Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 14

T he scene with Adam had Grace on edge and impatient when Lord Barrington arrived to escort her to Belmonde’s in Pickering Place. By the time they were inside and Grace had purchased her counters, Barrington was wearing on her nerves to a high degree. He had done nothing but complain about her “ridiculous new diversion” and the “insane chances” she was taking with her reputation during the entire drive. It was eerily like listening to her brother.

The main salon of Belmonde’s was decorated in shades of deep green and gold, the lighting was dim, and the tone was more sedate and the crowd of a higher social class than at the Two Sevens. A low hum of voices played against a background of a single pianist. Feeling quite comfortable in this venue, Grace seized the first opportunity to divert him to happier matters. “My lord, I see Mr. Elwood by the vingt-et-un table. I think it would be an excellent idea for you to congratulate him on the arrival of his heir. I understand the birth went well. The baby is the picture of health and everyone is completely over the top about it.”

Barrington looked toward the group across the room. “Yes? Well, if you think I should…”

“Oh, I do,” she sighed, anxious for any respite from his complaints. “Take your time. I shall find a nice little game and settle in.”

“I dislike leaving you on your own, Grace. You’re bound to encounter trouble.”

“I swear I will find you if I should need the least little thing,” she said, straightening his cravat and sending him off with a little push in the direction of the vingt-et-un table.

She hoped to find a game of hazard. She wanted to learn it quickly, but she really must remember to ask Miss Talbot the game her brother had been playing when he lost his fortune. If she could watch Morgan at that, she might be able to determine whether he cheated or not. Though men of experience had been unable to catch him, she expected to have better luck. Morgan would not be so cautious in dealing with her, since she was a mere woman. And, she smiled to herself, she had always been of the opinion that women had the superior intellect.

Holding her wineglass in one gloved hand and her counters in the other, she circulated, watching the activity at one table and then another. She was engrossed in studying the intricacies of betting at hazard when she felt someone leaning close to her left ear.

“I wouldn’t advise it, Mrs. Forbush. The odds are heavily in favor of the house.”

She turned and smiled at Geoffrey Morgan. Had he done that deliberately? “From what I’ve been able to determine, sir, the odds are heavily in favor of the house no matter the game.”

“Precisely why I prefer to play games that pit my skills against other players instead of the house.”

Now this was interesting. Grace sighed and gave him a sidelong glance. “Few men will allow a woman at their table, Lord Geoffrey. What would you suggest I do?”

“Play with me,” he said in a low, husky voice.

Grace smiled and dropped her gaze to the silver embroidery at the hem of her gown. “Do you recommend a particular game?”

“Whist. Do you know it?”

“Quite well,” she admitted. She had learned it at a country house party many years ago where the ladies had played for pins, and she had played it frequently since. “Are you asking me to be your partner, Lord Geoffrey?”

“I’ve come looking for one. If I bring you to the table, Mrs. Forbush, no one will say you nay.”

“I am surprised that you are willing to link your fortunes to my skill when you really haven’t the slightest idea what my proficiency might be. My misjudgments could cost you dearly.”

He laughed and took her by the arm to lead her away from the main salon. “All of life is a risk, Mrs. Forbush. The greater the risk, the keener the excitement.”

She tilted her head to look up at him again and found a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She laughed. “Then you should be very excited right now, Lord Geoffrey.”

He returned her smile. “You have no idea, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace had a momentary flash of fear. She took a deep breath at the suggestiveness in that comment and hoped things had not just slipped out of her control. “Who are our opponents?”

“Reginald Hunter and Adam Hawthorne.”

Heavens! This had not been in her plans. Adam! Even in the midst of all these men, she could only think of that extraordinary kiss in the library and how she wished it could happen again, despite what she’d told him. She willed her breathing to even and her heartbeat to slow. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. “Lead on, sir,” she said.

Laughter trailed off and conversation stilled as Lord Geoffrey led her into a small side room. Just the appearance of a woman could, evidently, make men feel awkward. She was entering a male domain—one that few women ever saw. It would take all her resources to ignore the fact that she wasn’t wanted here.

Lord Geoffrey led her to one of the three tables in the room and announced, “Mrs. Forbush, may I present—”

“Mrs. Forbush, how are you?” Reginald said, rising, extending his hand and smiling widely.

“I’m well, thank you, Lord Reginald.” She turned to Adam, standing, too, and appraising her with a speculative gleam in his deep hazel eyes. “I see you are fitting quite comfortably back into society, Mr. Hawthorne.”

Adam bowed and when he straightened he gave her a crooked smile coupled with one raised eyebrow. “Parts of it,” he said laconically.

He was the polar opposite of the man in buckskins she had met for the first time—now elegantly attired in sober black with a deep green waistcoat over an impeccably tied cravat. He had evidently not needed assistance with that tonight. How would she ever be able to sit across the table from him and keep from watching the way his eyes sparkled in a jest or thinking of how those lips felt on hers?

Lord Reginald, looking puzzled a moment before, began to laugh. “Ah, yes. Now I recall. Mrs. Forbush, you and Hawthorne are somehow related, are you not?”

Lord Geoffrey turned to her in surprise. “How so, Mrs. Forbush?”

“Through marriage. My late husband was Mr. Hawthorne’s uncle.”

He glanced from her to Adam and back again. “Life never ceases to amaze and delight me,” he said. He held a chair for her before taking his own across from her. “May I assume you are not in league with Mr. Hawthorne to relieve me of my ready?”

Adam leaned back in his chair and gave an easy smile but did not rise to the bait. Grace could not tell if he was insulted or amused by the gibe.

She merely laughed and turned to Reginald. “Forgive me Lord Reginald, but may I assume that you and Mr. Hawthorne are not in league to take advantage of a novice?”

“Touché, Mrs. Forbush,” Lord Geoffrey acknowledged.

With a glance and nod in the direction of a house monitor whose duty it was to observe the activities at each table, Lord Geoffrey began to shuffle the deck. Grace noted how nimble he was, how adept at handling the cards. And how quick. He slid the deck to his right and Adam cut them before Lord Geoffrey began the deal. The last card, dealt face up, was a heart, declaring the trump suit.

When Grace opened her hand and sorted her cards, she was pleased to find seven hearts. She looked up at her partner, wondering if he had somehow known and manipulated the cards. But how could he? Even if he’d known the bottom card was a heart, how could he have dealt her hearts from the middle of the deck? He was studying his hand with rapt concentration and nothing in his expression or bearing indicated that cheating was afoot. Her hand must be a happy coincidence.

Lord Reginald led and the play began. At one point she glanced up to find Morgan studying her over his hand. He raised his eyebrows as if asking a question. She smiled, realizing he was flirting with her. Rather effectively, too.

When she took the last trick for a total of ten, Lord Geoffrey smiled. “Well done, partner,” he said.

“Well dealt,” she answered.

Lord Reginald, completely unperturbed, gathered the cards and began to shuffle. “As it is my turn to deal, I shall try to give my partner likewise good cards.”

Grace shot a quick glance at Lord Reginald. Was he intimating that he suspected Lord Geoffrey of cheating in the deal? There did not seem to be a challenge in his eyes.

“Excellent!” Adam said, cutting through the tension. “Mrs. Forbush made rather short work of us, did she not? I’ll relish the chance to even the score.”

“Nothing like a little competition,” Lord Geoffrey said. “It always sharpens the senses and adds excitement, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Hawthorne?”

Meeting Lord Geoffrey’s gaze, Adam gave a half smile, one that only lifted one corner of his mouth. “If the stakes are high enough,” he said with a hint of challenge.

Lord Geoffrey nodded and returned his attention to the cards. Was there some sort of history between the men?

The next several hands went more slowly than the first, but Grace wasn’t aware of the passage of time until she felt Barrington’s hand on her shoulder.

“Here you are, Grace. It is time for us to go. Let’s fetch your wrap.”

“Come now, Barrington,” Lord Geoffrey protested. “I’ve scarce had such good luck with partners before.”

“Too bad, Morgan. Grace is coming with me.”

Grace looked over her shoulder to see Barrington’s face. He was completely serious! She lowered her voice to a conciliatory tone. “As soon as I finish this hand—”

“Now.”

A hush fell over the table as the men looked from her to Barrington and back. She folded her cards and took a deep breath. Every instinct she had told her to avoid the scene—to do whatever she must to smooth this over and keep the peace, as she’d done with Leland her whole life—but she’d finally had enough of Barrington’s subtle bullying.

“After I finish this hand, my lord. If you will fetch my wrap, I will be done by the time you return.”

Barrington gripped her elbow and pulled her to her feet, tipping her chair backward in the process. She was so stunned by this maneuver that she was rendered momentarily speechless. Players at the other tables stopped to look in their direction. Barrington seemed oblivious to the attention they were drawing. She heard chairs at her own table scraping backward but kept her eyes riveted on Barrington and prayed for restraint.

“My lord, it would be unforgivably rude of me to leave the game in progress. I am not the only one to consider here.”

“Well, you are the only one I am considering, Grace, and you are coming with me.” He tightened his hold on her arm and pulled her away from the table.

Adam, Morgan and Lord Reginald all stepped forward as if they would intercede. She lifted her hand to them, trying to avert the pending disaster. She must avoid a scene at any cost. All she could think of was her brother. Leland had always gotten what he wanted by bullying, demeaning and embarrassing her. She thought she had escaped that ugliness, and that she’d never be at any man’s mercy again, but here she was. She knew she should face him down, but still…

But still the fear of Leland and of calling his attention was controlling her, forcing her compliance—at least in public. Choking on the words, she said, “Gentlemen, please excuse me. Allow me to—” she tried to open her reticule, dangling from her wrist, to withdraw the remainder of her counters “—to reimburse you for your losses, Lord Geoffrey.”

“No need, Mrs. Forbush,” he said, a frown knitting lines between his eyes. “Our winnings far exceed our losses. In fact, I will owe you—”

Barrington tugged at her arm and Adam took a step forward, his intent clear. Lord Reginald, too, gave Barrington a hard look and made a move forward. Panic threatened to overwhelm her. Be calm, she counseled herself. Softly. Breathe. When she spoke, her voice was so serenely controlled that she scarcely recognized it.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, gentlemen, but I really must be going. I have just recalled that Lord Barrington is quite right. We are long overdue for an appointment.”

Though it was the deepest part of night, traffic along the main thoroughfares did not stop. Drivers called to one another and the sound of hooves on cobblestones filled the air. The moment Barrington’s coach stopped moving, Grace did not wait for a footman, but threw the door open and hopped down. She had not spoken the entire ride, not trusting herself to remain rational. Mrs. Dewberry had waited up and stood just inside the foyer. She handed the housekeeper her pelisse and reticule. “You needn’t have waited up, Mrs. Dewberry.”

“I like to be sure everyone is all tucked up for the night, Mrs. Forbush. I don’t mind in the least.”

Before she went any further, Grace needed to be certain she and Barrington would not be interrupted. “Is Dianthe home yet?”

“Aye, Mrs. Forbush. Retired an hour ago.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dewberry. Now please get some sleep.”

“Shall I fetch more brandy for his lordship, Mrs. Forbush?”

She headed for the library, peeling her gloves away as she went. “He will not be staying long. Now off to bed with you.”

“Yes, Missus.” The woman hurried toward the coach house where she and her husband had separate quarters.

“Grace—”

She was already pouring herself a glass of brandy by the time Barrington caught up with her.

“Grace, talk to me,” he pleaded.

Grace had wanted to be safely home and out of the reach of society gossips and Leland’s informants before she gave vent to her anger. Her back to him, she gulped the brandy and braced herself as the fire seeped downward, relaxing her clenched stomach muscles and stilling her trembling. She rarely drank anything stronger than sherry, but this occasion called for it. The next few minutes were going to be extremely unpleasant and she would need fortification to get through it.

“Damn it all, Grace,” Barrington snarled, red-faced. “I won’t have it. I won’t have you cavorting at hells and flirting with every man there. It cheapens you.”