Читать книгу Lady Olivia And The Infamous Rake - Janice Preston - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Some time later, Lord Clevedon produced a pack of cards from his pocket and he smiled at Olivia. ‘May I challenge you to a few hands of piquet, my dear? I cannot offer an alternative game, for I only have the reduced pack here.’

Olivia had often played piquet with her family, and prided herself on her skill, but she hesitated, knowing that playing cards in a public place was not at all the same as playing cards at a private function. Neville dug his elbow into her ribs at that point and muttered, ‘Not at all the thing, La—Beatrice’ under his breath.

Olivia glared at him. Then stuck her nose in the air. If she wished to play a hand or two of cards with Lord Clevedon, why should she not? Nobody knew it was her, except Neville, and he did not count.

His lordship shuffled the cards before fanning them between long, elegant fingers. ‘Do not concern yourself, Wolfe. We shall play the classic game—the first to gain one hundred points wins. Your...er...friend has already proved herself admirably bold, venturing here with two escorts, neither of whom, I’ll wager, are members of her family.’

His words reassured Olivia that he had not guessed her identity and, ignoring Neville’s desperate grimaces, she said, ‘Very well, then. I accept your challenge, sir.’

At that point, Mr Randall exited the box after mumbling an excuse. Olivia was pleased to see the back of him—she just wished Lord Hugo would also leave, with his unsettling gaze that seemed to penetrate deep inside her to winkle out her secrets.

‘What stakes shall we say?’

Olivia bit her lip. ‘I have no money with me with which to wager.’

‘No matter, my dear. Let us hope Lady Luck will smile upon you and, if she should not, I will happily accept your vowel, you know. Of course, if you fear to take the risk, we can play for a penny a point. I am sure one of your two cavaliers will be happy to cover any losses.’

Olivia—discovering in herself a sudden desire not to risk her money on a skill she suddenly doubted—thought a penny a point might be just the answer. Before she could accept Clevedon’s offer, however, Lord Hugo, his deep voice an amused drawl, said, ‘A penny a point? My dear Clevedon, you insult the lady.’

Olivia glared at him. The sight of that mocking smile fired her anger, egging her on, and she elevated her chin.

‘My thoughts exactly, sir. Why, a penny a point is hardly worth bothering with. What do you say to...to...?’ Frantically, she tried to decide what would be deemed a reasonable wager without her having to risk too much.

‘A guinea a point,’ Lord Hugo said, with a lift of his brow.

She held his gaze defiantly. ‘Perfect.’

‘Deal the hand, Clevedon,’ Lord Hugo drawled. ‘I have an extraordinary desire to see the outcome of this game before I take my leave.’

Light-headed from the effects of the punch and with the enormity of what she had agreed to, Olivia frowned as she forced her somewhat fuzzy attention on her hand. She won the first deal, but she was soon out of her depth. Clevedon played ruthlessly and Olivia was left reeling at the speed at which his points stacked up. Neville, his face grimmer by the second, shot her an encouraging smile.

‘I’ll go and find Alex.’

He stood and, none too steady on his feet, left the box. Olivia watched him go until he was absorbed into the crowd, then turned her attention to the remaining two men in the supper box and to the new hand dealt to her.

‘I... I think I would rather not play any more,’ she said, her stomach churning.

‘Such a shame you have suffered an unfortunate run of cards,’ Clevedon said, smiling. ‘But we cannot stop now—we are so close to the finish. One more deal should do it.’

Pride alone stopped her from refusing to finish the game. She lost as, deep down, she had known she would.

‘Never mind. Perhaps, if we play on, your luck might change, Beatrice, my dear.’

The breath left Olivia’s lungs in a whoosh. Beatrice. She had forgotten. She felt the blood drain from her face as she realised the dilemma she faced: she could not give Clevedon her vowel. She was here incognito. She could not risk this escapade becoming common knowledge—it would destroy her reputation and her father...

Sick dread pooled in her stomach. She would be in trouble, yes, but that was not the worst of it.

Oh, dear God. What have I done? Papa will blame Alex and then—

She thrust aside that frantic voice inside her head as Clevedon raised the pack of cards, his brows raised, waiting for her reply.

‘I...no. I do not care to play again, thank you.’ She sucked in a shaky breath and continued, ‘I will pay you your money by the end of next week, my lord, if you would be so good as to give me until then to settle my debt?’

‘But of course, my dear. Just give me your vowel and then I shall call upon you—shall we say next Saturday evening—and you can repay me. I shall, of course, need your address.’

Panic threatened to overcome her, squeezing her lungs until she could barely breathe. ‘I... I... I cannot give you my vowel, sir. But I give you my word that you will be paid on time.’

Clevedon’s smile was sympathetic, but there was a hard edge to it now. And how could she blame him? He had no idea of her identity. Why should he trust her? She scanned the people thronging the square.

Oh, where is Alex? Or Neville? Why have they not returned?

‘I am sorry, my dear, but...a debt of honour, you know. And an unknown adversary. I am afraid that I must insist on a signed vowel or—perhaps—payment of a different kind?’

Her throat constricted. Her gaze flew without volition to Lord Hugo, but he was staring out across the square, seemingly taking no notice of their conversation.

‘D-different kind? I do not understand.’

Clevedon proffered his hand and, as if in a dream, she took it and rose to her feet.

‘Come walk with me, Beatrice. A kiss. Or two. That is all I ask. There are private nooks aplenty in the Dark Walks.’

His eyes lowered to her décolletage. She snatched her hand from his and pulled her domino tightly across her chest, her hand at her throat.

‘I...no. I should rather not. Thank you, sir.’

‘Your address, then? Or how shall I know where to apply for my winnings?’

Beneath her fingers was the hard outline of Mama’s necklace. In a panic, she slid her hands inside her hood and reached behind to unclasp the necklace. She tugged it free and almost flung it on the table.

‘There. You may take that as my promise to pay my debt. And, when I do, you must return my necklace.’

A low whistle reached her ears. Lord Hugo’s eyes had widened at the sight of the necklace. Belatedly, Olivia recalled she could have offered the bracelet or even the eardrops—either would have covered the amount she owed and both were worth far less than the necklace.

And Papa is far more likely to notice the necklace is missing than he would the others.

But it was too late to change her offer now for Clevedon had already pocketed the necklace, saying, ‘A pledge? Hmmm... I should have preferred a kiss, but very well. I accept your pledge. I shall still require your address, however.’

‘No! Why?’

His brows rose. ‘No? But how, my dear, are you to pay my winnings and how am I to return your necklace? Unless...but of course. You may call upon me at my house in Dover Street. If you wear your domino, then it is unlikely you will be recognised. Shall we say, Saturday evening at seven o’clock? Bring the money—and your delightful self for dinner—and I shall return the necklace.’

‘Dinner? No. I could not possibly—our agreement was for me to pay my debt, nothing more.’

‘There is the little matter of interest payable, my dear. I shall hold the necklace for you until Saturday, but should you fail me I shall have no choice but to sell it to defray expenses. You do understand, I trust? Don’t be late.’

She could stay there no longer. Sick at heart, she fled the box, stumbling a little in her haste, and plunged into the dense mass of people thronging the square, desperately searching for Alex or Neville.

* * *

Lord Hugo Alastair watched the mysterious Beatrice vanish among the crush of people, who were growing rowdier by the minute, and he hoped she would quickly find safety with Beauchamp or Wolfe—he’d wager she was younger than she’d tried to appear, but she was without doubt a lady. He bit back a cynical smile—yet another young wife, unrecognisable in her hooded domino and lace-edged mask, out with her lover, proving yet again that matrimony was for fools. Hugo had had his fair share of disenchanted wives on his arm in the past. Although—now he considered it—neither Beauchamp nor Wolfe had paid her much attention. If either of those young greenheads was her lover, they weren’t making a very good fist of it.

He scanned the densely packed square and disquiet threaded through him. A female on her own would prove an easy target for the many predators prowling the Gardens—thieves, pickpockets...and worse.

He frowned, recalling the way Beatrice had taken fright at Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss or two. That was not the reaction of a married lady out with her lover. And, now he came to think about it, neither was Clevedon’s suggestion one that Hugo would ever have expected of the man who was now examining that ruby and diamond necklace with a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

‘Care to enlighten me as to who the mysterious Beatrice is, Clevedon?’

Clevedon smiled smugly. ‘My salvation, dear boy. My future wife.’

‘Your wife?’ Hugo’s astonishment was perhaps too overt and Clevedon looked up with suddenly narrowed eyes.

‘Why ever not?’ he said, evenly. ‘A man in my position must marry eventually. The Beauchamp chit is as good as any.’

Hugo racked his brain to come up with a mental picture of Cheriton’s daughter. Their paths rarely crossed; young ladies in their first Season held no appeal for him and he, as a younger son with no prospects, held even less appeal for them. Or for their parents. Lady Olivia Beauchamp. He remembered her now: a true beauty, with a willowy figure and the same black hair and silver-grey eyes as her sire. And utterly innocent. Anger stirred, deep in his gut.

What the hell is Beauchamp about, bringing his sister here and then abandoning her?

‘I never had you down as the marrying kind, Clevedon.’

Hugo had always suspected the other man’s proclivities, but that was a delicate—not to say, illegal—matter and not one he could even mention, although he was aware Clevedon was not the first man to prefer the company of other men and neither would he be the last. He could see now that Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss in payment for the debt had been an elaborate ruse... Clevedon had known damned well that the Lady Olivia Beauchamp would never consent to walking down those shady pathways with him. He had well and truly hooked her in.

Clevedon shrugged. ‘It is not by choice, dear boy, but I find myself in need of a wife with a wealthy father. And they don’t come much wealthier than Cheriton. Besides, our marriage would be one of pure convenience. My life need not change.’

Distaste mushroomed in Hugo’s gut. Lady Olivia might be a spoilt little rich girl who wanted for nothing—and a foolish chit for taking the risks she had tonight—and yet he could still find sympathy for a young girl who would marry with high hopes only to find her dreams dashed by the indifference and neglect of her husband.

His face must have revealed his feelings because Clevedon laughed out loud.

‘Scruples, my dear Hugo? Surely not.’

Hugo stood up. ‘I don’t approve of playing games with innocents.’

‘Needs must, dear boy. Needs must. It would not be my choice were things different, but her dowry will compensate for the inconvenience. And, of course, there will be the added bonus of marrying into such a powerful family.’

‘You think you can force Cheriton into agreeing to a marriage?’

Clevedon shrugged again. ‘Why not? When a juicy plum like the Catch of the Season drops into one’s lap, it would be remiss not to take advantage. And now, with this,’ he held the sparkling necklace aloft, ‘I have the means to exert a little additional persuasion, shall we say.’

Hugo tried to mask his revulsion at what Clevedon had in store for the girl. Marrying money was one thing. Ruining a girl’s reputation and innocence in order to force a wedding was beyond the pale, particularly when the man had no taste for female flesh.

‘Look here, Alastair. It was her decision to come here, presumably against Cheriton’s orders.’ Clevedon shrugged. ‘If she wants to play with the grown-ups, she must accept the consequences, as must her fool of a brother. He, too, will get his comeuppance very soon, if I’m not mistaken.’

His words resurrected a memory from earlier that evening—Sir Peter Tadlow cajoling Marie Shelton, ‘Please, Marie’, until Marie, with an irritated huff, had flounced out of the supper box and intercepted Beauchamp, Wolfe and their female companion. Tadlow had followed Marie from the box and not returned. Not that that was any loss—Hugo never had taken to the man. But he had wondered at the time why Marie—mercenary to her core—was bothering with Lord Alexander Beauchamp, whose pockets always seemed to be to let, even with a father like the Duke of Cheriton, who was rich as Croesus. Why had she draped herself all over Beauchamp and plied him with punch before enticing him away from the supper box? And where did Tadlow fit in?

‘What was Marie up to, with young Beauchamp?’

Clevedon’s eyes gleamed. ‘What do you think? Use your imagination, Alastair, do. I declare, you are growing dull of late.’

‘Yes. But why?’ Watching young Beauchamp had put Hugo in mind of his younger self—a young man on the path to self-destruction. ‘And where did Tadlow disappear to?’

Clevedon sighed. ‘You are like a dog with a bone, Alastair.’ He slipped the necklace into his pocket. ‘Tadlow,’ he said, with exaggerated patience, ‘was keen to avoid being seen by Beauchamp. He’s got some scheme or other planned.’

‘Scheme?’

Clevedon shrugged. ‘Something about revenge on Cheriton—seems he interfered in some plan Tadlow had to wed Bulbridge to Lady Helena Caldicot. Tadlow’s her uncle on her mother’s side.’

Sir Peter Tadlow and Viscount Bulbridge—and Bulbridge’s cousin, Douglas Randall—were recent additions to Hugo’s circle and he could not like any of them. All three were the sort of dissolute fellows that should serve as a stellar warning to unwary young bucks: Look closely, lads, for here lies your future. An unwary young buck such as he had been at the age of seventeen when he had set out to squeeze every last drop of pleasure from life without regard to the consequences.

Dear God. That was nine years ago!

‘Anyway,’ Clevedon continued, ‘Cheriton stuck his nose in, as is his wont, and put a stop to it so they’re out to bleed him through his son. Tadlow reckons Cheriton owes him. And young Beauchamp can look after himself—it’s no different for him than it is for his silly sister. If they come out to play with the adults, they must be prepared.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Now, much as I enjoy your oh-so-charming company, Alastair, old man, I think I shall join the others next door. Coming?’

Hugo could stomach no more tonight.

‘No. I’m off to my club. I’ll say goodnight.’

He left the box and plunged into the crowds, sick with disgust as he wondered why the hell he was still hanging around with Clevedon and his ilk, with their louche, care-for-nothing ways. Hugo might have always been wild and reckless, but he would never deliberately ruin an innocent girl for the sake of money and he would never stoop to using a young man to wreak revenge on his father. It was almost as though a veil had lifted from his eyes and he saw for the first time some of their true characters.

He had only attended tonight because it was Clevedon’s birthday, but he’d already decided it was time to stop socialising with this crowd altogether. In the past year or so he had gradually clawed his way out of the swamp of vices that had held him captive for so long, but he was aware it would be all too easy to slide back into the mire. A few too many drinks, and judgement and common sense were pissed down the gutter along with the alcohol.

Anger at the way the two youngsters had been targeted by Tadlow and Clevedon continued to gnaw at Hugo as he strolled through the hordes gathering to enjoy the fireworks display. Of the two, Clevedon was the most dangerous because he was welcomed almost everywhere in the ton and far more readily than Hugo himself was accepted. Parents fawned over him, eager for a title for their daughters and, if his plan to compromise her succeeded, he was the sort of man Cheriton might very well accept as a husband for his daughter.

Even though he told himself he would not put himself out—it was none of his business, after all—still Hugo found himself watching out for a figure in a midnight-blue velvet domino.

She’d said she had no money. Had she found her brother? Or Wolfe? They’d both been well on the way to being foxed anyway, as had Lady Olivia. And guilt mixed in with the disquiet as it continued to spiral through him—guilt over his own part in topping up her glass, time after time. It made no difference to tell himself he wouldn’t have done it if he’d realised who she was...how young she was...how innocent. He still felt responsible.

And it is my doing that she lost so heavily. I provoked her into agreeing those high stakes.

He stopped dead. People jostled around him, loudly complaining, but he ignored them. Then he cursed, fluently, beneath his breath. It went against the grain, but he felt compelled to look. To at least try to make sure she was all right...that she had found her brother. He gazed around. But how on earth could he locate her in this heaving mass of humanity? Where would she go? He bit back another curse as realisation dawned. She would stay near the supper box, in the hope that either her brother or Wolfe would return for her. He turned and shoved his way back through the crowd, until Clevedon’s box was in sight, and...there.

‘Bloody hellfire!’

She was close to the box, but not close enough to be visible to the occupants, and she was surrounded by several young men. One of them had his arm around her shoulders and was trying to pull down her hood, but she was fighting him off—verbally as well as physically, from what Hugo could make out. The lads surrounding Olivia were not gentlemen—probably clerks or some such, out for a good time—which was just as well because by the time Hugo reached them, Olivia’s hood was down, her hair was awry and her face unmasked. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, but they nevertheless fired ice shards at her tormentors as she berated them. As he came within hearing distance, Hugo bit back a grin to hear her spitting a variety of insults.

‘You vile worms! Churls! Scabs! Sodden-witted knaves! Leave me alone, or I’ll kick you so hard you won’t remember your own name for a month!’

The surrounding youths were laughing at her...mocking...and Hugo could see the effort it cost her to hold tears at bay.

He stepped into the fray.