her identity and, ignoring Neville’s desperate grimaces, she said, ‘Very well, then. I accept your challenge, sir.’
At that point, Mr Randall exited the box after mumbling an excuse. Olivia was pleased to see the back of him—she just wished Lord Hugo would also leave, with his unsettling gaze that seemed to penetrate deep inside her to winkle out her secrets.
‘What stakes shall we say?’
Olivia bit her lip. ‘I have no money with me with which to wager.’
‘No matter, my dear. Let us hope Lady Luck will smile upon you and, if she should not, I will happily accept your vowel, you know. Of course, if you fear to take the risk, we can play for a penny a point. I am sure one of your two cavaliers will be happy to cover any losses.’
Olivia—discovering in herself a sudden desire not to risk her money on a skill she suddenly doubted—thought a penny a point might be just the answer. Before she could accept Clevedon’s offer, however, Lord Hugo, his deep voice an amused drawl, said, ‘A penny a point? My dear Clevedon, you insult the lady.’
Olivia glared at him. The sight of that mocking smile fired her anger, egging her on, and she elevated her chin.
‘My thoughts exactly, sir. Why, a penny a point is hardly worth bothering with. What do you say to...to...?’ Frantically, she tried to decide what would be deemed a reasonable wager without her having to risk too much.
‘A guinea a point,’ Lord Hugo said, with a lift of his brow.
She held his gaze defiantly. ‘Perfect.’
‘Deal the hand, Clevedon,’ Lord Hugo drawled. ‘I have an extraordinary desire to see the outcome of this game before I take my leave.’
Light-headed from the effects of the punch and with the enormity of what she had agreed to, Olivia frowned as she forced her somewhat fuzzy attention on her hand. She won the first deal, but she was soon out of her depth. Clevedon played ruthlessly and Olivia was left reeling at the speed at which his points stacked up. Neville, his face grimmer by the second, shot her an encouraging smile.
‘I’ll go and find Alex.’
He stood and, none too steady on his feet, left the box. Olivia watched him go until he was absorbed into the crowd, then turned her attention to the remaining two men in the supper box and to the new hand dealt to her.
‘I... I think I would rather not play any more,’ she said, her stomach churning.
‘Such a shame you have suffered an unfortunate run of cards,’ Clevedon said, smiling. ‘But we cannot stop now—we are so close to the finish. One more deal should do it.’
Pride alone stopped her from refusing to finish the game. She lost as, deep down, she had known she would.
‘Never mind. Perhaps, if we play on, your luck might change, Beatrice, my dear.’
The breath left Olivia’s lungs in a whoosh. Beatrice. She had forgotten. She felt the blood drain from her face as she realised the dilemma she faced: she could not give Clevedon her vowel. She was here incognito. She could not risk this escapade becoming common knowledge—it would destroy her reputation and her father...
Sick dread pooled in her stomach. She would be in trouble, yes, but that was not the worst of it.
Oh, dear God. What have I done? Papa will blame Alex and then—
She thrust aside that frantic voice inside her head as Clevedon raised the pack of cards, his brows raised, waiting for her reply.
‘I...no. I do not care to play again, thank you.’ She sucked in a shaky breath and continued, ‘I will pay you your money by the end of next week, my lord, if you would be so good as to give me until then to settle my debt?’
‘But of course, my dear. Just give me your vowel and then I shall call upon you—shall we say next Saturday evening—and you can repay me. I shall, of course, need your address.’
Panic threatened to overcome her, squeezing her lungs until she could barely breathe. ‘I... I... I cannot give you my vowel, sir. But I give you my word that you will be paid on time.’
Clevedon’s smile was sympathetic, but there was a hard edge to it now. And how could she blame him? He had no idea of her identity. Why should he trust her? She scanned the people thronging the square.
Oh, where is Alex? Or Neville? Why have they not returned?
‘I am sorry, my dear, but...a debt of honour, you know. And an unknown adversary. I am afraid that I must insist on a signed vowel or—perhaps—payment of a different kind?’
Her throat constricted. Her gaze flew without volition to Lord Hugo, but he was staring out across the square, seemingly taking no notice of their conversation.
‘D-different kind? I do not understand.’
Clevedon proffered his hand and, as if in a dream, she took it and rose to her feet.
‘Come walk with me, Beatrice. A kiss. Or two. That is all I ask. There are private nooks aplenty in the Dark Walks.’
His eyes lowered to her décolletage. She snatched her hand from his and pulled her domino tightly across her chest, her hand at her throat.
‘I...no. I should rather not. Thank you, sir.’
‘Your address, then? Or how shall I know where to apply for my winnings?’
Beneath her fingers was the hard outline of Mama’s necklace. In a panic, she slid her hands inside her hood and reached behind to unclasp the necklace. She tugged it free and almost flung it on the table.
‘There. You may take that as my promise to pay my debt. And, when I do, you must return my necklace.’
A low whistle reached her ears. Lord Hugo’s eyes had widened at the sight of the necklace. Belatedly, Olivia recalled she could have offered the bracelet or even the eardrops—either would have covered the amount she owed and both were worth far less than the necklace.
And Papa is far more likely to notice the necklace is missing than he would the others.
But it was too late to change her offer now for Clevedon had already pocketed the necklace, saying, ‘A pledge? Hmmm... I should have preferred a kiss, but very well. I accept your pledge. I shall still require your address, however.’
‘No! Why?’
His brows rose. ‘No? But how, my dear, are you to pay my winnings and how am I to return your necklace? Unless...but of course. You may call upon me at my house in Dover Street. If you wear your domino, then it is unlikely you will be recognised. Shall we say, Saturday evening at seven o’clock? Bring the money—and your delightful self for dinner—and I shall return the necklace.’
‘Dinner? No. I could not possibly—our agreement was for me to pay my debt, nothing more.’
‘There is the little matter of interest payable, my dear. I shall hold the necklace for you until Saturday, but should you fail me I shall have no choice but to sell it to defray expenses. You do understand, I trust? Don’t be late.’
She could stay there no longer. Sick at heart, she fled the box, stumbling a little in her haste, and plunged into the dense mass of people thronging the square, desperately searching for Alex or Neville.
* * *
Lord Hugo Alastair watched the mysterious Beatrice vanish among the crush of people, who were growing rowdier by the minute, and he hoped she would quickly find safety with Beauchamp or Wolfe—he’d wager she was younger than she’d tried to appear, but she was without doubt a lady. He bit back a cynical smile—yet another young wife, unrecognisable in her hooded domino and lace-edged mask, out with her lover, proving yet again that matrimony was for fools. Hugo had had his fair share of disenchanted wives on his arm in the past. Although—now he considered it—neither Beauchamp