Rake's Reward. Joanna Maitland

was much smaller than the others and was generously hung with deep blue damask. A pointed archway in the wall led through to the adjoining room, also blue. In each, there was a large oval table where a group of gamblers was playing in complete silence. Marina looked in horror at the piles of coin, notes and vowels heaped on the green baize. The guests here were playing for very high stakes.

      From her position by the door, Marina could not see any sign of Lady Luce. Perhaps she was not gambling, after all?

      At the table in front of Marina, Lady Marchant was acting as banker. Marina took half a step forward, but stopped when Lady Marchant gave her a slight shake of the head. Obviously, Marina’s presence was unwelcome here.

      What was she to do?

      Behind her, someone tried vainly to open the door. A second later, it was pushed sharply into Marina’s back. Surprised, she stumbled forward.

      Lady Marchant frowned and shook her head angrily at the interruption, motioning to Marina to leave the room immediately. Unjust though it was, Marina knew better than to protest. She turned to do as she was bid. What choice did she have?

      She stopped abruptly. There in the doorway, propping himself up against the jamb, was her drunken pursuer, the man she had been trying so hard to avoid. He was leering at her, waiting.

      He thinks he has me now, Marina thought. But I will not allow myself to be used like a common street-walker.

      She pulled herself up to her full height—which was a little taller than the drunk—and stared haughtily down at him. Her flashing eyes dared him to approach her. But in his befuddled state, would he heed her warning?

      Through the archway, there came a cry of triumph. It was Lady Luce’s voice. She was in the very next room!

      Marina spun on her heel and cried out as she collided with a man directly behind her. He must have risen from Lady Marchant’s table just as Marina turned.

      For a split second, Marina felt herself falling, but then strong arms gripped her and held her upright. She found she was staring at a gold cravat pin in the shape of a swooping bird of prey, its cruel head set off by a blood-red ruby eye. She could not move. She was standing transfixed in a man’s arms while the warmth of him invaded her limbs. Her mind was refusing to function. She could think of nothing but the obvious fact that he was even taller than her father.

      Then she glanced up into his face.

      It was Kit Stratton. And he had the hardest eyes she had ever seen.

      Chapter Four

      Kit set the grey lady back on her feet. It crossed his mind that she had no business to be in a house like Méchante’s where all the females were either members of the muslin company or hardened gamesters like Lady Luce.

      The grey lady seemed remarkably tongue-tied. Perhaps she was simple? That would certainly help to account for her presence here.

      Kit looked over the grey lady’s head to the swaying figure in the open doorway. Even in his cups, the man had a predatory look. Kit glanced down at the grey lady, wondering what the man could have seen in her. She was hardly worth pursuing, unless to puncture that strange air of ‘touch-me-not’ surrounding her. Yes, that must be it. It might be amusing to watch how she dealt with her would-be lover.

      The drunk took a step towards them. ‘I’ll thank you to unhand my woman,’ he said, enunciating each word with exaggerated care. ‘I saw her first,’ he added, as if to clinch the matter.

      Kit stiffened at the man’s brazen challenge. Not even drink could excuse it. He stepped smartly round the grey lady and confronted her pursuer, bending down so that their heads were almost touching. He forced himself to ignore the stink. ‘You are out of your depth here, my friend,’ he said in a low, menacing voice, ‘and I find your presence offensive. Go and put your head under the pump.’

      The man goggled up at him.

      It seemed that hard words were not enough for this man. Kit seized him, spun him round and quickly twisted one arm up his back. Then he propelled his squealing victim out on to the gallery and threw him to the floor. Kit smiled grimly at the sound of bone crunching against wooden balusters. Stone would have been preferable, he thought, closing the door on the sprawling figure.

      The grey lady had turned to watch. She was looking at Kit through narrowed eyes. Clearly, he had been wrong about her. There was nothing in the least simple about this female.

      ‘Good manners require me to thank you, sir, for saving me from a fall,’ she said in a voice of cold, educated politeness. She did not meet his eyes. ‘As to the other—’ she glanced briefly towards the closed door ‘—I shall try to pretend that I was not witness to such a vulgar display.’ With a moue of disgust, she turned and moved serenely through the archway.

      She holds herself like a duchess, Kit noted absently. How very strange.

      He felt a sudden desire to laugh. For once, he had rescued a damsel in distress instead of ravishing her. And his reward? She had simply looked down her nose at him. He should have known better. Women were all the same. Next time—why should there be a next time with such a woman?—if there was a next time, he would make her sorry she had ever tangled with Kit Stratton.

      Marina was glad to be able to seek out her protector on the far side of the arch. Kit Stratton was Lady Luce’s enemy. Everything about him shrieked danger. Beneath that fine, polished veneer, the man was a flint-hearted savage. It had taken every ounce of her self-control to conquer her body’s weakness and give him the set-down he so richly deserved. She was proud of her actions. She had shown she was a lady still.

      At the table, they were playing Faro. Lady Luce had clearly been there all the time, hidden by the dividing wall.

      Marina’s heart sank when she realised her employer was acting as Faro banker. This was no mere flutter. This was serious gambling. Heavens, why did this have to happen? And why Faro? Faro was the game that she hated above all others, the game that had ruined her father. It could be a game of infernally high stakes and incredible losses. Men played and played, always hoping to recoup their losses on the next card, until eventually they had nothing left to stake. Faro had led many a man to blow his brains out. Her father might eventually have done the same, if he had lived through the war.

      No one had taken the least notice of her entrance. She leaned back against the wall alongside the arch, trying to steady her rapid, anxious breathing. She forced herself to think logically and sensibly. She must not panic. Surely Lady Luce would not play for higher stakes than she could afford? And besides, as banker, she would certainly have the odds in her favour. There must be a good chance that she would leave the table a winner. At that thought, Marina began to feel less uneasy and craned her neck a little in order to watch the play without disturbing those at the table.

      There were five players besides Lady Luce. All were men. All had their backs to Marina. Lady Luce was gathering up a pile of coin and notes. Her crow of triumph had been justified, to judge by the amount she was pulling towards her. So far, she looked to be on top. With expert fingers, she broke a new pack and began to shuffle the cards. The discarded pack had been swept to the floor.

      The only noise to be heard was the slap of the cards. The players seemed to be frozen in their seats. Then a deep voice broke the silence from beyond the archway. ‘You seem to have remarkable luck, ma’am,’ it said. ‘Do you dare to raise the stakes for this next deal? Shall we say a minimum of twenty guineas? Or would you prefer to pass the bank?’

      Marina did not need to look round in order to recognise the speaker. It was Mr Kit Stratton. His tone was light, but mocking. It was as near an insult as it was possible to be.

      Marina saw the spark of indignation in Lady Luce’s eyes and the sudden frown as she looked across at her rival. ‘By no means, Mr Stratton,’ she said in remarkably even tones. ‘I have no intention of surrendering the bank just yet. But I certainly agree that the stakes have been too low. Did you suggest twenty? Why, I would not dream of proposing such a paltry sum. What say you to fifty?’