Tuck arrived at the Earl of St. John’s not long after, reeking of brandy and as affable as if he’d consumed half a bottle—and most importantly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world but to continue his pleasure-seeking evening.
But his sharp eyes didn’t miss the fellow lurking just beyond the light of the streetlamp or the way the man was watching St. John’s house as the guests came and went.
Drawing a deep breath, he tried to tell himself he was seeing hobgoblins everywhere, but the telltale shiver down his spine was warning enough.
Livy was in danger.
He hurried up the stairs, and it was no surprise that the earl’s butler admitted him without question.
Once inside, Tuck spied a fellow he knew from the clubs coming toward him and feigned a stumble into the man as he passed. “Downing!” he exclaimed with great joy.
“Oh, aye, Tuck,” the man said, reeling back a bit. “Haven’t seen you about lately. Thought you’d left Town.”
“Never,” he replied. “Got Ilford on the run,” he confided with a broad wink.
Downing smiled, more politely and with a bit of sympathy, as if to say, “poor misguided fool.” Then he tossed his head toward one of the rooms off the ballroom. “Don’t bother, my good man.”
Tuck looked around. “Pardon?”
Downing leaned in a bit. “If you’re thinking of finding a bit of luck at the tables tonight, you won’t find it here.”
“No? Demmed shame that. I had heard the pickings were rare and easy tonight.”
“They were,” he lamented. “Until the most divine creature arrived. She’s taken over Lord St. John’s private table.” Then the man lowered his voice. “She’s cleaning up. Picked my pockets in only three hands of vingt-et-un.” He shook his head. “Pleasure is all mine, though. She’s a rare beauty—at least I suspect that is what lies behind that mask she’s wearing—a rare beauty—why, every man here is mad to know who the devil she is.”
Tuck had stopped listening after “divine creature,” for hadn’t those been the same words the Honorable had used.
His eyes narrowed as he looked over Downing’s shoulder toward the gaming room.
No. Not even his mother would set an innocent like Lavinia down among the hardened gamesters that St. John kept company with. It couldn’t be Livy.
He straightened and looked over at the crowded doorway to the salon, which was attracting the attention of everyone. With all eyes on the tables . . . Tuck’s gaze shifted to the empty stairwell up into the private reaches of the earl’s house.
Oh, yes, his mother would use a lamb to distract the lions.
“I’ll have to go find this creature and try my luck,” he told Downing, and patted him on the back before he began to push his way through the crowd.
“I’d think twice about that,” the man warned.
Tuck nodded his thanks and went past Downing, but in his distracted state, he collided with a masked woman in a yellow gown.
“My pardon, madame,” he said politely as he caught hold of her elbow to steady her. From behind her mask, her eyes widened as if in recognition, and then ever so quickly, she shook off his grasp, murmured something in French—a curse, he thought—and hurried past him into the ballroom, where she quickly disappeared into the throng of guests.
Some former paramour, he supposed, but he paused for a half second longer, caught by the sense that she was utterly out of place and that he knew her. But then again, the only woman he knew with hair that dark was Pier’s sister, Roselie.
But that was utterly ridiculous.
Besides, another glance over his shoulder only confirmed that the bit of muslin was gone, and it wasn’t like Tuck had the time for saving any more impetuous chits. The one he had to carry off tonight was handful enough.
When he got to the doorway to the salon, Tuck found the room a crush. Not surprising, for Lord St. John loved his cards and was known to play deep, but they were all gathered around a single table in the middle of the room, every other game—some half-played—all abandoned.
And then he spotted it. A dark, rich navy velvet set against the glittering rainbow hues of the other guests. He pressed his way through, rudely even.
He didn’t need to see her—his imagination went straight back to the lascivious image of her holding the velvet gown up for him to see.
He’d known only too well then what she would look like in it—but his imaginings and the real thing could hardly compare.
Gone was the proper miss he’d come to know, that bossy minx with her list. For sitting front and center at Lord St. John’s personal table was the most breathtaking creature he’d ever beheld. The velvet clung to her like night itself, the brilliants sparkling lures to draw a man into her trap. Her mahogany hair was done up, but loosely enough that a man could see how easily it could be undone.
How it would fall over her bare shoulders into a beckoning river of curls, as soft as the velvet that begged to be undone as well.
Tuck found himself unable to breathe, a bit off-balance really, as if he had consumed an entire bottle of brandy rather than just splashing a bit on his jacket to make himself smell like he was half-seas over.
Good God, Livy, what have I done?
For she wasn’t Miss Lavinia Tempest any longer. She was Livy, his Livy. This beguiling, mysterious demoiselle he’d created.
He glanced around and realized how right Downing had been. Every gaze was fixed on her with the same covetous desire.
To unmask her. To have her.
But if anything, he was thankful for that mask—it did an excellent job of utterly concealing her features—and when she looked up, her gaze meeting his, her eyes widened in surprise—eyes lined with kohl that made her seem all that much more mysterious. Experienced, even.
And if there was ever a damning note to all this, evidence of his mother’s hand in Livy’s newfound persona, it was the single adornment she wore, a sapphire and diamond pendant hanging from a blue velvet ribbon, one he knew all too well. It belonged to his mother, her sole piece of jewelry that wasn’t paste or purloined.
When and how his mother had gained such a treasure, Tuck had never learned. But he did know this: His mother never wore it.
So he was a bit taken aback at the sight of it hanging just above Lavinia Tempest’s generously displayed décolletage.
So caught up was he that he hadn’t even noticed who else was at the table. Not until one of the gentlemen spoke. Or rather cursed.
“I don’t see how you can keep winning,” the man burst out, throwing his losing hand to the table in a fit of pique.
Tuck sucked in a deep breath. Ilford. Seated right across from her and completely unaware of who exactly the woman trouncing him might be. As he glanced around, he realized—to some relief—that no one knew who this mysterious lady might be. He could see the whispers, the guesses being made, but no one knew.
Including Ilford, who had no idea that his irrational revenge sat right within his grasp.
And if there was any consolation to be had in all this, it was that there wasn’t a single hint of the ungainly miss who had tripped her way into infamy at Almack’s. Not a single member of the ton would put this Incognita and Lavinia Tempest together.
Save him.
“Shall we play another hand, my lords?” she asked, her voice huskier than he’d ever heard it sound.
No, he had heard it sound like that before—when he’d held her in his arms and kissed her.
Smoky, and passionate, and full of desire.
No wonder these fools were pushing fortunes into the middle of the table, all eyes on the lady with the cards.
His mother had chosen the perfect diversion for whatever she had planned above stairs. He sent a wry glance up at the ceiling.
Leave it to his mother to both help him and help herself.
When the play returned to Livy, she took a furtive glance around the table. Three of the players had already been broken, having taken cards they shouldn’t have—including her host—but she still had Ilford and the Marquess of Gosforth in the game.
Ilford, so confident in his hand, added a mountain of coins to the wager. A sum far above what was gambled even in this fast company.
She pushed all of her winnings into the middle of the table and reached up and slowly undid her necklace, laying it atop the king’s ransom that made up the pot. “I assume, gentlemen, that this will suffice.”
Gosforth nodded, a gentleman through and through, but Ilford reached out and fingered the gems roughly as if he was already contemplating handling the woman who had worn them in much the same way.
She added another card to the one in front of her.
A knave. The knave of hearts to be exact. Standing alongside the deuce of hearts that had already been there.
Tuck glanced around the table, and counted—five of London’s most notorious gamblers. Masks or not, he knew them all. Had played against them on many an occasion. Including the one seated across from her.
“Ah, how unfortunate, my dear,” Ilford said, as he laid down his hand—a king of spades and a ten. Smiling as the others groaned, he reached across the table to gather in his winnings.
Certainly, from all appearances, he held the winning hand.
But Lavinia set down the cards she’d held. A five and four. Twenty-one. She tipped her head just so, looking first at her hand, then across the table. “I believe, my lord, the game is mine.”
She spoke with a cultured voice, a hint of French and something else. Italian, Tuck guessed.
“Good God, Ilford, she has you! Well done, madame! Well done!” exclaimed one of the observers. There was a chorus of well-wishes and cheers.
The rest of the table watched in disbelief as she quickly gathered together her winnings, pulling them toward her and donning her necklace with all due haste.
Lord Gosforth pushed back from the table “You’ve cleaned me out, you devilish minx!” He glanced around at the others and laughed a bit. “Which one of you fools suggested we let her play?”
St. John laughed and bowed his head to Livy in concession. Every man at the table had to concede the lady had outwitted the lot of them.
Save one. And as if on cue, the man proved his ill-temper once again.
“You bitch,” Ilford cursed, as Lavinia scooped up the last of the coins into her reticule. It now bulged with her winnings. The marquess shot to his feet, his chair shooting out behind him. “Who the hell are you? I’ll have you unmasked and whipped for cheating.”
Ah, yes, the marquess truly hated being bested. Especially in public.
Lavinia rose as well and backed up a few steps. “It was a fair game.”
“And now it is over,” Tuck announced, catching her by the elbow, tugging her quickly into the crowd, the swarm of guests swallowing them from sight. “What were you doing?” he whispered into her ear as he towed her out of the room.
“Playing cards.”
Yes, he’d quite gotten that. “Where is my mother?”
“She went up to the lady’s retiring room,” she said, then she paused for a moment. “Oh, heavens, I daresay she’s been gone for some length of time. Do you think she might have met with some mishap?”
His mother? That was nearly guaranteed. “Let me guess, she suggested you go play cards.”
“No never, that was my idea. I saw Ilford, rather he spotted me—for a moment I thought he knew exactly who I was, so I panicked a bit.” They had made their way out of the card room and across the ballroom toward the garden doors.
Behind them, Ilford’s voice rose in complaint. “I demand she be unmasked.”
Tuck was about to make their escape when a flicker of movement in the garden stopped him. There, just in the shadows, stood an ill-dressed man in a dark coat, his cap pulled low.
All those years of living around coves and swindlers had left Tuck with a keen sense of when something was amiss, and immediately he steered Livy away from the doors and along the wings of the crowded ballroom.
“We cannot leave without your mother,” Livy was saying.
And she was right.
Nor could Tuck shake Old Kelley’s warning. He’s out to take his full measure in return.
No, he couldn’t leave her behind—even if Jenny Rowland was probably as dangerous as any dockside ruffian.
“Do you know where she might have gone?” Livy asked.
“Yes,” he told her, steering her along the wings of the room and through a servants’ entrance. Down the corridor they went and up the stairs, deeper into the house, where the true festivities that St. John’s Folly was known for were practiced.
“How is it you ended up in there?” he asked.
“Like I said, I panicked.”
“So you invited Ilford to play a few hands of vingt-et-un?”
“Not at first. He took up Lord Norley’s spot after I—” She paused there, her lips pursing together.
“Left him under the hatches?” Tuck supplied. “Good God, you cleaned out Norley? You’ve got pluck to the backbone. I don’t think even the Honorable could have managed that.”
“Truly?” She had picked up the hem of her gown so she could keep pace with him. “I thought the man a bit of a braggart.”
“Oh, he’s that,” Tuck agreed.
“Not any more,” she told him with all the cheek of a seasoned Cyprian.
He came to a stop on the landing and faced her. “You’ve a remarkable talent.”
She fluttered a bit, as if his praise, his admiration took her utterly aback.
For indeed it had.
“You don’t think it off-putting?” She glanced away, the minx chastened.
“Not in the least,” he told her, reaching out and curling his fingers around her chin. He raised it up so she looked at him. “Why would I?”
“Well—” She tried to turn away, as if admitting the truth was too painful.
“Well, what?” Then Tuck saw it—as he had so many times with her over the past week. “It isn’t proper to play cards, is that what it is?”
“Oh, playing cards is all well and good, but a proper lady should let a gentleman win.”
Tuck knew he was gaping, but that was before he started to laugh. “Livy, my girl, when you find a gentleman in this company, by all means, let him win.” Then he winked at her.
She grinned and turned to continue upward, her reticule jangling like an entire carillon of bells. She’d catch the attention of anyone they passed. Tuck leaned forward and snatched it from her wrist.
“Those are my winnings,” she complained as he tucked the silk bag inside a large ornamental vase.
“We’ll come back for your treasure trove,” he promised.
“I would say so. I’ve quite run through my pin money—London is ever so expensive.” Her eyes flickered from behind her mask. “Though I never imagined one could win so much so quickly.”
“Yes, and marked yourself as a knight of the elbow in the process. And for that, we need to find my mother and get you both out of here.”
That and other reasons, but he wasn’t about to go into all that. Not until she was safely ensconced back in his uncle’s house.
“I played fairly,” she complained. “I don’t see how anyone can argue the point.”
“Believe me, Ilford will. He’s a poor loser.”
“And rather dimwitted at cards,” she replied, as they came to the upper foyer, with only two choices.
Left or right.
Just to their right, a door opened, and a couple came out, the lady’s hair tumbling down in a mess of curls and both of them laughing drunkenly as they continued their amorous interlude entwined against the wall and oblivious to anyone else.
“Oh, my,” Lavinia whispered, her eyes wide beneath her mask.
From down below came an all-too-familiar voice. “I’ll find that thief and get my money back. She cheated, I tell you.”
They shared a glance. Ilford. And in hot pursuit.
The couple to the right was still completely lost in each other, having not even noticed they were being observed, the woman pressed to the wall by her swain, his hands exploring under her gown.
Livy leaned close, and asked, “Is that why they call this a folly?”
“Not if he’s doing it right.”
And about then, the woman began to moan loudly.
“Oh, yes, quite right, apparently,” Livy quipped, as he caught hold of her again and took her in the opposite direction. Halfway down the hall, he opened a door, and they went blindly into the room, closing the door even as Ilford and his mob of sycophants crested the stairs.
The room Tuck had picked in his haste was entirely in shadows, the thick curtains by the window letting in only a little shaft of light from the streetlamp below.
“Search all the rooms,” Ilford could be heard saying, as doors began to open.
Tuck took a quick, assessing glance around the chamber—a small, dark parlor without any other doors and only the window. They had reached a dead end.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“Gamble,” he told her, leading her over near the window and tucking her behind the overhang of the curtains. The thick velvet hangings concealed most of her very unmistakable gown.
There was only one way to cover the rest.
Tuck glanced down at her. “Do you trust me, Livy?”
“No, not in the least,” she told him.
“Good,” he said, pressing her into the wall and covering her. His head dipped down, and his lips brushed against hers, while his hands caught hers, pulling them up and over her head so she was pinned.
She made a sort of mew of protest, but then he leaned in, letting his body slide against hers, and suddenly it wasn’t Livy who was caught, but him.
Utterly.
For in a second, he was rock hard, his groin pressed against the curve of her hips, her breasts pillowed against his chest, her protest lost as her mouth opened to him.
Livy.
That bastard Ilford had been right about one thing. This minx was a thief.
For she was robbing him of every bit of good sense he possessed.
Lavinia couldn’t breathe. How could she, with Tuck stealing every breath away with his kiss? That, and with her hands pinned over her head, she was utterly his to do with as he pleased.
As she desired.
For his lips, hot and hard upon hers, left her opening up to him. Letting him explore her mouth, tease her tongue, over and over again.
The curtain all but encircled them, and they were in a cocoon of their own making. The entire world seemed to spin around them until it blurred, leaving only her and Tuck and this hot, blinding passion that had been simmering between them for nearly a fortnight.
He pulled her hands higher, as if to stretch her, leaving her body in a taut line that his other hand explored like a gypsy’s violin, plucking wild notes of desire from her—cupping her breast, teasing the nipple into a hard bud, pressing himself against her so she could feel how hard and ready he was.
This is only an illusion, she tried telling herself. For somewhere, far away it seemed, she could hear doors opening up and down the hall and voices getting closer.
This . . . this kiss, his hand roaming over her hips, cupping her breast, it was all a trick meant to deceive.
But she knew one thing: The shafts of desire, the fire of passion blazing inside her were no fraud, no bluff.
It was like magic made real, and she gasped as he pressed his lips to her neck and nibbled at her.
Just then, the door did open, and Tuck raised his head slightly, glared at the intruder, and growled a sharp and angry, “Get out!”
There was a hasty apology, then the door closed.
After a few seconds, he let go of her.
“I believe we’ve deceived them,” Tuck told her, but even to her innocent ears, his voice sounded ragged. Full of need.
A need she wanted to answer. Explore.
“Not quite,” Lavinia told him, catching hold of his waistcoat and pulling him back into the shadows. “I think we ought to wait until we are certain.”
And then she raised her lips to his and begged another kiss.
“Livy, I—”
When he hesitated, she looked up at him, pulling him closer, letting her hips rock toward him, brush against him. “Tuck, undo me.”
He swallowed and gazed down at her, as if seeing her anew.
Lavinia didn’t care. “Undo me.”
And he did. His lips crashed down atop hers, and his hand found a bit of her skirt, edging it higher until his fingers found the curve of her now-bared thigh.
As he got closer, as his hand moved higher, he paused as if gauging her reaction, and she smiled at him, her teeth nibbling at her lower lip especially when his fingers came just that much higher.
Almost, but not there. There.
Lavinia arched like a cat, delirious to be touched, the need to be teased blotting out any thought of modesty.
Of restraint.
“Touch me,” she gasped. “Touch me there.”
It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how it would feel—but she’d never had anyone else touch her there, and she had to know.
And then she did. For, oh, bless his knavish heart, he knew exactly where “there” lay, and his fingers expertly brushed at the curls, before easing into the cleft between her legs.
When his finger crooked around the nub there and . . . and . . . oh, yes, he touched her . . .
Her mouth opened, and a mew of desire slipped free. “Oh. Oh, yes.”
His fingers pressed deeper, then he was inside her, and she rose on her tiptoes, first in shock, but then because she just knew, knew she wanted to rock against him, feel every bit of his touch sliding in and out of her.
She was ever so wet and hot, for he knew exactly how to tease, when to go deeper, harder.
Yes, this was so much better with him.
A strangled sort of sound escaped him, and his mouth covered hers again, this time almost savagely, as suddenly his own hunger, his own need had overtaken him.
He kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting over her lips as his fingers began the same frantic dance over her sex.
Tormenting her.
“Yes,” she gasped, as her body began to tighten, as the world began to encase them, as everything seemed to spin out of control, as if it would all fly apart. “Yes, Tuck, oh, yes.”
And then she did careen out of control, pleasure wrenching through her, filling her, flooding her in waves that only served to fan the flames of her desire for him.
Tuck held her in his arms as her release came shattering over her.
Livy undone was a sight to behold. Her eyes alight. Her cheeks pinked. Her mouth opened in surprise and delight.
He kissed her brow, her neck, the top of her breasts, until she found her footing again, drifted back down from the heavens.
What had he done to her? Had he done this? Taken a very proper miss and turned her into this vixen, this tempting minx in a complete state of dishabille, looking so utterly tumbled.
She arched against him.
Like a greedy cat seeking to be stroked again. And again.
“We need to leave,” he whispered in her ear. For if they stayed much longer, if he held her much more, touched her again, this would indeed turn into a folly.
One that could not be undone.
“Oh, must we?” Again she shifted against him. So temptingly.
“I need to see you safely home.”
“Must you?” She looked up at him, and that was a mistake, for the wicked light in her eyes held a smoky promise.
“Yes,” he said, more for himself. Take her home. Now.
“Just one more kiss,” she told him, rising on her toes and pressing her lips, her body to his.
And she was back in his arms, and he was lost.
“Uh, hum.” The slight cough was enough to tear them apart.
And Tuck didn’t need to look to know who had discovered them. Who else could slip into a room like a thief?
“Ah, Mother,” he said as he turned around. “There you are.”
“Yes, well, the entire house is in quite a stir over some card cheat,” she complained.
From behind him, there was a loud harrumph.
“I didn’t cheat,” Livy declared, stepping into plain sight, fists to her hips, followed by a slight stomp of her slipper.
That was his Livy. His.
Oh, God, he couldn’t think of her like that. Not even now.
“You?” Mrs. Rowland asked as she came farther into the room. “You’re the card cheat?”
Livy looked about to repeat her protest, but Tuck waded in. “After you left her alone, Livy, er Miss Tempest, had to improvise. She ended up in a card game with Ilford, and—”
His mother waved her hand at the mention of the marquess’s name. “Say no more. I can see that it is imperative that we leave.”
Always the obvious one, his mother.
“And how exactly had you planned to do that?” Tuck asked, then quickly explained the situation below.
She nodded, then looked him directly in the eyes. “Exactly as I entered. Through the front door. Now turn around and no peeking.” She pushed him out of the way, turning him so his back was to the pair of them. “As we discussed, we need to change things a bit,” she said to Livy.
“I can see now why you had me alter this gown as you did,” Livy replied. “Quite ingenious.”
“An occasional necessity,” his mother replied.
“What the devil are you talking about?” Tuck demanded, turning around to find his mother pulling Livy’s gown up and over her head.
A glimpse of long, bare, coltish legs stole his breath away, but another cough from his mother had him turning back around.
Demmit. This was all his fault. All his doing. He should never have asked her to dance. Never wagered on her. Never offered to help her.
Never kissed her. Yes, that was when it had all turned into a mare’s nest. He’d kissed her, and he’d stopped thinking rationally. Introducing her to his mother. To the Honorable.
Now the very proper Miss Lavinia Tempest was in the middle of one of St. John’s Follies, up to her unwitting neck in larceny after having done her innocent best to unman him.
He paused for a second. Hardly innocent now.
Good God! What would an experienced Livy do to him?
Put him in an early grave, he had to imagine.
“If you must know—” Livy had begun to say.
“Oh, I insist,” he told her, wiping at his brow. Suddenly, the room was too hot and too close.
“Your mother had me alter the gown—don’t you recall—I told you about it the other day,” Livy told him, as the rustle of silk begged him to steal another glance.
Reminding himself he was a gentleman—most of the time—he didn’t. Not that his imagination wasn’t doing a randy enough job as it was.
“There, my dear, no one will recognize you,” his mother was saying, with a hint of laughter in her voice.
And when Tuck turned around he barely recognized the lady before him, for now she wore a gown of pale pink, and her hair, which had been done up, now fell down past her shoulders.
Even her mask was changed, the color of a blush, almost lending the lady an innocent air. Almost.
“How the—” Tuck said, tipping his head and looking for some evidence of the passionate creature he’d been kissing. The unrepentant gamester who’d cleaned up the tables.
“It was your mother’s idea,” Livy told him, turning up a bit of the hem to reveal the deep blue velvet. “It is two gowns in one. I thought it rather odd at the time, but now I see how clever your mother was to think of this. Who would have known we would need to leave in such a hurry and so anonymously?”
“Yes, who would have thought such a thing?” he replied, taking Livy by the hand and shooting his mother a censorious glance.
Not that the lady noticed, for she was too busy giving an unwitting Miss Tempest more lessons in larceny. “Now Livy, dear, the key to all this is to walk out as if you are completely bored and haven’t the time for such a dull affair.”
“Yes, but I’ve had a rather exciting evening,” Livy told her.
“So I noticed,” Tuck’s mother replied, this time sending her own withering glance in his direction.
Tuck did his best to ignore her, instead leading them to the hall, where he realized he was holding his breath, and taking a lesson from his childhood, he let it out and took another as they crossed the short foyer to the stairwell.
Nothing was going to go wrong. He’d get Livy out of here and home, and no one would be the wiser.
If only he could get rid of the pit in his gut that told him that everything was about to go wrong. Very wrong.
“This evening has been a dull affair,” his mother was saying with an airy wave of her hand. “Oh, dear, I forgot one thing.” She paused and unhooked the necklace around Livy’s neck.
Diamonds and sapphires so distinctive that few would forget it—or the wearer. It was quickly tucked away in the large pocket of her gown—the pockets his mother always had sewn into her clothes—convenient hiding places for the incidental treasures that came into her grasp.
With Livy now utterly changed, they continued down the stairs, sedately and regally, his mother bantering on. “Such a vulgar crowd tonight. St. John’s standards are hardly what they once were,” she told Livy offhandedly. “I would wager that the stones you were wearing, my dear, were the only ones not paste in the entire assembly.” She continued down the steps a few paces ahead of them.
Livy’s hand went to where the necklace had been and her wide-eyed gaze flew up. “Those were real? Oh, heavens, I never would have—”
Tuck shook his head slightly to stop her from saying the rest.
. . . wagered them if I had known that.
He leaned in close. “I wouldn’t mention that fact to my mother.”
They had come to a stop on the landing, and indeed, the party below did seem to be in turmoil—people in knots whispering and glancing around, while others continued a determined search of the guests.
For a lady in blue velvet, Tuck had to imagine, not the fetching pink-clad minx beside him.
Meanwhile, Livy had other thoughts. “Oh, goodness. I nearly forgot. My winnings.” She crossed over to the vase, and after taking a glance around to make sure no one was looking, tipped it over, pulling her reticule out, the fat bag jangling like a market hog.
“Your what?” his mother asked, whirling around.
Oh, yes, now she was paying attention to her little protégé.
“Your diversion had quite a run at the tables,” he told her, as Livy gave her reticule a slight shake—counting her winnings as the Honorable was wont to do.
“You truly won all that?” his mother said, coming forward, her eyes all alight. Her voice turned from hawkish delight to more motherly pride. “My dear, girl, why didn’t you tell me you played cards?”
“I’m surprised the Honorable didn’t mention it,” Tuck remarked. “She quite cleaned him out.”
His mother’s eyes widened. “That rather explains why he didn’t mention it. He takes great pride in his acumen.”
“Oh, heavens,” Livy rushed to say. “I hope I didn’t offend him.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Tuck said under his breath.
Both ladies ignored him.
“Don’t you fret about such things. Men need reminding that they’re mere mortals every once in a while,” his mother advised her as she took to the stairs again now that the crowds below had thinned a bit. “All that matters is that you enjoy playing.”
“Lady Essex says my skills are unseemly. No one in Kempton will play with me, not even a hand of whist.”
“Never mind that,” his mother told her as they went down the last set of stairs and waded into the crush making a beeline for the front door. “London is a large place, and there are always new fools, er, eager players to be found—if you know where to look.” She made an imperious nod to the footman at the entrance, and he quickly opened the door.
But not quickly enough.
While his mother was already out the door, from behind them, a loud voice rose, a drunken greeting. “Ilford! Is it true? You’re halfway to losing that wager with Rowland? That Wakefield went and married one of those cowhanded chits?”
In front of him, Livy froze, the words catching her as sure as a well-baited hook, tugging her back and around.
Even if she had wanted to continue, she was caught fast.
“We must leave,” Tuck told her, but she wasn’t listening.
She pushed away from him, suddenly rooted in place.
“Rowland!” Ilford spat out like a curse. “He’s got two days to bring the other one up to snuff—” He laughed, the evil bark sending a chill down Tuck’s spine, as if the man had just tromped over his grave. “As if he can. I’ll win this wager, Budgey, and see him ruined.”
Tuck glanced over at Livy—her eyes opened slightly, her mouth forming one word.
“Wager.”
A whisper. A breath of disbelief. Shock. All in one word.
One damning, horrible honest word.
He went to explain, to try to tell her it mattered not, not now—but her attention was fixed on the trio discussing her fate.
“I don’t see why you bothered,” the other man was saying, a fop from the previous century who looked as if he had lived his entire life on the fringes of society, his existence bound up in the misfortunes of others. “Not like you will collect. Everyone knows Rowland’s craven. He’ll cry off and disappear—run scared, just like he did to Wakefield and poor Rimswell. Bragged all over town he was to buy his commission, then gambled away the money and let his friends rot and die in Spain.”
“I well know it,” Ilford said. “I’ve been ill-used from the start on all of this. He won’t pay, but don’t think I haven’t got my ways to exact what I am due. He’ll not run coward on me, not this time.”
Budgey shrugged as if he wasn’t too sure that was even possible. As if Tuck’s cowardice was a given. “Still, never thought he’d be able to get Society to notice either of them, let alone Wakefield marrying one. Wakefield, indeed! Must be something quite rare about the chit for her to catch his eye. Twins and all, goes to figure that the other one must be just as much a Diamond, don’t you think?”
This question was directed to the newest arrival. The Marquess of Gosforth.
“Who might be?”
Meanwhile, Lavinia turned back to Tuck. “A wager? You did this all for a wager?”
He reached out to catch her hand, to explain, but she yanked her arm out of his reach.
Ilford hadn’t given Gosforth the time to answer, launching into another rant. “—and mark my words, Rowland’s about to lose the rest of his miserable shirt and what’s left of his tattered honor—especially once I nose it about that light skirt’s daughter is here—at St. John’s—”
Tuck burned to put his fist into the man’s smug face, but he could hardly do that and not prove every word.
The old fop was laughing. “Here? Unlikely!”
Ilford straightened and glared at the man. “I say she is here. And I suspect she is the same cheat who sat down at St. John’s table and gulled every last one of us.”
At this Budgey chortled. “If that charming minx is Miss Tempest, I’ll marry her. She’d keep my pockets plump for the rest of my days.”
“That gel is Miss Tempest, I tell you, and I’ll prove it. See if she’ll be received then.”
Budgey began to laugh at Ilford’s wild claims even as Livy sucked in a deep, indignant breath.
While Ilford didn’t hear her, Gosforth did. The older man glanced over in their direction, his gaze flicking over Tuck but lighting on Lavinia with all the accuracy of a sharpshooter.
Yet it was his expression that baffled Tuck. The man’s eyes widened, his mouth slowly falling open until he was gaping at her, looking at Livy as if he were seeing a ghost, seeing something so unexpected, that he took a step back from Ilford and Budgey, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
By now his mother had come back up the steps. “Oh, good heavens. This doesn’t bode well,” she said, surveying the tableaux before them.
Nor was Ilford done—and worse—he was drawing a crowd around him. “He’ll lose, I tell you. That girl will never be accepted into Society, not as long as I breathe,” Ilford’s voice carried the chill of death with it. “Rowland has made his last wager. His last.”
Tuck’s mother shook her head and caught Lavinia by the hand. “Come along, my dear. You’ve heard enough.”
That was enough to break the spell, and Lavinia let his mother pull her out the door.
“Is it true?” she asked in a voice so small and icy, Tuck thought his heart would crack.
“Not now,” he told her.
Not here in front of the lingering guests and waiting servants. Gossips all.
But this was Lavinia, and she would have her answer. She came to a halt and planted herself so firmly, Tuck knew not even Napoleon’s best troops could rout her.
“Is it true, what they said?”
“Yes,” Tuck shot back, the weight of what he’d done, all the half-truths and lies he’d told crashing down. “Yes, it’s all true. There you have it. Does it matter?”
The hurt in her eyes nearly ripped him in two—bringing with it a startling realization.
Tuck Rowland, the Knave of Mayfair, had lost a far bigger wager than the one with Ilford.
For he was head over heels in love, and he’d ruined everything.
“Does everyone know?” This, Livy asked his mother.
She nodded, a curt tip of her head that conceded both the truth and her complicity.
Livy’s hand fisted to her mouth as if it could stopper back the hurt and shock.
Or perhaps to prevent the blistering scold he so rightly deserved.
But whatever she had been about to say was all lost when another came to stand behind them.
“Madame,” an elderly gentleman said, bowing low to Mrs. Rowland. “Do you need a carriage to assist you?” And when he rose, they all gaped open-mouthed at Lord Gosforth. “I would recommend leaving with all due haste.” He glanced over his shoulder, back into the house, where Ilford’s rant could still be heard.
“My lord,” Mrs. Rowland said, curtsying with all the grace of a duchess. “How kind of you. That would be most helpful.”
The marquess nodded, then, with one wave of his hand, a carriage pulled up—a plain though well-appointed one. A servant jumped down from the back, despite his lack of the usual livery, the unadorned fellow looked like he had been hired because he didn’t mind a bit of trouble. He tipped his head to the ladies and had the door open before Tuck could even manage a protest.
Livy and his mother were handed up into the carriage, and the marquess closed the door.
But Gosforth didn’t get in. Instead, he gave quiet instructions to his driver, a nod to the fellow at the door, and returned to Tuck’s side as the carriage turned into the night.
As they watched the coach until it rounded the corner, the marquess said, “Miss Tempest will be taken home, and I assure you, not a word of her attendance tonight will be noticed or repeated.”
“Thank you, my lord,” was all Tuck could manage. He should have apologized to Livy. He should have said something. But he hadn’t known what to say.
His usually glib tongue and ready excuses had failed him the one time that he had truly needed them.
“I don’t suppose you have a carriage?” the marquess asked.
“No. I walked. I knew that if I brought my uncle’s rig, someone might put the two together.”
The marquess nodded his approval. “Perhaps you aren’t such a wastrel after all. Come along then, we’ll find a hackney and make our way to Boodles. I’ve lost my taste for White’s of late—as I suspect you have. Besides, I’d like to hear more about my remarkable granddaughter. Especially how it is you intend to win her back.”