Playing to Win (2 page)

"Nothing less than the value of the
rubies, as listed on my uncle's inventory sheet in 1791. And be
grateful I do not charge you interest."

"What is the sum?"

He named it. La Gianetta paled beneath
her rouge. She had sold the gems for a fraction of their value, and
still they had brought her enough to establish herself in style.
She had no hope of paying him back the amount she had originally
received for the jewels, let alone their actual worth. Ruin stared
her in the face.

"I cannot possibly raise such a sum
today. You must give me time," she said hoarsely.

"But you will pay it?"

"Yes, yes, of course I will pay
it!"

Mr. Whitlatch studied her for a moment.
Her eyes dropped beneath his level gaze. "Spoken too easily,
Gianetta. Exactly how do you propose to pay me?"

"How? Why, I will sell something, of
course."

"What will you sell?" he inquired
softly.

La Gianetta lifted one white shoulder
in a petulant shrug. "That is no concern of yours."

"Forgive me, but I think it is." His
eyes bored into her. "In fact, I think it might be foolish for me
to leave empty-handed this morning. Who knows? You might find
yourself suddenly called out of town. And then where would I be?
Particularly if you failed to return." He chuckled at the glare of
pure hatred she shot him. "Exactly so, ma'am! I would be wise to
take away with me whatever item you possess that you think might
fetch such a price."

The clock ticked. Motes of dust danced
in the thin November sunlight pouring through the window. La
Gianetta was clearly at a loss. Mr. Whitlatch waited
politely.

Slowly her look of confusion was
replaced by an arrested look; she grew thoughtful. She cast him a
speculative glance. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. That somehow
seemed to decide her. She reached out briskly and rang for a
servant.

"I will show you my most valuable
possession," she told him composedly. "You will decide its worth
for yourself."

Mr. Whitlatch was conscious of a
feeling of surprise. What the devil was she about? He had expected
tears, begging, panic. Instead, La Gianetta looked like a cat at a
creampot. She almost purred.

He frowned. "I am not competent to
judge the value of jewelry on sight. If you propose to send me away
with some trumpery bestowed on you by—"

He broke off, instantly suspicious.
Gianetta’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

"You are competent to judge the value
of this particular jewel, Mr. Whitlatch. All the world knows you
are something of a connoisseur in this line."

A scrawny wench in a mob cap arrived,
and La Gianetta entered into a soft-voiced colloquy in French.
Mystified, Mr. Whitlatch watched as the servant uttered a
frightened protest, which Gianetta swiftly quelled with a sharp
word. The girl then withdrew, eyes big with alarm, to perform
whatever office her mistress had requested.

"Marie is reluctant to do my bidding,
Mr. Whitlatch. You have seen her reluctance." La Gianetta's eyes
blinked rapidly, but Mr. Whitlatch perceived that the eyes behind
the fluttering lashes were dry. "Ah,
m'sieur,
if you only
knew what this costs me! I, too, am reluctant to bring before
you my precious jewel, my pearl of great price. I very much fear
that you will take my treasure away with you, never again to be
seen by me! But I will not blame you; no, for this prize has only
to be seen to be desired. You will be amazed, Mr. Whitlatch. Very
few people know of my treasure's existence. My treasure of
incalculable worth!"

Mr. Whitlatch's eyes narrowed. Gianetta
sounded exactly like a Calcutta street peddlar who had once tried
to sell him a brass ornament, swearing it was gold. "What sort of
treasure, madam?"

She again made play with her eyelashes.
"My only child, sir. A daughter."

With an oath, Mr. Whitlatch rose and
strode to the window. "I am no slaver, madam! You may keep your
daughter."

Her smile reflected in the windowpane.
"You have not seen her yet," she said simply.

Mr. Whitlatch, torn between
exasperation and curiosity, turned his scowling gaze back to his
hostess. "I never heard that you had a daughter."

The catlike smile still curved her
painted mouth. "Few know of her existence, and no one has seen
her." La Gianetta’s voice resumed its dramatic throb. "She is
completely untouched, sir."

Mr. Whitlatch gave an inelegant snort.
A likely tale! He was about to be presented with some pretty child
La Gianetta had picked up, God knows where, planning to foist upon
the public as her own. Rich men would vie for the privilege of
deflowering any wench believed to be the daughter of the legendary
Gianetta. The chit would fetch a high price. He supposed his demand
for payment had upset these well-laid plans, and Gianetta now would
try to fob him off with the girl instead of proper repayment. Mr.
Whitlatch felt a stab of disgust. La Gianetta was a whore to her
very soul.

"Let me be sure I understand you,
madam. Do you propose to give me this unfortunate female in
exchange for my stolen property? You would not hesitate to sell
your ‘daughter’ to a virtual stranger?"

"You are no stranger to me, Mr.
Whitlatch. It is true we did not know one another before you
rescued me from France, and we have not seen each other since, but
your conduct in 1791 was heroic. Heroic! There is no other
word for it."

He almost yelped with derision. "I can
think of several other words for it!"

She waved this aside. "Your reputation,
too, is well known to me. You are an honorable man, just and fair
in all your dealings."

A self-mocking grin flashed across his
features. "If you believe me to be honorable where women are
concerned, madam, you have been strangely misinformed."

To his surprise, La Gianetta met his
eyes frankly for the first time. "You are mistaken, Mr. Whitlatch.
You offer marriage to no one, so you believe yourself to be a
hardened rake. But me, I have some experience of rakes,
m'sieur!
You are no rake. On the contrary; you are a
romantic."

"I?" gasped Mr. Whitlatch,
revolted.

She smiled serenely. "You have told me,
m'sieur,
that you found me beautiful eleven years ago. I was
completely in your power for many days, and deeply grateful to you
as well. I would have refused you nothing. You must have known
this, yet you never touched me."

Mr. Whitlatch's frown returned. He
shrugged, and leaned negligently against the window. "Only a cad
would take advantage of a woman in such circumstances."

"My point precisely, sir. You are no
cad. You would not take unfair advantage of a woman—even such a
woman as La Gianetta." A bitter chuckle shook her. "Only a true
romantic refuses to dishonor a harlot! My Clarissa, if she pleases
you, will be fairly treated."

"Thank you, but I have no interest in
your Clarissa! Touched or untouched, seen or unseen, your daughter
or someone else's, there is not a female on the planet as valuable
as those rubies."

La Gianetta laughed out loud at this.
"Again your reputation belies you! I am sure you have spent far
more than that, on any one of the incognitas you have had in your
keeping. The rubies were nothing, less than nothing, compared to a
certain set of diamonds—"

"Yes, well, never mind that!"
interrupted Mr. Whitlatch, impatiently jamming his hands into his
pockets. "Never was money more ill-spent! I have no desire to
repeat such folly. I'll be the first to admit I have a soft spot
for a pretty face, but at the moment I am not in the market
for—"

He broke off as the door opened. A girl
in a pale blue gown entered noiselessly and stood beside Gianetta's
chair. Mr. Whitlatch stared. His hands, as if moving of their own
volition, removed themselves from his pockets and his careless
slouch slowly straightened.

His first thought was that he had
seldom, if ever, beheld such beauty in human form. His second was
that it was extremely clever of La Gianetta to dress the girl so
chastely. Her loveliness was enhanced by the simplicity of her
frock, the modesty of the high neckline and absence of frills. But
this girl would be beautiful if she were wrapped in burlap, he
realized. She had the unconscious, feral grace of a deer. And her
features! Flawless.

Was it possible this girl was actually
La Gianetta's daughter? He could not help hoping that she was. It
would be a great thing, after all, to banish his earlier picture of
an innocent maiden stolen from some peasant family. It would be a
great thing, in fact, to forget he ever supposed this girl could be
innocent. If she was truly La Gianetta’s daughter, one could then
entertain the thought—merely the thought, mind you—of accepting
this preposterous offer.

It was possible to trace a resemblance.
She had the raven's-wing hair, the soft mouth and straight little
nose. She also had a radiant, soft, pink-and-white complexion; the
very look that La Gianetta aped with cosmetics. It was all the more
dramatic against the darkness of the girl's hair and eyes. Or were
her eyes dark?

As if hearing his thought, she suddenly
raised her eyes to his and he was dazzled. Framed by black lashes,
her eyes were a bright, cerulean blue; a blue usually reserved by
the Maker for the eyes of infants and angels.

His decision was made too swiftly for
Reason to intervene. Oh, yes, he had a soft spot for a pretty face.
And a face like this one could bring him to the point of idiocy. He
knew this about himself; he was resigned. La Gianetta had judged
her man well.

He would give anything, anything at
all, to possess this piece of perfection.

Mr. Whitlatch sighed, and flung up a
hand in surrender. "Very well, madam. Very well."

La Gianetta's eyes snapped eagerly.
"You will consider my debt paid in full, Mr. Whitlatch?"

"Completely."

"Bien!
Clarissa, my love, ask
Marie to pack up your things. You will be taking a little journey,
I think."

Mr. Whitlatch was too bemused to notice
the nervousness with which Gianetta uttered these words; nor the
gesture, half supplication, half warning, that went with them. Rapt
in his contemplation of Clarissa's beauty, he saw only her
graceful, submissive curtsey before she exited. He entirely missed
the murderous fury in the glance she threw La Gianetta as the door
closed.

* * *

Her mother’s servant, with profuse
apologies, was locking her in the garret again. Listening to the
tumblers turning in the lock as Marie fumbled nervously with the
key, Clarissa leaned against the closed door and tried to regain
her composure. She was trembling with anger.

So she would be taking a ‘little
journey,’ would she? In the company of that man, no doubt.
Outrageous! Disgraceful! That any mother could make such an
arrangement for her own daughter was incredible. But Clarissa had
seen enough of her mother, and her mother's household, in the last
two days to believe anything.

She closed her eyes, and furious tears
stung the back of her eyelids. Since the moment of her arrival, she
had vowed to escape this den of iniquity as soon as ever she could.
And after she had refused to fall in with her mother's original
plans for her, she had spent the past two days locked in this
makeshift bedchamber. There had been plenty of time to think, and
plan, and find a way out of this intolerable situation. Only no
plan had occurred to her.

She had no one to turn to. No friends,
no family. All the money she had in the world was knotted in a
handkerchief in the bottom of her reticule. After the expense of
traveling to London from the Bathurst Ladies' Academy, her
resources amounted to less than seventeen guineas.

She had paced this room for many of the
past forty-eight hours, vainly wracking her brain to think of a way
out. How could she support herself? How could she avoid the life of
debauchery her mother was so eager to thrust upon her? Her
situation seemed hopeless indeed. And now this man, this stranger,
had appeared out of nowhere to take her away.

Doubtless it was another scheme of
Gianetta's to force her unwilling daughter into her own footsteps.
But perhaps Clarissa could find a way to foil her mother's plans.
Perhaps the man could be reasoned with. He might even take pity on
her plight. And even if he did not, surely she could find a way of
escape—if only she could get out from under this roof!

Besides, there was always a chance that
his intentions were perfectly honorable. She knew nothing about
this man, or what he wanted. Why should she suppose the worst? For
that matter, she knew very little about her mother. It was possible
that Clarissa's pleas and protestations—although they had seemed to
have no impact whatsoever at the time—had prevailed, once Mother
had had a chance to reflect upon them. Perhaps La Gianetta had
struck a bargain with this man to offer her daughter respectable
employment. Anything was possible.

"And anything would be preferable to
staying here—anything at all!" she whispered. Clarissa took a deep
breath, opened her eyes, and resolutely began to pack.