One Night With A Prince (20 page)

His eyes gleamed at her. “I’d like to see you try attending Stokely’s party without a protector. After a couple of days of dealing withhis friends, you’ll welcome the chance to fend offmy advances. If he even lets you stay after I tell him what you’re up to.”

She gritted her teeth. He had her over a barrel, and he knew it. “Fine. I’ll play your mistress at Lord Stokely’s. But I and I alone will look for those letters.”

“Whatever you say.”

Right. As if he would give up just like that. She’d have to keep her eye on Byrne. And make sure she got to the letters before he did.

Buttoning up his waistcoat, he walked over to the sofa. But when he picked up his coat, he paused. “I almost forgot. I brought you a gift.” He pulled a long, slender box out of his coat pocket and turned to
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hold it out to her. “You see? Idid have something to show you.”

“Why would you give me a present?” she asked warily.

“To apologize for leaving you hanging while I ‘ran off’ to Bath.” He waved it at her. “Go on, take it.”

She did as he bade, her pulse doing a silly little dance. Philip had frequently given her gifts, yet she’d never felt like this when he did. Swallowing, she opened the box, then stared into it, perplexed. “You bought me a fan?”

“Notjust a fan, lass.” He took out the fan, both handles of which were intricately worked in a silver design. Instead of opening the fan, however, he pressed one of the little knobs in the design, and with a click a slender steel blade shot into place, protruding from one handle of the fan. She gasped.

He moved the knob, presumably to lock the blade in position, then presented the fan/knife to her, handle first. “Now you won’t have to carry a pistol.”

Fascinated, she took the thing from him, examining the blade and the release mechanism. He showed her how to work it, and she practiced a few times. Then she opened the fan itself to see if it looked sufficiently fanlike. It did. “You found this inBath ?” she asked, captivated by the very ingenuity of it. He chuckled. “Not quite. I’ve had it for some time, mostly as a curiosity. I picked it up in a shop that specializes in foreign objects. From the design, I’d guess it’s Siamese. You’re the only woman I’ve ever thought might be willing to carry it.” He arched one eyebrow. “Youwill carry it instead of the pistol, won’t you?”

“Yes, thank you.” Pleased in spite of herself, she retracted the blade and folded up the fan. “It really is wonderful.”

“Be sure to take it to Stokely’s. And, speaking of the baron, considering his sudden interest in having you at the party, we should do our best to allay his suspicions about why I’ve chosen you as my partner.”

He held out his arm to her. “Come, my sweet, it’s time to improve your skills at whist.”

surest way to attract him.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

Gavin couldn’t decide which was worse—traveling to Stokely’s Wiltshire estate in the rain or having Rosa join him and Christabel in the carriage. Christabel couldn’t have come alone with him, of course; that would have ruined her forever in society. Bad enough that her reputation would be seriously tarnished by her association with him. She was only trying to preserve enough of what remained to have a decent future.

But it still chafed to be this close yet unable to touch her. He’d endured that for over a week now, and his control was stretched to the breaking point. Her and her maddening conditions—no caressing, no kissing, nothing that smacked of seduction if he was to continue preparing her for the party.
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Insanity, all of it. He could tell from how she looked at him that she desired him. And God knew he desired her. He couldn’t remember ever desiring a woman so much. Yet the bloody female persisted in holding him at arm’s length.

At Stokely’s, however, she’d have to let him touch her, if only to keep up appearances. And if Stokely behaved true to form, he would assign Gavin and Christabel to adjoining rooms, while Rosa would be sleeping in the servants’ quarters with the other ladies’ maids. Gavin couldn’t wait to see how Christabel reacted to having him just one connecting door away. After spending her days playing his mistress, she would be primed for spending her nightsbeing his mistress. Christabel was too sensual—and too curious—a female to avoid his bed for long.

“What time is it?” Christabel asked, from across the carriage. He drew out his watch. “Six. Damn this rain. I was hoping we’d arrive before dinner.”

“When is dinner?” Rosa asked.

“Seven, usually.”

“Will my lady have to dress for it?”

“Absolutely.”

Rosa muttered a Spanish oath under her breath.

“My feelings exactly,” Gavin replied. “If we miss it, it’ll be catch-as-catch-can later. Stokely doesn’t like the distraction of having a lot of servants hovering about to serve people at the card tables.”

Christabel worried her lower lip. “Do you think I’m ready?”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant. “Ready enough. You can hold your own with most of Stokely’s set.”

It was true. She’d come far after a week of unrelenting whist, played with two of his trusted servants who were excellent at the game. It hadn’t taken her long to exceed their skill; she was a quick study. A clever woman, oh, yes. And he found her cleverness intoxicating. Unlike his other mistresses, who’d used their cleverness in figuring out how to squeeze more gifts, more money, more everything from him, she’d used hers to improve her card-playing. He admired that. It was somethinghe would do.

“How does this party work?” she asked. “We just play whist all the time?”

“We play every night until around threeA.M ., which is why we sleep until noon. After rising, we have a leisurely breakfast, then amuse ourselves with hunting, reading, whatever, until dinner at seven. Then the card-playing begins and continues until sometime after midnight, when we break for a late supper. Then it’s back to the tables. That goes on for a few days. The eliminations don’t start until halfway through the week.”

“Eliminations?”

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“In the first half of the week, the strong players prey on the weak, each individual team winning enough to keep going when others are pockets to let. Once the weak are thinned out, the games begin in earnest, a sort of tournament, if you will.”

Her eyes had gone wide. Clearly, she hadn’t realized this was the point to Stokely’s little party.

“At that time,” he went on, “there are usually around eight teams left. That’s when the playing for money stops, although each player must pay into a pot for every hand they play. Once four teams reach a hundred points, the bottom teams are eliminated. Those four teams are paired off to play, and the two winning teams play for the pot. It usually numbers in the thousands of pounds by then.”

She paled. “I hesitate to ask, but what amount do they pay into the pot?”

“The same as the stakes in the first part of the week—five pounds a game, twenty-five pounds a rubber.”

Rosa gasped from beside her. “My lady, you cannot—”

“I’m covering your mistress’s losses, Rosa.”

“Perhaps I should bow out early,” Christabel said, “so I don’t cost you too much. I could claim to have reached my limit financially. Then I’d have time for…other things.”

Like searching for those bloody letters. Her reluctance to speak of it in front of Rosa meant that even her maid didn’t know about them. How interesting.

“If you bow out early,” he retorted, “then as your partner I’ll have to do the same, and that will rouse Stokely’s suspicions. The winners split the pot, and for three years running, ever since he began this annual event, Stokely and I have been the ones to win it. Why do you think he keeps having it at his estate?”

“You mean, that ungodly amount of money is what Lady Jenner meant about your winning the pot?” she asked, a hint of panic in her voice. “Good Lord, what if I can’t play well enough to get you that far? What if—”

“Don’t worry—when I chose you as my partner, I knew I might lose the pot this year. But after the improvement in your playing the past few days, I’m not so sure.” He grinned. “The two of us may even change the tradition. If we do, you’ll have more than enough to cover any of Haversham’s lingering debts. Not to mention, repay me for my…efforts.”

She relaxed against the squabs, with a small smile. “In that case, I suppose it will be all right. As long as I have time for my other activities.”

“You’ll have plenty of time.” And so would he.

All he knew from his trip to Ilsley was that Christabel sought a pack of letters dated twenty-two years ago. Since then, he’d learned from other sources in London that on that date General Lyon had taken Christabel off to Gibraltar. They’d traveled with another officer posted to Gibraltar, the officer’s wife and infant son, and a few servants.

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The general, only a lieutenant at the time, had received his new posting rather suddenly. Probably that’s what was in the letters—the reason for his posting.

It had to be related to some scandal Lyon and Prinny were involved in together, something Lyon had been escaping England to avoid. But what? If there’d been a scandal, not a breath of it had ever reached beyond the man’s family circle.

And even though Gavin had tapped every source he knew, military and otherwise, no one had any inkling of a connection between Prinny and Roaring Randall Lyon. The man’s rise to generalhad been rather quick, but Lyon had proved himself worthy of praise, so it was plausible that his own merits had fueled his promotions. He’d certainly acquitted himself well during the war, and was expected to return to England in a few months to a hero’s welcome.

Yet he had a secret, one so explosive that his daughter would do almost anything to protect it. Gavin itched to know what it was.

Would Stokely tell him if he asked? Probably not. He’d refused payment from Prinny for the letters; he would undoubtedly refuse it from someone else. That meant Stokely intended to use them. But how? And why?

“Look, is that the place?” Rosa exclaimed, as the carriage turned off the main road and onto a gravel drive.

Gavin looked out, surprised to find that they’d made good time despite the rain. “Yes, that’s it.”

Christabel peered out the window. “Is it just the rain or is that building actually blue?”

“One of Stokely’s idiot ancestors took a notion to cover the fine old stone in stucco, then paint it that awful color. Stokely wants to restore it, but the damned house is so big, it will cost him a fortune and take forever.” He gave a half smile. “And he’d have to stay at home, instead of flitting from table to table in Bath and York and wherever else there’s good gambling.”

“Another respectable family ravaged by gambling,” Christabel said woefully.

“Actually, although his illustrious ancestors probably turn over in their graves during his parties, Stokely has managed to increase his wealth through his gambling. That’s why he can afford to hold this extravagant event for so many people.”

“There will be a lot of guests?” Christabel asked.

“At least forty, if not more.”

“And Lord Stokely has rooms for them all?” Rosa asked in astonishment. Gavin bit back a smile. “Plenty of rooms, thank God. Otherwise, the wives would be forced to share their husbands’ beds, and that would certainly put a damper on the fun.”

“Byrne!” Christabel exclaimed, a fetching blush staining her cheeks.

“It’s true. And just to prepare you, my sweet, I would advise you not to go looking for someone in their bedchamber unless you’re expected. They’re liable to be in another bedchamber entirely, with someone
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else residing in their own. You will merely embarrass yourself.”

“Thank you for the advice,” she said tartly. “I’ll be careful not to take you by surprise.”

“I didn’t mean myself.” He lowered his voice. “You’re welcome to entermy bedchamber unannounced at any time of the day or night.”

“For pity’s sake, Byrne,” she murmured, jerking her head toward Rosa. But Rosa was smirking, and her smirk only broadened when he added, “You’re welcome to enter my bed unannounced, as well.”

She lifted her eyes heavenward. “Any other lessons in immorality you wish to impart before we arrive?”

“Not at the moment.” He swept his gaze down the beautiful day gown of sprigged muslin she’d chosen to wear, which the rain would render practically transparent.If Stokely’s grooms didn’t come running out with umbrellas. Which, unfortunately, they probably would. “But I’ll be happy to impart some later in the evening.”

When she scowled at him, he chuckled.

They drew up before the house, and grooms hurried to open the doors, regrettably bearing umbrellas. But luck was with Gavin, for the wind blew so hard that the rain was almost horizontal, and they got soaked anyway.

Dripping and sodden, they entered Stokely’s imposing front hall to find the man himself waiting for them, cutting his usual dashing figure in a finely tailored evening dress of blue silk that made his prematurely white hair look almost blond in the candlelight.

“Byrne!” Stokely exclaimed as he came toward them, hand outstretched. “I was beginning to think you would miss dinner.”

“So was I.” Gavin shook his hand, then turned to Christabel, whose dampened gown clung to her lush form like a glove. Ignoring the sudden jump in his pulse, Gavin added, “Stokely, may I present—”

“Ah, but I’ve already met the lovely Lady Haversham.”

Gavin’s blood ran cold. Christabel had lied to him about that? Why? But as Stokely took Christabel’s hand, the confusion on her face made it clear that she was as surprised as Gavin. “I’m afraid I don’t recall—” She broke off, her eyes going wide. “Youwere at Rosevine before Philip died. I remember it now. I only saw you that one time. I came into his study to ask him something, and he was with you.” Her face clouded. “But he didn’t introduce you. I assumed you were…that is—”