Devilish Lord, Mysterious Miss

Why, she thought in anguish, could her mind not be as nimble as her fingers? Whenever she tried to catch hold of one of these little slivers of light that flashed into her mind, it was just like trying to take hold of a candle flame. There was nothing of any substance to latch on to. Except pain.

Well, only an idiot would keep on putting their hand into a flame, once they had learned that it burned, she thought, hooking her glasses over her ears. Instantly, everything beyond a few feet from her went out of focus, isolating her on her stool, like a shipwrecked mariner, clinging to a lone rock shrouded by fog.

When she had been a little girl, she sighed, unable to silence the echo of that memory straight away. Hastily she picked up a needle, but not fast enough to blot out the feeling that when she had been a little girl…with her head dutifully bent over her needlework…

‘Pay no mind to anything but your sampler,’ she heard a gentle voice telling her. And for a fleeting moment, it was not Madame standing over her, glowering, but a kindly, protective presence that she instinctively recognised as her mother.

‘For the Lord’s sake, keep your head down,’ the voice…her mother…continued as she became aware there had been someone else with them. Looming over them. A man with a loud voice and hard fists…and fear rushed up to swamp her.

Past and present swirled and merged. The child in her bent over her sampler, to blot out the raised voices of the adults, the violence that hovered in the air. And the woman hitched her stool closer to her embroidery frame. She leant so close her nose was practically brushing the cream silk net so that every time she breathed in, her lungs were filled with the sweet, aromatic scent of brand new cloth. With fingers that shook, she threaded a string of tiny crystal droplets on to her bead needle. Then she took a second needle which she would use to couch down the tiny segments of beading. She bent all her powers of concentration on to the intricate work, deliberately pushing away the vague images of violence that had almost stepped fully formed, into the light, just as that dark man had done earlier.

She had become adept at pushing uncomfortable thoughts away since she had arrived in London, bruised, alone and scared. And soon, her world shrank until all she could feel was the texture of the luxurious fabric, all she could hear was the pluck of the needle piercing it, the hiss of the thread as she set each meticulously measured stitch.

Her breathing grew steadier. Her heart beat evenly again. All that was ugly and mean slithered back into the shadows, leaving Mary conscious only of the work that occupied her hands.

She sensed, rather than heard, Madame Pichot step away. They both knew that now Mary’s mind had turned in a new direction, she would soon forget all about the alarming incident in Berkeley Square.

It had been a long time since Lord Matthison had played against the house. The owners of gambling hells, such as this one, had become reluctant to admit him, until he had restricted his play to private games, arranged for him with other gentlemen. Or men who called themselves gentlemen, he corrected himself as he glanced round the table at the flushed faces of Lord Sandiford, Mr Peters, and a young cub by the name of Carpenter who was looking distinctly green about the gills.

Peters fumbled with his cards, reached for a drink, then, seeing his glass was empty, called for a refill from a passing waiter.

Lord Matthison leaned back in his chair with a sneer. Taking yet another drink was not going to alter the fact that once Peters threw down his hand, he would have cleaned them all out.

His mockery turned inwards. Had he not discovered for himself how deceptive strong drink could be? Thinking he had summoned up Cora’s ghost, by muttering something about three times three indeed! As soon as he’d sobered up, he had realised that the vision he’d had of Cora had sprung like a genie from a bottle, formed from a heady mixture of gin fumes and wishful thinking.

He had not been able to bear the thought he might have lost her all over again, that was what it boiled down to. And so he had let the gin steer him down a path of self-delusion.

Just as brandy was steering Peters down the path of self-destruction, he reflected, as the man gulped down what the waiter had just poured.

The man would have done better to stick to coffee, as he had done, he mused, as Peters, with a defiant flourish, finally displayed his hand.

Then slumped back when he saw what Lord Matthison had been holding.

‘One more hand,’ he begged, as Lord Matthison reached for his winnings.

‘You have nothing left to stake,’ Lord Matthison replied coldly.

‘I have a daughter,’ the man interjected, his eyes fastened on the pile of coins, banknotes and hastily scrawled pledges Lord Matthison was sweeping into his capacious pockets.

Lord Matthison regarded him with contempt. ‘Do you expect me to care?’

If Peters had a grain of worth in him, he would have been at home, managing his business, not wasting his substance in a gaming hell like this! He should have considered what it might mean to his daughter before he gambled it all away. It was no use appealing to him now.

His own father had been just the same. When gambling fever gripped him, he forgot all about his wife and son, the dependants who looked to him for their welfare. All that had mattered to him was the next turn of the card, the next roll of the dice.

‘No, no!’ the man gibbered. ‘I am saying that I still have a daughter—’ a nasty look spread across his face ‘—to stake. Just give me one last chance to win something back,’ he begged.

‘Out of the question,’ he replied, despising the man who had just ruined himself.

‘She’s pretty. And still a virgin,’ Peters gabbled, sweat breaking out on his florid face.

Lord Sandiford, who had gone down to the tune of four hundred guineas without batting an eyelid, sniggered. ‘You are wasting your time there, old man. Better sell her outright to me. Lord Matthison has no use for women.’

‘Not living ones,’ he agreed, shooting a pointed look at the hell’s newest hostess, who had been hovering by his shoulder all night. At one point, he had found her perfume so cloying that he had told her quite brusquely to move further off. She had pouted, and looked up at him from under half-closed lids, purring that she would await his pleasure later.

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Peters.

Everyone at the table fell silent. Very few people had ever dared ask Lord Matthison whether there was any truth in the rumours circulating about him.

Mr Carpenter shot Lord Sandiford a look of disgust, which turned to loathing as his eyes swept past Lord Matthison, got up so quickly his chair overturned, and made hastily for the exit.

‘The only woman I am interested in, Mr Peters,’ Lord Matthison replied, choosing his words very carefully, ‘is Miss Cora Montague.’ He felt a ripple of shock go round the room as he finally spoke her name aloud in public. Several men at nearby tables twisted round in their seats, hoping to hear some new titbit about the scandal that had rocked society seven years earlier.

‘In her case, I was willing to stake my very soul on just one throw of the dice,’ he said enigmatically. ‘And I lost it.’He got to his feet, wondering whether proclaiming his allegiance to her ghost in a hell-hole like this would be enough to entice her back to his side.

What had he got to lose?

‘She has my soul, Mr Peters.’And then, considering the massive amount he had just won tonight, his breath quickened. Even though he had not felt her presence, his luck had definitely turned. ‘Or perhaps,’ he added, feeling as though a great weight had rolled from his shoulders, ‘I have hers.’

The girl who had been trying to get his attention all night was standing by the door. The owner of the hell was holding her by the arm, and talking to her in an urgent undertone.

Lord Matthison pulled out a banknote and waved it under her nose.

‘Still think you’d like to earn this?’ he taunted her.

She shrank back, her face turning pale as the owner of the hell moved away, leaving her alone with him. Lord Matthison put the money back in his pocket.

‘Clearly not,’ he drawled. ‘Very wise of you.’

It was a relief to get out into the street, and breathe air not tainted by cigar fumes and desperation. ‘Did you see that, Cora?’ he asked of the black-velvet shadows of the alleyway. ‘Did you hear me tell them?’

But there was no reply. She did not come skipping to his side, to keep him company on the long walk home. Instead, he had a fleeting image of what that nameless daughter would feel like when Peters went home and told her he was going to sell her to Sandiford. Swiftly followed by the horrified look on the face of that woman he had mistaken for Cora two days before.

‘It is not my fault Peters tried to sell his daughter to me,’ he growled as he set off through the dark, damp streets. ‘I only went to the tables to find you.’

But she had not been there. And so the money that was making his coat pockets bulge meant nothing to him. He had no use for it.

When he reached his rooms, he drew out all the banknotes that had formed part of the winning pot and thrust them into his manservant’s hands.

‘I ruined a man named Peters tonight,’ he bit out. ‘Take this money, and hand it over into the keeping of his daughter. Tell her she is not to let her father get hold of it. Or she will have me to answer to.’

‘Sir.’ Ephraims’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but he went straight out, without asking any questions.

Until tonight, Lord Matthison had felt not one ounce of pity towards any of the men from whom he’d won money. To his knowledge, he had ruined three.

But tonight, he could not bear to keep one penny of that money. He had only gone to the tables to find Cora. Not to bring more misery to the child of a compulsive gambler.

He went to his room, and shrugged off his jacket, the coins spilling from his pockets and rattling across the boards.