The Marriage Wager (3 page)

He smiled.

Emma caught her breath. His smile was amazing—warm, confiding, utterly trustworthy. She must have misjudged him, Emma thought.

“Are you sure you won’t have some of this excellent brandy?” he asked, sipping from his glass. “I really can recommend it.”

Seven years of hard lessons came crashing back upon Emma as their locked gaze broke. He was doing this on purpose, of course. Trying to divert her attention, beguile her into making mistakes and losing. Gathering all her bitterness and resolution, Emma shifted her mind to the cards. She would not be caught so again.

Emma won the second hand, putting them even. But as she exulted in the win, she noticed a small smile playing around Colin Wareham’s lips and wondered at it. He poured himself another glass of brandy and sipped it. He looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself, she thought. And he didn’t seem at all worried that she would beat him. His arrogance was infuriating.

All now rested on the third hand. As she opened a new pack of cards and prepared to deal, Emma took a deep breath.

“You are making a mistake, refusing this brandy,” Wareham said, sipping again.

“I have no intention of fuzzing my wits with drink,” answered Emma crisply. She did not look at him as she snapped out the cards.

“Who are you?” he said abruptly. “Where do you come from? You have the voice and manner of a nobleman’s daughter, but you are nothing like the women I meet in society.”

Emma flushed a little. There was something in his tone—it might be admiration or derision—that made her self-conscious. Let some of those women spend the last seven years as she had, she thought bitterly, and then see what they were like. “I came here to play cards,” she said coldly. “I have said I do not wish to converse with you.”

Raising one dark eyebrow, he picked up his hand. The fire hissed in the grate. One of the candles guttered, filling the room with the smell of wax and smoke. At this late hour, the streets outside were silent; the only sound was Ferik’s surprisingly delicate snores from the hall.

In silence, they frowned over discards and calculated odds. Finally, after a long struggle, Wareham said, “I believe this point is good.” He put down a card.

Emma stared at it.

“And also my quint,” he added, laying down another.

Emma’s eyes flickered to his face, then down again.

“Yes?” he urged.

Swallowing, she nodded.

“Ah. Good. Then—a quint, a tierce, fourteen aces, three kings, and eleven cards played, ma’am.”

Emma gazed at the galaxy of court cards spread before her, then fixed on the one card he still held. The game depended on it, and there was no hint to tell her what she should keep to win the day. She hesitated a moment longer, then made her decision. “A diamond,” she said, throwing down the rest of her hand.

“Too bad,” he replied, exhibiting a small club.

Emma stared at the square of pasteboard, stunned. She couldn’t believe that he had beaten her. “Piqued, repiqued, and capotted,” she murmured. It was a humiliating defeat for one of her skill.

“Bad luck.”

“I cannot believe you kept that club.”

“Rather than throw it away on the slender chance of picking up an ace or a king?”

Numbly, Emma nodded. “You had been taking such risks.”

“I sometimes bet on the slim chances,” he conceded. “But you must vary your play if you expect to keep your opponent off balance.” He smiled.

That charming smile, Emma thought. Not gloating or contemptuous, but warm all the way to those extraordinary eyes. It almost softened the blow of losing. Almost.

“We said nothing of your stake for this game,” he pointed out.

“You asked me for none,” Emma retorted. She could not nearly match the amount of Robin Bellingham’s notes.

“True.” Colin watched as she bit her lower lip in frustration, and savored the rapid rise and fall of her breasts under the thin bodice of her satin gown. “It appears we are even.”

She pounded her fist softly on the table. She had been sure she could beat him, Colin thought. And she had not planned beyond that point. He waited, curious to see what she would do now.

She pounded the table again, thwarted determination obvious in her face. “Will you try another match?” she said finally.

A fighter, Colin thought approvingly. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, let his eyes linger on the creamy skin of her shoulders. He had never encountered such a woman before. He didn’t want her to go. On the contrary, he found himself wanting something quite different. “One hand,” he offered. “If you win, the notes are yours.”

“And if I do not?” she asked.

“You may still have them, but I get…” He hesitated. He was not the sort of man who seduced young ladies for sport. But she had come here to his house and challenged him, Colin thought. She was no schoolgirl. She had intrigued and irritated and roused him.

“What?” she said, rather loudly.

He had been staring at her far too intensely, Colin realized. But the brandy and the strangeness of the night had made him reckless. “You,” he replied.

There was a moment of shocked silence, as if that one simple word had frozen them into a static tableau. Then his beautiful visitor stiffened in her chair. On the tabletop, her hands curled into fists. “How dare you?” she replied.

“You might be surprised at what I would dare.”

“You are despicable. If you think that I came here to—”

“You are the one who suggested another game,” he interrupted. “I have merely set the stakes.”

“Outrageous stakes,” she answered. “Out of the question.”

“You’ll never be offered better odds,” he said, his senses filled with images of her in his arms. “However the cards fall, you get what you want.” Unable to resist the impulse any longer, he reached across the table to touch her.

She jerked out of reach and sprang to her feet, knocking over the delicate chair she had been sitting in. It clattered against the table leg and fell with a loud thump onto the carpet.

A spark of keen disappointment made him say, “I suppose I shall have to collect from young Bellingham, after all.”

“You
are
nothing but a rapacious swindler,” was the furious response.

She said it as though she had begun to form some other opinion, Colin thought, and felt a pang of regret for his unconsidered remark. “On the contrary,” he began, “but you must admit—”

“Mistress?” said a deep, resonant voice from the hallway. “Did you call?”

Emma took a step back from the table. Colin started around it. “Ferik has made himself very much my protector,” she warned. “He is not fettered by English notions of law and fairness, and his methods are direct and extremely effective.”

“If he interferes with me, he will find himself in serious trouble,” replied Colin between clenched teeth.

The library door opened and Ferik filled the doorway, his dark eyes suspicious. He eyed the overturned chair, then turned his belligerent gaze on Colin Wareham. “What has he done to you?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “We must go.” She retrieved her things from the card table and donned her cloak.

The giant hesitated. He was contemplating Wareham with his fists clenched.

“Now,” she commanded, already in the hall, turning the lock on the great front door.

Reluctantly, Ferik moved to follow.

“Tell me your name,” demanded Colin. “Where can I find you again?”

Ignoring him, she hurried out, and as Colin moved to intercept her, Ferik’s massive bulk blocked him.

“I’ll find you,” called Colin, standing in the open doorway. The shaft of light from the library made him a black outline against a glowing golden rectangle. The shapes of light shifted as he raised an arm. “Have no doubt. I will,” he added fiercely.

She disappeared into the darkness without answering.

Baron St. Mawr sat at his breakfast table and contemplated with disgust the array of food the cook had sent up. As all of his servants who had come into contact with him this morning already knew, he was in the foulest of foul moods. He had scarcely slept in the few hours since the mysterious woman left his house, and the effects of the brandy he had drunk were oppressive. But most of all, he was furious that he had let his lovely visitor escape without finding out anything about her. For a brief time, she had lifted the cloud that now shadowed his existence. She had brought curiosity and amusement and challenge, the urgent sweetness of desire. And like an utter fool, he had let her slip away without even learning her name. Silently, savagely, he cursed his stupidity, his fingers white with tension on his coffee cup. Then he cursed her blasted servant—what was his name?—Ferik. Damned silly name. Beginning to enjoy himself, he cursed his morning engagements, which prevented him from beginning to search for her at once. He was about to move on to other annoyances when the footman came in to announce that a young man had called to see him. Wareham merely growled. John waited a few moments, then ventured, “Shall I tell him you’re not at home, my lord?”

“Tell him to go to blazes!” was the reply.

“Yes, my lord.” John started for the door.

“Wait. Who is it?”

“A Mr. Robin Bellingham, my lord.”

Bellingham. Colin sat up straighter, his jaw tightening. He had forgotten all about Bellingham. Here was a link to his visitor, though he still did not understand what sort exactly. But he very much wished to speak to young Bellingham. Draining his coffee cup, he rose. “Where have you put him?” he asked John.

“In the library, my lord.”

“Fitting,” jibed Colin.

As he opened the chamber door for his master, John observed the steely glint in his lordship’s eyes and felt rather sorry for young Bellingham, who looked unhappy enough already.

Striding into the library, Colin found Robin Bellingham standing before the fireplace looking very young and quite miserable. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hands showed a slight tremor. He stood straight, however, when Colin entered and said, “I’ve come to speak to you about my notes of hand, sir.”

“Ah, heard they’re still outstanding, have you?” he snarled. What connection could that magnificent creature possibly have with this reedy youth? Colin wondered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want the whole story,” he demanded.

Bellingham looked bewildered.

“Didn’t come off quite as you’d planned, eh?” All of Colin’s frustration and anger came to a point and focused on the young man standing before him. All the reasons he could think of for his mysterious guest of last night to go to such lengths for this poor specimen filled him with rage. “She didn’t quite manage the thing.”

“My lord St. Mawr, I don’t understand you,” said Robin Bellingham stiffly. “I have come to discuss the money I lost to you last night at Barbara Rampling’s house.”

“Who is she?” demanded Colin, goaded by his bland deception. “You will tell me or I will choke it out of you!”

Bellingham backed away. “Mrs. Rampling?” he stammered. “I scarcely know her, my lord. I believe she is the widow of—”

“Blast Barbara Rampling! You know very well I was not speaking of her. Who is the woman who came to reclaim your notes?”

“Woman?” Bellingham goggled at him as if he’d gone mad. “I have no notion what you’re talking about, my lord.”

Wareham examined the boy’s face. His confusion looked genuine. Then he noticed something else. He took a step closer, surveying his features.

Bellingham took a step back. “I… I hoped… that is, I came to request a little time to redeem the notes,” he said with difficulty. “I find myself a bit strapped just now. I know that you—”

“I don’t win money from striplings,” interrupted Wareham, brushing his apologies aside as if the whole matter didn’t interest him in the least. “I would have told you last night, if you hadn’t hurried off. Indeed, I would have refused the game altogether if I could have done so without insulting you.” He stared at the boy’s silver-gilt hair, at the shape of his jaw. He suddenly noticed the trick he had of cocking his head to listen.

“Sir,” said Robin Bellingham, drawing himself up in outrage. “I am not a schoolboy. I have been on the town for—”

“Oh, all of six months,” interjected Wareham. There was something haunting about the shape of the lad’s face. And that hair—he should have realized—it was a most uncommon color. “I’ve no intention of taking your blunt,” he said.

Bellingham flushed and clenched his fists at his sides. “You may do as you like,” he replied in mortified accents. “But you should know that I shall consider myself obligated to pay nonetheless.”

“Then you may consider yourself an ass,” replied Wareham indifferently.

“My lord!” Bellingham clenched his jaw. He was white and trembling. “I shall… I shall…”

“Don’t call me out,” said Wareham wearily. “I shan’t meet you.” He sighed, realizing he must placate this young sprig if he was to get anything out of him. “This is not aimed at you personally, you know. I do not take large sums of money from men ten years younger than I. It’s against my principles.”

“But I…” Bellingham was clearly humiliated, but a hint of relief was beginning to creep into his tone. “I cannot fail in a debt of honor,” he objected tentatively.

“You can clear it by doing me a service,” answered Wareham.

The young man stood straighter. “Anything in my power, my lord.”

Colin leaned a little forward. “Tell me, do you have a sister?”

“A…” Bellingham gaped at him.

“A sister,” repeated his host meditatively. “An older sister. A good bit older, I would imagine.”

The young man’s mouth hung open. He looked as if he had been stuffed.

“Come, come,” said Colin impatiently. “Is this a difficult question? You must know whether you have a sister?”

“Yes. That is, no. That is, I did, but…”

“But?” encouraged Wareham.

“I’m not supposed to speak of her,” blurted Bellingham. “Father has forbidden it.”

“Ah.” His theory confirmed, Colin relaxed. The resemblance of this youngster to his nighttime visitor really was striking once you began to observe details. And her reasons for trying to rescue the lad were explained quite satisfactorily by such a relationship. Best of all, now he would find out everything he wanted to know. Clearly, there was a mystery involved. “I will not mention it to your father. But in exchange for your notes, I should like to hear all about your sister,” he declared.

Bellingham stared at him.

“Would you care for coffee?” he asked, all cordiality now. Indeed, his headache had greatly diminished. “Breakfast?”

In a very few minutes, they were seated across from each other in the deep library chairs while the footman served coffee. When he had gone, Colin leaned forward, putting the tips of his fingers together. “Now,” he said with anticipation. “Your sister.”

Bellingham cleared his throat. “I didn’t know her very well,” he said. “She is eight years older than I, and we never saw much of each other. By the time I was out of short coats, she was getting ready to leave the schoolroom and be presented to society.”

Wareham waved this aside. “Tell me what you do know,” he urged.

“Very well.” Bellingham cleared his throat nervously again. “My sister’s name is Emma,” he confided.

“Emma,” echoed the baron, savoring the sound. It was a fine name. He liked it very much.

“Yes. I remember she was very beautiful, and always laughing. She used to dance around the drawing room, teasing Father.” Robin grimaced. “He was a different man in those days. He—”

“You speak as if she was dead,” said Wareham, with a sudden chill. Had he been wrong after all?

“No. Not dead.” Bellingham moved uneasily in his chair. “Well, that is, my father has declared her dead to our family.”

Here was the crux of it, Colin thought. Now he would discover her secret. “Why?” he prompted.

“He didn’t approve of her marriage.”

“Marriage!” The word crashed down on Wareham like a falling tree.

“Yes. She, er, chose someone he didn’t like, and then she defied him when he objected.” Robin sounded rather wistful, as if he would very much like to do the same.

“Tell me the whole tale,” Colin said harshly. “From the beginning.”

Bellingham nodded. “As much as I know, sir. In her first season, Emma fell in love with Edward Tarrant. The eldest son of Sir Philip Tarrant.”

“The one who ruined himself at Newmarket?” growled Colin, the phrase “fell in love” echoing unpleasantly in his ears.

“Yes. I think that happened the same year Emma met his son. At any rate, the Tarrants were left without a penny, and my father forbade the match. Emma had a large fortune, you see, left her by our grandmother, and my father thought Tarrant was after her money. I gather he hadn’t liked Tarrant much in the first place, because he had a bad reputation as a gamester.”

“Ah,” said Wareham. Some of the things Emma had said about cards came clearer for him.

“But Emma wouldn’t listen to anyone. They say Edward Tarrant is very handsome and dashing.” Robin hesitated. “Did you speak, my lord?”

Colin, who had let out an involuntary growl, shook his head. “Go on.”

“They married as soon as Emma turned eighteen and went to live abroad. I believe my father tried to keep Emma’s fortune from Tarrant. I know he spent a great deal of time talking with solicitors. But in the end, he couldn’t. He was like a madman. I remember
that
quite well, the way he raved about the house cursing Tarrant and calling Emma names. He said Tarrant would run through her money at the tables in five years and leave her destitute.”

“And did he?”

Bellingham shrugged. “No one has heard from Emma for years.”

“Or her husband?” Colin inquired. It was curious, he thought. He had never before realized how much one could dislike a word.

“No. That is… not that I’ve ever heard. I suppose he must have had friends, but…”

That could be looked into, Colin thought. “She… they are not back in England?” he asked.

Bellingham shook his head, then hesitated. “Well, I don’t know where they are,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t recognize Tarrant if I passed him in the street.” He frowned. “Why do you want to know all this?”

“I believe I saw your sister last night,” replied Wareham absently.

“Saw Emma? Where?”

Colin started to say, “here,” then stopped. “At the card party, after you left,” he substituted.

Bellingham leaned forward, excited. “Did you know her? I have so often wanted to speak about her, but my father…”

“No,” interrupted Wareham. “I did not know her.” If she had come out seven years ago, he thought, he would have been in a filthy military camp in Portugal at the time.

“Oh.” Robin looked disappointed. “Well, did you speak to her? Where is she staying? I will call on her, no matter what Father says.”

Any hopes Wareham had had that Bellingham was actually hiding his sister vanished. It scarcely mattered now in any case, he thought. She was a married woman, nothing to do with him. “I have no idea,” he said. “I was merely curious.”

“Oh.” The young man’s face fell. He was too self-absorbed to wonder at his host’s unusual curiosity. “I wish I had stayed. I would like to see her.”

Weariness had descended on Colin again. Rising, he went to his desk and got out Bellingham’s notes of hand. “Here,” he said, handing over the small bundle. “We are quits.”

Slowly, the young man reached for them. “You are certain?”

“I have told you,” was the impatient reply. “And now I must bid you good day. I have an appointment.”

“Of course.” Bellingham rose. “I… thank you.”

The baron waved this aside. “Be more careful at the tables,” he suggested.

At this, the young man’s face reddened and his pale brows came together in anger. With a set jaw, he turned his back and strode from the room. Colin stared after him thoughtfully for a moment. Clearly, he had hit a nerve. But then he shrugged. Bellingham was no concern of his. Nor was his
married
sister. The gloom that had possessed him for so long descended upon Colin again. It was like a black fog, muffling everything and taking all the joy out of his life. Morosely, he went to pour himself another cup of coffee.

***

In a much less fashionable neighborhood on the other side of London, Emma also had risen early after a restless few hours tossing in her bed. She sat in a small, shabby breakfast room drinking tea and supporting her aching head with one hand. She had created a dreadful tangle and accomplished absolutely nothing, she thought irritably. She had exposed herself to scandal by visiting a man’s house alone late at night, and this after years of struggle to keep her good name, as she lost everything else. On top of that, the wretched man had recognized her from the boat, and now he would know her if she appeared at any of the card parties where she had planned to win enough money to survive. And to crown her folly, she had not erased the debt still hanging over her young brother.

The door of the breakfast room opened and a small, bustling woman of nearly sixty came in. Gray ringlets clustered about her head, and her amber gown, lavishly trimmed with yellow braid, suited neither her age nor her surroundings. Her face was pale, her features small and undistinguished. The smile she gave Emma didn’t seem to penetrate below the surface of her gray eyes. “Good morning, my dear,” she said, taking a seat opposite Emma and ringing for fresh tea. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not very.” Emma watched Edward’s aunt, the only person she had been willing to contact on her return to England, hesitate over the choice of a muffin. She had remembered Arabella Tarrant as an established, if minor, member of the
ton
. She had returned to find her reduced to genteel poverty by the flight of her husband to the West Indies, accompanied by a pretty young housemaid. Best not even to
think
of that subject, Emma told herself hastily. When Arabella got started on the sins of her husband, she could go on for hours.