Paying the Virgin's Price (4 page)

          She nodded again, more puzzled than she had been before.

          'Very good.' He handed her the folded sheet of paper. 'You can give this note to either Stanegate or Lieutenant Carlow, when next they are home. Marcus preferably, since he is eldest and most responsible. But either will understand its meaning. Thank you for your time, Miss Price.' He gave a short bow, and turned to leave.

          'Wait.' She held up a hand to stop him before realizing that she had no reason to call him back to her, other than an irrational desire not to let him go.

          He turned back, an expectant look on his face.

          'If they wish to reply, where shall I direct the message? Or will you be returning?'

          He gave the barest shake of his head. 'Do not concern yourself. They will not wish to reply to me, any more than they wish a visit from Beshaley. But now, my conscience is as clear as I can make it. On this subject, at least.' He gave her another strange look, as though he were apologizing for something, even though he had done her no wrong. 'Good day, Miss Price.' And he was gone.

          She walked slowly back up the stairs to Verity, with the note in her hand, wondering what she was supposed to do with the thing. She could forward it on to Marc on his honeymoon, she supposed. But he and Nell were not due back from Northumberland for weeks, and she hated to bother them. The time before their marriage had been stressful enough. Surely they deserved a few weeks of peace.

          The paper before her was not sealed. Mr Dale had left it to her discretion. And although she would never peruse Marc's mail under normal circumstances, perhaps this one time it would be better to read the message to see if the matter was urgent.

          There was only one line, scrawled hurriedly in the centre of the paper.

          Marc,

          The Gypsy has returned.

          Nathan.

          Her breath caught a little in her throat. The words were ominous: black and spidery against the white of the paper. But it was nothing that she did not already know. Nor would Marc be surprised. He had explained to her what happened, before he left, the harrowing fight, the single shot, and the evil Gypsy who had been calling himself Salterton falling to his death in the icy water. Marc had cautioned her to be on her guard and watch the girls closely, in case he had been wrong. If the man lived, he might return to bother them.

          She bit her lip. If only there were some way to draw Mr Dale back and ask him if this information was recent or some time in coming. It was possible that he'd met the Gypsy before his demise on the ice some weeks ago. Marc had warned her before he'd left to be on guard against all strangers, particularly one with dark hair and skin. She was to summon him immediately if anything or anyone unusual appeared.

          This morning's visit had certainly been unusual. But Nathan Dale was not dark, nor was he threatening. He had been trying to help, and had brought a scrap of information that was already known to the family. If a specific threat had been imminent, surely he would have said more, or seemed more worried. And he had been smiling just now. How serious could the situation be?

          She would adopt a wait-and-see attitude, doing just as Marc had asked. She would watch the girls more closely than usual. And if Mr Dale returned, she would try to find a way to draw him out and gain more information--without revealing that she had opened his note.

          On thinking of it, she very much hoped Mr Dale would return. She suspected he was a most interesting gentleman and it intrigued her to know more about him. It was as though hard weather had rubbed away at a softer, less substantial person, until the core of vitality could shine through to the surface. There was an air of confidence about him, as though he had already seen and survived hardship and knew better than to be rattled by anything less than the gravest circumstances.

          Perhaps he had already dealt with the Gypsy's threat and was only tying up the loose ends of the contact, making sure that the man could do no damage elsewhere. If she needed his help during Marc's absence, there might be some way...

         
Of course not.
She reminded herself firmly of her first suspicions regarding the man: that he might be a suitor of Honoria or Verity. If he was a friend of Marc's and sought the company of any of the women in the house, there was no reason to think that he would seek the friendship of their companion nor that he wished to be bothered with her concerns over the girls.

          It was just that she had found the sight of him to be rather dashing, and now she was spinning fancies that they would have more time to talk.

          She glanced down at the note, and
Nathan
written at the bottom. And she shivered. It was good that she had conversed with the man before seeing it, for past experience had taught her to dread that name, and all who carried it. If she had known he was a
Nathan
, she might have let an unreasonable prejudice colour her opinions of him. And then she would have been deprived of that marvellous smile. She smiled back, even though he was not there to see it.

          Verity looked up as she entered the dressing room. 'Who was it?'

          Diana tucked the note into the pocket of her dress. 'It was the most extraordinary man.' Without meaning to, she gave a little sigh of pleasure. She had nothing to fear from
this
Nathan. He looked nothing like the man her father had warned her of, ten years ago. Mr Dale was not cold, or emotionless or the least bit cruel. Her spontaneous attraction to him came from the openness of his countenance, his easy nature and his selfless concern for others. He had a robust physique and the healthy colouring of a man who enjoyed nature, not the stooped frame, pinched face and anaemic pallor of a habitual gambler.

          In short, he was the diametric opposite of Nathan Wardale.

Chapter Three

         
N
ate hurried out of the Carlow town house and down the street, feeling the cold sweat beading on his brow. Of all the people, in all the places, why had he been greeted by Diana Price? He had been nervous enough, going to the house at all. But once he had arrived on Albemarle Street, the feelings of his youth returned. As a boy, he had run across the chequered floor of the front hall, chasing and being chased, laughing and playing. It had been as a second home to him. And to feel that moment of pleasure, as the young woman had entered the room. The Carlow daughters grown to beauty? But no. A stranger. A very attractive stranger. Delight, curiosity, an awakening of old feelings in him, long suppressed.

          She was a lovely thing, with shining dark hair, and a small pursed mouth, ready to be kissed. Her large brown eyes were intelligent, but full of an innocence he never saw in the female denizens of the Fourth Circle.

          She had looked at him without judgment or expectation, and a hint of responding interest that proved she was not wife to Marcus or Hal. Nate had felt quite like the man he once hoped to be. For a few moments, he was an ordinary gentleman meeting a pretty girl in a nice parlour, with none of the stink of the gaming hell on his clothes or in his mind.

          And then he had discovered her identity, and it had all come crashing down. Thank God he had not decided to use his true name, for if she'd realized...

          He hailed a cab in Piccadilly to Covent Garden and Suffolk Street, to the low haunts inhabited by Nate Dale the gambler. If the man he sought was anywhere, he would be here, waiting in the spot that he'd last been seen.

          Nate went from the dim street, into the dim tavern connected by a tunnel to the Fourth Circle. 'Mr Dale, returning so soon? And in daylight.' Dante Jones saw him less as a friend than as a way to bring more people to the tables. 'To what do we owe this honour?'

          'Mr Jones,' he responded, with barely a nod, resenting the grimy way he felt when the man looked at him as though he was nothing more than a meal ticket. 'Where is the damned Gypsy?'

          'The man who you beat last night? In the same spot as when you left him. And I am glad to have him, for his play draws quite a crowd. He is very nearly as lucky as you.'

          'Not any more.' Nate stalked past Dante and into the gaming room to find Stephano Beshaley, or whoever he chose to be called today, seated in Nate's regular chair, as though he owned it. He seemed impervious to the action around him, nursing his drink, long slender legs outstretched, as though he had been waiting for Nate's return.

          Nate pulled the silk rope from his pocket, and threw it down on the table in front of the Gypsy. 'Take it back.'

          Stephano only smiled and sipped his drink. 'Once it is given, there is no returning it.'

          'Take it back. You have had your fun.'

          'Fun?' Nate's former friend greeted this with a bitter twist of his mouth and an arched eyebrow. 'Is
that
what you think this is for me?'

          'I think you take pleasure in tormenting me. But you have done enough.'

          And there was the ironic smile again. 'You have changed much, in a few short hours. Last night, you said that there was nothing left to hurt you.'

          'And I was wrong. I freely admit it. You have found the one thing.'

          Beshaley laughed. 'I? I found nothing. But apparently you have. And I wish you to get what you deserve from it.'

          'You knew where I would go, when you returned. And you knew that Diana Price would be there, waiting for me.'

          'Who?' The Gypsy seemed honestly puzzled.

          Nate reached into his pocket, and removed the tattered piece of paper that he had carried with him for ten years, like Coleridge's albatross. He set it on the table before his old friend, who read aloud.

         
Should I lose the next hand, I pledge in payment my last thing of value. The maidenhead of my daughter, Diana.

         
Edgar Price
June 3rd 1804

          Beshaley sneered back at him. 'Just for a moment yesterday, I almost believed you. If you are innocent of any crime, then to carry vengeance to the second generation is to damn myself. But a man who would take such a thing in trade for a gambling debt deserves to suffer all that fate wishes to bring him.'

          Nate glanced around, afraid that the people nearby might hear what he had done in that moment of madness. 'I was young. And foolish. And in my cups. Edgar Price was my first big score, and I was too full of myself and my own success to think of what I might do to others. When I suggested this bet, it was intended as a cruel jest. I'd taken the man's money. And his house, as well. I live there still. He'd bankrupted himself at my table to the point where his only options were debtor's prison or a bullet. And yet, he would not stop playing. Like every gambler, he thought that his luck would change if he played just one more hand. I thought to shock him. To embarrass him. That if I pushed him far enough, he would slink from the table. Instead, he signed this to me.'

          Nate took the paper back and stuffed it into his purse so he would not have to see it any more. It still pained him to read those words. 'He cried when he lost. He begged me for mercy. And I told him that if I ever saw him again, or heard of him frequenting the tables anywhere in London, I would find him and the girl and collect what was owed me. And to his credit, I never saw or heard from him, after that day. I keep the paper to remind me what can happen when a man is pushed too far at the tables. And I have not taken a single marker, since.'

          'How noble of you.' The Gypsy looked ready to spit in disgust. 'You are lower than I thought you, Nathan. And after seeing this, I feel considerably less guilty about delivering the rope.' He pushed it back across the table toward Nate.

          Nate stared down at the symbol of disgrace, and in his heart, he agreed. He deserved punishment. But his mouth continued to try to justify the unjustifiable. 'I thought the girl long married, by now. It has been years. She must know that I am no threat to her. But I went to warn the Carlows of you. And she was there. She is chaperone to Honoria and little Verity. You knew, you bastard. You knew it all along.'

          The Gypsy smiled in satisfaction. 'I knew nothing, other than that I would bring the rope to you, and see what resulted from it. Normally fate is not so swift. By your actions, you have made your own hell. Do not blame me, if today is the day that the devil has come to claim you.'

          'Whether or not you have staged this meeting with the girl, it will be the last one between us. I mean to leave Diana Price alone, just as I have always done. Now take this back.' He slapped the rope upon the table.

          Stephen arched his eyebrows. 'And what will happen, if I do? Will she vanish in a cloud of smoke? You created the problem, Wardale. You must be the one to solve it.'

          'I can hardly be held to blame for what happened to her father, Stephen. He came to me, and he would not leave. He wanted to gamble. I am a gambler. I never set out to be what I have become. It is all the fault of your mother and your people.'

          'You won someone's daughter at faro, and it is all my mother's fault, is it?'

          That sounded even more foolish than the rest of it. God knew how mad the rest of his defence would sound. 'Did you know me for a gamester, before the curse?'

          The Gypsy snorted. 'You were ten years old.'

          'Yet I'd ruined my first man before I could shave. And that is the way it has been, from the very first wager. I am lucky. And it is all because of the curse your mother placed upon me.'

          The Gypsy laughed. 'You believe in luck?'

          'What gambler does not? I cannot claim that skill has brought me all that I have gained. I win far too often to think that it is always by my own abilities.' He waved a hand in the direction of the faro tables. 'These tables? All gaffed. Dante cheats. Only a fool would play here. But if you like, I will beat them for you. No matter how much Dante might cheat, he can never beat me.' He stared at the tables in remorse. 'No one has ever been this lucky. No one save me. It is not natural. And if I cannot lose? Then to play against others is little better than robbery.'

          'Then stop playing. Or tell them to.'

          'I cannot.' He gritted his teeth. 'Every night, I swear I am through. But the next night falls and I come back to the tables. I mean to play until I lose. Not just a hand or a single pass of the dice. When I lose all of it, every last thing I have won, then maybe I will understand how the others have felt. Only then can I stop.'

          The Gypsy's snorts continued, combining into a gale of laughter. 'First you thought I conjured the Price girl. And now you wish to blame me for your excessive good luck. That is the maddest thing I have heard yet.'

          'You do not believe in your own magic?'

          'I do not have to. Not if you do. I come here with a reminder of your family's villainy. And you proceed to fill in the rest. In less than a day, you are near to prostrate with guilt. If you want freedom, Nathan, use this rope for the purpose it is intended.' He held the noose at eye level, until he was sure the meaning was clear, and then tossed it back on the table. 'Then my doings with your family will be over and you will no longer be able to concern yourself with the families of your victims.'

          His self-control was a distant memory, as Nathan felt the long-buried rage burning in him again at the old accusation. 'My father was hanged for a crime he did not commit. My family has paid more than enough, with that. Take back the curse, Beshaley.'

          'No.'

          'You dirty Gypsy. Take back the curse.' In fury, he reached out and grabbed his former friend by his bad arm, squeezing the bicep.

          He had found the injury. Stephano Beshaley went as white as his dark skin would allow, and the pain of the contact brought him out of his chair and to his knees.

          Nate was overcome with a shameful glee to see his enemy humbled before him, and he remembered why it was so important to keep one's emotions out of the game. When one always had the upper hand, it was too easy to take pleasure from the suffering he inflicted. He pushed the anger from his mind, and squeezed again with clinical precision, watching the other's face contort with pain. 'Take back the rope. Let me go, and I will release your arm. You have my word.'

          The Gypsy took a deep breath, as though he were trying to drive back the pain with the force of his will. Then he raised his shaking white face in defiance. 'Your father was a coward and a murderer. And you are the sort who would gamble for a girl's honour. Your word means nothing to me.'

          Though the first statement angered him, the last was so true that his grip slackened on his old friend's arm, and he watched as the colour returned to the man's face. And in the place of the nothingness inside him, there was now a deep bone-aching remorse. 'Please. I am sorry. For all of it, Stephen.
Let me go
.'

          And for a moment, the man on his knees before Nathan was plain Stephen Hebden, as hurt and bewildered as Nathan was. 'I cannot. I am as much a slave to the curse as you are, for I was the one left to administer it. If your father was innocent, then you are already free and what you think is a curse is all your own doing. But if not?' He shrugged with his one free arm. 'I can do nothing for you.'