My Lady, My Lord (16 page)

In normal circumstances Ian wouldn’t hesitate to make it indisputably clear to Mowbray that his
tastes
ran toward a decidedly different sort of female than his daughter. But he held his tongue. He couldn’t speak in that manner now. He would not shame her before her father.

“Take care with him,” Mowbray said. “Spend your time with gentlemen you can respect.”

Ian remained silent.

Atop the receiving table in the house’s foyer, a modest bouquet of pink roses glowed in the lamplight, greeting them with candied fragrance. Mowbray took up the posy and the attached calling card. He turned to Ian with a pleased expression. Ian took the card.

With all my admiration. Giles Fitzhugh.

Ian set the card on the table and moved toward the stairs. He wanted his club. He wanted his horse and a clear field that stretched for miles. He wanted his house four doors away. He wanted the freedom of being a man who could leave in the middle of the night to go wherever he wished, see whomever he wished, do whatever he wished. He wanted a bottle of brandy, a deck of cards, and the company of men with nothing but the basest of amusements on their minds. He wanted his own body and a woman in his bed. He wanted his life back, and he wanted one damnably literate, wide-eyed, apologizing bluestocking out of it.

It didn’t matter what she hoped. He did not feel reconciled to her, reformed, or repentant. It would require a miracle tomorrow night to save him.

C
ORINNA AWOKE LATE
in the morning, newly refreshed and excited for the evening ahead. As he had indicated, Ian did not come. She spent the day shuffling and reshuffling the deck of cards, reviewing what he’d taught her, and reading. But she could not concentrate.

Fidgety, she took Ian’s big black horse to the park. After several encounters with his friends during which she had little of sense to say, followed by an unsettling meeting with Lady Chance and her father driving together, Corinna called it quits.

Far too early, she began dressing for the ball. Andrews entered, chastised her mildly, instructed her to disrobe, and then dressed her again. When the valet finished, she looked splendid, tall, broad shouldered, handsome, thoroughly top of the trees. She spared a moment to wonder whether card sharps cared if their opponents were attractive, elegantly garbed gentlemen in their prime, or if only guineas and race horses mattered.

She took a bite to eat, but could not stomach more. When it finally came time to depart for Alverston House she called for the curricle. She jumped up into it jauntily, snapped the reins, and nearly collided with a hackney coach.

Foolish
. She ought to have ordered the groom to drive her. Her nerves were far too agitated. The jarvey upbraided her, and she spent a few tense minutes calming Ian’s priceless grays, assisted by his tiger.

But her spirits revived swiftly, and her blood jittered with anticipation as she entered the Earl and Countess of Alverston’s elegant ballroom. Gold, silver, and violet crepe swathed the walls, draped around crystal chandeliers and about entrance columns and doorposts. Terrace doors and windows stood wide to the cool evening, clearing the air for the crush, and candles flickered, casting the place in a sparkling glow. The lilt of violins, cello, clarinet, and trumpet brightened the air, competing with voices of men and women raised in conversation and laughter.

The footman announced “His lordship, the Earl of Chance.” Corinna stood upon the last step into the ballroom and scanned the crowd for Ian. She could not find him and realized abruptly that she was searching for a man.

A woman dressed in black appeared at her side. “Are you ready?”

She hadn’t seen him since the previous day with Gregory, but now he spared no greeting.
No preliminaries,
just as he’d said of her days ago. Nothing, apparently, had changed.

Corinna’s skull began to throb. “Yes.” She nodded, suddenly uncertain if she spoke the truth.

“Sparks is entering now. He is above medium height with brown hair, and he wears a brown coat and green striped waistcoat.”

The man Ian described met her gaze. Mr. Sparks nodded, she returned the gesture, then she glanced aside. Ian had disappeared. But he had warned her of as much. He would not be seen with her again. It was for the best.

Giddy anticipation gone, now she only wanted the evening finished. Lord Grace and the marquess met her in the crowd on the way to the card room.

“A sorry crush, ain’t it, Chance?” Marquess Drake said cheerily, clapping her on the back. “Playing tonight?” He almost always asked the same, whether they met in the park, the club, or a ballroom. Corinna wondered if the question simply stood as a standard greeting for him. Or perhaps Ian actually played cards that frequently.

What was she doing?
How had she ever imagined she could beat a card sharp, a notorious gambler who cheated, and after only two short lessons? She was a fool, and arrogant too. Ian had it right all along. She was far too full of her own consequence.

“I heard you’re playing Sparks tonight to win back Bucephalus,” Lord Grace commented, glancing about the crowd. “Have you seen him yet?”

“Yes. I am heading to the card room now. Care to join me?” Should his friends be present at her failure? Would it be better if she warned them off? Heaven help her, she was about to shame Ian in the most dreadful way, and he was allowing her to do it. He truly cared nothing about his reputation, nor obviously about his money. Why had he allowed her to go through with this?

“Course we do,” the marquess exclaimed. “A man’s friends should be around him when he trounces a villain.”

“Gentlemen, I will meet you in the card room shortly. Your pardon.” Lord Grace moved toward a sparklingly beautiful woman with black curls and a lush figure packed into a risqué gown.

“Clark isn’t here tonight,” the marquess said on a sniff of snuff, gesturing toward their friend’s retreating form. “Never is, of course.”

Corinna nodded, but she hadn’t the time or interest to ponder Ian’s friends’ flirtations with married women. She headed toward the card room, threading her way through a number of her own friends, most of whom gave her a cursory glance but did not greet her. Ian was nowhere in sight. Where on earth had he gone to, the ladies’ retiring room? A giggle welled up in her broad chest, loosening the straps of tension there.

But the moment she entered the room set aside for gaming, the straps reaffixed about her ribs. Cigar smoke clouded the place like fog. Gentlemen slumped over hands of cards, some wearing peculiar garments—a purple hat, a coat donned backward, a yellowed cravat bound about the wrist. Good luck talismans. Did Ian have one of those, a trinket or memento that assured he would win each time? A gift from a former mistress, a garter perhaps, or a perfumed handkerchief?

She dragged her imagination away from the thought and moved to an empty seat.

“Ah, Chance, glad you could join us,” Lord Matthews said, dealing Corinna in.

Oh, dear Lord, it was beginning.

“Glad to be here.” Did that sound all right? Did real gamblers chat while they played? She’d only ever played cards at house parties, mostly in Bath where her aunt and uncle now lived after retiring from the diplomatic service. But passing the time with aging matrons and gouty old men had hardly prepared her for this. Each gentleman and lady in the place seemed more intimidating than the next. Messrs., Mesdames, ladies and lords she hadn’t ever given a thought to when meeting them in a drawing room looked menacing from behind a fan of cards.

What on earth was she doing here?
She must leave at once, find Ian, and tell him it was an enormous mistake, she’d been wrong and wished it weren’t so, but there you have it. When it all came down to it, she was a braggart and a wretched coward.

“What game will it be, my lord?” a voice came beside her, slippery and smooth.

For a notorious card sharp, Mr. Sparks seemed plain, everything about him brown, from his brows to his boots. His white shirt and the emerald stripes on his waistcoat provided the only relief from thorough insipidity. Even his features seemed without color, regular shaped and not interesting enough to remark upon. If she had encountered him in any other manner, she would be hard pressed to recall that she had the following day.

“Piquet, if you please,” she said, taking little sips of air into her lungs to steady herself. Mr. Sparks might not look like much, but he stole fortunes from unsuspecting people every night. Corinna had in her pocket a vowel for five thousand pounds of Ian’s fortune that could easily go the same way shortly.

Lord Matthews passed the deck to Corinna. The other gentlemen present seemed to know the situation, and removed themselves from the table, leaving only Corinna and the sharper.

She cut the deck, won the deal, and began. Marquess Drake hovered at her shoulder, and when Lord Grace arrived she sensed his solid presence as well. Ian did have loyal friends; that much was clear. And, apparently, other supporters. Or perhaps Mr. Sparks was terribly unpopular. As she won the first hand, a hum of approval seemed to spread through the room, even among those playing at other tables. It must be good luck to begin by winning.

Mr. Sparks shuffled and dealt, Corinna schooled her features, arranged her cards as tutored, and won again.

By the sixth deal she was still winning. She wasn’t fool enough to imagine this a good omen. But she didn’t know what to do except continue in the same vein. Her shoulders felt cramped and her hands grew cold. Ian had told her not to move about excessively, nor to allow her gaze to stray from the table, more specifically from Sparks’s hands and the cards. She couldn’t even look about to see if the real Lord Chance were anywhere near.

But she knew he was not. He was a man of his word. If he said they would not be seen together, no matter what it might mean to his interests—whether a coveted horse or five thousand pounds—he would adhere to that.

~o0o~

Ian scanned the assembled guests, looking for only one. Lord Pelley eluded detection.

At least he wasn’t in the card room. Corinna had seemed restless. But she would do her best. That woman liked a challenge. Ian only hoped the evening wouldn’t cost him more than five thousand guineas.

His mind pulled away from the idea that tonight his horse would be lost to him forever. Jeffries had made an astoundingly high offer, apparently. Sparks intended to sell as soon as the game ended. But Ian knew the sharper wanted to rub his nose in the loss first. He’d won the animal from Gregory, after all, but he had only played him to get at Ian.

“How do you do this evening, Lady Corinna?” Giles Fitzhugh bowed.

“Well, thank you, my lord,” Ian said tightly. But Fitzhugh didn’t seem to notice. He looked as appreciative as he had at the theater. As appreciative as his damned posy said the night before.

“I’m glad to see you here,” Fitzhugh said. “Your absence was remarked at Lady Beaufetheringstone’s alfresco luncheon yesterday.” Yesterday midday, just about the time that, standing beside Corinna in his garden, Ian had experienced the single true moment of insanity in his life.

“How gratifying to be missed,” he murmured, his gaze shifting toward the terrace where a tall man with iron gray hair and a narrow face spoke with several other men. Pelley had arrived.

“Might you still have a space unassigned on your dance card, my lady?” Fitzhugh inquired.

“Dance card?” He couldn’t approach Pelley while surrounded by so many old Tories. But he didn’t relish waiting all evening for the interview. The sooner done, the better.

“I had hoped to beg you yesterday to save a set for me,” Fitzhugh said warmly.

“Thank you for your gift, my lord.” Ian tried to sound sincere. If a fellow went to the trouble of sending flowers, he ought to get some thanks for it. Ian had never sent a woman a posy. Gifts suited the end of a relationship better than the beginning, and jewels had the appropriate effect.

“It was my greatest pleasure, my lady.”

If buying flowers for a spinster was Fitzhugh’s greatest pleasure, Ian was heartily sorry for him.

“Will you promise me a dance?”

Pelley was on the move, separating from the cluster of old gents and moving toward the card room. Ian couldn’t allow that.

“Yes, thank you,” he said hastily. “But, pardon me if you will. I must go speak with—”

“Lord Pelley.” Fitzhugh smiled. “Yes, of course.” He grasped Ian’s hand and squeezed it gently. “The best of luck to you, my dear.”

Ian moved across the room in a haze of confusion. Fitzhugh knew of her desire to purchase Pelley’s company? Was it public knowledge, or did he share her confidences especially? She’d said nothing of particular note to him about Fitzhugh, but why would she? She couldn’t very well tell him the details of her courtship with another man.

But why not? In fact, she damn well blast should have. What if Fitzhugh had expected more of her—
him
—than Ian anticipated? But she evaded his questions about her suitors. Did she have something to hide? Would Abernathy not have been the first, after all?

Ian waylaid Pelley mere yards from the door to the card room.

“Lady Corinna,” Pelley said upon an impatient breath. Ian’s hackles rose.

“Good evening, Lord Pelley,” he said, training his voice to Corinna’s most conciliatory tone. “I’m glad to see you here tonight.”

“Yes, I am certain you are.” Pelley’s nostrils pinched. “You are tenacious.”

“I am. But the last time we spoke you did say you were intrigued, and your note yesterday suggested you would be glad to hear me out this evening.”

“It did. Shall we commence with the interview?”

Ian liked a man who got straight to the point, even if he didn’t like anything else about Pelley. Smoothing down his irritation, he began.

~o0o~

A hush fell over the card room. Beyond the door, the party seemed miles away. But within, all remained silent. No crystal glasses clinked on teeth or tabletop. No king, queen, or ace flickered against another in that tip-tap of the corners of crisp new decks. No murmur of astonishment or approbation met Corinna’s ears.

Even if there had been noise—shouting, bell ringing, the king’s own trumpeters—she would not have noted it. She held a superior hand. Sparks could not possibly meet with victory now. Her points hovered just below one hundred. She would win.

Her opponent placed his trick down, Corinna followed, and soon their fingers were empty. Nine of twelve tricks on the table belonged to her. In a tight voice, Sparks spoke the point count. Then he reached into his waistcoat, drew out a scrap of paper, and slid it across the table beside Corinna’s hand. Without reading it, Corinna tucked it into her pocket and released a slow, shallow breath of pure, glorious relief.

People began to talk. Lord Grace clasped her on the shoulder and spoke in her ear. Marquess Drake launched into encomiums to the gentlemen nearby. Corinna heard none of it. She swiveled around, dizzy from the sudden movement, and searched the chamber.

No Ian.

She stood and turned toward the door.

“Won’t you shake my hand, my lord?” Sparks said coldly behind her, an icy postscript to his earlier calm. She extended her hand.

“I hope this will not be the last time we meet at the table, my lord,” Sparks said, his eyes hard.

Withdrawing her hand, she hurried toward the door. Marquess Drake intercepted her.

“Chance, old man, you’ve made us all proud this evening,” he chortled. “Excellent playing. You showed that rascally sharper how a gentleman lays down his cards.”