'm sure.”

“By all accounts she deserves to. Hush, here's Miles.”

Cassandra whirled around in time to see His Grace fixing her with a rather penetrating stare. Remembering herself, she made a hurried bow. His Grace inclined his head.

“It looks as though we're set for a smooth passage. The men are just casting off. You're not prone to seasickness are you Mr. Marshall?”

“Nnooo ...” Cassandra did not sound convincing.

Miles smiled sympathetically. “I see you need something to take your mind off the passage! I have a good cheroot in my cabin. I'd be honored if you'd join me there.”

Rupert, somewhat uncharacteristically, broke in on his guardian. “I don't think so, Miles. You see ...”

“I don't believe I was addressing you, Rupert! Mr. Marshall?”

“Well, I uh ...” Cassandra was at a loss for an excuse. The duke was gazing at her with a fascinating twinkle, and she found she was no match to his will. The man was impossible! One look from him and she lost all her composure. It was unheard of.

“Thank you. Yes. Thank you.” She was burbling like an idiot.

Rupert shot her an anguished glance. The yacht lurched. “I'll join you!”

The duke relented and bowed. “By all means, Rupert!”

In no time at all the trio was headed for the sanctum of His Grace's cabin. The sixth earl of Surrey was already there, perched somewhat precariously on the tip of a rose brocade chaise longue. His old spirits were rapidly returning, and he greeted the party with a broad smile and an eloquent handshake for each. Cassandra's eyes met his as she made her requisite bow. The twinkle in his bright eyes matched her own. What a relief it was that she had the support of Rupert and Frances. Between them, they should be able to dupe the duke long enough for the landing.

Miles moved over to his bureau and drew out a long, slim case. His arm extended as he passed around the cheroots, remarking conversationally that he would be very pleased to hear their opinion. Frances shot Cassandra an anxious glance. He need not have worried, she was gamely selecting her cigar. The hint of a smile lingered in the duke's eyes before he moved on to the next of his guests.

“Fond of tobacco, Lord Beaumaris?”

“Frances. Please call me Frances.” His lordship was regarding the duke with something approaching hero-worship. That same expression was mirrored in Rupert's eyes. Cassandra felt a slight impatience. She nonchalantly dangled the cheroot from her mouth. It was all her traitorous sibling could do to stop laughing.

Miles was at her side. “Allow me, Mr. Marshall.” With a deft sweep of the wrist he hit the cheroot. Cassandra inhaled with a swagger. She'd watched it done dozens of times.

The smoke curled inside her, escaping through her throat and down her nostrils. For an instant she felt she'd choke; then she needed to breathe. With a splutter she opened her mouth and coughed, desperate to inhale clean air.

In a trice Miles was at her side, his hand firmly tapping her back until the fit had passed. Eyes streaming, Cassandra was still bewilderedly holding the cheroot.

“Not to your taste, I fancy.” The duke gently removed the offending cigar. “The aroma is uncommon. A blend unique to the East, I gather. What think you of it?”

The remark, addressed to Frances, was conversational. The earl shook his head. “After Mr. Marshall's reaction I dare not! Thanks all the same!”

The duke shrugged. “Rupert?”

“Yes, please!” The young man lit up with a casual air. He did not fool his guardian for a moment.

“Like it?”

Rupert coughed discreetly. “A little on the strong side, I reckon!” He turned to Cassandra. “My uncle is forever purchasing exotic substances. You're not the first to fall victim to his peculiar tastes!”

Cassandra nodded. “That's all right, then. As long as I have not offended you, sir?”

Miles's eyes softened. “Not at all, my dear Mr. Marshall! Not all of my friends are partial to my tastes, you know. Come, let us amuse ourselves. First person to throw two sixes wins.” The duke drew a pair of heavy, golden dice out from his waistcoat. “I always keep a pair handy. It whiles away the time, you know. My nurse taught me that trick. By the time I'd finally thrown a pair of sixes we were always well on our way to Bath. I used to hate those journeys. My father, Lord rest his soul, never believed in well-sprung carriages.”

Rupert was interested. “You never told me that.”

The duke looked quizzical. “Ah, I daresay there are a great many things I've not told you, Rupert.”

The viscount grinned. “I daresay!”

His Grace looked pointedly at Cassandra. “Sit down, Andrew. Lord BeaumarisâFrances I meanâyou roll first.”

Frances inclined his head. He shook vigorously. A five and a six. “Damnation!” His oath brought a jolliness to the proceedings. Rupert threw two ones, Cassandra a four and a three. The duke flicked the dice with astonishing speed. Another five and six. The round started again. The cabin was silent, all eyes on the dice. Round after round, it seemed perverse that none among them seemed to strike the sixes. The
Prince Regent
was well on her way to England before the long awaited moment arrived.

Cassandra had just affected another of her peculiar flicks. The throw had landed a six and a four, but the die had trembled, then trembled again until landing with decision on the six. A twelve! The company clapped in unison. Mr. Andrew Marshall grinned broadly.

“What's the prize, Miles? We never agreed on terms!” Frances had entered with zest into the spirit of things.

A strange light crossed the duke's handsome features. “That is for Mr. Marshall to decide, is it not?”

Cassandra almost blushed. Instead, she disclaimed and deftly turned the conversation. The winds held up. Every wave was a wave nearer England.

On shore, Harrington paced up and down. Jake was a day late by his summation. Andover was a dreary place to be that time of the year, and the innkeeper was vulgarly keen to see the glint of gold. Impatience spurred the usurping earl to action. All morning he was to be seen on the wharves, eyeglass extended, waiting. It would take only the flash of the raven's black or the peacock's green to send him scurrying officiously alongside the most unlikely of vessels. He was disappointed every time.

The arrival of the
Prince Regent
held no interest for him whatsoever. The vessel was too large by far and was carrying a crest of crimson and gold. A good deal of the port officials seemed to be shaken out of their inertia, but this fact was merely a mild irritant to the edgy earl incumbent. When the whole episode was satisfactorily over, he'd dock Jake's pay for the delay. The tension, he was convinced, was slowly killing him.

The minion in question, Jake, had well and truly spilled the beans. Harrington would have cringed to know the extent of his outpourings. Even now, as he strutted up and down the moorings, his days of freedom were numbered. Miles knew where he was waiting, what he was waiting for, and with exactly how much of the ready. It was only a matter of time.

The waiting continued. A small sloop was gliding in to port. Harrington was momentarily arrested. His eyeglass went up then fell again. A dinghy, no more. Silently he stamped his foot in impotence. A sibilant voice uttered his name. He whirled around thinking it was Jake, and that he must have missed him somehow.

It was not Jake. The eighth duke of Wyndham, earl of Roscow and baron of the Isles stood before him, a veritable nemesis. Dressed in black, he was impeccable as ever, his signet ring flashing ruby in the sunlight. Harrington suppressed an inward rush of anger. This man was the most meddlesome, unwanted specimen he'd ever come across. So cocksure! He wanted to plant him a flush hit there and then. It wouldn't do, he knew. The duke was a master. He still had the faint tenderness and cheek bruising to prove it.

“What do you want?”

The duke smiled, his teeth gleaming a perfect white. “Who are you waiting for, Harrington?”

“None of your damn business!”

“Ah, but that is where you are so very misguided! I believe it is very much my business!”

Harrington glared at him.

“Perhaps we will wait for this mysterious arrival together. You do not mind, of course?” The duke's tone was silky, but the usurper was not fooled. He knew the game was up, and in a flash he had his sword drawn.

It was fortunate, indeed, that His Grace had anticipated such a course. Their steels clashed at one and the same moment. Sir Robert was good, his point just winging the duke more than once. He did not, however, reckon on St. John's dexterity and force of thrust. Just as the sweat was beginning to pour from Sir Robert's forehead, he felt a sharp pain in the shoulder blades and knew himself to be pinked.

His Grace stayed his sword in grim satisfaction.

Harrington cursed. “Now look you ...”

BOOK: By Way Of A Wager

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