Lady Olivia And The Infamous Rake

‘Randall.’ There was a note of warning in Lord Hugo’s voice.

‘Alastair?’

‘The lady does not appear to welcome your attentions.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

Mr Randall then fell silent as Lord Clevedon rose to his feet. Olivia did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed. She was acquainted with Lord Clevedon, having met him at several functions—so he was clearly a respectable gentleman—but she was anxious he did not recognise her and this was drawing far too much of his attention. Up until now he had been too busy talking with Lord Sudbury to take much notice of anyone else. His gaze wandered casually over Olivia.

‘My guest is clearly a lady, Randall. You will oblige me by treating her as such at my birthday party.’

‘My apologies,’ Randall muttered. He was so close Olivia could smell the spirits on his breath and his cheeks were flagged with hectic colour. He shifted away until he no longer crowded her and she smiled at his lordship.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he bowed, a smile playing on his full lips.

‘The pleasure is all mine, my dear.’ He gestured at Lord Hugo. ‘I shall leave it to you to ensure our glasses are kept topped up, Alastair. I cannot have it said that I am an ungenerous host.’

Lord Hugo—with a sardonic grin—obliged and, because she was overly warm in her velvet domino, Olivia continued to sip the punch. She dare not remove her domino, for that would uncover her hair—distinctive with its blue-black sheen—and she was now desperate not to be identified. She reached for the bow at her throat and pulled it loose, parting the front of the cloak to allow some air to reach her skin, but still leaving her head covered. As she did so, she glanced across the table at Lord Hugo.

Dark eyes lazily surveyed her chest area, then rose to linger on her lips and she trembled. She’d thought this would be an adventure. Now, it just felt dangerous and she felt very foolish and very inexperienced. She broke out in a light sweat even as her mouth dried and she snatched up her glass again and drank thirstily. She might never have been introduced to Lord Hugo, but she knew his reputation as a devil-may-care rake. A shiver tiptoed down her spine as she recalled some of the tales she had heard...stories she could well believe of the man who lounged opposite, a mocking edge to his hard gaze as he drank liberally and refilled the glasses on the table—including hers—at frequent intervals.

Uneasy at being alone in the box with the four men—even though one of them was Neville—Olivia distracted herself by drinking as the men chatted idly and made pithy comments about the people passing by. Gradually, though, she relaxed and she regained her normal, bubbly spirits, giving her the confidence to join the conversation.

Chapter Two (#uc9e1bfdc-1609-5f4d-8f22-c6a750234f7d)

Some time later, Lord Clevedon produced a pack of cards from his pocket and he smiled at Olivia. ‘May I challenge you to a few hands of piquet, my dear? I cannot offer an alternative game, for I only have the reduced pack here.’

Olivia had often played piquet with her family, and prided herself on her skill, but she hesitated, knowing that playing cards in a public place was not at all the same as playing cards at a private function. Neville dug his elbow into her ribs at that point and muttered, ‘Not at all the thing, La—Beatrice’ under his breath.

Olivia glared at him. Then stuck her nose in the air. If she wished to play a hand or two of cards with Lord Clevedon, why should she not? Nobody knew it was her, except Neville, and he did not count.

His lordship shuffled the cards before fanning them between long, elegant fingers. ‘Do not concern yourself, Wolfe. We shall play the classic game—the first to gain one hundred points wins. Your...er...friend has already proved herself admirably bold, venturing here with two escorts, neither of whom, I’ll wager, are members of her family.’

His words reassured Olivia that he had not guessed her identity and, ignoring Neville’s desperate grimaces, she said, ‘Very well, then. I accept your challenge, sir.’

At that point, Mr Randall exited the box after mumbling an excuse. Olivia was pleased to see the back of him—she just wished Lord Hugo would also leave, with his unsettling gaze that seemed to penetrate deep inside her to winkle out her secrets.

‘What stakes shall we say?’

Olivia bit her lip. ‘I have no money with me with which to wager.’

‘No matter, my dear. Let us hope Lady Luck will smile upon you and, if she should not, I will happily accept your vowel, you know. Of course, if you fear to take the risk, we can play for a penny a point. I am sure one of your two cavaliers will be happy to cover any losses.’

Olivia—discovering in herself a sudden desire not to risk her money on a skill she suddenly doubted—thought a penny a point might be just the answer. Before she could accept Clevedon’s offer, however, Lord Hugo, his deep voice an amused drawl, said, ‘A penny a point? My dear Clevedon, you insult the lady.’

Olivia glared at him. The sight of that mocking smile fired her anger, egging her on, and she elevated her chin.

‘My thoughts exactly, sir. Why, a penny a point is hardly worth bothering with. What do you say to...to...?’ Frantically, she tried to decide what would be deemed a reasonable wager without her having to risk too much.

‘A guinea a point,’ Lord Hugo said, with a lift of his brow.

She held his gaze defiantly. ‘Perfect.’

‘Deal the hand, Clevedon,’ Lord Hugo drawled. ‘I have an extraordinary desire to see the outcome of this game before I take my leave.’

Light-headed from the effects of the punch and with the enormity of what she had agreed to, Olivia frowned as she forced her somewhat fuzzy attention on her hand. She won the first deal, but she was soon out of her depth. Clevedon played ruthlessly and Olivia was left reeling at the speed at which his points stacked up. Neville, his face grimmer by the second, shot her an encouraging smile.

‘I’ll go and find Alex.’

He stood and, none too steady on his feet, left the box. Olivia watched him go until he was absorbed into the crowd, then turned her attention to the remaining two men in the supper box and to the new hand dealt to her.

‘I... I think I would rather not play any more,’ she said, her stomach churning.

‘Such a shame you have suffered an unfortunate run of cards,’ Clevedon said, smiling. ‘But we cannot stop now—we are so close to the finish. One more deal should do it.’

Pride alone stopped her from refusing to finish the game. She lost as, deep down, she had known she would.

‘Never mind. Perhaps, if we play on, your luck might change, Beatrice, my dear.’

The breath left Olivia’s lungs in a whoosh. Beatrice. She had forgotten. She felt the blood drain from her face as she realised the dilemma she faced: she could not give Clevedon her vowel. She was here incognito. She could not risk this escapade becoming common knowledge—it would destroy her reputation and her father...

Sick dread pooled in her stomach. She would be in trouble, yes, but that was not the worst of it.

Oh, dear God. What have I done? Papa will blame Alex and then—

She thrust aside that frantic voice inside her head as Clevedon raised the pack of cards, his brows raised, waiting for her reply.

‘I...no. I do not care to play again, thank you.’ She sucked in a shaky breath and continued, ‘I will pay you your money by the end of next week, my lord, if you would be so good as to give me until then to settle my debt?’

‘But of course, my dear. Just give me your vowel and then I shall call upon you—shall we say next Saturday evening—and you can repay me. I shall, of course, need your address.’

Panic threatened to overcome her, squeezing her lungs until she could barely breathe. ‘I... I... I cannot give you my vowel, sir. But I give you my word that you will be paid on time.’

Clevedon’s smile was sympathetic, but there was a hard edge to it now. And how could she blame him? He had no idea of her identity. Why should he trust her? She scanned the people thronging the square.

Oh, where is Alex? Or Neville? Why have they not returned?

‘I am sorry, my dear, but...a debt of honour, you know. And an unknown adversary. I am afraid that I must insist on a signed vowel or—perhaps—payment of a different kind?’

Her throat constricted. Her gaze flew without volition to Lord Hugo, but he was staring out across the square, seemingly taking no notice of their conversation.

‘D-different kind? I do not understand.’

Clevedon proffered his hand and, as if in a dream, she took it and rose to her feet.

‘Come walk with me, Beatrice. A kiss. Or two. That is all I ask. There are private nooks aplenty in the Dark Walks.’