One Night of Sin (41 page)

“They have an eyewitness. A person of considerable credibility,” Becky added, unable to resist. “I wish I could have heard more, but the housekeeper nearly caught me, ah, snooping.”

“I see.” Parthenia’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Abby, you did the right thing by coming to me.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady.”

“Even if it all proves false, it is better to be safe than sorry. Still, I do wish we had more information.”

“Perhaps there’s a way. . . .” Becky feigned hesitation. “I did see my master put some papers away in a locked drawer. I believe they pertain to the case. I did not see them myself. . . .”

Parthenia leaned closer. “Abby,” she said, “perhaps you could get to those papers. Just for a look. What say you? You see, the prince has asked my father’s permission to marry me!”

“Oh! Oh, dear. In that case . . .” Becky paused, and then delivered the coup de grâce with a look of increasing worry. “Lady Parthenia, do you think it’s possible the Tories are deliberately planning to conceal the facts about Prince Kurkov’s misdeeds until you have married him, only waiting to spring out the truth of his infamy once the match is sealed? For by doing so, they could cause your noble father great embarrassment.”

Parthenia paled. “Oh, they would do that. Yes! As a leader of the Whigs, Papa has long been a thorn in their side. Well,” she declared, “if Mikhail has secrets to hide, he shan’t take Papa and me down with him!” Parthenia leaned closer and gripped Becky’s shoulder intensely, quite startling her.

Well, perhaps Lord Draxinger was right. Perhaps all that frostiness was just for show.

“Abby,” Parthenia said shrewdly, “can you get me those papers?”

“Oh, dear me . . . I do not know if I dare.”

The duke’s daughter lifted her chin. “It doesn’t matter if you are dismissed from your post. Who wants to work for a cranky old Tory, anyway? When this has all been sorted out, you shall come and work for me! Yes, I’ll even let you train to become lady’s maid if you like,” she announced with great magnanimity.

“Oh, my goodness, ma’am, you are even more generous than I had known!” Laughing up her sleeve, Becky feigned heartfelt gratitude, but she was happy to let Parthenia think it had all been her own idea. “I will do it!” she said boldly. “But in the meantime, pray you, my lady, do not reveal to His Highness that you have any reason to doubt him.”

“No?”

“No, for if he is innocent, then you may lose him. No one likes to be doubted by the person he or she loves, my lady.” Her own words brought back a flush of pride in how she had handled the situation with Alec last night, choosing to rise above her doubts to trust him. His amazed reaction had made it all worthwhile.

“You’re right.” Parthenia nodded, looking energized by this exciting bit of intrigue. “I shall keep my doubts under my bonnet and withhold judgment until you’ve brought me those papers and I’ve read them for myself.”

“Very wise, ma’am.” Becky nodded reverently. “Considering this could be viewed as theft—”

“Theft? No! We’re only going to borrow them, after all.” Parthenia actually smiled. “You’ll put them back after I’ve read them, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes, my lady. Still, perhaps it would be best not to let anyone else see the papers, just to be safe. I shall send them to you disguised as something else. A delivery from the modiste shop, perhaps?”

“Good idea. But, Abby, I will have to show them to Papa. If Mikhail is hiding something, my father must be told of it. He always knows what to do.”

“Very well, ma’am. If you read the papers and take them directly to His Grace, then I can return to retrieve them from you and put them back into the drawer before they’re even missed.”

“Just so. Why, I should be glad to have a maid as clever as you, Abby. You are much out of the common way.”

“Thank you, my lady.” She fought a smile and bowed her head.

“You needn’t thank me. It is I who should thank you,” Parthenia declared. “It would be very vexing to have announced an alliance between the prince and me only to have some unpleasant information come out. I should have to break off the engagement then, and I would hate it if all the world supposed Mikhail has broken my heart—for he could not!”

“You are . . . not in love with him?” Becky asked gingerly, careful to keep a humble posture.

“Pshaw, no. I’ve only encouraged him to please Papa. The truth is, I love another,” she confessed with a wry smile, letting her guard down in light of their little conspiracy. “Unfortunately, he does not return my affections.”

“Are you sure of that, my lady?” Becky asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

Parthenia sighed and nodded wistfully as the bathing machine lurched up onto the rocky shore. “Quite. You know, Abby, good breeding aside, there are some gentlemen in this world that you just want to punch in the nose.”

Becky nodded, biting back laughter, and suddenly very glad she had knocked Draxinger’s tooth loose. “Oh, my lady, I know exactly what you mean.”

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

T
he opening of the whist drive was held on the fairgrounds outside of town to accommodate the throng along with their countless carriages and hundreds of horses. Bathed in dazzling afternoon sunshine, the mood was festive, part horse race, part church social. Eight tables for the first round were set up beneath the huge open tent, which had several points atop it and was gaily striped.

There had been an alarming moment when the children running all over the grounds like little heathens kicking a ball amongst themselves, a spaniel barking at their heels, had dislodged the rope tying the tent down. One corner of the fanciful structure almost collapsed, thanks to their antics. Parthenia Westland nearly had an apoplectic fit, but fortunately, the mishap occurred before the card game had started, and thanks to a few servants with quick reflexes, disaster was averted.

Now round one was well under way, and the duke’s daughter had gone back to serving refreshments to the Quality along with the rest of the charitable ladies, all sporting superior smiles and large, elaborate, flower-laden hats.

Safely removed to the outer fringes of the festivities, and guarded by Rush and Fort, Becky paced endlessly as she waited for the outcome, her stomach a flutter of nerves. Alec had tried to forbid her to come today, but nothing could have induced her to stay at home.

Every woman had her limits of what she could endure, and Becky was near the edge of hers. He had finally relented when she promised to keep a distance of at least three hundred yards. Alec had also bade Fort and Rush to keep the Cossacks in constant view. Mikhail was under the big tent playing cards with the other thirty-one gamblers, but the Cossacks were in sight, keeping watch on the crowd that surrounded the players.

Becky had worn a deep-brimmed poke bonnet draped by a veil of light blue lace as an added means of concealing her identity, with a final added line of camouflage in the form of her parasol.

While Alec and Lord Draxinger tried their luck in the first round, she waited in suspense that was equal parts hope and dread. She hated the feeling of being so powerless, but she knew it was all in Alec’s hands now. For their plan to succeed, Mikhail only had to be eliminated at some point along the way, but Alec had to win. If—or rather,
when
—he did so, she corrected herself, he would not only be in possession of her house, but would also have won for himself a fortune that was almost beyond her imagining.

The grand prize of 320,000 pounds was a fortune of staggering proportions. The winning pair of players would split the pot, taking home 160,000 pounds each, minus, of course, the ten percent that would be deducted for charity. The victors would be feted at the Winners’ Ball when the whole thing was over.

Becky knew Alec had been nervous leading up to the start of the tournament. He had barely slept last night, up pacing and sitting in the garden, smoking cigarillos; he barely touched his breakfast, though he’d guzzled a pot of strong coffee. Though he obviously appreciated her efforts to encourage him, he had remained distracted. Loath as he was to forgive himself for his past, it was as though he had placed his own full worth as a human being on the outcome of the whist drive, and Becky knew that was a dangerous state of affairs.

He had become, however, intensely focused going into the game. She remembered that come-hell-or-high-water look on his face this morning, with a fierce, cool glint in his eyes similar to the one she’d seen during his bloody fight against the Cossacks.

Oh, what if he is eliminated? What if someone else wins the Hall?

Pacing through the overgrown grass, she could do naught but wait. She couldn’t help feeling a trifle suspicious about Mikhail’s decision to use the Hall as collateral.
Why?
Perhaps a guilty conscience made him eager to be rid of it—though she doubted it. He had stated flatly that the Tudor style was not to his taste. But maybe, Becky mused, as impossible as it sounded, maybe Mikhail did not
have
ten thousand pounds. . . .

The brief toot of a horn broke into her thoughts, coming from somewhere under the shady tent. She turned to Fort in question.

“That signals the end of round one,” he murmured.

Becky laid her hand vaguely over her thumping heart and gripped the handle of her parasol hard as she waited for the results.

Whist had a rather staid reputation for a card game and was so simple, fundamentally, that even a novice like Becky had no trouble understanding how it was played. As Alec had told her, a good memory gave a player a distinct advantage.

At each of the eight tables in round one, four players sat in two fixed partnerships, the partners facing each other. Partners were assigned at random and were changed after each hand. A full deck was used, and the man designated as dealer dealt each player thirteen cards, facedown.

Starting with the man to the dealer’s left, the game moved clockwise, each player throwing down one card. The other players would have to match by throwing down a card of the same suit. It was called a “trick” when each of the four players had thrown down a card; there were thus thirteen tricks in a game. Whoever had thrown down the highest-valued card of the trump suit won the trick, and a point was awarded to the winning team. Because it was a tournament, the trump suits were always designated in advance, per traditional rules: For the first deal, it was hearts; second, diamonds; third, spades; and lastly, clubs.

Clubs would not be played during round one, however, for there would only be three deals. Whoever had the most points at the end of the deal won the hand. The team that won the best of three hands would progress to round two, where there would only be sixteen players seated at four tables.

The losers who had been eliminated after round one had to sign away their funds at the master of ceremonies’ table before filing out of the roped-off playing area and exiting under a garlanded arched trellis, to the applause of all for their generous contribution. It was a very quick way to lose an enormous sum of money. Becky watched breathlessly for Alec as the first-round losers emerged while the crowd applauded them.

Alec had not appeared.

“He’s made it!” she breathed when the last man passed under the arch and gave a good-natured wave to the audience.

“Drax stayed in, too,” Fort murmured.

“So did Kurkov,” Rush said grimly.

She sucked in her breath and turned away swiftly as two of her cousin’s Cossack warriors stalked around the edge of the distant crowd and, with weapons jangling, went to check on their horses. Alec’s friends concealed her until they passed. Then the three of them exchanged grim glances.

Meanwhile, beneath the tent, the remaining sixteen men played in silent concentration. Though the time dragged, it was barely half an hour before a second toot of the horn sounded and round two was also done.

Just as before, the team at each table who had won the best of three deals would progress to round three, with only
eight
players at
two
tables.

Round three was to take place tomorrow night, and would no doubt be a raucous affair, for the gentlemen only, to be hosted by the Duke of Norfolk at nearby Arundel Castle, where Becky and Alec had ridden out one afternoon some time ago on hired hack horses.

Instead of the fairly speedy best out of three hands, the remaining players in round three would probably be at it half the night, for they would be playing “long whist,” in which each game was nine points.

Finally, on the following night, the Regent would host the fourth and final round of the annual Brighton whist drive aboard the opulent royal yacht, anchored some distance offshore. In the final round there would be only one table. Four players. Two teams. This last stage of the tournament would be the most difficult and grueling of all, for a win in the final round could not be declared until one team had gained a five-point lead over their opponents.

“Prince of whales,” Rush murmured as the future king waddled out from under the tent, squeezing his royal girth through the arched trellis and then giving his beloved Brightonians a gentlemanly bow. They cheered him madly, for unlike the rest of the country, the people of Brighton adored their royal patron.

“Oh, he’s not so bad, is he?” Becky answered, smiling ruefully as “Prinny” reveled in the adulation for a few moments longer.

At last the future king trudged off with his attendants, leaving the rest of the vanquished to file out as before. The crowd applauded the rich losers’ generosity once again.

Becky held her breath, counting each man in the short queue coming out of the tent, but no Alec. “He’s still in!” she whispered, her heart pounding wildly.
Lucky.

“Told you he’d do it,” Fort said with a smile.

“Lord Draxinger’s held on, as well,” Becky answered.

“And so has Kurkov,” Lord Rushford repeated, his stare on the distant tent.

Some fifteen minutes later Alec and Drax strode out together. They spotted them on the crest of the hill where they waited and headed toward them.

From across the meadow Alec flashed her a small grin, the afternoon sun shining on his golden hair, and gossamer-winged butterflies zigzagging across his path.

“Those blackguards,” Rush murmured, shaking his head sardonically. “There’ll be no living with them now.”

As Alec came closer, he held up a small piece of paper in his hand, waving it.

“What’s that he’s showing us?” Becky asked.

“His ticket to round three,” Fort drawled, watching his friends with an affectionate smile spreading over his face.

The very next night, heavy brass torchères lit the manly space of the great hall at Arundel Castle.

Ducal ancestors stared down proudly from their portraits in gilded frames, sharing the creamy walls with the Great Masters and a frieze bearing the various colorful coats of arms associated with the family. Overhead, a coffered ceiling was paneled in warm ruddy oak diamonds. On one wall, massive Norman arches housed the window bays; opposite them, a towering white chimney-piece slanted all the way up to the ceiling and posed a setting for yet another display of a coat of arms.

The long spacious hall easily accommodated the two gaming tables left in round three, along with several dozen spectators.

The Regent had come for a while but left early. Meanwhile, the other gentlemen staved off hunger with an array of sandwiches, but the late hour and the quantities of liquor being consumed had exalted them to a rowdy joviality that, in Alec’s view, bordered on bad form.

Most of the men were preoccupied in laying side wagers amongst themselves on which team would win at each of the two tables. Alec was tempted to tell their audience to shut the devil up. The noise was distracting his thrice-damned partner—but not him.

No man in the great hall craved victory more than Alec did. He had already made up his mind he was not walking out of here a loser.

Staving off bleary fatigue, he held on grimly to his concentration, keeping everyone’s cards filed away neatly in his head. His luck was with him.

As one who appreciated irony, Alec could not fail to see a certain humor upon finding himself randomly paired with Kurkov as his partner for round three. How the goddess Fortuna loved to play her little jokes.

Though Alec’s real goal was to destroy the prince; and though Kurkov, in turn, would have happily run him through if he had known that Alec was the one protecting Becky—the very man who had cut down two of his Cossack warriors—for now the two of them were forced to work together to reach nine points before their opponents did.

At the next table, Drax’s partner was no less unpleasant than Alec’s own, the dissolute and disfigured nabob, Colonel Tallant. A hard, wiry man in his fifties, Tallant wore a black patch on one eye above a cheek scored by the slash of a saber, gotten supposedly in some cavalry charge, though Alec could just have easily believed that Tallant had incurred the scar doing highway robbery.

On the one occasion that Alec had ever spoken to the colonel, Tallant had revolted him with his bragging of all the tigers he had shot in the forests of India, even baby ones.
What did those tigers ever do to you?
Alec had nearly asked him.