Once Upon a Masquerade (14 page)

“I’m sure I shall. What is it?”

Mr. Henley beamed. “Once again, I’ve transformed the ballroom into a grand gambling hall.”

Gambling hall? She forced a smile despite a growing queasiness. “You’re referring to card games and such?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fear jumped to her throat. Getting close to the beast that now ruled her father’s life sparked a thread of panic. She cast a sidelong glance at Christopher and met with hazel eyes staring back. His brows furrowed for a moment, but he turned his attention to their host. “I’ve heard rumors you’ve outdone yourself once again.”

“I can’t disappoint my guests, now can I? Each year expectations rise, and it seems new games are invented.” Mr. Henley leaned back in his chair. “Miss Bailey, do you have a favorite game?”

A wave of heat enveloped her. “No, I’ve never participated in wagers.” Her father had done enough gambling for the both of them.

Mr. Henley perked up. “Never? Then tonight shall be an enlightening experience for you. Don’t worry, first-time players are always the lucky ones.”

She swallowed a gulp of wine and focused on calming thoughts. Just because her father lost control when it came to poker, didn’t mean she would fall into the same trap. Still, why take that risk? “I think it would be best if I simply watch.”

Mr. Henley waggled his finger in her direction with a devilish grin on his lips. “I think not. As in any respectable gaming room, no one is allowed to simply watch.”

Dear Lord, please let that be a joke.
Calming a bit, she reminded herself that she didn’t have anything to wager, even if she desired to try. “I suppose I could adjourn to the library to finish the book I borrowed this afternoon. I did leave off at a most interesting spot. I’m eager to see what happens next,” she lied, hoping he wouldn’t press her further.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Henley cried. “After all the pains I’ve taken arranging this event, I would be sorely wounded if you didn’t participate.”

“I don’t know the first thing about gaming.”

Mr. Henley stuck out his lip in a painfully sad face. “I whine pitifully when wounded. Join us or you’ll all suffer.”

She looked to Christopher, silently pleading for his help. His lazy smile warmed her down to her toes. “He’s telling the truth. It’s not a pretty sight,” he agreed, his eyes lingering on her lips.

Too late now to plead a headache and retire to her room. “I can’t in good conscience wager knowing I would surely lose it all.” Not what a rich heiress would say, but better than admitting she didn’t have any to wager in the first place.

“I’ll cover your gaming funds to ease your conscience,” Christopher offered. “And I’ll show you how to play the games.” Her mood lifted. She hadn’t expected that. “And you can keep whatever you win,” he added.

She took a steadying breath. Anxiety would not conquer her. “If I lose?”

He answered with a shrug. “Then we both lose.”

Her nerves quivered. She clasped her hands together. If she wanted to spend this evening with Christopher, she’d need to face her fears. “All right then. Don’t expect too much.”

Rebecca took only a few bites of the tantalizing dishes set before her, her stomach heavy as a stone.

All too soon Mr. Henley rose from his chair. “Everyone gather around.” He led his throng of guests out to a set of heavy double doors in the main salon. Using great flourish and zeal, he declared the grand opening of the Henley Estate Game Room. He retrieved a key from his pocket, unlocked the great doors, and swept them open, his arms flung wide. “Let the games begin!”

With Christopher’s guiding hand resting at the small of her back, giving her the support she needed, Rebecca followed the crowd into the dimly-lit ballroom. Dozens of velvet-topped tables ran along both sides and down the center of the room, all manned by servants wearing matching burgundy jackets. Dark carpeting with burgundy-red cabbage roses had been laid and several lamps hung low over the tables, lending a discreet atmosphere. Swiftly guests dispersed among the tables, and a low buzz of activity filled the room as the dealers began taking bets.

Her fingertips prickled, and her shoulders tensed as they approached one of the center tables where a dealer released a marble on a spinning contraption.

Christopher pointed to a grid of numbers painted on the table’s surface. “In this game, players bet on what number the marble will land on when the roulette wheel stops.”

Willing her shoulders to drop from her ears, she watched as the little white ball fell from its track on the wheel, skipped twice, and landed on the number twenty.

A cheer rose up from the winners, and Rebecca nearly flinched. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, her attention turning to Christopher’s warm hand splayed across her back. His thumb stroked her skin with a feather-like touch that calmed her.

Her gaze rose to Christopher’s face. She detected no teasing smile, no flirtatious look. Instead, he appeared absorbed in the events at the table.

“Would you like to try?” he asked, his questioning expression innocent to the warm, swirling sensations his continued strokes caused.

With a trembling hand, she opened the pouch he’d given her and pulled out a random coin—a quarter eagle. “Oh.” She searched through the bag for something smaller.

“That’s fine,” Christopher reassured her. “Set it on the table before the betting closes.”

She hesitated for an instant, then placed the coin on the number twelve with no particular reason why and wrung her hands.

“The bets along the sides of the grid are better odds,” he said beneath his breath.

Her gaze turned to the bars labeled even/odd and red/black. Before she could move her wager the wheel spun. “You might have mentioned that a tad earlier,” she grumbled. The thought that she’d wasted two dollars and fifty cents grated. She hated gambling.

The wheel slowed, and the marble slid from its track. It didn’t skip this time, just rolled into a slot labeled twelve.

“I stand corrected,” Christopher said with surprise.

“I won?”

“You did.”

Amid the cheers around her, the dealer stacked eighty dollars and pushed the coins her way. Eighty dollars. She loved this game.

Rebecca gathered her winnings and dropped them into the pouch. Her spirits soared, especially with Christopher’s hand toying with her back. She let out a sigh, her anxiety draining away.

“Try again?” he asked, his lazy smile wreaking havoc on her pulse.

“What do you think I should do?” she asked.

“Judging by your last choice, I’d say you should do whatever you like.”

Do whatever she liked.
What if she’d like to kiss his lips and run her fingers through his curly mane?

“You’d best hurry.” Christopher’s voice faded as the din in the room grew louder.

She placed her lucky quarter eagle on the area marked “odd,” but her mind strayed to the curve of Christopher’s lips, the line of his strong jaw.

The wheel spun, and the marble rolled. This time it came to rest on twenty-four.

She’d lost. Funny, she didn’t feel bad. Not when Christopher’s hand slid down to her waist, and he leaned closer.

“There’s a game the next table over I’ve always liked. Care to try?”

Nodding, she stayed close to his side as they moved through the crowd.

“Faro is a fairly easy game,” he explained.

One suit of cards lay spread out on the surface of the table. A large counter box, labeled with each possible denomination of card, rested to the right of the dealer. As the dealer called out, “Place your bets,” those around them set their wagers on the table.

Christopher spoke into her ear to be heard above the din. “Wagers are placed either directly on a card or between the cards you’d like to bet on. Go ahead and choose. Since they’re beginning a new game with a fresh deck, it’s mostly luck anyway.”

Placing a coin in the center of four cards—the ace, two, queen and king—she looked up at Christopher. He nodded his approval.

When the activity at the table slowed, the dealer called, “All bets down,” and set the top card aside.

Christopher’s voice rumbled low in her ear once more, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “The first card in the deck is the soda card and is discarded. The next the banker will turn face up and is the losing card. You lose your wager if that card is one of those you bet on.”

She held her breath as the dealer flipped over the card, a seven of clubs, and set it next to the dealer box. With a relieved exhale, she listened to Christopher go on, “The next card will be the winning card. If the value of that card matches the one you bet on, you double your wager.”

“What if my cards match neither the losing nor the winning card?”

“Then nothing. You can take the money back or bet it on another round.” The betters crowded around the table to see the winning card. Christopher stood so close she could feel the heat of his body at her back. The fabric of his jacket brushed against her bare skin, distracting her as the dealer flipped the card.

“See, that was easy. Congratulations.” Christopher’s low smooth voice resonated through her. The man running the game stacked a quarter eagle on top of her original wager. Amazed, she picked up the coins and studied them in her palm before smiling up at Christopher.

He returned her smile. His eyes, warm and bright, traveled down her face, paused for a moment on her mouth before following the length of the silver chain about her neck that dipped low between her breasts. Her breath caught in her throat under his careful inspection.

The dealer called for bets once again, and Christopher closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze passed over her head to the tables in the far corner. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to play a bit of poker now that you’ve been introduced to this game.”

Her hopes fell in a dusty heap at her feet.
Poker. An evil game.
“Here.” She held the pouch out to him. Another spat in front of the gossips would only make matters worse.

He waved it away. “Keep it. Spend it as you will. I have more with me.” And just like that he walked toward the far tables. She wondered what she’d done to drive him away. It seemed as if one moment he might kiss her, and the next he was eager to be rid of her. Would she ever understand this man?

Chapter Twelve

REBECCA WATCHED CHRISTOPHER TAKE a seat at the poker table and nod to the well-dressed gentlemen already at play. How easily he’d cast her from his mind.

She set the coin she’d won onto the faro table, but no longer cared about the blasted game.

“Drink, madam?” A young woman not much older than herself carried a tray covered with crystal wine glasses, each filled with a different shade of liquid. Rebecca chose one with a pink hue and took a sip. Its sweet tangy flavor teased her tongue.

She returned her attention to the cards in play and was surprised to see that she’d won again. Idly placing a coin in a new location on the board, she waited for the next hand to be dealt.

Her gaze slid back to the infuriating devil seated across the room, and her pulse quickened. Adele Gebhardt stood by his side.

Jealousy sliced through her. Miss Gebhardt had captured all attention from the poker game. Christopher seemed to be as enthralled as the rest, captivated by the lovely woman’s spell.

Rebecca took another sip from her glass and found it empty. She glanced at the faro table, and shock stole her breath. She’d won again. This game was easy to play, and very quick.

She reached for another glass of wine from the ever-present serving girl and took a swallow of the soothing drink. Digging in the pouch, she discovered a half eagle.

Could she dare? Five dollars on one hand was more than she could justify. Even so, many of the others wagered much more.

Why not?
Christopher said she could spend whatever she wanted, and the idea of losing his money didn’t seem so bad after all. Besides, she was winning. She placed the coin in a particularly lucky spot and glanced at the poker tables again.

Miss Gebhardt still stood there, talking with Christopher as he played cards. Although tiny in stature, nothing about the woman seemed childlike with her elegant, almost regal features. Christopher’s former fiancée had sleek, shiny locks swept up in a masterful coiffure. Her cheekbones and jaw were angular, yet feminine, whereas Rebecca’s face had always been fuller than she would’ve liked.

Could she hate someone without really knowing them?
The woman took a seat beside Christopher.
Yes, she probably could.

She stared at the couple, watching their every move, and her heart hammered an extra beat. What if Adele had changed her mind yet again and wanted to resume their courtship? Distantly, she heard the dealer call for bets, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. Christopher was no longer interested. He’d said as much, hadn’t he? Blast it. She should be the one Christopher talked to, laughed with—not that delicate doll woman.

A bit sluggishly, Rebecca tipped her goblet. Her wine glass was empty again. She’d also missed several hands. Once she remembered where she’d placed her last bet, she gawked at the pile of coins stacked there. With a shaky hand, she reached forward to pull her winnings from the table, and the dealer warned, “Hold off, madam. All bets are down.”

She surveyed the sum before her, mentally counting the coins in play. Rebecca seized another glass from the tray the serving maid offered and took a large gulp. The table buzzed about her foolishness in letting such a large sum ride again on the same four cards. While no one questioned her directly, she could feel their covert stares, and a dry lump constricted her throat. She almost couldn’t bear to watch as the losing card was turned.

Thank heavens.
She hadn’t lost. Her hand rose to her lips as she waited for the winning card.

A collective gasp rose around the table when she proved to be the winner one more time. Congratulatory mutterings came her way as she watched the banker double her stack of coins. She set her empty glass on a tray and scooped the mass into her trembling hands, marveling at its hefty weight.

A grin on her face, her gaze shifted to the poker table where Christopher’s seat and the one beside it sat empty. She scanned the room and spotted him with Miss Gebhardt at the refreshments table along the back wall. Her excitement from winning faded. They were having a merry old time talking, alone. Christopher smiled at Rebecca’s nemesis, and for the first time today, that darned man looked content.

Well, they deserved one another. She didn’t need him in her life to be happy.

She could come up with a plan to save her father and herself without Christopher’s help. All afternoon, she’d pondered her options. Unfortunately, the best she could come up with involved paying the men and hoping Christopher had been mistaken about them. Who knew? Maybe those men would gladly take the money and leave them be. How would she know for sure if she didn’t try?

Surveying the contents of the pouch, she counted over five hundred and fifty dollars. Her mind reeled. She had enough to pay her father’s debt in full and then some. But would it be enough? Someone had offered six hundred for her death. She’d need fifty more to match that amount in order to convince those men to let her go.

Her hand shook as she placed a fifty dollar bet on the table, an extravagant sum to wager even for those around her. If she could double that fifty, she’d have more than enough. Again a buzz of disapproval and shock hummed from the other gamblers. Heat crept up her cheeks, but her resolve held firm.

An eternity passed before all wagers were laid and the dealer flipped the losing card. Even before she saw it, the crowd’s twitters and snickers told her all she needed to know. She’d lost.

Dear God. Now she’d need to win one hundred dollars to reach her goal. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much wine. Already her head swam just a bit, and given she’d finished the last of her glass mere moments ago, she suspected the effects of the alcohol would soon worsen.

Rubbing her temples, she strained to focus. She supposed the easiest path would be to bet one hundred more? That way she’d need to win just one more time. After all, she’d only lost one hand of many.

A twinge of guilt made her pause. Although she’d won most of the money, what had originally been in the pouch was Christopher’s. Still, he’d told her to spend it as she would. Her gaze lifted to Christopher and that wretched woman with their heads together in conversation, and she plopped the money on the table without further worry.

She had to admit she felt a tad bit sick now that the deed was done.

“You don’t want to bet there,” a male voice said from behind her. Even though she’d just seen Christopher clear across the room, a flicker of hope flared and then died. The voice didn’t belong to the one she wanted.

Turning back to its source, she asked Mr. Westerly, “Why would you say that?”

“It’s a dead card. If you look at the cue box, you’ll see all four jacks in the deck have already been dealt.”

She wondered how long Mr. Westerly had been watching her play. After a quick glance at the wooden counter box sitting to the right of the dealer, she moved her bet to the queen, the nausea even worse now. “Thank you.”

The betting closed, and a hush fell over the players. Her stomach clenched so tight, pain shot through her chest, and a wave of heat engulfed her. With her discomfort and fear came a moment of clarity. She stared at the money she’d so foolishly bet.
One hundred dollars.
What was she thinking? Her actions were more akin to something her father would have done, not her, the sensible one.

Before a card could be turned, she snatched back the entire amount from the table. The dealer scowled as she clutched the coins to her chest, daring him to take them from her.

She must appear a mad woman, but she didn’t care.

The dealer ground his teeth and flipped over the losing card. The queen of hearts—she would have lost.

Maybe she and her father were more alike than she’d thought. Gambling, drinking—they muddled the mind and relaxed all self-restraint. What better way to dull the pain of grief…or love that would never be returned.

She’d forgotten Mr. Westerly stood behind her until she felt his hand at her elbow. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“I’ve already had too much,” she muttered in self-disgust, dropping the coins she’d saved into the pouch and placing it in the reticule that dangled from her wrist.

“Then some fresh air? I don’t mean to insult you, but frankly, you look as if your cat has died.”

Her cat? She didn’t have one, did she? Vaguely, she wondered why he seemed so concerned even if she did. Then again, it didn’t matter. As the full effects of the wine took hold, she began to care less and less.

“Remember, it’s only money. Come with me. I think it would be best if we moved you away from the scene of the crime.”

Only money. Easy for him to say.

“So what prompted that last bet you made?” he asked, a curious smile on his face.

What could she say? “Greed, I suppose.” It was partly the truth. Remembering Christopher and his lady friend, she shook her head. “On second thought, stupidity.” Definitely stupidity.

When Mr. Westerly didn’t stop in the salon and continued across the large space, she pulled back. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we could get a bit of fresh air in the gardens.”

She was a touch soused, but not enough to agree to a stroll in the dark. She wouldn’t become another of his conquests. Besides, if Christopher ever found out, he’d be furious. Not that she cared one whit what he thought.

“Let’s stay inside. Look, over there.” She pointed to a secluded group of chairs near a stained glass window. While he appeared none too pleased with the idea, she didn’t give him the choice.

She hastened to the nook and dropped into one of the peach-striped chairs. Nearly missing the seat, she pitched to the side but quickly arighted herself, covering the gaffe by smoothing her skirts into place.

Mr. Westerly joined her. He stood, staring at her with a bemused look. “You’ve been a hard one to track down.”

“I have?”

“Over the last few days I’ve stopped by the Endicotts’ home on several occasions. You were never there.”

Oh.
No one had mentioned his visits to her, although she had to admit she hadn’t been at the house very much. “Why did you want to see me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Kneeling down before her, he clasped one of her hands between both of his.

“Apparently not.” Her brain really felt muddled now, and his hands were a bit on the sweaty side.

“I believe my intentions to court you were fairly clear from the first. And now I see you’re here with
him
.”

He was jealous of Christopher? “Mr. Westerly—”

“Please call me Philip.”

“Mr. Westerly, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. You’d seemed so unhappy the last time I saw you. I thought you were no longer interested.”

“You thought wrong, but it’s not too late. Come with me. I’d like to talk to you in private, where we won’t risk being interrupted. It’s difficult enough to express your affections to a lady.” Her hand trapped between his, he pulled her up and toward the glass doors leading to the patio outside.

“I’m afraid it is too late.” Locking her knees and digging in her heels, she slid across the polished marble floor. She slipped past the door and into the darkness, broken by the dim light from the windows and an occasional garden path torch.

“Mr. Westerly, stop,” she demanded, smacking his arm with her purse. “I’ll scream if you don’t let me go this instant.” She gripped the top edge of a patio chair for support. What did he think he was doing? He desired a relationship with her while having an affair with Mary? It was too much.

Her actions succeeded in stopping him from pulling her along, but he maintained his hold. “You won’t scream because you know I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you, Rebecca.”

“This is ridiculous. What of Mary?” she asked, her head as foggy as ever.

“Mary? Who is Mary?” His grip on her hand eased.

“Don’t be obtuse. I saw you together just today…in the gardens…” She cringed, feeling like a Peeping Tom.

“You saw what?” Mr. Westerly glowered at the doorway, and Rebecca glanced over her shoulder.

Christopher stood just past the door, one jet-black eyebrow raised. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” she insisted, yanking her hand from Mr. Westerly’s grip.

“Most assuredly,” Mr. Westerly said at the same moment, drowning out her feeble word. “If you would excuse us.”

Christopher ignored Mr. Westerly, his eyes locked with hers. “I’ve been looking for you.” Perhaps her mind played tricks—his voice, so smooth and alluring, enticed her. The shadows molded to his features, adding a dangerous appeal she found hard to resist.

“Rebecca,” Mr. Westerly implored, drawing her attention away. He held out his hand. “A moment if you will.”

She stared at him, the odd situation sinking into her besotted brain. Somehow she’d gone from holding no one’s interest to two men vying for her attention?

“She doesn’t have a moment to spare for you now or ever again. Rebecca and I are betrothed. You should take your leave,” Christopher declared.

Rebecca’s gaze shot back toward the door.
Betrothed? Now when had that happened?

“Is this true?” Mr. Westerly asked her, bringing her focus back to him.

“I just told you it was,” Christopher answered for her.

Mr. Westerly glared. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I suggest you go back inside,” Christopher volleyed back.

Had she’d become invisible?
“Gentlemen.” She held up her hands and swayed just a bit.

“I’ll leave when I damn well please,” Mr. Westerly insisted.

“Fine, then
we’ll
leave…Rebecca.” Christopher held out a hand to her.

Mr. Westerly grabbed her wrist. “I just want to talk to her. What harm could it do? Unless you worry your fiancée will fancy another.”

“Release her,” Christopher barked, striding forward.

Mr. Westerly pulled her around the chair that separated them. “Go to hell.”

“Only if you come with me.” Christopher grasped the arm that held her prisoner and threw it off, pushing Rebecca behind him. “Go inside,” he told her, nudging her back toward the door. He’d turned his head, his concentration divided between Mr. Westerly and instructing her. Mr. Westerly took advantage of the momentary lapse, throwing a punch that caught Christopher’s jaw. He staggered from the blow.