Page 20 of To Dare the Devil

Not that he was giving up. Not yet. Not for anything.

He laid his cards on the table.

“Monsieur le Comte, you really do have the devil’s own luck,” Kilbane said, throwing his cards down with a laugh, as the men around the table murmured with shock. His violet eyes glittered. “You must tell me your secret,” he added, lowering his voice.

“Which one?” Louis replied dryly.

Kilbane smiled, a slow smile that put Louis in mind of hungry things with teeth. “I find you quite intriguing. You must have spent rather more time in your brother’s club than we have been led to believe. Exactly why have you kept such a formidable talent a secret?”

“My brother thought it bad manners to ruin our new friends and neighbours,” Louis replied, aware of Nic’s unhappy presence at his back.

“Time to go, Louis,” Nic growled. “You’ve had your fun.”

Kilbane shook his head. “But I haven’t,” he said to Nic, narrowing his eyes. “It’s only polite to allow a fellow a chance to win back his losses.”

Nic snorted. “If you’ve not realised by now, you’ve not got a hope in hell of beating him, but you are likely to lose everything you own. Believe me, I’m doing you a favour. Come along, Louis.”

Nic’s tone promised trouble if he didn’t do as he was told, but Louis was feeling belligerent and unwilling to behave himself. He stared at Nic, unmoving, and instead picked up his glass and took a large swallow. The room had fallen silent, everyone aware of his volatile mood and agog to see what would happen next.

“I say, Louis, that was remarkable. Now, I’m glad you never played cards with me, or I’d be up the River Tick without a paddle. Never seen anything like it. Got any tips you can pass on? Reckon I need the help,” Barnaby said cheerfully, though he did not fool Louis, who was well aware he was being managed. “Why don’t we toddle back to your flat, and you can see if I’m beyond help, eh?”

Louis turned his furious gaze upon Barnaby, who quailed but held his ground, returning an anxious smile.

“Might be best, old man,” he added softly, so only Louis could hear.

For a moment Louis toyed with the idea of telling him to go to hell, but found he couldn’t do it. Barnaby had a kind heart, and he was a good friend, and Louis didn’t have so many of those that he could afford to lose one.

“As you wish, Barnaby. I will behave myself for your sake,” he added, glaring at his brother, which he knew was unfair, but he was spoiling for a fight and Nic at least knew what he’d be getting into.

“I’ll come round in the morning, then, and settle up,” Kilbane said as Louis stood.

Louis turned around and waved this idea away. “Not tomorrow. I’m away for a week or so. I’ll call on you when I return. There’s no hurry.”

Kilbane inclined his head. “As you wish. Goodnight, monsieur, and thank you for an entertaining evening.”

Louis bowed and took himself off with Nic, Barnaby, and Max hurrying after him.

Chapter 7

Dear Kathleen,

Are you going to Lady St Clair’s Spring Ball? I hope to see you there.

Do you think Ashburton will attend? It seems such a long time since I have seen him. Have you had any news? Even Jules doesn’t seem to know where he is.

―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Rosamund Adolphus (daughter of their Graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to Miss Kathleen De Beauvoir (daughter of Mrs Minerva and Mr Inigo de Beauvoir).

27th May 1842, Vane Hall, Chiswick, London.

Max shrugged into his coat and tried not to fidget as his valet insisted on smoothing the lapels and adjusting his cravat. The old Max would have snapped with impatience and stalked off, but this new version of himself had become aware Hewitt took a deal of pride in his work. To dismiss him out of hand would be to treat him with a lack of respect and hurt the fellow’s feelings. Max wondered how he’d been so blind not to have noticed such things before, but he’d been spoiled and indulged his entire life, and no one had ever suggested he care about his servants. Now, the realisation of his past selfishness made him squirm inwardly, but the past was gone, and he could not change it. He could, however, feign patience when he was desperate to get downstairs and discover the reason for his early morning visitor. Miss de Beauvoir had demanded his attention and his heart had given a little skip of anticipation when his butler had informed him of her arrival.

Hewitt finally deemed him worthy of public viewing, so Maxwell hurried downstairs, reminding himself sternly that he was a grown man and an earl, and that running would be ridiculous. He was ridiculous; he reminded himself, because Miss de Beauvoir would rather hit him over the head with a heavy object than kiss him, and so her arrival was work-related, and he was a fool to hope otherwise. Still, a fool he was because he could not shake the little burst of happiness fizzing in his chest at her unexpected arrival.

“Miss de Beauvoir, forgive me for keeping you waiting,” he said, taking in the sight of her standing by the window in his study.

His breath caught as she turned, and the sunlight highlighted her elegant profile. She wore a high-necked gown of soft dove grey, trimmed with pink velvet. A dusky pink underskirt peeped between the open skirts, and the tight bodice emphasised her slender waist. Her blonde hair, arranged in a simple chignon, complimented the severity of the dress and accentuated her long neck. She looked cool, disdainful and utterly untouchable, which naturally only made him quite desperate to do so.

“It’s of no matter. I admit I forgot men of fashion rarely rise before noon,” she added apologetically, though her discomfort with the idea of spending half the day abed whilst most people worked for a living was audible.