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Lady Luce smiled slowly, first at Mr Stratton, and then at the other players. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘as banker, I will accept any stakes that Mr Stratton cares to name.’ She looked across at him once more. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was sure of her victory now.
For what seemed a long time, Mr Stratton said nothing at all. Then, in a very quiet, calm voice, he said, ‘Madam, you do me too great an honour, but it would be ungentlemanly to disappoint you. A lady’s whims must always be humoured. Shall we say…two hundred pounds?’
This time the gasp echoed round the room. Two more of the gentlemen made to rise, muttering excuses. Such stakes were almost unheard of.
Mr Stratton did not move an inch as the players left the table to congregate by the archway. He laughed, though Marina could detect no mirth at all in the sound. ‘It shall be a snug little party, then, my lady,’ he said, pulling out his chair.
Marina was beginning to feel quite light-headed. She put a hand against the wall for support. This could not be happening. Two hundred pounds was a fortune—and it was to be staked on the turn of a single card. She moved a couple of steps nearer, in hopes of drawing the Dowager’s attention to herself. Perhaps she could signal to Lady Luce, distract her, somehow make her stop?
The movement caught Lady Luce’s eye. ‘So there you are,’ she said caustically. She pointed to an empty chair at the far end of the table. ‘Sit down, and do nothing. This is too important to allow of any distraction.’
Marina moved across the room and sank into the chair. The Dowager’s sharp glance indicated very clearly that she must neither speak nor move.
She closed her eyes and rested her chin on her hand. If only she could do something. Her only hope was that Lady Luce would win. Her overpowering fear was that Mr Stratton—bold, ruthless Kit Stratton—would ruin her mistress.
And herself into the bargain.
Kit watched the tiny hands deftly shuffling the cards. Keeping his eyes fixed on the cards helped his concentration. It also helped him to spot any sign of cheating though, in this case, he expected none. Lady Luce was much too proud to stoop so low, even if she knew how, which he doubted. No. This would be a straightforward test of skill and nerve. Kit’s well-trained memory for cards would probably cancel out some of the banker’s inbuilt advantage.
After that, it was all down to luck.
Lady Luce gathered her cards together and pushed the pack towards Kit. ‘Do you care to shuffle them yourself, sir? Perhaps one of the other gentlemen would cut?’
Kit stretched out a hand. ‘I am sure the cards are well enough mixed already,’ he drawled carelessly, not bothering even to glance at his opponent. ‘I will gladly cut, however. Then, perhaps, we may get to the business of the evening?’ He cut the cards to her with a decided snap.
Marina saw how the Dowager’s lips thinned under the lash of his scorn. Mr Stratton seemed to be seeking to force a quarrel on her, in addition to everything else. How could two people have come to detest each other so? It was quite beyond Marina’s understanding.
‘Stakes, gentlemen, please,’ said the Dowager in a hard voice.
Without hesitation, Mr Stratton extracted a fat pocketbook and, peeling off two banknotes, laid them on the nine in the livret of cards on the players’ side of the table. Lady Luce watched impassively, waiting for the other two gentlemen to decide on their wagers. The bald man nearest Marina scribbled a vowel but then sat undecided, his hand hovering between the five and the six in the livret. The very young man at the far end was much more decisive, quickly pushing a heap of notes and coin on to the queen.
As the bald man’s hand continued to hover, Lady Luce cleared her throat ominously, staring across at him. He coloured slightly and dropped the scrap of paper on to the six.
Marina held her breath, waiting for the first card to be faced. Her father had always said that it was an omen for the whole game. Normal Faro deals consisted of two cards—the banker won on the first, and the players on the second—but the first and last deals were banker’s cards only. Papa had been convinced that if the banker won on that first card, the players would lose heavily throughout the game. Marina had never really believed it—it had not prevented her father from losing his shirt—and yet she found herself offering up a little prayer that the Dowager’s card would win. It needed to be a six, or a nine, or a queen. Best of all if it matched Mr Stratton’s nine. She wanted to see him lose.
Lady Luce took her time. Indeed, she smiled round at the three men before she even touched the deck. She seemed remarkably confident.
She faced her first card and laid it to the left of the deck. Nine!
Lady Luce gave a little nod of satisfaction and collected the stake from Mr Stratton’s losing card.
He did not even blink. Marina decided he now looked even more like a marble statue—beautiful, cold and stony-hearted. Greek gods had been said to amuse themselves by treating human beings as pawns in their Olympian chess games. Kit Stratton looked as if he felt exactly the same about his opponents.
He threw two more bills on to the nine in the livret, never once raising his eyes to look at the banker or at any of the other players. He seemed to be focused totally on the cards.
Marina recognised that stare. She had seen it on her father. Mr Stratton was almost certainly a practised player with the ability to remember every card played. She had been taught to do the same herself. The knowledge helped improve the odds, especially towards the end of the game when few cards remained to be dealt. Kit Stratton was very definitely playing to win.
The Dowager faced the cards for the next deal. A king for the banker, followed by a two. No winners. With so few players, there could be several such barren deals. If the banker moved quickly through them, it would be more difficult than normal to memorise the cards. Marina set herself to doing so, too. The task would help her to remain calm, especially if Mr Stratton were to win.
Three more barren deals followed in quick succession. Marina knew exactly which cards had been played. Did Kit Stratton? It was impossible to tell from his face.
Lady Luce faced a six on to the banker’s pile to the left of the deck. The bald man groaned and muttered an oath as his stake joined the heap in front of the banker. He started to scribble his next vowel even before the players’ card had been dealt. The man at the far end drew an audible breath. Another nine! Lady Luce placed it carefully on the heap of players’ cards. Then she picked up the two bills that Mr Stratton had lost earlier and, holding them between finger and thumb as if they were contaminated, dropped them on to the nine in the livret.
Mr Stratton smiled down at the money for just a second before returning to blank-faced impassivity. He laid his hand flat on the bills, fingers spread in possession. He had well-kept hands, Marina noticed, momentarily distracted from the cards. Strong, too. Marina doubted they were gentle hands. He would like nothing better than to put those long fingers round the Dowager’s throat and squeeze the life out of her.
What on earth had made her think that? Marina was suddenly horrified by the picture his lean fingers had conjured up. He was only a gambler. Ruthless, yes, but a gentleman, surely?
Without raising his hand, Mr Stratton slid all four bills from the nine to the ten. The moment he lifted his hand from the table, Lady Luce dealt another banker’s card. Another nine!
The bald man gave a crack of laughter. He made to comment on such amazing luck, but the Dowager frowned him down. It was not surprising that she wanted no distractions in this duel. She dealt the carte anglaise with careful deliberation. This time, the players’ card was a queen. The young man won. With a quick sideways glance, he pocketed his winnings and moved his original stake to join Mr Stratton’s on the ten.
He, too, senses that this is a battle to the death, Marina thought. And he has chosen to side with the men, and with youth, against one solitary old woman.
Marina forced her thoughts back to the cards. Thirteen had been played. She could remember every one. Kit Stratton had staked four hundred pounds on the ten. There were still thirty-nine cards to be faced. And among them were four tens.
Marina was having difficulty remembering the cards.
It had never happened to her before. She had prided herself on that ability, yet now, when it really mattered, it seemed to be deserting her. It was something to do with those strong, lean hands. She could not take her eyes from them. What was it about them? Mostly, they lay relaxed and utterly still on the baize table while Kit Stratton watched the deal of every card. He was like a hawk—a detached, ruthless hunter, ready to launch itself on any quarry that became even slightly vulnerable.
There were only nineteen cards left. And still not a single ten had appeared.
Beyond the archway, a knot of onlookers was gazing across at Lady Luce and her cards. Clearly, Lady Marchant’s table had broken up in order to watch the excitement of the duel between Mr Stratton and the Dowager. Lady Luce frowned across at her unwelcome audience, and then returned her attention to the players. The bald man was leaning back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. The youngster was all excitement. He did not speak, but his eyes kept flicking back and forth from the money lying on the ten to the banker’s set face. There were beads of sweat on his furrowed brow. His fate was bound up with Kit Stratton’s…and the elusive ten.
Lady Luce faced another pair of cards. The bald man’s card won. Impassive, the Dowager pushed his winnings across the table and waited while he decided on his next wager. The pile of paper and coin in front of her was now pitifully small. She desperately needed a winning card.
Marina could see the increasing tension in the Dowager’s fixed smile. Her lips were becoming thinner and thinner. Her hands were absolutely steady, however, as she turned up the next card. A nine to the banker. Useless.
And then the players’ card. A ten.
There was a tiny gasp, quickly muffled, from one of the watchers by the archway. The young man at the table was grinning from ear to ear, but Mr Stratton had not moved a muscle. He was still gazing at the cards.
The Dowager pushed her last two bills across to the young man. With what seemed to be an apologetic glance at Mr Stratton, he pocketed his winnings and moved his stake from the ten to the queen. Lady Luce had no more bills. Rather than count out two hundred pounds in coin, she reached for pen and ink to scribble a vowel for Mr Stratton’s winnings.
His raised hand stayed her.
Marina held her breath, knowing instinctively what was to come.
With a long finger, Kit Stratton indicated that his winnings remained on the table.
This time, Marina herself could not stifle a groan. Kit Stratton was riding his luck. If he won again, the Dowager would have to pay him seven times his stake. That was nearly three thousand pounds!
Lady Luce reached towards the cards. Marina closed her eyes, not daring to look. There were still three tens in the pack under the Dowager’s hand.
A groan from the bald man made her open her eyes once more. The bald man had lost. And Kit Stratton had won with another ten.
This time, Marina knew exactly what he would do. That long finger moved again. All his winnings—against a prize of fifteen times his stake!
Three more deals, and no more tens appeared. The young man lost on his queen. The bald man won on a king.
Kit Stratton sat as if turned to stone.
There were only seven cards left.
Marina forced her whirling mind to concentrate on the cards. What were they? She ought to know.
She frowned into the silence, pushing every other thought out of her mind. Her brain cleared quite suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn back from a chalkboard on which the cards had been written. Two aces, a two, a three, a knave…and two tens.
The bald man had two hundred pounds on the ace. The young man had put his stake on the six. Clearly he had no ability to remember cards.
Mr Stratton’s hand lay carelessly on the green baize, his index finger extended towards one corner of the ten.
It seemed that no one dared to breathe while they waited for Lady Luce to face the next pair of cards. An ace for the banker. And a three for the players.
Lady Luce reached out to remove her winnings from the ace. Marina offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Now, let the same happen with the ten. Please.
The bald man was not prepared to retreat. He looked a little shiftily at the other players and then placed a stake on the ten. It seemed he had decided that Kit Stratton’s luck was in.
With calm deliberation, the Dowager faced her next card. It was a useless two. She paused a moment, then quickly turned over the carte anglaise.
Ten!
The bald man gave a little crow of triumph. It was followed by a pregnant silence as everyone in the room watched to see what Kit Stratton would do. He could take his money now—six thousand pounds—or he could let it ride, in hopes of redoubling his winnings to thirty times his original stake.
For several seconds he sat as still as a statue. What was he thinking? There were only three cards left. Such an experienced gambler must know that the banker now had two chances of winning while the players had only one. The bald man had quickly pocketed his money. He was wise to do so, Marina judged. Surely Kit Stratton could not win again? Only the most hardened gamester would play on.
It seemed that Kit Stratton was a gambler to the core. With total nonchalance he tapped his pile of winnings into place. He never once raised his eyes from the cards.
But, for the briefest moment, an ironic smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.
Marina’s heart was racing. That twitch of the lips had told her everything. Kit Stratton was well aware that the odds were against him, but he was prepared to run with his luck in order to defeat a woman he detested. And if he did not succeed now, he would make sure there were other occasions. He was the Dowager’s enemy.
Marina looked towards Lady Luce. Under her old-fashioned face-paint, her skin was grey. Yet her eyes sparkled angrily. She had accepted Mr Stratton’s latest challenge. Better to risk an unlikely loss of twelve thousand than to pay out on a certain loss of six.
Surreptitiously, Marina crossed the fingers of her right hand. She was not superstitious—she prided herself on being too well educated for such things—but she could not resist the impulse. She must not cross the fingers on her left hand, for that, she remembered a little guiltily, would bring bad luck. She forced herself to watch. Like the Dowager, she would show she was no coward.
Three cards remained—an ace, a knave, and a ten.
Lady Luce’s tiny wrinkled hand hovered over the pack. Then, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, she faced the first of them with a snap. The ace.
Marina dug her crossed fingers into the palm of her left hand. Two cards only. The chances were equal now.
Lady Luce smiled calmly across at the players, but Mr Stratton continued to stare at the table. He could not see the banker’s defiance as she turned the card that could be her ruin.
Ten.
Kit Stratton had won twelve thousand pounds.
With a gesture of disgust, Lady Luce faced the final, useless card. It was over. She had taken on the challenge and she had lost. She visibly straightened her back and waited for her adversary to speak.
He did not. He sat, as still as ever, staring at his winning card. Then, very slowly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth stretched into a taut, venomous smile. It made the hair on the back of Marina’s neck stand on end. There was something almost devilish in Kit Stratton’s expression.
He raised his head a fraction and stared at the Dowager, with that nasty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Marina was reminded of a cobra, its head rising before its victim as it prepared to strike. How could she ever have thought him handsome? Hatred and the lust for vengeance had put hideous lines into that remarkable face. She wanted to look away, but she could not. Opposite Mr Stratton, the Dowager was ashen. She seemed to have shrunk. She looked suddenly very old, and very frail.
Mr Stratton seemed to be waiting for Lady Luce to speak, to concede defeat. Yes, he would enjoy that. He wanted to humiliate her to the uttermost.
Lady Luce did not manage a smile, but she nodded casually towards her opponent as if nothing out of the way had occurred. Then she began to gather up the cards with deft, steady hands.
Marina’s own hands were nothing like as steady. She kept them hidden in her lap. She must do something.
Slowly, languidly, Kit Stratton rose from his seat. He was enjoying this. From his great height, he looked down on Lady Luce, still smiling nastily. After a moment more, he spoke in a soft, sibilant voice. The cobra again. ‘Success is mine on this occasion, I see,’ he said.
Lady Luce scribbled a vowel and pushed it across the table. She said nothing. Her self-control was unbelievable.
‘But I am in no hurry to collect what is due to me.’ Mr Stratton narrowed his eyes balefully and lowered his voice even more. ‘I shall look for settlement of this in, shall we say, seven days?’ He bowed from the neck, never taking his eyes off the Dowager. ‘I shall now bid you good evening, ma’am.’
Lady Luce said nothing. There was no need. The expression of loathing on her face was eloquent. Marina thought she could also detect a hint of fear.
Kit Stratton put the sheet of paper in his pocket and turned to leave. He had triumphed. Marina had fallen at the very first hurdle. The Earl would dismiss her forthwith. Her only chance of employment would be ruined, at a stroke, by this handsome, hateful man. Someone must stop him.
Almost without knowing it, Marina rose from her place and moved to put herself between Mr Stratton and the archway into the adjoining room. ‘Sir…’ she began, putting a hand on his arm to stay him. He turned sharply to look down at her. She had never seen eyes so cold, so hard. He was ruthless, implacable, and full of hate. Nothing would move such a man. ‘Sir,’ she began again, hardly knowing what she was going to ask of him, ‘will you not—?’
She was not permitted to finish her sentence. With a sneering curl of that beautiful mouth, Kit Stratton lifted her fingers and removed them from his coat, dropping them instantly as if they were diseased. ‘No, madame,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Whatever it is you would ask of me—’ he looked her slowly up and down ‘—the answer is no.’ He had a fine cambric handkerchief in his left hand—it seemed to have been conjured out of the very air—and, quite deliberately, he flicked it across his immaculate sleeve where Marina’s touch had sullied it.
Marina was outraged. How dare he?
One eyebrow quirked upwards by the tiniest fraction. He was pleased at her reaction. What a villain he was! Marina could not think of words harsh enough to describe such a man. He was—
He was gone.
And with him went all Marina’s hopes.
Chapter Five
Kit passed out through the silent onlookers who fell back to make way for him. There was awe on some of their faces. Probably none of them would have dared to take such risks.
Out on the landing, the drunk was long gone. The entrance hall below seemed to be deserted.
Kit walked slowly down the elegant staircase, his mind a blank. He could barely remember what he had done, except that he had had his revenge at last. He ought to feel elated, exhilarated, triumphant—but he did not. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He turned to watch Méchante’s luscious figure descend the stairs, swaying seductively. The silk of her gown was almost transparent, leaving little to the imagination. In recent years, Kit had come to prefer his women a little more restrained. Unlike Méchante, Kit’s current mistress did not peddle her wares to every man in sight. The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg offered herself only to him—and to her husband, of course. Kit could hardly object to that.
He waited for Méchante to join him, mentally comparing her with his delectable Katharina and finding his hostess a little wanting. Yes, he would go to Katharina. Losing himself in her body would give him back a measure of sanity after this night’s madness.
‘Must you go, Kit?’ Lady Marchant purred. ‘May we not drink a glass of champagne to your victory? And to old times? I have a fine vintage on ice in my private apartments.’ She gazed at him with wide green eyes and stretched up to whisper in his ear, pressing her body sensuously against his. ‘My guests can do without me for an hour or so.’
Kit’s body did not react at all to her blatant invitation. Bedding a beautiful woman was a pleasure as normal—and as fleeting—as winning a hand of cards. But Méchante left him cold. She had been his mistress once, five years ago, and she had betrayed him.
He lifted her hand to his lips so that she could not read the expression in his eyes. ‘No, my dear,’ he said silkily, ‘I never go back. And I never share.’
