Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes. Bronwyn Scott
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knew it wouldn’t. His own hand was too good, and if there was such a thing as luck, it favoured the intelligent. Surely, the count had to know the odds of drawing the queen of spades were nearly non-existent. The count would never complete his straight. He’d been rather obviously collecting high-end spades this hand and everyone at the table knew it. Nolan didn’t suffer fools who couldn’t count cards nor did he have much sympathy for men who overplayed their funds. The count should have walked away an hour ago. Nolan only hoped the man would be able to cover tonight’s commitments. He had plans for that money.
The count pushed the rest of his money to the centre of the table, not nearly enough to cover the bet. What else would the count offer? The count’s next words took Nolan alternately by surprise and then disgust. ‘Two hundred lire and my daughter’s maidenhead.’
That was certainly different than the items wagered at English tables. But it made the man no less of a bastard to offer it. The principle of the matter dug sharp claws into Nolan’s sense of fair play. A gambler could risk anything he or she liked as long as it was theirs. But to risk what belonged singularly to another, to someone who was not directly involved in the play at the table and who had no say in the decision was beyond the pale of acceptability.
A quick glance around the table indicated he was the only one who apparently held any such scruples. There was a certain irony in that considering how jaded his palate had become over the years. He’d wagered and won numerous non-traditional items of interest in his career. But never a woman who hadn’t first offered herself as barter. Even then, that particular woman had wanted to lose. To him. On purpose. This was entirely different, and Nolan wasn’t sure he liked it.
The man to his left was greedily reassessing his hand. The man to his right made a crass comment about the girl in question and his own prowess that was better reserved for a cheap whorehouse than Palazzo Calergi’s elegant interiors. The others at the table laughed and threw out their own crudities, each one worse than its predecessor. Nolan felt his temper rise on behalf of the unseen girl. He counselled himself with quiet caution. He did not need to get sucked into this. Logic reminded him there was much he didn’t know about the situation. Logic also reminded him he was still the richest man at the table tonight and the one with the best hand. They were all playing against him. He was in charge. He would be the one to decide the girl’s fate; take her away from this with him or leave her to one of the others unless he could head this disaster off.
His first line of attack was to dissuade the count, perhaps even to rouse some dissent on behalf of the girl once these men saw sense. ‘Five thousand lire? That seems a bit expensive.’ The table didn’t seem to think so. These were born Venetians and this was Venice at Carnevale where virginity was a most elusive commodity. A city didn’t acquire a reputation for having the most accommodating courtesans in Europe by hoarding virgins. The economics of supply and demand made the price believable. So did the count’s desperation. Almost. This was a man who had been desperate before.
‘What insurance do we have that she’s actually a virgin? How do we know you haven’t offered her before?’ Nolan jested lightly, pushing his case as he watched the table, his body tensed for action should his comment meet with offence. The count was a desperate man and a reckless one if he was willing to sell his daughter to cover a bet. Assuming the woman in question was his daughter. The count didn’t particularly impress Nolan as a fatherly figure for obvious reasons. Still, he wouldn’t be the first man alive to be poorly suited for the occupation. Nolan’s own father would rival him there.
Minotti’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Are you saying my daughter is a whore?’
‘Is she?’ Nolan leaned back in his chair, the nonchalance belying the tension coiled within him. If Minotti came at him, he would be ready. He could feel the comforting press of his new blade inside the sleeve of his coat. It could be in his hand in under a second.
Minotti’s eyes slid to the left, towards the long windows overlooking the Grand Canal, his voice smug with triumph. ‘Judge for yourself. She’s the one in pale blue, my Gianna.’
Nolan would have known her without the description. She was the one who looked out of place despite the blatant wealth exhibited in the expensive pearl-encrusted blue-damask gown. Good lord, the gown must weigh fifteen pounds on its own, adorning the palazzo as if it were an art piece designed for the room. Still, the richness of her costume couldn’t disguise the fact that she didn’t belong here. Palazzo Calergi might be a regal setting and this might be a private party for a few hundred of its owners’ personal friends and their guests, but it was still a party in the middle of Carnevale, hardly the sort of venue one took a daughter to. Her head turned towards the table as if she sensed she’d become the topic of conversation, her eyes landing on Nolan. On second thought, five thousand might be a generous bargain indeed, virgin or not.
The girl was stunning in her own right once one got past the dress. Certainly not in the way the other women in the room were stunning with their cosmetics, low-cut silks, and elaborate coiffures, the products of hours and artifice. Her beauty was natural, clean, somehow apart from the cosmopolitan elegance surrounding her and yet her beauty was not the lesser for what could only be described as its plainness. It was her skin that did it; a smooth, pink-tinged alabaster and as translucent, framed by hair so dark it appeared black at this distance.
Her eyes might have helped the cause, too. He could not tell the colour from this distance, but it hardly mattered. Her eyes were shrewd and sharp as they held his; challenging, thinking. Nolan had the uncomfortable sensation he was being assessed. Did she feel the same with the eyes of the table riveted on her? Did she know her father had put her up for auction to the winning hand? If she didn’t know, her fate would come as shock. If she did, however...
Cynicism flashed. Had father and daughter done this before? Was this some sort of scam they ran whenever the count was down on his luck? The whole offer smelled of trouble. Nolan’s eyes dropped back to the cards in his hand. The tiny voice of caution that usually kept quiet in his head was barking loudly now, joined by a strong sense of self-preservation. He should throw the hand and win the money elsewhere.
This money came with strings—more precisely, it came with a virgin. That was the very last thing he needed. What would he ever do with a virgin? He certainly wasn’t going to bed a woman against her will. Nolan’s eyes went to the pile in the centre of the table. But the money was a temptation nonpareil. Only noblemen wagered sums like these. This would take several nights to acquire at lesser venues. It would be a shame to waste this rather golden opportunity. Tonight would put him at his goal. His hopes were within reach. One virgin wasn’t going to stand in his way. Across the table, the count raised his hand and beckoned for the girl.
* * *
Gianna saw the summons, aware that the count and his table had been watching her. Worry pooled in her anxious pit of a stomach. What hell had he concocted for her now? Hadn’t the hell he’d presented her with this afternoon been enough to satisfy his jaded palate? Dante’s Inferno had nothing on Count Minotti when it came to exacting revenge or getting what he wanted.
She smoothed her hands over her elaborate skirts in a calming repetition of strokes and repeated her silent mantra: the count would not stand in her way. She would not allow him to. Whatever he did, she would be equal to the task. She would outthink him, outmanoeuvre him as she always had. She’d done it for five years. She could do it for four more weeks. He cannot hurt you. He would not dare. The money will protect you. But the usual comfort the words gave her was absent tonight. Her freedom was within reach, just a month away after years living under his so-called protection.
At the table, the count took her arm and she pulled away, not tolerating his touch. ‘Still upset by this afternoon, my pet?’ The count’s tone was wry as if this afternoon had been a minor concern, a mere game. But it hadn’t been, not to her and not to him. But she would not suffer him to touch her again.
‘What have you done?’ She kept her tones low, her eyes fixed on the count. The men at the table were eyeing her with something nearing avarice. Gianna’s anxiety was rising steadily, although she dare not show it. The count would like to see her fear, like to know