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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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“As though Rushford gives a damn,” Cecil responded. “There is more than that behind it, I'd wager.”
Impossibly, the tension heightened when Rushford nodded almost imperceptibly at Crockford's dealer. In a moment, the card was placed face up on the table. A five of hearts.
Vingt-et-un
.
The library erupted in applause and hoots of approval from the coterie of regulars who called Crockford's, after White's and Boodle's, their second home. Rushford appeared not to notice, his expression neutral, but the crowd quieted instantly when he shoved his cards aside. “I advise you to be careful as to the rules of the game, gentlemen's or otherwise,” he said softly to Galveston, a hard and undeniable undercurrent to the casually delivered statement.
Galveston's smile tightened as he produced a handkerchief to mop the sheen from his brow. But he made no move to rise and quit the library. “You do tempt fate, Rushford,” he said, his hand trembling. “One would have thought that you had learned your lesson.”
“I've been told that I'm a quick study.”
“Not quick enough,” Galveston said. “At least by my reckoning,” he continued, “not at all.” The needling voice carried on. “As a result, I wish to challenge you to another game. This time double the winnings on the table—or nothing.”
The temperature in the library notched up. A monumental amount was on the table. And something else. Rowena was sure of it. It was as though they were speaking of something other than the game of vingt-et-un. There was a shared history, and spilled blood, behind the fortune that rested on the table between the two players.
Rushford smiled slowly with a look of utter boredom, like a wolf circling his prey with elegance and ease. “If you prefer, Galveston,” he said softly. “Although it must be said that you sorely try your wife's resources. My conscience feels twinges of remorse.”
Galveston's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened as though prepared to spit rather than speak a reply. Instead, he signaled the dealer, who began the somber ritual of shuffling the cards. All eyes were riveted on the tableau around the polished mahogany table in London's most venerable gambling club. Years later there would be talk of this night.
There would never be a better time, Rowena told herself, her mind summersaulting. For some reason, she suddenly remembered what it was like when she'd dared herself to jump into the cold, spring-fed lake at Montfort—in February—goaded by the groundskeeper's son. Her hands formed fists in her evening gloves, and her voice seemed to come from far away. But she spoke firmly, without hesitation, her low voice carrying throughout the library and into the hushed stillness. “Lord Rushford,” she said, drawing out each syllable.
Rushford's eyes snapped up from the cards in the dealer's hands. Rowena once again felt a gust of emotion, an agonizing awareness that tightened her throat. She drew upon the curious sensation to inhabit her role as Miss Frances Warren and moved slowly from where she stood in the doorway to the center of the room, deliberately positioning herself by Rushford's chair. Attentive to the open-mouthed stares of the assembled onlookers who had parted to allow her to pass, she lay a gloved hand on Rushford's shoulder.
“My darling,” she said, dragging her fingers across his back, “It's close to midnight. How long do you intend to keep me waiting?” Her tone was dark, sultry. Or at least, she hoped so.
There were any number of rejoinders Rushford could have chosen. As decorum dictated in the presence of a lady, he rose from his chair and fixed her with a surprisingly warm smile. “You always seem to surprise me, my pet. One of your many charms,” he said. “And of course you know that few others could lure me away from the gaming table.” As he leaned his hip against his chair and turned his back to Galveston, his tone expressed pure pleasure at her presence. For a moment, his approbation, although patently false, tasted like honey in Rowena's mouth. Rowena was not sure what she'd been expecting, but this was not it. Beyond them the small assembly gaped at this unexpected turn of events, the prospect of financial ruin suddenly transformed into amorous intrigue.
Her limbs as stiff as a marionette's, and acutely aware of their audience, Rowena nonetheless moved in closer toward Rushford until the velvet of her skirts almost kissed his knees. “I've been bored all evening, Rushford,” she said in what she hoped was a continuation of her sultry whisper but one that she knew could be heard at the back of the library. “Whilst you have been occupied with this dreary card play. So do let us have some amusement at long last.”
“As though I could ever keep you waiting,” Rushford returned with a small smile exclusively for her, although his eyes remained inscrutable.
Rowena lowered her lashes. “Confess, my lord. You have been keeping me waiting for an unconscionably long time.” She tapped his chest in mock outrage.
Galveston did not bother to clear his throat but scraped back his chair. “This is ridiculous, Rushford,” he declared, flicking a dismissive gaze at Rowena and the riveting tableau they presented. “I do not relish this interruption by your doxy. I trust I will not be required to have the house intervene. We have more than enough witnesses to attest to my upping the stakes and your acceptance of the ante.”
Rowena looked down and across the table, fixing Galveston in her sights. “If I were you, I should welcome the interruption, sir,” she said softly, a hint of warning in her eyes, “judging by your performance this evening. Lord Rushford's decision to spend the rest of the night with his
doxy
is entirely in your favor, I should think.”
A murmur went through the assembly at the affront, and from one so young and obviously unknown. Who was this woman who, in truth, was little more than a girl? Galveston purpled, and the crowd around the room bent collectively closer, a frisson rippling through the library. “This appears to be a new low even for you.” He directed his remark to Rushford. “To allow yourself to be dragged from the gaming tables—and by such a woman.”
“I believe she has a point,” Rushford said slowly, an arm encircling Rowena's waist as though it was the most natural gesture in the world. “You would be wise to return home to Lady Galveston with at least a few coins in your purse.”
Rowena stiffened and then forced herself to relax against Rushford, seeing her advantage. “Lord Galveston,” she said smoothly, “I feel as though I must rectify matters. It is only right, given your assumptions.” Her eyes widened in feigned dismay. “It turns out that I am, after all, not simply a doxy but rather,” she said distinctly, aware that Galveston refused to acknowledge her presence in any way, “Lord Rushford's mistress.”
Another ripple of shock coursed through the room, the mountain of chits, the indeterminate acrimony, suddenly yesterday's scandal. The hum of talk among the audience was suddenly deafening, and Rowena was aware of Galveston's staring up at her with mute fury. The words had had the desired effect. She could not take them back.
The world now knew that Lord Rushford had taken a new mistress at last.
Chapter 7
T
he resolute dark blue of Rowena Woolcott's unmistakable gaze under a fringe of blond hair reminded Rushford of another place and another time—a pugilistic ambush that had been swift, strategic, and merciless. He had barely survived the attack in the ring and now seriously considered whether he would survive whatever silken assault Rowena Woolcott held in store. But if he had learned anything in his considerable experience in the Royal Navy, the boxing arena, and in the backrooms at Whitehall, a defensive strategy was never a good idea.
He had unwisely allowed Miss Woolcott to lead the charge far too long, keeping his own powder dry. It was time to load the cannons.
He managed to continue smiling at her despite his aching jaw, his acting skills honed through years of subterfuge. “You are quite correct. I have been remiss and, as always, I detest seeing you deprived of anything at all, darling,” he said, aware of another charge running through the audience, reflecting an unsavory but entirely expected delight in witnessing his private life exposed. He had always been discreet in his affairs, never so much as in his involvement with the Duchess of Taunton. In contrast, her intemperance had known no bounds, her emotions as transparent as glass. Most of London still whispered about the night she had publicly threatened to leave the Earl for Lord Rushford, creating a scene of epic proportion after a reception at Hawkesbury House. Liaisons were tolerated, but indiscretion was not. Worse still, full blown love affairs were regarded with all the approbation of a potentially rampant contagion, dangerous to the extreme. Many would concede, with lowered voices and thinned lips, that the Duchess's untimely and scandalous death was not entirely unexpected—or unwelcome. Rushford's arm instinctively tightened around Rowena's narrow waist.
He said, “However, I know that you will oblige me in indulging Galveston's whims, just for one moment longer.” He insinuated subtly that it shouldn't take more than a final hand to put the man in his rightful place. “After which you will have me entirely at your disposal.” Galveston was not far off from losing his composure. A moment longer, several thousand pounds lighter in his purse and heavy with humiliation, he would be ready to lash out. He would be easy to break, a soft man who had never been tested by life. Something that Rushford counted upon.
Rowena smiled up at him from under her dark eyelashes and ridiculous wig. Rushford reminded himself to burn the horror first chance he could. “If you promise me that the next hand will be your last,” she said.
Galveston shot daggers at them from across the mahogany table, a faint tremor appearing at the downward pull of his lower lip. “With your permission,” Rushford said to Rowena, relinquishing her waist and taking his seat. Galveston remained standing, wearing an ugly expression, his eyes darting around the room as though looking for a solution to his predicament. Then he found it, a satisfied smile slowly appearing on his face. “One moment, Rushford, if you will,” he said with a sudden and exaggerated politeness.
Surrender was not forthcoming. “I should like to add to the winnings on the table. To make our gambit all the more interesting,” he said.
“Don't be tedious, Galveston,” Rushford said genially, cursing under his breath at what was coming next, aware of the importance of keeping Galveston in play. “Out with it.”
“Your mistress.” The two words were stark, the implication unmistakable, as Galveston waved a palm in Rowena's direction. Rowena's hand on Rushford's shoulder stiffened while he quickly ran through his options and the odds, neither particularly good at the moment.
“What of her?” Rushford asked although he knew exactly where next Galveston was headed. His gaze, if not exactly lascivious, had a proprietary gleam. Not the worst turn of events after all, thought Rushford coldly. It had happened before in places like Crockford's, wherein chattel had been won and lost with the toss of a dice or a flip of a card. Miss Woolcott would do well to pay attention to what she had unleashed when she'd decided, unilaterally, that she would play the role of mistress.
“This is highly irregular,” Rowena snapped as though reading his mind, the hand on his shoulder tightening.
Galveston merely shrugged. “That would be for Lord Rushford to decide, no?” He shot a glance at his opponent, who was calmly contemplating the fresh deck of cards in the center of the table before turning to look over his shoulder at his mistress.
“No need to concern yourself,” he said to Rowena, watching the cascade of emotions on her expressive face. He saw that her youth and willfulness were proving impossible to contain. She appeared as though she was about to say something, but for her own good, Rushford imperceptibly shook his head before returning his gaze to Galveston. “Very well, Ambrose. What do you say that we toss in a night with my mistress against something that I find myself coveting.”
A pistol might as well have gone off in the room. Witnesses to the delicious outrage would be dining out on the incident for weeks.
The beautiful young mistress and Rushford in a scandalous altercation with Lord Galveston.
Galveston fingered the handkerchief still in his hand. “You're a greedy man, Rushford. I should think that the winnings on the table would be enough for you.”
“Just as you wished to make the play more interesting by including my companion in the mix, I, too, should like to add a certain edge to the game,” Rushford said, glancing at his opponent's hands twisting the handkerchief. “It's only fair. And when you hear my request, you should be quite relieved. After all, it's only your family's signet ring that I covet.”
Galveston turned from gray to ashen, disbelief skittering across his face. Reflexively, he placed his bare fingers beneath the table. “How dare you, Rushford. Beneath contempt . . .” he sputtered.
“Ah, I see,” continued Rushford disingenuously, “you are not wearing the ring. Now why might that be?”
“This is preposterous,” stuttered Galveston, eyes flicking around the room, aware of the astonished audience who was clearly wondering why he was totally apoplectic at the prospect of wagering a gold bauble. “And totally insupportable,” he sputtered. “An insult to my family name.”
“Absolutely no insult intended,” Rushford said benignly. “I merely covet something that I cannot have, all the more so because there is no evidence of the ring on your person. I wonder why that might be.”
Galveston took a moment for consideration, squirming in his seat. He mopped his brow. “Very well,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Your doxy is off the table.”
Rushford inclined his head, as though in thanks. “A wise decision, sir. With your permission, then.”
The room exhaled in a hiss, watching as the impassive dealer extracted a fresh pack of cards, cutting it cleanly before dealing the initial cards face down. The young and certainly unknown mistress remained standing behind Rushford, relief evident in the set of her shoulders, her heavy lashes obscuring her expression.
Galveston signaled for his next card, a slow confidence blossoming in the narrowing of his eyes as he tipped the corner of his initial card. A four of spades. Rushford nodded imperceptibly, and the dealer rewarded him with a ten of hearts. Neither man flinched.
Again the dealer offered and Galveston gestured impatiently and was rewarded by a six of clubs. This time the library was preternaturally still, arching closer toward the mahogany table like a well-choreographed ballet. Rushford's nod brought him a six of spades. With a smug smile, Galveston flipped his first card, an ace of diamonds. One digit short of the prize.
The dealer, his long face schooled to passivity after years of watching men win and lose fortunes with the turn of a wrist, waited for instruction. Rushford quickly considered the odds, decidedly not in his favor, and tapped a finger on the table. For the barest of seconds, perceptible only to the hardened habitués of Crockford's, the dealer hesitated before deftly placing, face side up, a three of hearts. With a fluid motion, Rushford tipped the corner of his initial card, with the three of hearts.
A two of spades. Vingt-et-un.
A polite spattering of applause, a collective exhalation of breath, but there hovered in the library a sense of anticlimax, a premonition that the two men at the table had yet another score to settle between them. Galveston jerked to his feet, almost overturning his chair, muttering under his breath. The knot of onlookers parted as he stormed from the library.
Despite having won a small fortune along with Lord Galveston's pride, Rushford was not finished with his opponent just yet. “Wait for me here,” he growled at Rowena, his mask slipping for an instant, the insouciant charm and easy manner wiped clean. Her eyes widened in concern. “My Lord, I shall go with you,” she said, disobeying him completely and following him from the library, her wide skirts making it difficult to keep up with his strides as they made their way through the club, past curious onlookers, and down the narrow hallway to a closed door at the back of the residence.
Rushford ignored the rush of skirts at his side, intent on finishing this game with Galveston. He jerked open the door to what he knew was a private study for the use of Crockford's patrons, beyond caring that Rowena had slipped in behind him.
Galveston's respite, in the form of a generous tumbler of Crockford's best brandy and solitude, was not long-lived. Rushford slammed the door behind him, stalking toward the man whose hand trembled as he set the glass down. “You cannot do this, Rushford,” he gasped, assessing the situation instantly. “I shall call for the major domo at once. I shall have Hastings ban you from the club in perpetuity.”
“You won't have time,” Rushford muttered, “before I've dealt with you.” Rowena had planted herself by the door in stunned silence.
“Now see here,” said Galveston, dragging his hands through his thinning hair. “You are taking this too far. It was merely a game, if you'll recall, that you won fairly, I'll concede.” He slumped against the sofa, his necktie undone. “No offense taken.”
“I'll decide that,” Rushford said, wishing to have the man in the ring with him, yet knowing that the competition would be wholly unfair. But then again, he could easily reach across the study and pummel him into oblivion. He wondered briefly at the source of his anger.
“First things first,” he said succinctly before reason escaped him. There were people beyond the door, waiting like vultures to fall upon any morsel of scandal and gossip that came their way. “If you ever again even refer to my mistress, as a doxy or otherwise, I shall rip out your throat. Understood ?”
Galveston retreated farther into the sofa, swallowing hard, his breath louder than the ticking of the ormolu clock on the gilded mantel. Dread filled the study like a noisome odor.
“I did not quite hear your answer, Galveston,” Rushford snarled.
“Understood,” Galveston finally said, praying he would not be dragged from his feet. His tremulous hopes were quickly dashed. Jamming up the sleeves of his evening jacket, Rushford stalked across the parquet floor until he had seized Galveston by his shirt front, pulling him into a standing position where he wavered like a flag in a breeze.
“Rushford. Please,” Galveston whispered. “What the hell is wrong with you? This is not the Duchess we're talking about here, for God's sake.” Panicked, shaking as though with ague, he realized instantly that he'd reached for the wrong antidote. Rushford drew back one arm, prepared to shatter his jaw. Then before Galveston could cringe away, the taller man's rage seemed to coalesce and harden, staying his arm in midflight. Raw emotion flickered across his face, and he dropped Galveston onto the sofa in a heap. He turned back to the door, unseeing and unaware of Rowena, who stood frozen, wide eyed with a hand to her mouth.
Rushford released his breath in a stream. Then he turned back to face Galveston, who looked as though prepared to face the wrath of God. “My sincerest apologies. I was not thinking properly.”
Galveston shuddered. “Absolutely, no offense intended,” he muttered uselessly, holding both hands, palms up, in supplication. “Take your winnings, fairly won.”
Rushford stared down at him as though from a great height. “I overestimated your intelligence, Galveston, among other things. This has little to do with vingt-et-un or my mistress.” His voice was harsh. “I don't give a damn about the fortune you lost and which I won. But I do care about your signet ring. Where is it? And don't try lying. Because it will hurt if you do.”
Galveston's shoulders fell farther into the sofa's plush cushions. “Good Lord, Rushford. Ring? Why do you care about a bloody ring?” His look was incredulous.
“You are most unwise if you expect me to remind you.” Rushford's voice was lethal. He pushed his sleeves back down and shot the cuffs of his shirt to keep his hands from curling into fists.
Galveston's eyes darted around the room as though looking for answers. Then like bolts sliding into place, his expression changed from fear to comprehension. “The bloody whore,” he whispered, turning his head toward a cushion to shield himself from dawning awareness. “Dear God, the bloody vixen!”

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