The Other Wife. Shirley Jump
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was softened by the fashionable curls that were arranged to fall over it. All in all, it was a memorable face, the austere planes and angles suggesting a purpose and discipline that his manner throughout the evening had not.
There was a touch of gray at his temples, she noticed now, examining his profile. And a minute fan of lines radiated from the corner of the eye she could see. Which meant he was older than Jeremy, she decided in relief. Older by perhaps as much as five years, a difference great enough that Dare had probably not known him. She drew a deep, infinitely grateful breath.
That was not, then, why he had had Bonnet send for her. Not because he recognized her. Maybe it really had been only what he said. Maybe he really did believe she had brought him luck. Something obviously had, considering the size of the wager that lay in the center of the table.
And with that her mind came back to the cards. She found that despite her inattention, she could remember every trick that had been played, every card that had fallen. She had done this so often now that it required almost no conscious thought, allowing her mind to range freely, unencumbered by her present circumstances.
Her father had taught her sums when she was only a child. He had been a mathematician and an amateur astronomer. For him, as for her, mathematics had been an avocation. A joy. And now, even that had been perverted. Again, out of necessity this time, she compelled her mind to concentrate on the cards. Thinking of her father was forbidden. Almost as forbidden as the other.
“More wine, my lord?” Bonnet asked softly.
She glanced at the gambler, and realized he was smiling, his eyes almost gloating. There was a satisfaction in his voice which she had heard there before. He believed he would win. Perhaps he had been right about her presence behind his chair bringing him bad luck. God knew that if she could possibly have arranged ill fortune for the Frenchman, she would have.
“Thank you, no,” the earl said. His eyes had lifted to his opponent’s face, and the corner of his mouth that was visible to her had also lifted. “The clearer one’s head, you know.”
There was nothing in the deep voice that she could read. Certainly not anxiety, despite the fortune that rested on the table, riding on the turn of the cards. Whatever Bonnet believed about his own hand, the man beside her, the man who claimed she had brought him luck, had not yet conceded defeat. And for some reason, she was comforted by his unspoken confidence.
In the end, the margin was very narrow, only a few points separating the totals, but Bonnet had won the first hand.
“I believe your luck may indeed have changed,” Dare said. He was smiling. Of course, the Frenchman’s victory in this hand had not been so great that it could not be overcome on the next.
“I think you’re right, my lord,” Bonnet said.
His eyes found Elizabeth’s face. She schooled her features to indifference, but in truth, she knew she should be glad the Frenchman was winning. Life would be far easier for her if he were in a better mood.
Judging by his attire and by the deference with which Bonnet had treated him, the Earl of Dare could afford to lose. He could bear this loss, and if he did, then she might not have to bear the brunt of the Frenchman’s anger.
As the game unfolded, however, the lead went back and forth, the narrow margin that separated the two opponents making it impossible to predict a final victory for one or the other. It was full day now, and several of the gentlemen had indicated by the impatience of their postures, if by nothing else, that it was past time to leave. Everyone was reluctant, however, to cause any loss of concentration by the players at this critical juncture. And then suddenly, as so often happened with the fickle cards, it was over.
“My hand,” the Earl of Dare said again. “The game as well, I believe. An unfortunate discard brought you down, I’m afraid, Monsieur Bonnet. But then, knowing what to discard and when to do so is often tricky.”
Bonnet’s eyes rose to Elizabeth, and believing he wanted verification of the nobleman’s calculation, she gave it.
“The earl’s hand by thirty points. And the game,” she said.
“It seems the lady has indeed brought you good fortune, my lord,” Bonnet said.
Elizabeth was surprised by the equanimity with which the gambler was dealing with his loss. She had expected rage. She knew that what he had told the earl was the truth. Everything Bonnet had was tied up in this house. And now…
“I wish you well of her,” the Frenchman added.
The phrase reverberated strangely in Elizabeth’s consciousness. It made no sense in the context of his congratulations. Why would he wish Dare “well of her”?
“And good riddance,” the gambler added softly in French, his eyes meeting hers. And then his tone changed, as did his language. “Gentlemen,” he said, speaking to his guests in English, “it has, as always, been a pleasure to entertain you. I hope you will all return tomorrow night. Since the earl has been so kind as to leave me my house, play will resume then. And I especially look forward to the opportunity of another encounter with you, my Lord Dare.”
The earl had risen. He gathered the notes that lay scattered across the table and stacked them together before he shoved the thick wad into the pocket of his coat.
“The pleasure was mine,” Dare said. “And as for a return engagement…” His eyes found Elizabeth’s face. “Anything is possible, of course, but I believe I’ve won already the best your house has to offer.”
“I wish you joy of her, my lord. Be warned. She’s headstrong and occasionally needs a firm hand.”
“Indeed?” Dare said, his eyes still on her face. “Such as the one you applied?” he asked softly.
Slowly realization began to dawn for Elizabeth. They were talking about her as if…
The Earl of Dare presented his arm. She stared at him, her mind racing. “Madam?” he said.
“What does this mean?” she asked, breathless with anxiety.
“I have won you. I trust you have no objections.”
“Won me?” she repeated. “I’m not a thing that might be won, my lord.”
“It was my understanding from Monsieur Bonnet that you are. And as a result of that understanding, I have just…won you.”
“No,” she said softly, appealing to the Frenchman. “Tell him, Henri, that he is—”
“A long-standing rule of the house, my dear,” the Frenchman interrupted. “Whatever a gentleman wishes to wager is allowed—if the value is deemed appropriate. Apparently the earl believed your value to be…appropriate.”
“You wagered me?” she asked, her voice incredulous.
“You were the stake Lord Dare required.”
“But surely you can’t mean…” she began, and then her voice faltered, the words dying away. She didn’t understand what Bonnet was up to, but she knew him well enough by now to know there was more to this than appeared on the surface. And the less she said that might endanger his plans the better it would be for her.
“Come, Mrs. Carstairs. I’m not usually considered to be such an ogre as all this,” Dare said lazily.
His eyes again examined the place where Bonnet had struck her. By now, she supposed her cheek would have begun to discolor. Her mouth was very sore where the flesh had cut against her teeth.
Then the earl’s eyes fastened once more on hers. In them was a question. He believed he was offering her escape. A way to leave Bonnet’s cruelty behind. And he was naturally curious as to why she wasn’t more eager to accept it.
“The unknown is always more frightening than the known, my lord,” she said very softly, “no matter how…unpleasant the known may be.”
“Frightening?” he repeated,