Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(68)
Once, Ned had been as oblivious as these men. He had been so desperate to drown his past in spirits that he had tried to wager away his future on the deal of a card. Thank God he had stopped.
Lord Ellison—a onetime friend of his—crowed in triumph as he laid his final card. “I win!” he gloated. The others murmured congratulations. Another man shook his head in disgust—and then stopped, seeing Ned. He peered at him through eyes made bleary with spirits.
“Carhart?” Alfred Dennis asked slowly. “Is that you? I heard you had returned.” He blinked a few times, as if trying to make sense of Ned’s appearance. One rusty mental process must not have been entirely dissolved in alcohol, because he brightened. “I say, are you joining us?”
He reached for a chair and made an attempt to pull it up to the table.
“Come on, Carhart!” Ellison said. “It’s been ages since we last had a good time together. You’re feeling up for a little wager, aren’t you?”
Neither seemed to have the tiniest inkling that they might have done something wrong. Another reason Ned couldn’t duel them: It would be like slaying pond slime. Algae never understood when it gave offense.
Ned straddled the chair. “Actually,” he said, “I’m here to collect on a wager.”
“Which one?” Ellison asked. “Dennis—no, Port-Morton, you can still stand. Fetch the book.”
One of the men from the back began to heave to his feet on wavering legs.
“No need,” Ned said. “This wager is quite famous.” Ned set the fabric he’d been carrying on the table. It was a fine specimen of work—roses embroidered on pink silk with satin ties.
“Carhart,” Dennis said, “is that a garter you laid on the table?”
The five men stared at him, lips pursed together in identical expressions of dismay. No, not identical; they turned different colors, ranging from a pale green—that was Port-Morton—to Ellison’s bright red.
“That’s the wager,” Ned said equably. “Any man who seduces Lady Kathleen Carhart and delivers an undergarment as proof collects five thousand pounds.”
Dennis stared at the embroidered cloth. He stared at it for ten full seconds, in dull incomprehension. Finally, he looked up, his eyebrows a mass of confusion. “Carhart,” the man finally said, “you can’t seduce your own wife.”
Ned raised one eyebrow. “Oh? I’m dreadfully sorry to hear that, Dennis. How difficult that must be for you. I would say it was not very hard…but then, given your admission, perhaps that’s the problem, eh?” Ned shrugged apologetically. “You might be doing it wrong. There are physicians who can help with that, you realize.”
Even pond scum recognized when its masculinity was challenged. In fact, it was probably the only thing pond scum recognized. Dennis flushed and shook his head. “I have no notion what you’re talking about. No need for physicians here.” The man hunched, though, as if to protect his groin. “I suppose a man could seduce anyone’s wife. Including his own. All I meant was, it’s no fun if you do it.”
“No fun?” Ned shook his head ruefully. “You are definitely doing it wrong.”
Catcalls rose up at that, and Dennis turned an even brighter red.
“You don’t need five thousand pounds, Carhart,” Port-Morton put in. “What are you going to do with it, anyway?”
Ned shrugged. “I don’t know. Likely I’ll buy my wife something pretty.”
“Jewels?” Ellison asked. “As if she were a mistress? Good God, Carhart. What a waste. What a phenomenal waste.”
“Ellison,” Ned said, “I hate to repeat myself—but you are probably doing it wrong, too. And that, gentlemen, is why you all lost. And why, after three years away, I still won. Close the book on this one. The wager’s over and done.”
They stared up at him still, their eyes wide and unbelieving.
Ned let the smile on his face widen, and he leaned in. “Close the books, or next time it will cost you all a great deal more than money.”
Ellison shook his head, stupid to the end, and gestured next to him. “At least play a hand, give us a chance to win it back.”
Ned shook his head. “I have my wife to get home to.”
LONDON HAD BEEN a dizzying mixture of good and bad and confusing for Kate. The gossip about she and her husband had run high the first few days they had arrived, in no small part due to some stunt Ned had pulled at a gaming hell. But the discussion had been romantic—and it had served only to carry tales of how they spent their time to Harcroft’s ears. And oh, how those tales must have confused him. All of society was talking about how the couple had inquired into passage to France, particularly departing from Dover. Mr. Carhart had then shown a less than subtle interest in minute happenings in Ipswich.
There had been a hundred misdirections.
After the third day of it, Kate’s head pounded. After the fourth day, her entire body ached. Today, a week after they had begun their campaign of confusion, she had seen Harcroft for the first time. He had been in attendance at a party last evening. He’d seen Kate—and had glowered at her across the crowded room before turning away with a smirk.
Smirks, of course, were Harcroft’s peculiar speciality. If self-satisfied expressions had been coins, Harcroft would have generated enough currency to personally sustain the commerce of the entirety of the kingdom of Sardinia. One more shouldn’t have mattered. But this one had got under Kate’s skin. It stayed there, after she and Ned had left the glittering lights of the party behind them. She felt that unease even more now, the back-and-forth swaying of the carriage buffeting her to the point of nausea.