The Mischievous Miss Murphy (25 page)

A minute later, still buttoning his chamois redingote, a thin ebony cane tucked under his arm, Beaumont “Bobby” Remington descended the marble steps to enter the closed carriage, cheerily calling his destination to the coachman sitting on the box, and rode off to fulfill his destiny.

“I win again. Damned boring, I call this,” Niall Winslow drawled, giving an exaggerated yawn as he collected the counters and surveyed his opponents at the table from beneath sleepy lids. “I could take myself off to White’s if I wished to gamble for such tame stakes. I say, Georgie-boy, you leaving already? Don’t go away, we pray you. If you can’t spare the blunt,” he sniped sarcastically as his cronies tittered behind their hands, “we might play for straws, if only so that we won’t be denied your delightfully invigorating company.”

“No, no. It’s not that, Niall. Just saw the time, that’s all. Getting late, you know. Must go now, truly I must.” Young George Smythe, who had dropped the best part of three thousand pounds to the pale, blond exquisite whose slight figure and die-away airs hid the inclination and ability of a superior swordsman who had pinked more than a half dozen men in clandestine duels over the years, then bowed his head and skulked from the smoke-filled gaming room. He did not see Beaumont Remington lounging against the arch, taking snuff, as ne was just then desperately trying to conjure up a suitable excuse that would convince his bride of six months that they would be much better off rusticating at their small country estate for a few months—until his next quarter’s allowance came due.

Winslow, however, did see him, and his quick grin and a wink to his compatriots said volumes about his enthusiasm to welcome another sheep to the shearing. “Beau, my good man! I had about given up hope you would come to recoup that obscene amount of money I have won from you these past weeks. What does it stand at now—ten thousand?”

Beau pushed himself away from the archway, a slow smile warming his features, and took up the chair recently vacated by George Smythe, nodding his hellos to the other two gentlemen at the green baize faro table featuring enameled representations of the thirteen different cards used in the game. “Fifteen, I believe, Niall, but why quibble about such a paltry sum? I feel that Dame Luck is with me this evening, even if you do hold the bank. Stakes, gentlemen?”

“Ah, yes, the stakes,” Niall answered smoothly, one soft white manicured hand caressing the top of the box which held the cards. “That would depend upon you, my friend. How quickly do you wish to win back your money?”

“A thousand pounds at a time.” Beau replied, laying the considerable stack of counters he had brought with him on the tabletop. “To begin with, of course.”

Niall did not blink, or in any way react to this suggestion, although the other two men at the table were quite vocal with their objections, starting a three-way debate (Beau sat quietly, smiling, watching), that concluded only when the other two gentlemen excused themselves and the faro box was put aside so that Niall and Beau could begin their first game of two-handed whist.

The other gentlemen did not retire from the room, but made up a small audience that grew as each hand was played, Beau soon the poorer by another six thousand pounds. Men had hanged themselves over half that amount, a quarter of that amount, but Beau continued to smile, and continued to play.

An hour passed, and then two, and although he had not quite recouped what he had lost so far that evening, Beau’s luck had begun to turn.

“We are only back to where we started, aren’t we? You’ll never get anywhere this way, my friend,” Niall pointed out when Beau had won the last rubber, at last bringing him even. “And, unless you wish to stay here until the sun rises and sets once more—not that I am averse to such a circumstance, you understand—I suggest we consider raising the stakes.”

Beau’s smile was slow, and oddly satisfied, although only one very young man (in town for his first Season, a Mr. Richard Symons, who was standing directly behind Niall Winslow) happened to notice, which perhaps explained why, when Mr. Symons turned to his nearest companion and quietly suggested a private wager of a monkey (that is, five hundred pounds) as to Remington being the eventual winner, he was immediately taken up on his offer.

“I’m agreeable,” Beau answered quietly, the glass of port at his elbow still nearly untouched. “But I suggest we dispense with all these preliminaries and merely cut the cards a single time, the highest card taking all. That should speed things up, so that you can return to your home before dawn, in time to lay your head upon your pillow.”

“Done!” Niall agreed, picking up the deck and beginning to shuffle. “What are the stakes?”

“I believe fifteen thousand pounds was mentioned earlier,” Beau said silkily, taking snuff, his hands steady, his intensely blue eyes unblinking as he stared across the table at his opponent. “Oh, yes—one thing more. Mr. Symons, you look like a resourceful fellow. Could I importune you to procure us a fresh deck?”

Niall frowned, his hands stilling in mid-shuffle. Beaumont Remington had not outwardly accused him of fuzzing the cards—he wouldn’t dare!—but the inference was there. And what was this business about fifteen thousand pounds won or lost with a single cut of the deck? Was the man mad? Or was he just so bloody rich that he could afford to be stupid? He suddenly wished he knew more about this Remington fellow. He had only been interested in the color of his money, but perhaps he should have been paying more attention. Now it was too late to do anything but play along. Especially after that business of calling for a new deck of cards.

“Agreed,” Niall said slowly at last, knowing all eyes were on him, waiting for his answer.

Mr. Symons reappeared with the new deck and, at Beau’s request, snuffled the cards before placing them facedown on the table. The tension in the room, a chamber which had seen more than one fortune made or destroyed on the turn of a single card, grew palpable as Niall Winslow, at Beau’s behest, lifted his choice from the deck: a jack of clubs.

“My, my,” Beau remarked, taking a sip of port, “that is a prodigious card, is it not? I shudder to think of the unlikelihood of drawing a better one. Mr. Symons—if you would do me the honor of drawing for me?

“Me?” Mr. Symons exclaimed in shocked accents, his prominent Adam’s apple climbing high in his throat. Then just as quickly he puffed out his thin chest, proud to have been chosen for such an honor. He wished he could lay claim to a composure as rock-solid as Remington’s, but he knew he did not have it in him. His hand trembling like a blancmange, he slipped his fingers over the deck, closed his eyes, and lifted a stack of approximately twelve cards, to reveal the results of his cut: the queen of hearts!

“We did it!” Mr. Symons shouted when the murmur of approval around him gave him the courage to open his eyes and take a peek at his choice. It was a heavy responsibility Beaumont Remington had handed him, and it pleased him no end that he had performed up to expectations. His success, coupled with the fact that his own money was not involved, prompted him to dare, “Shall we go again?”

“If it amuses you, Mr. Symons,” Beau replied, apparently bored by the whole affair.

Niall Winslow’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as he tilted his head and eyed his opponent. The man couldn’t be cheating. For one thing, Symons was too paper-skulled to play the part of sharper. Besides, Remington’s luck couldn’t hold. It never had before. “Again,” he said while the company waited, “and for the same stakes.”

It came as no surprise to any of the gentlemen in the room when Beau nodded once more, inviting Winslow to have the first draw.

Niall declined the honor, motioning to Mr. Symons, who went on to draw the six of spades, a circumstance that caused that young man to sway where he stood.

Niall Winslow, however, drew the three of diamonds, and found himself falling from dead even to owing Beaumont Remington fifteen thousand pounds.

“Again!” Mr. Symons all but shouted, growing somewhat bosky on his unexpected success. “Please, sir?” he added with almost pathetic anxiety, wildly bobbing his head in Beau’s direction.

Niall abandoned his negligent pose at the table, sitting up very straight indeed as he called out for both a fresh deck and a fresh bottle.

But the results were the same. In the blink of an eye he had lost a total of thirty thousand pounds, an unthinkable amount, an obscene amount, and he knew he would have to push away from the table a loser, for he had precious little left to bet with unless he were to dip into his capital, which he most certainly would not do.

“It has been an enjoyable, and educational, evening, Remington,” he said, making to rise, only the presence of a small tic in his left cheek giving any signal as to his inner turmoil. “I shall send you a draft on my bank in the morning. Perhaps we can do this again?”

“We could,” Beau said reasonably enough, his fingers rifling through the stack of counters in front of him before he tossed two of them, representing a thousand pounds, to Mr. Symons, who was near to weeping in his happiness over his newfound good fortune. “However,” he added softly, “there may be an easier way. You hold title to a certain estate in Sussex, my friend, near Winchelsea, I believe. One of your minor holdings, I am sure. I have always wished for a country estate. I will pledge the thirty thousand you have lost to me tonight and, to make the thing truly interesting, we will each wager another fifteen thousand pounds on the outcome.”

Niall sat down once more. “Winslow Manor? You want me to cut the cards for Winslow Manor?”

“I prefer to call it Remington Manor, actually,” Beau remarked, smiling up at Mr. Symons, who had disappeared momentarily to procure yet another fresh deck and was just now elbowing his way back through the crowd. “It is the name my great-grandfather gave it when he had it built.”

Niall put a hand to his mouth, shaking his head, so that Mr. Symons, for one fleeting moment, believed the man had begun to cry. But Niall Winslow wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Quietly at first, and then with increasing gusto, until he threw back his head and chortled. “So that’s it!” he exclaimed at last, looking at Beau.

“I knew the name was familiar. You’ve been planning this for some time, haven’t you, Mr. Remington? Clever. Very clever. I should have known no man could be as abysmally unlucky at cards as you have been. I believe I should be insulted.”

The crowd around the table was now five or six deep, and everyone was waiting, titillated, for the inevitable challenge, the slap, the exchanging of cards, and the naming of seconds.

But they were to be disappointed.

“My losses against the deed to Winslow Manor? I believe that was the wager?” Niall asked, reaching for the deck.

“And another fifteen thousand pounds to the winner, just to sweeten the pot,” Beau reminded him punctiliously, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Mr. Symons had taken recourse to a chair and was now sitting just beside him, his knees knocking together loud enough to be heard in the next room.

“Of course,” Niall answered. “How could I forget. You are being very gentlemanly, allowing me the added incentive of a profit.”

“Or, conversely,” Beau inserted neatly as Niall drew the king of hearts, “the chance to bring your losses to forty-five thousand pounds
and
Remington Manor.”

“
Winslow
Manor, Mr. Remington,” Niall stated firmly, displaying his card to the crowd of gentlemen who were craning their necks to see.

Beau laid his hand on the deck himself this time, an action that allowed Mr. Symons the luxury of pulling out his large white handkerchief and wiping his clammy brow. “I repeat, sir—
Remington Manor
, he said, lifting a stack of cards and turning them over to expose the ace of spades.