Vanity (25 page)

“Indeed, sir.” She couldn’t help the touch of hauteur in her voice. For some reason Philip’s apparent commiseration was deeply offensive, and she had to remind herself sharply of her part in the play before she could summon a careless smile.

“Do you not play, Lord Wyndham?” She linked her hand through his arm. “Let me be your luck, tonight. Do you wish to play faro or E and O?”

“I find little appeal in either, ma’am,” he said. “But a game of piquet, perhaps?”

“You wouldn’t consider backgammon instead?” Octavia peeped up at him from beneath her lashes with an almost guilty air of mischief. “It’s shocking to confess, I know, but I’m an abysmal card player. Warwick has quite despaired of me. But I can play a passable game of backgammon.”

Philip Wyndham laughed with genuine amusement, and it transformed his demeanor. Once or twice before Octavia had felt herself bathed in his warmth and approval and on each occasion had been drawn to him against her will and in the face of every instinct. At such moments he
reminded her of something, or someone, and the memory brought only warmth and pleasure. But she couldn’t identify the memory.

“Then let us play backgammon, ma’am. I haven’t played since my nursery days, so I fear you’ll have the edge.”

“Oh, we won’t play for serious stakes,” Octavia said reassuringly, ushering him across to a small table in the window where a backgammon board was set up.

“But I think we should play for something worth losing,” Philip said, seating himself before the board.

“Or for something worth winning, perhaps?” Octavia suggested, tossing the dice in her palms. “What would you wish to win, Lord Wyndham?”

“I believe you know that, ma’am,” he said softly, his eyes fixed upon her mouth. “But shall we start with a kiss?”

So now it was in the open. The game had begun. Perhaps if she could get close enough to him in a simple embrace, she could discover where he kept the ring. Perhaps she could remove it without getting any closer.

Octavia glanced down at her fingers, wondering if they’d lost any of their nimble deftness since she’d last had occasion to use them for such a purpose. She should practice. It would be easy enough to work any of the crowded ballrooms and salons she frequented. She wouldn’t keep her pickings, but it should be simple enough to drop them in strategic places where they would be found, and their owners would simply assume they’d somehow mislaid them.

She looked up at Lord Wyndham, an inviting smile on her lips. “An impudent wager, my lord. But one I daresay I could afford.”

“And what would you wish to win, ma’am?” He aligned the draftsmen with an extended forefinger, his eyes still fixed upon her mouth.

“Why, sir, you may take me to the play,” she said. “I hear Mr. Sheridan’s
School for Scandal
is wondrous entertaining, but my husband has no time for such frivolities.” She glanced over her shoulder at the faro table. “He seeks and finds other amusements, as we have remarked.”

“It seems, ma’am, that whether I win or lose, I gain only pleasure,” Philip said. “Shall we begin?”

At the faro table the atmosphere was more intense, the pile of gold at Rupert’s elbow growing steadily. “What did you mean, Warwick, about schemes to improve one’s circumstances?” Hector Lacross asked, draining his wineglass and leaning back as a footman refilled it.

“Oh, there are plans afoot in the City that could be turned to a pretty penny if a man can get in on the ground floor,” Rupert said carelessly. “It requires a small investment initially, but I’ve seen some fine returns in the last few months.”

“What kind of scheme?” This from Dirk Rigby, whose pale-brown eyes shifted away from Rupert’s clear-eyed gaze.

“Houses,” Rupert said. “Large houses being built on the south bank of the river. Prime land, perfect for the middle-class burghers. They’re flocking to lay down their blunt for a stake in a piece of property that they believe will enhance their new-found status among the wealthy merchants.”

He chuckled and laid three hundred guineas beside the knave of hearts. “Of course, the builder cuts a few corners here and there. Nothing that the buyers will notice. But it enables him—and, of course, his investors—to turn a handsome profit.”

“How wicked of you, Lord Rupert!” exclaimed Margaret Drayton, fanning herself vigorously. “To take advantage of those poor people.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

“Oh, they lay themselves open to it, with their own greed and self-consequence,” Rupert said, watching as the dealer turned over the knave of hearts. “Ah,” he said, smiling, drawing the pile of coins toward him. “I seem to be having the luck of the devil tonight.”

“I might be interested in investing a trifle myself,” Lacross said. “What about you, Rigby?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” his friend said heartily. “Who’s your contact, Warwick?”

Rupert leaned back in his chair, making a steeple of his
fingers. “That’s a little difficult, gentlemen. The matter is a mite sensitive, as you can imagine. Things one wouldn’t wish to become generally known …” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t feel I could reveal my friend’s name without consulting him first. I’m sure he’d need some earnest of your intentions.”

“Oh, quite, quite.” The two sat forward eagerly. “No difficulty there. Perhaps we could talk more tomorrow.”

Rupert inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment and pushed back his chair. “Ma’am, perhaps you’d care to try your luck with evens and odds.”

Margaret Drayton took his hand as she rose to her feet. “I’ve lost so much at faro, sir, I daren’t risk any more tonight.”

“Then you must permit me to be your banker,” Rupert said smoothly. He took her reticule from her, opened it, and dropped into it the pile of guineas he’d won so far.

Margaret laughed, but her eyes widened. “My lord, so generous.”

“Oh, I insist on a half share of your winnings,” he said, and escorted her to another table.

Octavia had heard none of the conversation over the general babble in the room, but she’d not missed the glint and chink of gold pouring into Margaret Drayton’s reticule, and indignation warred with disbelief that Rupert would give away their precious funds to a whore. Was it payment for services rendered? Or an advance on services to come?

Somehow she kept her seething fury off her face as she continued her game with Philip, presenting a front of sophisticated indifference to her husband’s conduct. However, when Rupert spoke laughingly over her shoulder, she couldn’t conceal the daggers in her eyes when she looked up at him.

“Backgammon in
my
house! My dear, I must protest.”

“A little tame for you, my lord?” she said sweetly. “Believe me, the stakes are far from tame. Are they, Lord Wyndham?”

“Far from it, ma’am.” He bowed and took out his
snuffbox. “May I?” Reaching for her hand, he shook a pinch onto her upturned wrist, and carried it to his nose.

Octavia vividly remembered when Rupert had done the same, and she’d thought then that no lady would permit a gentleman such a familiarity. But they were not playing ladies and gentlemen here—at least, not the respectable version of that breed … the kind one might find in Northumberland.

Rupert cupped the nape of her neck in his warm palm. A casual gesture, yet one redolent of possession, and her skin leaped beneath the touch. Philip Wyndham’s eyes narrowed as he closed his snuffbox and replaced it in his pocket. Of course, Octavia reflected, that gesture of possession was designed to prod the Earl of Wyndham’s competitive spirit. Rupert had told her that the earl was a man who coveted the possessions of others and had little interest in acquiring anything that was available simply for the asking.

She resisted the inclination to arch her neck into the firm, warm grip and sat up straight, shaking her head. His hand dropped immediately, leaving a cold, lonely spot on her neck. On any other occasion the touch would have reminded her of what was to come, once this tedious evening had drawn to a close and they were alone. But she was now too angry to be stirred by that prospect.

Rupert strolled back to the gaming tables, concealing his own frown. The scorching anger in Octavia’s eyes had taken him aback.

It was almost dawn when the last guest left. Octavia looked around the littered salon with an expression of distaste. Rupert poured cognac into two glasses.

“Here. You’ve earned it.” He held one glass out to her as she stood in front of the fire, massaging the back of her neck.

“No, thank you.” She shook her head. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

“Sit down, Octavia.” His voice was quiet and level.

She shot him a quick frown. “It’s five o’clock in the morning, Rupert. I’m going to bed.”

“Sit down Octavia”

What was it about him … about that tone … that ensured her obedience? Annoyed with herself for doing so, Octavia perched on the arm of a sofa. “What is it?”

“You tell me. Something’s troubling you about this evening. Is it Wyndham?” He rested one arm along the mantelpiece, his expression calm, although his eyes were warm and concerned.

“No.”

Rupert sipped his cognac. “So why are you angry?”

“Well, why do you trunk?” Octavia demanded fiercely. “How am I supposed to feel when I see you pouring a small fortune into Margaret Drayton’s reticule? What were you paying her for?”

The concern in his eyes vanished, exasperation in its place. He put down his glass with a snap. “You are being very foolish. If you don’t understand something, then ask me before you jump to stupid conclusions.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Octavia jumped to her feet, her face pale, golden fires ablaze in her eyes. “I didn’t jump to conclusions. I
saw
you give the woman a mass of gold. Everyone saw you.”

“Precisely,” he said coldly.
“Everyone
saw me.”

Octavia stared at him, then said slowly, “You mean … you mean people were supposed to see you?”

“Precisely,” he repeated, folding his arms. He spoke with all the harshness of a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly. “If you had paused to think for one minute before leaping to conclusions that would insult the intelligence of a baby, it might have occurred to you that the presence of Dirk Rigby and Hector Lacross could have influenced my actions this evening. It is necessary that they see me with money to burn.”

Octavia began to feel very small. Jealousy, that most demeaning of emotions, had betrayed her into such a foolish attack. Did he guess that? She would infinitely prefer to be called stupid than to be accused of being jealous of Margaret Drayton. But then it struck her that she did have a defense, and one that would remove the attention from Lady Drayton.

“I fail to see how I could be expected to understand anything of the sort, since you’ve consistently refused to tell me anything about your plans,” she retorted. “You tell me I should ask you if something puzzles me, but when I do, you refuse to answer.”

Rupert picked up his neglected glass and stared into it for a minute. “I suppose you have a point,” he conceded. “I tend to play my cards close to my chest.”

“Then you can hardly blame me for drawing my own conclusions from what I see.”

He looked up at that, and there was a glimmer of comprehending amusement in his eyes. “Oh, yes, I can, sweeting, when it comes to jumping to conclusions about my dealings with Margaret Drayton. That was foolish beyond permission.”

Octavia pointed one toe and examined her satin slipper with a degree of interest such an ordinary article hardly warranted. “I don’t see why. I assume she has a price. She seems to have been possessed by every male member of the court at some time or another.”

“And you think I’m sufficiently undiscriminating to go panting into pastures so well grazed?” He raised a mocking eyebrow. “You insult me, Octavia. I really think … Yes, I’m afraid I really think that I’m entitled to demand penance.” He took a sip of cognac, and in the silence the charged atmosphere in the salon crackled. But no longer with anger.

Octavia swallowed and tried to think of some light response, but her lips wouldn’t form even the simplest words.

“The question is, just what kind of penance would be appropriate?” Rupert mused, gazing down into the fireplace where the dying embers glowed, throwing up an occasional spark. “Any ideas, Octavia?” He cast her a look of such sensual intensity she wondered if she would have the strength to walk out of the room on her own two legs.

“You would have me choose my own?” she managed to say, her voice thick with desire.

“I believe the lesson might have greater resonance if
you do,” he observed judiciously. “I’m open to all suggestions, but I reserve the right to make the final decision.”

Octavia touched her tongue to her lips. Her mind was a riot of lustful fantasy, passion’s brilliant colors splashed across the gray canvas of fatigue and dismay, apprehension and resentment. It no longer mattered why they played this game, only that they did.

“Perhaps we should go upstairs, my lord,” she suggested with a demure curtsy.

“By all means. I imagine you’ll find it easier to apply yourself to the matter in your bedchamber.”

“I believe so, sir.” She curtsied again, holding the position for a long minute, gazing up at him over her unfurled fan, her eyes liquid with arousal, her lips slightly parted, promise in every line of her body.

Rupert gravely took her hand and raised her from her curtsy. “Come, madam.”

“T
he Earl of Wyndham, my lady. Are you at home?” Griffin’s somewhat sententious accents intoned from the doorway to Oliver Morgan’s sitting room.