My Lady's Dare. Gayle Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ down and then back up her slender figure, clearly revealed by the narrow cut of her gown.

      “A piece not worth half as much as it appears on first glance,” Dare said softly.

      His voice was pleasant. There was no hint of accusation in its deep timbre. It was obvious to everyone, however, that Dare’s words were a thinly veiled metaphor for the woman standing behind the Frenchman’s chair.

      “I had been informed that the emerald is a gem of exceptional value,” Bonnet said stiffly.

      There was a small and deadly silence as everyone waited for Dare to respond. He chose not to, his eyes now on Bonnet’s reddened face, his own expressionless. He displayed no anger at the Frenchman’s denial. And he made no defense of his statement. The silence grew.

      “However,” Bonnet said finally, “I bow to your lordship’s undoubtedly superior knowledge of such things. I had no idea the stone was flawed when I offered it.”

      “I was sure that was the case,” the earl said, “which is why I felt I could do no less than point it out to you. A shame you were hoodwinked. Did you take it as a wager?” Dare asked, his eyes again lifting to the woman’s face.

      The same flood of color which had invaded her cheeks when Bonnet offered her “services” to his guest had again begun to edge her throat. Nothing else about her face had changed. She appeared undisturbed by either the earl’s eyes or by his words, her features tranquil and composed.

      “I took it as payment of a debt,” Bonnet said.

      “Pity,” Dare replied, the boredom in his tone dismissing the ring as an object unworthy of further discussion.

      He pushed the huge, untidy pile of notes which had been lying in front of him into the center of the table. It represented the bulk of everything that had been wagered tonight, and its size dwarfed the small stack the gambler had offered. Then the earl waited. And the silence grew once more.

      Across the room a candle sputtered and died. A whiff of white smoke trailed from it, drifting upward into the darkness. After a moment, Bonnet picked up the ring and pushed it almost violently back onto his finger.

      “This house,” the Frenchman said, his words clipped. “I give you my word, my lord, that it is unencumbered by debt.”

      The earl’s eyes examined the room as if he had not been sitting within it all night. Then he inclined his head to Bonnet. “May I offer my congratulations on the excellence of your property.”

      The gambler’s lips flattened at the mockery before he gathered control and said, his voice clearly furious, “I believe its value to be more than equal to your current wager.”

      “Ah,” Dare said, as if in sudden understanding. “You wish to put the house up as your stake.”

      “That was my intent, my lord.”

      “Forgive my slow wits. I thought you were merely making conversation. Your house against…” Dare’s eyes fell to consider the notes he had pushed to the center of the table only a moment before. He began pushing through them with one long finger as if he were counting. “Then it seems that I must add something to my own stake. Something to sweeten the pot, so to speak. Something to make my wager as valuable as yours.”

      Bonnet bowed. “I believe you are correct, my lord.”

      “And do you believe I am correct, Mrs. Carstairs?” Dare asked. When she didn’t answer, he raised his eyes from the pile of notes. The color had drained from her face, leaving it milk-white. Her eyes met his.

      “I do, my lord,” she said, her voice calm and controlled.

      For almost the first time, Bonnet looked up, his gaze fastening on Mrs. Carstairs’ profile. His eyes narrowed when he found her oblivious to his examination, her gaze locked on Dare’s. Then the gambler looked at the English nobleman, whose mouth was arranged in an enigmatic half smile. Bonnet’s eyes came back to the woman standing just to the right of his chair.

      Suddenly, with a violence that was totally unexpected, given the politeness which had veiled the accusations implied in the recent exchange, the Frenchman stood. He moved so suddenly that the heavy chair he had been sitting in tilted and fell over.

      Startled, Elizabeth Carstairs’ gaze flew from Dare’s face to Bonnet. Without speaking, the Frenchman grasped her upper arm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her elbow. Automatically, she flinched from the pain and tried to pull away, but his grip was brutal.

      “Perhaps my luck might change if you weren’t here,” he said in French, adding a very idiomatic appellation, a gutter term which one might more appropriately expect to hear in a Parisian brothel. The words were almost inaudible, muttered under the gambler’s breath, and Bonnet had already begun to pull Elizabeth away from the table when he said them.

      The Earl of Dare’s hearing, however, was acute. He had heard them, half rising from his chair in response. His own iron control had already reasserted itself, however, when the gambler’s eyes were drawn back to the table by that movement.

      “No offense to you, my lord,” Bonnet said, his fingers still gripping his employee’s arm.

      Elizabeth had by that time ceased to struggle. She did not look again at the earl, and her face was once more coldly composed, the blue eyes shuttered and emotionless. It was obvious she didn’t expect Dare or any of the others to mount a rescue. She was Bonnet’s property. He might therefore do with her as he wished. She understood that, it seemed, as did they.

      Dare didn’t glance toward the woman Bonnet was holding. His gaze was fastened instead on the Frenchman’s face.

      “Gamblers are a superstitious brotherhood,” Bonnet continued. “When our luck is in, we wish everything to remain the same. When our luck is out, however—” The Frenchman turned to look at Elizabeth. “We make changes,” he said softly, the words, and the threat, obvious.

      Then he turned back to the table, smiling at his guests. “More wine, gentlemen?” He gestured imperiously to the servant across the room, the emerald again flashing, before he added, “We shall resume our game, Lord Dare, as soon as I return.”

      His fingers tightened, provoking another involuntary recoil from his victim. The gambler stalked to a small private door at the other side of the room, propelling Mrs. Carstairs along with him. With her free hand, she had gathered the long, straight fall of her gown to keep from stumbling over it.

      When the two of them had disappeared through the door, which Bonnet slammed behind them, none of the Englishmen at the table said a word. Pendlebrooke signaled again for more wine, and this time the Frenchman’s servant hurried forward to fill their glasses. When he had finished, he passed around more of Bonnet’s cigars. Most of the men accepted, and as the familiar ritual of lighting them ensued, no one proposed any conversation to end the unnatural silence.

      They had been as aware of the implication of what Bonnet had done, Dare imagined, as he had been. Bonnet might claim to be concerned about the effect the woman was having on his luck, but his action in taking her out of the room had suggested there was a more sinister explanation for Dare’s good fortune.

      The gambler had skirted very close to accusing the earl of cheating, implying that he had been receiving signals from the woman who stood behind the Frenchman’s chair—in a perfect position СКАЧАТЬ