Paying the Virgin's Price (Regency Silk & Scandal #2)(58)

She remembered him, as he came to her last night. When he had said, 'I have not known gentleness...' She had given him that, and he had been glad of it. And she had taken it away again.

Suddenly, she was overcome with need of him, and the desire to be gentle for him and gentled by him. To stay together in the bed upstairs, and to sit before the fire together in the drawing room for as long as life would allow.

When the butler went to find her refreshment, she moved listlessly through the house, haunted by memories of her past. Mostly happy memories: of mother and of youthful innocence. But there were touches of her father, here and there. The chair he used to love was still in the parlour. Although it appeared that Nathan had favoured a different one, for the seat closest to the fire was not one she knew.

And here was the study. She took a deep breath, and then pushed open the door. For whoever had left his mark on this room, there were likely to be memories of a man she wished to forget.

The walls were the same dusty gold colour, and the desk and shelves were just as she remembered from her youth. But the contents of the shelves were different. Her father had favoured atlases, poring over them as though he wished to escape. But it appeared that Nathan Wardale had had his fill of travel. The maps had been replaced with local histories and books on art and drawing.

She turned to the desk, where she had learned the importance of picking simple locks while trying to find enough money to pay the bills. The surface was clear of papers and more orderly than she remembered it. Her father's old glass inkwell had been replaced with a heavy silver desk set. And here was the little locked drawer where Father had kept his purse and his memories of Mother. There had been letters, a miniature in a silver frame, and a lock of her hair, bound up by silk thread.

Without thinking, she pulled a pin from her hair and set about bending it to the shape of the desk key. Then she inserted it into the lock, and gave a jiggle and twist, feeling the mechanism turn, just as it always had.

What had she meant to do, she wondered, other than to prove that she could? There was no need to go through Nathan Wardale's desk, if he'd left his money in the bank for her. Perhaps it was the same curiosity that had led her to keep his note to Marc. Though she might claim that she wished no more from him, she still wanted to know the state of his mind.

The drawer was empty, except for a deck of playing cards. In that, he was not so different from her father after all. In the place where her father had hidden his most precious possessions, Nathan kept nothing but cards. She picked up the deck and stroked it, feeling sad for the man that had owned this house. Then she sat, shuffled and went to lay out a game of patience.

And stopped as she turned up the first card. Apparently, Nathan was something of an artist. He had transformed the cards, drawing little pictures around the pips. The clubs grew in flower gardens, dogs and cats played amongst the diamonds, the spades had been turned into fish.

And the hearts. Her breath caught in her throat. The hearts were her. She was sure of it. The likeness was not expert. But there she was, in her old bedroom, reading a book, with hearts floating around her like memories. And here on the five was the bonnet she had worn on her visits to Hyde Park, with hearts hidden amongst its flowers. On the ten, her hand was outstretched, to hold one of the hearts in her palm.

And as she looked at it, the conviction grew in her that it was his heart she held. If he'd said it to her face, she'd never have believed the words. But when he was alone in his study, with nothing to prove to anyone, what reason would he have to lie?

She cradled the card in her hand for a moment, and then gathered up the deck and thrust it back into the drawer, so that no one would see. It was a precious secret, and deserved to be kept safe. Then she ran out into the hall and called for the butler.

The man came hurrying to her side, probably fearing an emergency, for the tone she was taking. 'Miss Diana?'

'Benton. Where did he go? If I meant to find him...'

'That would not be wise, miss.'

'So few things I have done recently are. But I mean to do it, anyway. Please, tell me, Benton. Where is Nathan Wardale?'

'If he is not here, I expect he is where he always is, Miss Diana. He has returned to the gaming table.'





Chapter Eighteen





Nate stared down at the perfectly arranged cards in front of him, and the shocked expression on the man across the table. Then he gave his usual cold smile and said, 'Another hand?'

'One hand too many, I think.' His opponent gave a shaky laugh. 'I should know better, Nathan. You and your damned luck.' And then he smiled. 'Next week, perhaps?'

Nate smiled and nodded, gathering the stakes into a neat pile before him. 'Perhaps,' he said, relieved the game was over. The man in front of him knew when to push himself away from the table, and might return as a diversion. Or he might not. But he would not reappear with a driving need to avenge himself or with a score to settle. Would that there were more like him, for Nate could take tonight's winnings in good conscience.

As soon as the chair was empty, another man seated himself. Nate looked up to see the Gypsy, darkening the table again. He smirked. 'And who are we today, then? Hebden? Or Beshaley?'

'As you prefer.' The Gypsy gave a bare nod of acknowledgement.

'I prefer that you leave. Both of you. But if you must stay, then let us play for something that has value to you. I should like to see you suffer, when you lose it.'