Virtue

13

The atmosphere in Sebastian's sitting room in his lodgings on Albemarle Street was relaxed and good-humored. The six men sitting around the card table were lounging back in their chairs, goblets of claret at their elbows, all exuding the well-fed complacence of satisfied dinner guests.

Sebastian was an attentive host, and none of his guests was aware that his single-minded concentration was on only one of their number-Bernard Melville, Earl of Gracemere.

Gracemere had accepted the invitation to dinner and macao with alacrity, and now that the initial approach had been made, Sebastian was confident that his strategy would keep such a hardened gamester on the hook.

It was not difficult to play to lose against him. The earl was a highly accomplished card player, and it was a simple matter for Sebastian to engineer a convincing loss. Gracemere held the bank. Occasionally, his eyes would flicker across the macao table to his host, who sprawled, relaxed and nonchalant, in an armed dining chair, apparently unconcerned that his losses were heavier than any at the table.

"Your luck is out tonight, Davenport," observed one of his guests.

Sebastian shrugged and raised his wineglass, drinking deeply. "It comes and goes, dear fellow. What do you think of the claret?"

"Excellent. Who's your wine merchant?"

"Harpers, Gracechurch Street." He pushed a rouleaux onto the table. "I'm calling." He laid his hand on the table and shook his head in resignation when the earl revealed twenty points to his own nineteen. Gracemere's tongue flickered over his lips as he noted the new loss on the paper at his side.

Rage and loathing twisted, venomous serpents in Sebastian's gut. How often had Gracemere looked like that while he was playing George Devereux for his heritage and fortune? At what point had he decided to resort to marked cards? Gracemere was a good player, but not as good as Sebastian's father had been. When had he decided he couldn't win in a fair game?

Many times Judith and Sebastian had gone over that last game, trying to picture it. The moment when their father lost the final hand, convinced Gracemere had been using marked cards. The moment when he was about to expose his opponent's cheating and thus retrieve his losses. And the dreadful moment when Gracemere had gathered up the cards and somehow "discovered" a marked card in Devereux's hand. What had happened then? Their father's last letter had not said. It had simply-given them the complete explanation for the lives his children had led-an explanation that went beyond their previous knowledge of insuperable gambling debts that had forced their father's exile. This letter had been an exculpation of George Devereux, but it had not gone beyond the barest facts of Gracemere's accusation, the apparent overwhelming proof made so devastatingly public, his own innocence, and his knowledge that it was the earl who had cheated.

The ensuing scandal had sent George Devereux into exiled disgrace, disowned by his family, forced in his dishonor to relinquish the family name for himself and his children. It had driven his young wife, the mother of his children, to seek her own lonely death in an isolated convent in France. And, finally, its bitter legacy of disillusion and depression had driven George years later to follow in his wife's footsteps and take his own life.

And his children would be avenged.

The power of that conviction jolted Sebastian back to a recollection of the part he must play. Brooding in somber anger at his own table was not consonant with that part. "I think I've taken enough losses for one night," he said, yawning, pushing back his chair. "Gracemere, I'll have my revenge next time…"

The earl gathered up his cards and smiled. "It'll be my pleasure, Davenport."

"Have you played often with Gracemere?" Viscount Middleton asked, standing in the narrow passage with Sebastian after the earl's departure. He looked a little uncomfortable.

"No, I understand he's only just come to town." Sebastian drew his friend back to the parlor with the inducement of a particularly fine cognac. "How about you, Harry? How well do you know his play?"

"Devil a bit." Harry squinted into his cognac. He was a handsome young man, slightly built, with a relentlessly cheerful nature that Sebastian decided had its roots in the security of an assured fortune and the confidence of an unshakeable social position. It didn't make him any the less likable.

"Don't want to speak out of turn, dear fellow," Harry continued. "But, well, fact is, it's said he can be a bad man to play with." He peered again into his goblet and swirled the golden liquid. Then he gave Sebastian a cock-eyed look meant to be shrewd.

"Fact is, Sebastian, you're new to town and-well, just a word, you understand-don't mean to interfere."

Sebastian shook his head. "You're warning me off, Harry?"

Harry swallowed his cognac. "Gracemere's a gamester with pockets to let. You wouldn't be the first pigeon-" He stopped and coughed awkwardly. It wasn't the thing to imply that one's friends could be taken in.

"Don't worry, Harry," Sebastian said. "I wasn't born yesterday."

"No… no, didn't mean to imply any such thing. Just thought, if you weren't aware… maybe you should, well, you know…"

"Yes, I know, and I appreciate the word." Sebastian flung a friendly arm around Harry's shoulder.

"So, you'll have a care?" Harry persisted, doggedly pursuing the path of friendship's duty. "A word to the wise."

"The wise has taken the word," Sebastian assured him with a smile. "I'm not such a gull as Gracemere might think me. Remember that, Harry."

Harry frowned, trying to absorb this, but it was too much for his befuddled brain and he soon took himself home.

Sebastian himself went to bed and allowed his mind to roam over pleasanter matters. A pair of shy blue eyes, a snub nose, a soft mouth, hovered in the air above his pillow as it did most nights these days-ever since he'd made die acquaintance of Harriet Moreton. He smiled to himself in the darkness. If he'd been asked before, he'd have said an ingenue in her first season wouldn't be able to hold his attention for five minutes. But Harriet was different. He didn't know why, she just was. She was soft and yielding and he wanted to keep her safe and untouched and…

Hell and the devil! He laughed softly at himself. What would Ju say if she could hear him? He must ask her to call on Harriet's mother. It would set a seal to his hitherto unmarked pursuit of Miss Moreton.

"Well, I've found my pigeon, ripe for the plucking," Gracemere declared, draining his port glass with a smile of satisfaction. "I won seven hundred guineas from him tonight." He pulled his cravat loose. "And he didn't seem in the least perturbed by it."

"I wonder where those two come from?" Agnes stretched out on the coverlet of the poster bed, greedily watching the earl disrobe, her eyes narrowed with anticipation. "No one seems to know, but of course where Marcus Devlin chooses to marry, who should question antecedents? A Carrington would hardly make a mismatch."

"Oh, you know what these hybrid continental families are like. They're always rich and studded with old baronies and such like." He threw off his shirt.

"So long as the gull will suit your purpose, that's all that matters." Agnes picked up a pair of scissors from the bedside table and absently pared a loose fingernail.

"Our purpose," the earl corrected gently. "But for my own purpose, I've a mind to cultivate Lady Carrington." He pushed off his knee britches and kicked them into a corner. "It will certainly annoy Marcus."

"Haven't you caused him sufficient annoyance?"

Bernard's laugh was as mirthless as his smile. "I still have a score to settle, my dear. One of these days I'll see his pride in the dust." His mouth took a vicious twist.

"Tell me what happened that morning when he ran you to earth in the inn with Martha?" She wondered if perhaps this time he would tell her, but as always the earl's face closed, all expression wiped clean away.

"That lies between Carrington and myself." He put one knee on the bed.

Agnes ran a hand over his thigh. She accepted that despite all that lay between them, all that they shared, and all the years in which they'd shared it, that morning at the inn was one incident Bernard would never discuss. He had disappeared from circulation for a month after it had happened, and when he'd returned to Society with his bride, he'd seemed to be his usual self, but she had detected a new twist to his darkness, one that he still carried deep in his soul.

"So you intend to amuse yourself with coquettish Judith?" Her fingers tiptoed into his groin. "You seemed to enjoy dancing with her the other evening."

The earl's mouth curved in the travesty of a smile as he brought his other knee onto the bed. "I am going to see Marcus Devlin's damnable pride humbled, trampled in the dust, my dear. And Judith is going to help me do it. If, of course, you've no objections?" he added with an ironic rise of an eyebrow.

Agnes laughed, touching his mouth with a fingertip. "Oh, are you going to seduce her, my love? I have no objections. On the contrary, I shall enjoy every minute of it." She laughed again, a low, husky throb of amusement and desire. "Come to me, love, I've been waiting this age for you."

For a moment he ignored the plea, looking down into her face, a glitter of cruelty in his eyes that matched the gleam in hers. He knew how aroused she became at the prospect of making serious mischief. It promised a long and exciting night. He came down on the bed, his mouth moving over hers.

"But you must be careful that dallying with Carrington's wife doesn't jeopardize your chances with the little Moreton chit," Lady Barret murmured against his lips, her hand stroking his back. "A fortune of thirty thousand pounds mustn't be sneezed away, my own."

"No," he agreed. "Particularly when we both have such expensive tastes." He ran his tongue over her lips. "Such very well-matched, expensive tastes, my sweet."

Judith picked up the delicate white marble pawn, caressing it for a second before moving it to queen four. She shot Marcus a mischievous grin, seeing his puzzlement. It was not a customary opening. She hugged her drawn-up knees, feeling the heat of the fire on her right cheek.

"What the devil does that mean?" Marcus demanded.

"If you make the same countermove, it becomes the queen's gambit," she said. "It's not very common, but it can make for an interesting game."

"And what if I don't?"

"Well, you have to, really. It's Black's only logical move. It's what happens next that starts the fun."

Marcus stretched his legs in front of him and leaned back against a footstool. They were both sitting on the floor, and Marcus wore only a shirt and britches; his coat, cravat, stockings, and shoes were scattered around the room.

"You're going to have my shirt and britches within the half hour," he prophesied with resignation. Judith chuckled. "An enticing prospect."

"Since you've lost nothing but a hair ribbon and your shoes in the last two hours, I can't help feeling the stakes are somewhat uneven."

"Well, why don't I give you a knight handicap?" She took her queen's knight off the board.

"My pride!" He groaned. "You are a devil at this game, Judith."

"But the stakes are fun," she said with another grin.

"They would be if I were not the only one being stripped of my clothes." He moved his own pawn to queen four. "There, now what?"

"Let's play piquet instead. Maybe two hours of chess is enough." Again she picked up one of the pieces, holding it up to the light. The pale marble glowed, translucent and alive with hinted streaks of color in its depths. "They are exquisite. I don't know how to thank you."

"You could always start losing pieces and thus a few articles of clothing," he suggested.

"It's hard for me to lose at chess. Let's play piquet."

"Now, just a minute. Are you telling me you will deliberately lose hands to salvage my masculine pride?"

"If necessary." She gave him an impish smile.

"What is a man to do with such a wife!" Marcus leaned forward, grabbed her upper arms, and hauled her over the board and across his thighs.

"Play piquet with her." She traced his lips with her thumb. "Otherwise, I shall never get my clothes off."

He said nothing for a minute, gazing down at her upturned face, the smiling mouth, the banked fires in the gold-brown eyes.

"I'm not as good at piquet as I am at chess," she offered. "And you are skilled with the cards."

"Nevertheless, madam wife, I doubt I have your experience."

"Perhaps not," she said. "But necessity is the mother of experience." A shadow crossed her eyes.

"Tell me about your father." The request came without conscious decision just as the evening had developed.

Judith rarely spent an evening at home, but after dinner he'd found her in the library, examining the shelves for a book to read in bed. She'd said she was tired and hadn't felt like going to the Denholms' rout party, and matters had proceeded from there. Now there was something about the firelit intimacy of the evening, something about the sensual pleasure they were taking in and of each other that made it both natural and inevitable for him to probe into areas they ordinarily kept closed.

Judith remained leaning against his chest, idly twisting a ringlet on her shoulder between finger and thumb. "He was simply a gamester who lost everything, even his lands, the family estate… everything."

"Tell me about him… about you and Sebastian."

She hitched herself up on his thighs until she was sitting straight, staring across the chess board into the fire. "He took us with him when he left the country. Our mother hadn't been able to withstand the disgrace. She went to a convent in the Alps and died there. Father hinted that she took her own life. We were no more than babies when we left England. Sebastian was nearly three and I was just two. We traveled with a series of itinerant nursemaids until we were old enough to manage alone: Vienna, Rome, Prague, Paris, Brussels, and every city in between. Father gamed, we learned how to deal with landlords and bailiffs and merchants. Then we learned to play the tables ourselves. Father was often ill."

Judith paused, looking into the flames. Absently she reached for the black marble king. The blackness was of an obliterating depth. She caressed it.

"In what way was he ill?" Marcus asked softly, feeling the currents of memory in her body as she sat on his thighs.

"Black moods, dreadful gulfs of inexorable despair," she said. "When that happened, he would be unable to leave his bed. Sebastian and I had to fend for ourselves… and for him."

Marcus stroked her back, looking for adequate words, but suddenly she laughed. "It sounds horrendous, and often it was, but it was also exhilarating. We never went to school. We read what we pleased. No one ever told us what to do, what to eat, when to go to bed. We did exactly as we pleased within the constraints of necessity."

"An education of some richness," Marcus agreed, pulling her down against his chest again. "Unorthodox, but rich. An education Jean-Jacques Rousseau would have applauded."

"Yes, I daresay he would. We read Entile in Paris a few years ago." She stared into the fire for a minute. It was hardly an education Marcus would embrace for any child of his. But then, he was determined there would be no children of his… at least not conceived in this liaison.

"So," she said. "Piquet?"

"No," he said. "I am no longer prepared to play for your nakedness. I have a much more efficient way in which to achieve it."

"Ah," said Judith, lying back. "Well, perhaps speed is becoming of the essence, my lord."

"Yes, I believe it is."