thousand pounds.
With a gesture of disgust, Lady Luce faced the final, useless card. It was over. She had taken on the challenge and she had lost. She visibly straightened her back and waited for her adversary to speak.
He did not. He sat, as still as ever, staring at his winning card. Then, very slowly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth stretched into a taut, venomous smile. It made the hair on the back of Marina’s neck stand on end. There was something almost devilish in Kit Stratton’s expression.
He raised his head a fraction and stared at the Dowager, with that nasty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Marina was reminded of a cobra, its head rising before its victim as it prepared to strike. How could she ever have thought him handsome? Hatred and the lust for vengeance had put hideous lines into that remarkable face. She wanted to look away, but she could not. Opposite Mr Stratton, the Dowager was ashen. She seemed to have shrunk. She looked suddenly very old, and very frail.
Mr Stratton seemed to be waiting for Lady Luce to speak, to concede defeat. Yes, he would enjoy that. He wanted to humiliate her to the uttermost.
Lady Luce did not manage a smile, but she nodded casually towards her opponent as if nothing out of the way had occurred. Then she began to gather up the cards with deft, steady hands.
Marina’s own hands were nothing like as steady. She kept them hidden in her lap. She must do something.
Slowly, languidly, Kit Stratton rose from his seat. He was enjoying this. From his great height, he looked down on Lady Luce, still smiling nastily. After a moment more, he spoke in a soft, sibilant voice. The cobra again. ‘Success is mine on this occasion, I see,’ he said.
Lady Luce scribbled a vowel and pushed it across the table. She said nothing. Her self-control was unbelievable.
‘But I am in no hurry to collect what is due to me.’ Mr Stratton narrowed his eyes balefully and lowered his voice even more. ‘I shall look for settlement of this in, shall we say, seven days?’ He bowed from the neck, never taking his eyes off the Dowager. ‘I shall now bid you good evening, ma’am.’
Lady Luce said nothing. There was no need. The expression of loathing on her face was eloquent. Marina thought she could also detect a hint of fear.
Kit Stratton put the sheet of paper in his pocket and turned to leave. He had triumphed. Marina had fallen at the very first hurdle. The Earl would dismiss her forthwith. Her only chance of employment would be ruined, at a stroke, by this handsome, hateful man. Someone must stop him.
Almost without knowing it, Marina rose from her place and moved to put herself between Mr Stratton and the archway into the adjoining room. ‘Sir…’ she began, putting a hand on his arm to stay him. He turned sharply to look down at her. She had never seen eyes so cold, so hard. He was ruthless, implacable, and full of hate. Nothing would move such a man. ‘Sir,’ she began again, hardly knowing what she was going to ask of him, ‘will you not—?’
She was not permitted to finish her sentence. With a sneering curl of that beautiful mouth, Kit Stratton lifted her fingers and removed them from his coat, dropping them instantly as if they were diseased. ‘No, madame,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Whatever it is you would ask of me—’ he looked her slowly up and down ‘—the answer is no.’ He had a fine cambric handkerchief in his left hand—it seemed to have been conjured out of the very air—and, quite deliberately, he flicked it across his immaculate sleeve where Marina’s touch had sullied it.
Marina was outraged. How dare he?
One eyebrow quirked upwards by the tiniest fraction. He was pleased at her reaction. What a villain he was! Marina could not think of words harsh enough to describe such a man. He was—
He was gone.
And with him went all Marina’s hopes.
Chapter Five
Kit passed out through the silent onlookers who fell back to make way for him. There was awe on some of their faces. Probably none of them would have dared to take such risks.
Out on the landing, the drunk was long gone. The entrance hall below seemed to be deserted.
Kit walked slowly down the elegant staircase, his mind a blank. He could barely remember what he had done, except that he had had his revenge at last. He ought to feel elated, exhilarated, triumphant—but he did not. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He turned to watch Méchante’s luscious figure descend the stairs, swaying seductively. The silk of her gown was almost transparent, leaving little to the imagination. In recent years, Kit had come to prefer his women a little more restrained. Unlike Méchante, Kit’s current mistress did not peddle her wares to every man in sight. The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg offered herself only to him—and to her husband, of course. Kit could hardly object to that.
He waited for Méchante to join him, mentally comparing her with his delectable Katharina and finding his hostess a little wanting. Yes, he would go to Katharina. Losing himself in her body would give him back a measure of sanity after this night’s madness.
‘Must you go, Kit?’ Lady Marchant purred. ‘May we not drink a glass of champagne to your victory? And to old times? I have a fine vintage on ice in my private apartments.’ She gazed at him with wide green eyes and stretched up to whisper in his ear, pressing her body sensuously against his. ‘My guests can do without me for an hour or so.’
Kit’s body did not react at all to her blatant invitation. Bedding a beautiful woman was a pleasure as normal—and as fleeting—as winning a hand of cards. But Méchante left him cold. She had been his mistress once, five years ago, and she had betrayed him.
He lifted her hand to his lips so that she could not read the expression in his eyes. ‘No, my dear,’ he said silkily, ‘I never go back. And I never share.’
‘Be careful, my friend.’ Lady Marchant was not purring any longer. There was an edge of malice in her voice and her feline eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘Your Katharina takes too many risks. Her husband may not be quite so forgiving, now that you are no longer in Vienna. There, he was just another minor aristocrat. Here, he is a diplomatic representative of the Hapsburg Empire. A scandal would ruin him.’ She dropped a tiny, impudent curtsy. ‘And it could happen so very easily, do you not think?’
Clever. And still dangerous. She was well named. Kit looked her full in the face. Yes, they understood each other. ‘I thank you for your invitation, Méchante. And for your wise words.’ He bowed again and turned to take his hat and cane from the servant. ‘Now, I must bid you goodnight. A most interesting evening. I am indebted to you.’
Her brittle laugh followed him down the steps and into the crisp night air.
It was very late. Katharina would have tired of waiting for him. She would have gone back to her husband. She would have been mad to stay till now.
Kit closed the door quietly behind him and made his way up the stairs of the snug Chelsea house he had rented for their assignations. He would sleep here for a few hours. Tomorrow—later today, rather—he would find Katharina and apologise. She would forgive him…probably. And if she chose to exact a penance, well…that would be enjoyable, too.
He smelt her perfume even before he opened the door to their bedchamber. He breathed it in deeply, trying to conjure up memories of her body under his. Such a pity that she had gone.
‘Kätchen!’
The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg lay sprawled across the huge bed, idly leafing through a magazine. She turned in surprise at the sound of her pet name and, for a second, a tiny frown creased her brow. ‘Du kommst spät,’ she began, rolling over on to her back to look up at him with huge dark eyes full of hurt and accusation.
‘Auf Englisch, Kätchen,’ he said wearily. She had every right to complain of his lateness, but he was in no mood for one of her scenes. She need not have waited, after all. He returned to the charge. ‘You are in London now. Here, you must speak English.’