Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (26 page)

Mr. Jones brought her the champagne, the cards were dealt and Emma placed her first bet. The game was begun.

One thousand pounds. A thousand.

One thousand pounds lay on the table in a pile of gold and notes, enough to support a laborer's family for half a lifetime or more. And Emma was about to win it. Probably.

Except that she had thrown her last quid in on the previous bet, and Marsh knew it.

Emma broke off from her worrying to look around at their audience. She and Marsh were the last ones left in this hand, and the other players had spread the word. The table was surrounded by gentlemen. The atmosphere had become too hot and fogged with smoke for the other ladies. The
real
ones.

Sweat soaked through Emma's low-quality gloves, darkening the stains the coins had already left.

You can't back down now,
she told herself.
You have four hundred pounds in that pile.
Not that she wanted to call off. She had a good hand, a win was almost guaranteed. Almost.

"You have me at a disadvantage," she finally murmured.

Marsh tried to appear sympathetic. "Surely you have property? Something that could be used as collateral. I'd be happy to offer a loan."

"I do not."

"I see." His green eyes glinted like moss beneath water. He leaned a little closer, and Emma laid her cards facedown on the table.

His eyes fell to her low neckline. "Are you quite certain you have nothing to offer?"

"Quite. Unless you would accept my word."

"The word of a woman? An unnecessary risk as, in fact, you have something of great value to wager. Something I prize very highly."

"And that is?" She didn't bother leaning forward to make his task easier. She knew exactly what he'd propose, and if he wasn't willing to make his offer in front of others, then the coward could keep his thoughts to himself. He was about to ruin her reputation, and he could damn well ruin his own as well. The sweet scent of port wafted over her as he breathed.

"I believe you know what I mean, Lady
Denmore
."

"I'm sure I do not."

He glanced up at the men closest to them, but his eyes darted quickly back to the tops of her breasts. "A night in your bed," he finally whispered.

Despite that she'd been expecting it, Emma still felt her body jerk with the shock of it. That wave of tension seemed to continue past her to the observers at her back. There was a small bubble of silence around them all.

Emma raised her eyebrows. "You think my virtue is worth only four hundred pounds, Lord Marsh? I'm not sure which is more insulting—the offer itself or the measly amount attached to it."

The murmurs around them grew louder.

Her opponent looked into her eyes and smiled. He could see that she was insulted but not exactly outraged. "Fine. Retrieve your previous bets from the pile. That would raise your worth to . . . what? Seven hundred? Eight hundred pounds?"

Emma simply stared at him. If she did this, her name would be ruined forever, but her name would soon be ruined at any rate. And if she did this, and won, she could leave London at dawn. All her worldly possessions were packed in trunks and crates, and not very many of them at that. She would be done. She'd have more money than she needed, and she would be free.

And if she did this and lost. . . then she would leave in the morning anyway, not quite rich enough, because she'd be damned if she'd honor a bet as dishonorable as this one.

Emma clasped her hands tight together and squeezed against the wave of dull pain that roared through her body.
You are a liar and a cheat. One more time won't make any difference.

She didn't know why the thought of walking away from a dishonorable debt caused her stomach to knot, but perhaps she would be well served to follow through even on a loss. A night in Marsh's chambers would cool her fiery blood for good. She would be cured.

"Perhaps you wish to simply forfeit," he offered, eyes mocking her turmoil. His mouth curled up in a sneer. He'd played her often enough to know she would not back down.

She unclenched her hands, one finger at a time, and raised them both to the table. Then slowly, slowly, she reached one gloved hand out and began to count out the four hundred pounds she'd tossed out so casually moments before.

"One night," she said clearly, and the room exploded into a beehive of indistinct words. She was glad she could not make out any one conversation. She did not want to know what they said.

Marsh's lips flushed pink as they stretched into a leer. His eyes strayed back to her décolletage, and Emma could
see
his thoughts, flickering and varied, as he riffled through the things he wanted to do to her. She had never seen him at one of her father's gatherings, but he would have been entirely comfortable at the worst of them, she was sure.

Emma finished collecting her previous bets and retrieved her cards. She willed her hands to stop shaking, but Marsh saw and his eyes sparkled.

"Well, then, my dear. Let's see them."

Emma gritted her teeth. "The play is yours."

"Of course." He laid down his cards. The room dropped into silence, as if they'd all been plunged suddenly into deep, cold water.

She stared at the cards, taking in the suits, the numbers. The jack of spades and the jack of hearts were both winking at her, mocking her with knowing smiles. Throat thick with rising tears, Emma nodded. A pair, not a thrice.

Her skin burned as she carefully tilted her cards and placed them flat on the glossy wood. "A running flush," she whispered, and the cries of the gentlemen around her pierced straight through her skull.

"I say, Marsh, that was outrageous."

"Scurrilous. You should be ashamed."

"She may have won the hand, but that is the end of her."

"Disgusting."

"Unthinkable."

She ignored it all, staring into her opponent's cold eyes as she carefully opened her reticule and began dropping handfuls of coin in.

Well done,
he mouthed, but his congratulations ended on a sneer. Emma smiled back and tugged the cord of her bag closed. Triumph and relief twisted through her, though they felt strangely like acid, burning her lungs, heating her skin. She took a deep breath, then another. The terrible words around her began to fade. She smiled more genuinely as she stood. No one pulled out her chair.

She turned to leave and within a few feet, found herself face-to-face with a very pale Mr. Jones. Emma inclined her head, but he seemed frozen. Nodding to let him know that she understood, she started to pass around him and was shocked when his arm appeared, hovering just under her hand.

"You needn't do this," she murmured.

He shook his head. "I escorted you in. I shall escort you out as well."

"Thank you."

As they neared a door, Emma caught sight of two elegantly dressed ladies. They turned their backs as she passed; word had spread already. She forced herself not to care. She did not know these people and they did not know her.

"I shall take my leave," she informed Mr. Jones, and tried to walk more quickly toward the stairway, but his arm held her back.

"Do not hurry as if you are fleeing. Leave with dignity."

"With what dignity?"

He glanced toward her. "I never thought of your gaming as a shameful thing."

"Until now?"

He was too much a gentleman to answer. Another lady turned her back. A younger woman stepped back and retreated into a doorway as Emma swept past.

"Just take me to the door, Mr. Jones. Do not wait with me."

"Nonsense."

She ordered her cloak from the butler. A footman went to signal her driver. When Emma dared to turn, she found dozens of pairs of eyes focused on her. They looked down from the landing of the first floor. She offered them all a curtsy, then closed her eyes as Mr. Jones swept her cloak around her shoulders.

"I shall wait outside."

He followed her, stubborn boy.

"Why are you doing this?"

His eyes no longer met hers, his head tilted down toward the pale stone of the walk. "I had thought . . ." An icy breeze blew his hair awry and made him shiver. "I had thought perhaps your wildness would grow tempered with time. You are enjoying your first weeks in London, I know. And I. . . My income is respectable. My uncle holds an old title."

"Mr. Jones—"

"I'd even taken the step of trying to locate your family, to make inquiries . .."

Her sympathy froze to shock. "You what?"

"I wished to make the acquaintance of your family, in order to—"

"My father is dead."

"Yes, I am sorry. Terribly sorry. But I had thought to—"

"You could have asked me. Why did you . . . ? To whom did you write?"

He looked utterly confused. "I am sorry, Lady
Denmore
. I wasn't sure. You are still in half mourning. I did not think it appropriate to press my suit until the summer."

"Whom did you contact?"

"The local magistrate. A Mr. Bromley."

Wheels crunched somewhere to her left. Turning, Emma watched as the hired carriage stopped a few feet away. The driver hopped down and opened the door.

Emma unlocked her jaw. "I apologize for this evening. You will excuse me? I have a private dinner to attend."

When the carriage door closed, Mr. Jones still stood there, staring down, arms crossed to hold off the cold. Emma did not know what to do, so she let the coach move on toward
Osbourne's
home.

When another vehicle rolled past, turning into the
Tunwitty's
drive, Emma glanced out in time to see the golden, outstretched wings of a solemn hawk flying through the night. The
Somerhart
hawk on the
Somerhart
crest. The duke's carriage had arrived.

Emma let her head fall to her hands. She breathed in the sharp metal scent of dirty coin and thanked God that she had left so quickly. She had shamed him, and he would never forgive her. And suddenly she felt very afraid.

Chapter 16

"Must you leave so early? It is only past twelve," Lady
Osbourne
insisted.

Osbourne
placed a hand on his wife's arm. "Let her go to her tables. The girl has a gift. We mustn't stifle it."

"Oh, you are encouraging her to be a dreadful gambler,
Osbourne
. Hush."

Emma smiled at them and told herself she really must rise from the warm comfort of the fire and be gone. No gambling tonight, but there were preparations to be made. And she felt odd, not herself, but her lethargy was part of the oddness as well. She felt pulled down, heavy and weary.

The
Osbournes
continued their affectionate bickering. She would miss them so much. Her uncle had told her that theirs had not been a love match; in fact, they'd quite hated each other for several years. But after the birth of their first child, a daughter, something had changed for them. Animosity had been transformed to love, and it had lasted for forty years now.

Lady
Osbourne
could no longer travel comfortably to their country house. Three days in a carriage caused her hip to ache terribly for weeks on end, so Lord
Osbourne
had given up his months of hunting in the north, and they stayed in London all year. Together.

Emma sighed, knowing she could not leave with just a casual farewell. She'd come to care deeply for them.

"Actually," she started,
"I
will be leaving town. Tomorrow,
I
think."

"Oh," Lady
Osbourne
gasped, "but you will be back in time for our ball, won't you? It's the first ball after Easter and
I
intend for it to be a complete crush."