Seductive Wager (2 page)

“Might I be allowed to ring for water?” he inquired with bland innocence. “I doubt this beverage has ever graced your table, either in a glass
or
a cleaning pail,” he said, eyeing the wine stains with disgust, “but when I drink bad brandy, I get a noble headache, and the only thing that seems to help is water.” He leaned back, closed his eyes to underline the exquisite nature of his agony, and prepared to wait for Martin to summon his servant.

“I know how you feel,” Feathers informed him, full of sympathy for a fellow sufferer but aghast at such a notion. “I feel pretty grim myself, but you can’t mean to actually
drink
water. I promise you won’t like it. Have some more brandy. Or maybe you ought to try some beer.”

Edward sat up very straight, opened his eyes, and fixed Feathers with a deadly gaze. “I do not know why you should think you know better than I what will best suit my constitution,” he said in a voice that had abashed more than one seasoned aristocrat, “but I can assure you that you do
not!”
Feathers blinked at the reproof. “I should feel much more hopeful of your being safely restored to the bosom of your family if
you
would forego the brandy decanter as well.”

Making a heroic recovery, Peter smiled brightly at Edward. There’s no call for you to fall into a worry about me.”

“I wasn’t aware that I had,” Edward replied, appalled at the thought of so uncharacteristic an action.

“I’ll be in fine shape as soon as this head goes off a bit,” Peter continued. “Never considered anything like water, though. I’m surprised you keep the stuff about, Martin.”

“Shut up, you fool,” Martin growled before turning to Edward with an ugly glare. “Ned’ll be here with some more brandy any minute now. You can tell him about your water then. If anybody wants anything different, speak up. I don’t keep a bunch of fancy servants to eat their heads off and fall over themselves with nothing to do,” he announced belligerently. “And I get what I want, when I want it, just the same.” The last remark was directed at Edward, but that gentleman had once more closed his eyes. It was beneath his dignity to bandy words with Martin.

“Take a damper,” Peter intervened, dead to the heated emotions that swirled about him. “No sense in getting excited over something as silly as water.” Smothering a huge yawn, he stood up to stretch his long, lithe body; his eyes fell on Martin’s cards, and his interest was caught immediately. “What a rotten hand. You were getting some pretty good cards before I fell asleep.”

Noticing neither Martin’s clenched teeth nor his hard eyes, Feathers leaned over to glance at Brett’s hand. “Scalped him again, did you?” he announced merrily. “Damn, you do have all the luck.”

“You’re not playing, so sit down and be quiet,” Brett commanded with barely contained annoyance.

“No need to get upset,” Peter said, as oblivious to the red glow in Martin’s eyes as he was impervious to insult. “Damned fool thing for Martin to do, betting on a hand like that, but it’s his money and he can do anything he likes with it.”

Martin started up with murder in his eyes, but Edward forestalled him. “Unless my ears deceive me,” he said, cocking his head in the direction of the door, “that is the deathlike tread of the faithful Ned.” Martin sank back into his chair, his eyes still burning dangerously.

“I have suffered much from you,” Edward said to Feathers with stinging contempt, “but the fatuous mumblings of a hairless stripling I will
not
endure with this vile brandy hammering in my head.”

Feathers’s easy temper remained unimpaired for the simple reason he could not believe such a reprimand was meant for him.

“What took you so long?” Martin demanded as an aging retainer entered the room. “I was hoping you were dead.”

“I will be if I keep running up and down these halls,” his grizzled servant replied as he pushed the empty bottles aside and sat the brandy and glasses down in front of Martin. “The corridors to hell can’t be any colder than this old castle.” He dodged Martin’s halfhearted attempt to cuff him. “Would your honors be wanting anything else tonight?”

“Mr. Hunglesby wants some water. And you needn’t stare at me like that,” Martin snapped in surly response to Ned’s gawking disbelief. “I’m not going to drink any.”

“My desperation is undoubtedly a testament to the quality of your brandy,” Edward purred. The quiet voice coming so unexpectedly from behind him caused Ned to spin around too quickly, and he stumbled over Martin’s spaniel. She responded with a yelp and a snap at his ankle; Ned turned on her with curse and an upraised hand.

“Touch that dog, and it’ll be your blood that’s spilt,” Martin warned.

“That old bitch is gonna take a chunk out of me one of these days,” Ned protested.

“She won’t get much for her pains.”

“Loath as I am to interrupt this exchange of pleasantries, I must entreat you to fetch my water with all possible dispatch,” Edward murmured in dulcet tones. “This vile potion has so battered my sensibilities, each minute seems destined to be my last.” Ned’s incredulous look brought a thin smile to Edward’s lips. “You need not worry. I am not a lunatic, nor will you be required to summon aid to subdue me.”

“It may take a little while,” Ned mumbled peevishly. “We don’t keep water inside at night.”

“Then have done with your complaining and be gone,” Martin ordered.

Ned had almost reached the door when Martin called after him, his voice a little edgy and over loud. “Tell my sister I want her to come down as soon as she can get dressed.”

Ned whirled around, too surprised to remember his rheumatism. “But she’s sound asleep,” he stammered. “She’s been in bed for hours.”

“Then wake her,” Martin snarled. “I want her down in fifteen minutes, or I’ll come up and get her myself.”

Ned had never been one to endanger his own hide for anybody else, but he made one last attempt to protect his mistress. “You know she won’t come down, not when you’re having company.”

“Get her down here inside of fifteen minutes, or I’ll sic the dog on you,” Martin threatened.

Martin knew Kate had refused to leave her bedchamber the moment Ned stuck his head in the door without entering the room.

“Miss Kate says she’s not coming down in her robes or any other kind of dress,” he disclosed hurriedly. “She says you’re to send for your tavern trollops if you want female company.” Ned snapped the door shut just before an empty brandy bottle smashed against it, scattering dangerous shards of broken glass over the flagstone floor.

Martin could see the corners of Brett’s mouth quiver, and his anger exploded like a volcano. This hated man had humiliated him at cards and stripped him of his possessions; now he was actually laughing at him. It was more than Martin’s fevered brain could bear, and he rose to his feet in an almost blinding red haze of fury.

“You goddamn worthless son of a bitch!” he bellowed after his servant as he ran unsteadily toward the door. But Ned’s tottering form had already disappeared through the archway at the back of the great hall. “I’ll break every bone in your maggot-infested body if my sister’s not down in five minutes,” Martin shouted after the hollow echo of Ned’s retreating footsteps; then he stomped back into the room, snatched the brandy bottle from Feathers’s hands, raised it to his lips, threw back his head, and drank deeply from its contents.

Brett reacted with disgust, but Peter said in a hollow voice, “Really, old fellow, that’s not the done thing. Been happy to give you the whole bottle if I’d known you wanted it. Didn’t know hollering could make a man so thirsty.”

Martin slammed the bottle down on the table and his large fist snaked out to grasp Peter by his neckcloth.

“Shut your mouth, you jabbering fool,” he roared. “If I don’t have at least five minutes without the sound of your voice, I’m going to hang you on a nail by your fancy cravat.” Peter struggled to free himself, his breath coming in gasps, but he was too drunk and Martin was too strong.

“You have my sympathy,” intruded Brett’s cold, flinty voice, “but I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to resort to such extremes.” He eyed Martin with increasing dislike. “Neither would I like for you to mishandle poor Feathers. He’s the last of his name, and his family still holds out some hope for him.” Brett’s eyes no longer smiled and his body was tense, ready to spring.

“He’s already a horse’s ass,” Martin choked, furious at Brett’s intervention.

“Possibly, but he’s not
your
horse’s ass. I’m sure you can leave him safely disposed in his chair. I can’t imagine he’ll be very comfortable there, but he’s bound to feel better once he can breathe.” Feathers’s struggles were growing more frantic, and Brett continued to regard Martin with the unmistakable bearing of a man who expected to be obeyed, one who was prepared to
see
that he was obeyed. Martin’s courage faltered before the keen-edged lance of Brett’s gaze, and nearly choking with fury, he released Feathers; that bewildered gentleman staggered backward to the safety of his chair.

“I never meant to hurt the young cockerel,” Martin growled. “It’s my bitch of a sister I want to get my hands on. Tavern trollops, says she. I’ll have her down here if I have to drag her by her hair, half naked and screaming all the way.”

“I can’t imagine how I can bear to tear myself away from this enthralling melodrama,” Edward intoned in a blighting voice, “but I believe I shall go to bed. I wonder why I came? Whatever the reason, it was not sufficient. I feel positively
soiled.”

The last word was weighted with enough contempt to penetrate a hide far thicker than Martin’s, and he quailed inwardly under the lash of that silken tongue.

“You shouldn’t expect drawing-room manners from Martin,” Brett said, disregarding Martin’s gobbling fury. “Didn’t you hear him say he preferred his horse to his mistress?” Martin brought his fist down on the table so hard the brandy bottle jumped and two of the glasses spilled their contents.

“You can’t goad me with your insults,” he roared, hate nearly choking the words in his throat. “I’ve never cared what you thought of me, and it’s not going to worry me now.” He turned on Edward, thrusting his face so close their noses nearly touched. “And you, my ever so fine and particular gentleman, can sit back down. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

“Possibly,” Edward said, drawing his face back from Martin’s nearly purple visage with obvious distaste, “but I see no reason why I should be expected to inhale the air you have just fouled with your breath.” With deliberate insolence, he placed the carefully manicured index finger of his right hand squarely in the middle of Martin’s nose and slowly pushed his face away from him.

“I can see no purpose in pursuing this disastrous game,” Brett interrupted, out of patience with Martin’s ill humor. “I suggest we retire to our respective chambers. Rest may bring council, and a change in your luck.”

“I don’t want your advice, damn your eyes,” Martin screamed, a wild and uncomprehending look in his eyes. “I don’t want
anybody’s
advice. I want to play another game, and I’m
going
to play another game. You cant refuse me the chance to recover my losses.” He banged his fist on the table again. “Hell and damnation, man, you’ve
got
to keep on playing.”

Brett glanced at the pile of coins and pieces of paper littering the table before him. It galled him to admit Martin was right, but he’d won so heavily there was no way he could honorably refuse.

“It was never my intention to strip you of your possessions,” he said contemptuously. “I have enough for my own needs, and suitable charities are hard to find.”

“You don’t have to be so high and mighty just because the cards have been running your way,” Martin stormed. “I’m not done up yet.” Brett was annoyed at the slight to his skill, but he held his peace. Martin took another deep drink from the bottle and leaned down the table, his breath labored and his eyes wide.

“You haven’t beaten me yet,” he rasped, his words beginning to slur. “I’ll come about. He stood up on unsteady legs and whirled around like he was looking for something. “Where’s that whoring sister of mine?” he yelled. “I sent for her ages ago.” There was a hint of querulousness in his voice. He staggered over to the bell rope and began to pull on it like a steeple bell ringer.

“You know
I
find your company quite delightful,” Edward murmured in an expressionless voice, “but it is entirely possible your sister has no liking for you in your present condition.”

An unusually violent pull on the bell rope caused it to come away in Martin’s hands, and he threw it from him in a flurry of virulent curses on the nature of Edward’s conception and the manner of his birth. The rope glanced off his spaniel’s hip, and she leaped up with a protesting howl that turned into a menacing growl. In his wild fury, Martin charged his dog, kicking drunkenly at her age-thickened body, and she sank her teeth into his leg with a snap. Exploding with a roar of pain, Martin gave her such a savage blow upon the nose that she released her grip on his calf, whined, and cowered under his raining blows.

“Stupid bitch!” Martin thundered, stumbling over to the door and dragging the yelping animal behind him. “No female is going to flout my orders. She’ll learn to her sorrow who’s master in this house.” He opened the door and flung the whimpering animal into the hall without a glance. “Don’t any of you leave this room. I’ll be back with that black-hearted wench, and then we’ll see if you can keep on winning.”