LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

death in the icy water. Marc had cautioned her to be on her guard and watch the girls closely, in case he had been wrong. If the man lived, he might return to bother them.

      She bit her lip. If only there were some way to draw Mr Dale back and ask him if this information was recent or some time in coming. It was possible that he’d met the Gypsy before his demise on the ice some weeks ago. Marc had warned her before he’d left to be on guard against all strangers, particularly one with dark hair and skin. She was to summon him immediately if anything or anyone unusual appeared.

      This morning’s visit had certainly been unusual. But Nathan Dale was not dark, nor was he threatening. He had been trying to help, and had brought a scrap of information that was already known to the family. If a specific threat had been imminent, surely he would have said more, or seemed more worried. And he had been smiling just now. How serious could the situation be?

      She would adopt a wait-and-see attitude, doing just as Marc had asked. She would watch the girls more closely than usual. And if Mr Dale returned, she would try to find a way to draw him out and gain more information—without revealing that she had opened his note.

      On thinking of it, she very much hoped Mr Dale would return. She suspected he was a most interesting gentleman and it intrigued her to know more about him. It was as though hard weather had rubbed away at a softer, less substantial person, until the core of vitality could shine through to the surface. There was an air of confidence about him, as though he had already seen and survived hardship and knew better than to be rattled by anything less than the gravest circumstances.

      Perhaps he had already dealt with the Gypsy’s threat and was only tying up the loose ends of the contact, making sure that the man could do no damage elsewhere. If she needed his help during Marc’s absence, there might be some way…

      Of course not. She reminded herself firmly of her first suspicions regarding the man: that he might be a suitor of Honoria or Verity. If he was a friend of Marc’s and sought the company of any of the women in the house, there was no reason to think that he would seek the friendship of their companion nor that he wished to be bothered with her concerns over the girls.

      It was just that she had found the sight of him to be rather dashing, and now she was spinning fancies that they would have more time to talk.

      She glanced down at the note, and Nathan written at the bottom. And she shivered. It was good that she had conversed with the man before seeing it, for past experience had taught her to dread that name, and all who carried it. If she had known he was a Nathan, she might have let an unreasonable prejudice colour her opinions of him. And then she would have been deprived of that marvellous smile. She smiled back, even though he was not there to see it.

      Verity looked up as she entered the dressing room. ‘Who was it?’

      Diana tucked the note into the pocket of her dress. ‘It was the most extraordinary man.’ Without meaning to, she gave a little sigh of pleasure. She had nothing to fear from this Nathan. He looked nothing like the man her father had warned her of, ten years ago. Mr Dale was not cold, or emotionless or the least bit cruel. Her spontaneous attraction to him came from the openness of his countenance, his easy nature and his selfless concern for others. He had a robust physique and the healthy colouring of a man who enjoyed nature, not the stooped frame, pinched face and anaemic pallor of a habitual gambler.

      In short, he was the diametric opposite of Nathan Wardale.

      Chapter Three

      Nate hurried out of the Carlow town house and down the street, feeling the cold sweat beading on his brow. Of all the people, in all the places, why had he been greeted by Diana Price? He had been nervous enough, going to the house at all. But once he had arrived on Albemarle Street, the feelings of his youth returned. As a boy, he had run across the chequered floor of the front hall, chasing and being chased, laughing and playing. It had been as a second home to him. And to feel that moment of pleasure, as the young woman had entered the room. The Carlow daughters grown to beauty? But no. A stranger. A very attractive stranger. Delight, curiosity, an awakening of old feelings in him, long suppressed.

      She was a lovely thing, with shining dark hair, and a small pursed mouth, ready to be kissed. Her large brown eyes were intelligent, but full of an innocence he never saw in the female denizens of the Fourth Circle.

      She had looked at him without judgment or expectation, and a hint of responding interest that proved she was not wife to Marcus or Hal. Nate had felt quite like the man he once hoped to be. For a few moments, he was an ordinary gentleman meeting a pretty girl in a nice parlour, with none of the stink of the gaming hell on his clothes or in his mind.

      And then he had discovered her identity, and it had all come crashing down. Thank God he had not decided to use his true name, for if she’d realized…

      He hailed a cab in Piccadilly to Covent Garden and Suffolk Street, to the low haunts inhabited by Nate Dale the gambler. If the man he sought was anywhere, he would be here, waiting in the spot that he’d last been seen.

      Nate went from the dim street, into the dim tavern connected by a tunnel to the Fourth Circle. ‘Mr Dale, returning so soon? And in daylight.’ Dante Jones saw him less as a friend than as a way to bring more people to the tables. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’

      ‘Mr Jones,’ he responded, with barely a nod, resenting the grimy way he felt when the man looked at him as though he was nothing more than a meal ticket. ‘Where is the damned Gypsy?’

      ‘The man who you beat last night? In the same spot as when you left him. And I am glad to have him, for his play draws quite a crowd. He is very nearly as lucky as you.’

      ‘Not any more.’ Nate stalked past Dante and into the gaming room to find Stephano Beshaley, or whoever he chose to be called today, seated in Nate’s regular chair, as though he owned it. He seemed impervious to the action around him, nursing his drink, long slender legs outstretched, as though he had been waiting for Nate’s return.

      Nate pulled the silk rope from his pocket, and threw it down on the table in front of the Gypsy. ‘Take it back.’

      Stephano only smiled and sipped his drink. ‘Once it is given, there is no returning it.’

      ‘Take it back. You have had your fun.’

      ‘Fun?’ Nate’s former friend greeted this with a bitter twist of his mouth and an arched eye-brow. ‘Is that what you think this is for me?’

      ‘I think you take pleasure in tormenting me. But you have done enough.’

      And there was the ironic smile again. ‘You have changed much, in a few short hours. Last night, you said that there was nothing left to hurt you.’

      ‘And I was wrong. I freely admit it. You have found the one thing.’

      Beshaley laughed. ‘I? I found nothing. But apparently you have. And I wish you to get what you deserve from it.’

      ‘You knew where I would go, when you returned. And you knew that Diana Price would be there, waiting for me.’

      ‘Who?’The Gypsy seemed honestly puzzled.

      Nate reached into his pocket, and removed the tattered piece of paper that he had carried with him for ten years, like Coleridge’s albatross. He set it on the table before his old friend, who read aloud.

       Should I lose the next hand, I pledge in payment my last thing of value. The maidenhead of my daughter, Diana. Edgar Price June 3rd 1804

      Beshaley sneered back at him. ‘Just for a moment yesterday, I almost believed you. If you are innocent of any crime, then to carry vengeance to the second generation is to damn myself. But a man who would take such a thing in trade for a gambling debt deserves to suffer all that fate wishes to bring him.’

      Nate glanced around, afraid that the people nearby might hear what he had done in that moment of madness. ‘I was young. And foolish. And in my cups. Edgar Price was my first big score, and I was

Скачать книгу