A Regency Christmas Pact Collection Page 10

  Hélène grinned. She loved becoming someone different and trying on different characters as they fit her need. “I don’t know how late I will be.”

  “I’ll still wait up.”

  “Just don’t worry.” Hélène picked up the voucher she had swiped from Acker’s trash and pocketed it so she could gain entrance to Dagger’s Haven, and prepared to play the most important role of her life.

  Stanwick’s chest filled with pride as he glanced around his gaming hell. Most of the tables were full with gentlemen betting, and losing more often than not. There were many hells throughout London, but he knew his was the best. For one, cheaters were dealt with quickly and swiftly. Nor did he employ the tactic himself because the odds were always with Dagger’s in any given game.

  He glanced over to a young man entering who was new to Dagger’s. Stanwick may not personally know everyone he sent a voucher to, but he knew what they looked like. He did not recognize this gentleman and wandered over to his employee accepting the vouchers.

  The gentleman stood slightly shorter than most men, but the clothing was of a fine cut and well-tailored. The dark hair had been clipped to where it barely brushed his collar, and his sideburns were neatly trimmed. He had an air of wealth about him.

  “Where did you come by your voucher?”

  The man cleared his throat. “Lord Acker.”

  Stanwick narrowed his eyes. Did the man have a French accent? “How do you know Acker?”

  “He married my sister.”

  Ah, that explained the man and the accent. Acker had married the ballerina, Juliette Mirabelle. She was raised in France and later moved to Milan before coming to England with her family. Stanwick knew little else about her and nothing of her family. If Acker had given the voucher to the young man, he was welcome to join in the gaming.

  “Your name?”

  “Henri Mirabelle.”

  “Welcome to Dagger’s Haven.” He stepped back and let the young man pass.

  After several hours in Dagger’s Haven the pressure was building for Hélène. When she played the role of a man on stage, she also knew the production by heart, knew where she had a line and what actions she needed to take. This evening was unscripted, and she had to constantly remind herself to act the part of a gentleman. As much as she wished to cross her feet at her ankles, she kept them planted the floor. When lifting a glass of brandy, she used a firm grip and tried to drink and not sip. It was because she had to remember so many things she had only taken three drinks throughout the night, and only then because she was parched. She could not afford to lose her head or she might make a mistake. Besides, only a fool drank and gambled at the same time.

  Smoke hung heavy in the room, and her eyes often watered. How could gentlemen spend so many hours in such a place and not feel as if their lungs were about to explode while their noses burned and eyes watered? Gentlemen, as a whole, were a strange lot. She didn’t understand their humor, and a few had cast her a strange look when she hadn’t laughed with everyone else. She wasn’t going to pretend she understood, so she simply concentrated on her cards.

  Still, Hélène couldn’t believe her luck. So far, she was winning and had already tripled her original twenty pounds. She now had enough for her and Genviève to travel back to Milan and live and it was best to bring this evening to an end.

  Hélène began to rise from her seat when a hand settled on her shoulder. “You aren’t leaving so soon?”

  She glanced up at a man of approximately forty with sandy brown hair. The room wasn’t as full as it had been earlier, and many gentlemen were leaving. How long had she been here? “It grows late.”

  “You’ve had amazing luck. Let me join you and see if some of it doesn’t flow my way.” He took the empty chair beside her, and Hélène was at a loss as to what to do. She really should leave, but what explanation could she give? She didn’t dare talk much for fear of giving herself away, so she resumed her seat and hoped she could escape within the hour.

  The dealer shuffled the deck, and another gentleman sat in the chair on the opposite side of her. She gave a quick glance at the man of approximately thirty with dark hair and glanced back down at her cards. Hopefully this game would go quickly and she could leave the establishment.

  Stanwick had been watching the gaming throughout his club. It was nearing two in the morning and almost everyone had left except for Carrington, Mirabelle, and Thorn. The deck was being shuffled, and the next game of Vingt-et-un would begin shortly.

  There was something odd about Mirabelle, but Stanwick couldn’t place what was bothersome. The Frenchman didn’t speak much, nor did he drink. The same glass of brandy had been with him the entire night and looked as if barely any had been drunk, whereas many of the other patrons had drank and played until they were deep in their cups. Mirabelle was a smart player. He didn’t speak to those around him and only concentrated on his cards. He’d only lost a few times, and Stanwick wasn’t so sure he wanted the young man gambling here often. Such a person could put a dent in his profit.

  Stanwick sauntered over to the table and took a seat.

  “Did you wish to play?” the dealer asked.

  “No.” Stanwick shook his head. “I simply wish to watch.” A footman placed a glass of brandy before him, and Stanwick settled back. The deck currently being shuffled was beginning to show some wear. Is that why Mirabelle had been successful? Was there something that tipped him off to what the cards were? Nobody he knew won at Vingt-et-un with such consistency. Stanwick took the deck from the dealer and produced one that had not yet been used. Mirabelle didn’t even blink.

  Play began, and Mirabelle lost the first two hands.

  Maybe there had been something in the old deck that was tipping him off.

  However, four hands into the game, Mirabelle began to win again. How was that possible? Carrington was beginning to lose everything he had gained, and Thorn remained steady, not winning or losing a great amount on each hand.

  A footman refilled Carrington’s brandy. Perhaps that was the answer. The man had been drinking steadily since his arrival, whereas Mirabelle had not.

  Stanwick narrowed his eyes, no longer paying attention to Carrington or Thorn, but the young Frenchman. Mirabelle watched his cards, would glance to what was revealed in front of the other players and then the dealers. Over and over, his concentration was so intense.

  Bloody hell, Mirabelle was counting cards.

  Many men had tried in the past but were usually unsuccessful. It was near impossible to remember every card that was played and calculate the odds of what would be turned up next or what was being held by the other players at the table, yet somehow Mirabelle had perfected the practice. Though it wasn’t cheating to be able to remember, it still did not sit well with Stanwick. After tonight, the young gentleman would not be allowed back in his club.

  Hélène sighed when the last card was dealt. Even if the remaining two gentlemen wished to play, she would not. She must get home. She still needed to return to Juliette’s house, change her clothing, and return to Acker’s before the morning was too far gone. Besides, she had already won far more than she needed and, if her calculations were correct, she’d be leaving with one hundred pounds.

  The older gentleman clapped her on the back in congratulations. It was all Hélène could do to hold her seat and not fall forward. Why weren’t gentlemen’s backs bruised from such manly affection?

  She rose to find the younger gentlemen at her side. “Congratulations.” Stanwick, the owner of this establishment, approached. “Might I have a word with you, Mr. Mirabelle?”

  Hélène blew out a silent sigh.

  Stanwick stared at her, feet planted apart, fists anchored at his hips. He jerked his head towards the hall. “In my office.” He turned, and Hélène followed him down a dim hall, leaving the other two gentlemen at the table. Hélène glanced out the window. It was still dark, but she had lost all track of time. How late was it, anyway? Had she been here all night? H
opefully, Mr. Stanwick would make this quick.

  Stanwick closed the door and moved to the other side of the desk. Hélène remained standing, anticipating leaving with the fortune. Stanwick’s dark eyes narrowed and studied her. Surely he hadn’t seen through her disguise. Hélène was confident she played the part of a gentleman perfectly this evening and never once made a mistake.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Stanwick didn’t even appear tired. All she wished to do was crawl into bed. The night had been exhausting, and she was ready to be rid of her disguise.

  His dark evening wear was without a wrinkle, his cravat knotted neatly, as if it had been tied just a short time ago instead of hours. Not even a hair of his black as midnight hair was out of place. Yet his jaw was tight. Though clean-shaven earlier in the evening, there was masculine, dark stubble shadowing his chin. Why did he seem angry?

  “I don’t allow cheaters in my club.”

  She straightened. “I did not cheat.”

  “It is not honorable to count cards.”

  She had no intention of ever coming back here, but his insult was too much. “Everyone counts cards,” she said. “How else can you determine if you’ve reached a number between two and twenty-one?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That is not what I meant. You counted and remembered each card played.”

  “All gentlemen do the same, I can assure you.” They did, didn’t they? “How else does one calculate the odds?” She needed to not say as much. The longer she spoke, the harder it was to hold her tone low. She could just pray her French accent disguised any feminine tones.

  Stanwick’s nostrils flared with his breath. “Many have tried, but none with the success you showed tonight.”

  Hélène bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling at the compliment. He was angry enough already. Perhaps Stanwick simply didn’t like to lose. Yet he hadn’t lost tonight. He made a blooming fortune. She had glanced at the play taking place at the other tables. Time and time again, gentlemen miscalculated and lost the money they came here with. While he may have lost to her, Dagger’s Haven made a nice profit this evening.

  “I don’t know how you managed to do it, and I still find it impossible that you could count and calculate so quickly.” He leaned forward. “When I determine how you cheated, I will be asking for your winnings back.”

  Hélène’s mouth popped open and she gasped. He couldn’t take her winnings. She needed those funds to return to Milan. “I do not appreciate my honor being called into question.” She huffed, sticking out her chest and raising her chin. Then remembering that she had breasts, even though they were currently bound, Hélène quickly relaxed before he saw through her disguise.

  Stanwick simply lifted an eyebrow and looked down at her. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, which incensed her further. How dare he accuse her of cheating and then find humor in her indignation? She wanted to slap the smirk off his face. Hélène glanced about the room trying to think of a way to extract herself from this situation with her pride intact, as well as the winnings.

  What would any normal gentleman do in this circumstance, where honor was at stake?

  Then she spied the case of weapons. That was it. “Swords.”

  Stanwick straightened as his eyes widened for a moment. In a snap, his condescending attitude was gone. “Pardon?”

  Hélène lifted her chin a notch. “You’ve called my honor into question.”

  A chuckle emerged, and Stanwick openly smiled. “You wish to challenge me?”

  “Yes,” she announced and she would happily slice the arrogance out of him. She had heard pistols were the thing when issuing a challenge, but Hélène had never shot a gun and didn’t wish to have a bullet put in her. However, she knew how to fence and was quite confident she could beat him, despite Stanwick having a longer reach.

  “Have you ever fought a duel before?” His eyes had lightened to a warm brown and filled with humor.

  She planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I didn’t think so.” He sat into the chair behind his desk. “First, the person being challenged, which is me, chooses the weapons.”

  Hélène swallowed. She didn’t know of this rule. Though it was always scripted as such, she never thought there was actual protocol.

  “Have your second contact mine, and the time and weapons will be decided upon.”

  She couldn’t afford to wait. The longer it took, and the more people who were involved, the more likely Acker would learn of what happened tonight. Or worse, her half-brothers could find out, and that would never do. “Are you afraid to face me now?”

  He glowered at her. Apparently Stanwick didn’t like being called a coward. “I will face you now or in a week. The reason for a time delay is to see if cooler heads prevail.”

  Hélène mulled over what he said but waiting wasn’t something she could afford to do at the moment. “I will not change my mind. So unless you choose to apologize, I see no reason why we don’t get it over with.”

  Stanwick placed both hands on his desk and pressed down as he rose, studying her. Hélène fought to keep her spine rigid and her chin out. She would not cower before him.

  There was no longer even a hint of humor in his eyes. She began to suspect she may have just baited a lion.

  Stanwick couldn’t believe the audacity of the pup standing before him. There was something off about Mirabelle, but he couldn’t place it. He was young, for one thing. Though he had nicely trimmed sideburns, there wasn’t even the hint of stubble on his chin. Stanwick knew some gentlemen who couldn’t grow a beard even if they failed to shave for a month. The lack of stubble on Mirabelle’s cheeks shouldn’t concern him

  No, there was something else, and in time he would figure it out, but at the moment, he needed to teach Mirabelle a lesson he would never forget. “Very well.” He sauntered past him and opened the case holding his various weapons and withdrew two rapiers. “Come with me.” He turned, exited the office, and marched down the corridor and into the main room. Servants were cleaning off table and carrying away used glasses. Thorn and Carrington still remained in conversation.

  At least they would have their seconds.

  The two gentlemen glanced up when Stanwick entered. Thorn looked from Stanwick to Mirabelle, then the rapiers. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and Stanwick completely agreed with him.

  “Mirabelle feels I’ve insulted his honor in questioning his skills at the gaming tables this evening.”

  Carrington straightened. “He cheated?”

  “No,” Mirabelle answered.

  “He’s a card-sharper.”

  Carrington turned to Mirabelle. “Is this true?”

  “No,” he ground out. “I played with skill.”

  “Mirabelle doesn’t wish to wait for a dawn appointment, and as you two are still here, you will serve as our seconds.”

  Thorn pulled Mirabelle to the side. “You should rethink this decision.” His eyes bored into Mirabelle’s. At least he was trying to talk sense into the pup. “Sleep on it before something disastrous occurs.”

  “I can’t wait, nor do I wish to,” Mirabelle argued.

  Thorn blew out a breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. He glanced at Stanwick and then back at Mirabelle. “And if you are hurt, or die, how will that be explained?”

  Mirabelle had the audacity to grunt. “It isn’t I who will suffer.” The pup smirked.

  That young man needed to be taught a lesson more than Stanwick originally realized.

  “Let’s get this done, and we will be on our way.” Mirabelle turned and walked back toward Stanwick.

  “Thorn,” Stanwick nodded to the younger, dark-headed man standing next to Mirabelle, “you will act as Mirabelle’s second. Carrington shall stand as mine.””

  “Very well,” Thorn said before he took Carrington across the room to discuss the rules. Stanwick remained in his spot and glared at Mirabelle. Perhaps once the young man had a scar to remind h
im of this evening, he might not be so quick to issue a challenge again, and be very careful where he gambled and with whom.

  Most men had more defined features, as well as the ability to grow facial hair before they participated in their first duel. Mirabelle couldn’t be above nineteen, or maybe younger. His face was still youthful and somewhat feminine. If he’d been born female, he would be considered rather pretty.

  Was he really going to duel with this boy? “How old are you?”

  That damn chin went up again. “Two-and-twenty.”

  Impossible!

  Thorn and Carrington returned. “We will hold the contest here,” Carrington announced.

  Stanwick raised his eyebrows. This was unexpected.

  “It is too dark to be outside, and the ground in Green Park or Hampstead Heath will be wet with dew and offer an unnecessary danger,” Thorn added.

  He had not considered the deterrent. The last thing he or Mirabelle needed was to slip on wet grass in the dark and skewer someone, or themselves. Besides, it wouldn’t be light for a few more hours, and Stanwick wanted this done so he could find his own bed.

  “It will be fought to first blood, not death.”

  Mirabelle blew out a sigh. Perhaps the young man had been rethinking his position and had begun to fear death.

  He turned to his servants. “Clear the tables and chairs from the room.”

  They hurried to do as he bid. Stanwick didn’t need to tell them that what happened here tonight would not be repeated outside this room. They had held many confidences over the years, and one slip of the tongue would leave them without a job.

  Stanwick handed the rapiers to Carrington. He and Thorn inspected the blades and compared the swords. They were identical, but he wanted them to be assured the two were exactly alike in grip, weight, and strength. He shrugged out of his coat and glanced at Mirabelle’s hands. They were smaller than his. The grip was always comfortable for him but it might not be for Mirabelle, but that was not Stanwick’s concern.