Sara began to laugh. “I think they just want to believe there is a Mathilda somewhere.”
Before going to their box seats, they drifted apart to exchange social pleasantries with the multitude of acquaintances who swarmed around them. Husbands who were assured that Derek was no longer crawling into their wives’ beds had begun to treat him with cautious pleasantness. People Sara barely knew or had never met took special care to fawn over her. Her hands were repeatedly decorated with kisses from dandies and smooth-voiced foreigners, while she was overwhelmed with praises for her hair, her gown, her charm. For the most part they were respectful ... except for one insolent knave whose voice was all too familiar.
“Damn my sparklers if it ain’t Mathilda!”
Sara turned warily to confront Ivo Jenner’s cheeky grin. “Mr. Jenner,” she said, acknowledging him with a polite nod.
His sly gaze roved over her. “Fancy little warming pan, you are. Crawen’s a lucky bastard to ‘ave you in his bed ewery night. ‘E doesn’t deserve such a fine splice as you.”
“Mr. Craven is an exemplary husband,” she murmured, trying to edge away from him.
“Fine-feathered gentleman, your ‘usband,” Jenner scoffed. “Tell ‘im ‘e’s nofing but an apple-polishing cockney bastard—”
“If you don’t leave right now,” Sara interrupted, “you’ll have a chance to tell him yourself.”
Jenner followed her gaze, his insolent smile broadening as he saw Derek shouldering his way toward them. By the time he reached them, Jenner had melted into the crowd.
Derek seized Sara’s arm. “What did he say to you?”
She blinked in wary surprise at his rough tone. “Nothing of any import.”
“Tell me.”
“It was nothing,” she said, wincing in pain. She twisted her arm free. “Derek .. . please, don’t make a scene.”
He seemed not to hear her. His gaze was riveted on Jenner’s retreating figure. “I’ll teach that weedy bastard to lay a blasted finger on what’s mine,” he growled.
Sara’s lips tightened in annoyance. He was behaving like a mongrel fighting over a bone. She knew why Jenner always angered him so easily—
Jenner’s swaggering cockiness reminded Derek of his own past. “I’m not your property,” she said.
Although Sara’s voice was as gentle as always, there was a cool note in it that raised Derek’s hackles. He looked at her sharply. She had never spoken to him that way before. He didn’t like it. “The hell you’re not,” he said gruffly, daring her to argue.
She kept her gaze averted from his. “I would like to go to our seats now.”
For the rest of the evening Derek was infuriated by the reserve in her manner. She virtually ignored him, all her attention focused on the play. It was clear he had displeased her. Sara’s withdrawn manner was worse punishment than any argument could have been. He steeled himself to be just as cool to her. If she was expecting to wring an apology from him, she could wait until the devil went blind. She was his—he had a perfect right to defend her against the advances of scum like Ivo Jenner!
After they returned home and retired for the evening, they kept to their own sides of the bed. It was the first night of their marriage that they didn’t make love. Derek was miserably conscious of her soft body so close by, his own acute desire for her, and, even worse, his need for her affection. In the morning he was vastly relieved when Sara awoke in her usual good humor, the previous night apparently forgotten.
Derek lounged in the bathing tub while she perched on a nearby chair and read the daily paper to him. The Times carried detailed descriptions of Sara’s ivory gown and the five-carat blue diamond on her finger, the Cravens’ reported opinions of the play, and speculation on whether Derek was truly a “reformed rake.” “There’s not a word of truth in any of it,” Derek said. “Except the part where they said you were resplendent.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” Sara set down the paper and reached over to toy with one of the large soapy feet propped on the porcelain rim of the tub. She wriggled his big toe playfully. “What about the part that says you’re reformed?”
“I’m not. I still do everything I used to do ... except now only with you.”
“And quite impressively,” she replied, her tone demure.
He liked that, she could see. His green eyes gleamed, and he drew his foot down into the bath. “The water’s still hot,” he said, making inviting swirls with his hands.
Sara smiled and shook her head. “No.”
He slid lower into the water, watching her steadily. “I need help with my bath. There’s a spot I can’t reach.”
“Where?”
“Come in here and I’ll show you.”
Unable to resist his roguish appeal, Sara relented. Standing up from the chair, she dropped her robe and night rail to the wet tiles and blushed under his interested gaze. Carefully she stepped into the tub. Derek reached up to help her and lowered her gently into the warm water. She shivered at the feel of him beneath her, slippery and strong, his muscled arms and legs wrapping around her. His black hair gleamed like the pelt of a wet seal.
“Where is the soap?” she asked, brushing a clot of foam away from his jaw.
“I dropped it.” he said regretfully, and drew her hand down into the cloudy water. “You’ll have to find it.”
She giggled and splashed him. Puddles of water collected on the floor of the bathing room as they played. Linking her dripping arms around his neck, she pressed a wet kiss to his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t find the soap,” she whispered, her body drifting buoyantly against his.
“Keep looking,” he encouraged throatily, and sought her mouth for another kiss.
In his private moments Derek acknowledged to himself that all Lily Raiford had ever claimed about marriage was true. The sheer convenience of it was stunning. His wife was always close at hand, her small presence gracing his home, her hand on his arm when they appeared in public, the lingering scent of her perfume haunting him sweetly when they were apart. He knew it would be impossible ever to tire of her, for she was as vital to him as the very air he breathed. And yet he felt himself to be an imposter with every husbandly kiss he placed on her forehead. It was as if he had been given a handsome suit of clothes that didn’t quite fit. He found himself studying Sara intently, waiting for the clues that he had made mistakes. He wasn’t fool enough to think he was behaving the way most husbands did—whatever that was. But she gave him precious little guidance, and he was left to walk blindly along a steep and unfamiliar path.
Frequently Derek felt a deep sense of unease, as if some invisible, monumental debt were being accumulated in his name. There was also the occasional bite of resentment when he realized she had become the source of all pleasure to him, all comfort and peace. She was the first human being he had ever needed. He had lost his freedom in a way he had never imagined possible, bound more securely by her love than by a mile’s length of iron chains.
Missing Derek’s presence in bed, Sara crept downstairs in the early hours of the morning and ^found him alone in the central gaming room. It was eerily quiet and cavernous without the usual crowd of patrons and employees. Derek was at Worthy’s corner desk with several decks of cards aligned carefully across the polished surface. Sensing her presence, he glanced over his shoulder with a noncommittal grunt.
“What are you doing?” Sara asked with a yawn, curling into a nearby chair.
“Worthy suspects one of my dealers is cheating. I wanted to look at the cards he was using tonight, just to be certain.” Derek’s mouth twisted with displeasure as he indicated one of the shallow stacks. “That’s a marked deck if I’ve ever seen one.”
Sara was perplexed. She had seen all the elaborate rituals at the tables, the ceremonious openings of fresh boxes of cards. “How could any of the dealers mark the cards? There’s no time or opportunity ... is there?”
Derek picked up a new deck, shuffling so expertly that the cards were nothing but a bl
ur. He dealt a hand to her, facedown. “Tell me which is the queen.”
Sara squinted at the backs of the cards. “I can’t. They’re all the same.”
“No, they’re not. I just marked the queen.” Derek picked up the card and showed her the tiny, nearly indistinguishable notch he had made with his thumbnail on the edge of the card. “There are other ways of marking. I could use ink on the tip of my finger to leave smudges. I could bend them just a little. Or keep a bit of glass-work up my sleeve.”
“A mirror?” she asked.
He nodded, continuing to toy with the cards. “If a deck has been professionally marked, you can tell by riffling the deck and watching the backs. Any line work or blockouts will jump out.” The cards seemed to come to life in his hands as he shuffled once more. “Here’s how to stack the deck ... but the motion has to be smooth. It takes practice in front of a mirror.” The cards were a flowing stream in his hands. He held them tenderly, his long fingers manipulating and flexing until the deck formed a bridge, a waterfall, a snapping fan.
Sara watched in awe. As agile as the dealers in the club were, she had never seen any of them handle cards with such ease. That, coupled with his extraordinary mind for numbers, would make him an invincible opponent. “Why don’t you ever play?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you in a casual game with Lord Raiford or your other friends. Is it because you know you would always win?”
Derek shrugged. “That’s one reason,” he said without conceit. “The other is that I don’t enjoy it.”
“You don’t?”
“I never did.”
“But how can you be so good at something and not enjoy it?”
“Now there’s a question,” he said, and laughed softly, setting aside the cards. Leading her to the hazard table, he took her by the hips and lifted her up. She sat on the edge of the table, her knees pushed apart as he stood between them. Derek leaned forward, his mouth a warm, gentle brand. “it’s not like your writing, sweet. When you sit at your desk, you put your heart and your mind into your work, and it gives you satisfaction. But cards are just patterns. Once you learn the patterns, it’s automatic. You can’t enjoy something if it doesn’t demand a little of your heart.”
Sara caressed his black hair. “Do I have a little of your heart?” A moment after she asked, she regretted the question. She had promised herself not to push him, not to demand things he wasn’t ready for.
Derek’s eyes were shadowed green as he stared at her without bunking. He leaned forward, and his lips sought hers, kindling a warmth inside her that rapidly leapt to bright flame. Sara shivered as she felt him raise her skirts to her waist. He wedged himself tighter between her spread knees. They kissed ardently, groping underneath confining clothes, clumsily plucking at buttons in impetuous haste.
Sara gasped as she felt his hot, intimate flesh rising against her body. “Not here ... Someone will see ...”
“They’re all gone.” Gently he bit into her neck.
“But we can’t ...”
“Now,” he insisted, pulling her head against his shoulder as he took her there on the hazard table, making her shudder in helpless pleasure.
Sara was alone in the private apartments over the club, viewing herself in the long mirror of the bedroom. She was dressed to attend the birthday dinner of Alex Raiford’s seventeen-year-old brother Henry. On private occasions such as this the Raifords surrounded themselves with warm, enjoyable company. Sara knew the evening would be filled with wit and laughter. Derek had gone with Alex to help deliver Henry’s present, a shining Thoroughbred horse, to Swans’ Court before the boy arrived home from Eton.
Sara smoothed the skirt of her green velvet gown. Low-cut and severe in its simplicity, the gown was adorned only by a row of six golden clasps that held the split front of the skirt together. She was wearing a necklace Derek had given her to mark their first month of marriage, a gorgeous creation of diamonds and tumbled emeralds that lay in intricate strands over her chest. Admiring the sparkling necklace in the mirror, Sara smiled and turned to view it from another angle.
Suddenly her heart stopped.
The reflection showed there was someone behind her.
Whirling around, Sara stared with wide eyes at the golden-haired woman who held a pistol pointed directly at her.
Twelve
Lady Joyce Ashby’s face was taut, her eyes brilliant with madness and hatred.
Sara was the first to speak, hearing her own calm voice with a sense of amazement. “You must have come through the hidden passages.”
“I knew about them long before you ever met him,” Joyce sneered, her gaze darting to the huge gilded bed. “I was with him in that bed too many times to count. We were magnificent together. We invented things that had never been done before. Don’t move.” Her grip on the gun was steady.
Sara took a quick, shallow breath. “What do you want?”
“I want to have a look at the woman he’s taken as his wife.” Joyce smiled contemptuously. “Covered in velvet and jewels ... as if that might fool others into thinking you’re a lady of consequence.”
“A lady such as yourself?”
Joyce ignored the jab, staring mesmerized at the necklace that glittered against Sara’s pale skin. “Those emeralds are the exact color of his eyes. No one else has eyes like that.” She glared at Sara in crackling fury. “I said don’t move!”
Sara froze, having begun to inch toward the long tasseled rope that would ring the servants’ bell.
“You must be pleased with yourself,” Joyce said, “admiring yourself in your fine gown, with his ring on your finger. You think you have what I covet most. You think he belongs to you. But your marriage means nothing. He belongs to me. I put my mark on him.”
“He doesn’t want you,” Sara whispered, her eyes locked on Joyce’s vindictive face.
“You country simpleton! Do you actually think you’ve had any more of him than a hundred women could claim? I know him every bit as well as you do. I know the pattern of hair on his chest, the smell of his skin. I’ve felt his scars beneath my hands, and the muscles moving on his back. I know what it is to have him inside me ... the way he moves ... slow and deep ... just before he finds his release.” Joyce’s eyes half-closed. “A gifted lover, your bastard husband. No other man on earth understands a woman’s body as he does. A big, sensual beast, with no conscience and no scruples. He is my perfect counterpart—and he knows it.”
Swiftly Sara darted to the bellpull and gave it a frantic jerk, expecting to hear the explosion of the pistol. But Joyce didn’t fire. Trembling and white, Sara faced her. “The servants will be up here right away. I suggest that you leave, Lady Ashby.”
Joyce regarded her with contempt. “What a ridiculous creature you are.” Deliberately she reached over and knocked the lit oil lamp from the dresser.
Sara gave a cry of horror as the globe broke and the puddle of oil ignited. Immediately the pool of fire spread outward, flames licking hungrily at the carpet, woodwork, and draperies. “Oh, God!”
Joyce’s face was painted gold and red by the rearing, malevolent light. “You can die by smoke and fire,” she said in a guttural voice, “or a bullet. Or ... you can choose to do exactly as I tell you.”
Derek and Alex were several streets from St. James when they realized something was terribly wrong. Bells were tolling. Carriages, horses and pedestrians clogged the area. The sky was filled with a dull red glow that came from a blaze somewhere on the horizon. “Fire,” Alex said tersely, staring out the window of the carriage.
“Where?” A cold feeling settled over Derek, collecting in the pit of his stomach. The carriage progressed with excruciating slowness while the outriders did their best to forge a way through the crowded streets. His sixth sense, always accurate, warned of disaster. “It’s the club,” he heard himself say.
“I can’t say for certain.” Alex’s voice was calm, betraying none of the anxiety he was feeling. But one of his hands was gripped around the curta
in at the window, exerting so much tension that the stitches in the fabric began to pop.
With a muffled curse Derek opened the door of the carriage and leapt out. The vehicle moved so slowly that it was faster to walk. He shouldered his way through the mob that was gathering to watch the fire. “Craven!” He heard Alex behind him, following at a distance. He didn’t pause. The insistent tolling of the bells filled his ears, reverberating in thunderous crashes. It couldn’t be his club. Not after he’d spent years of his life working, stealing, suffering for it. He’d built it with his own sweat and blood, with pieces of his soul. God, to watch it all disappear into smoke and ashes ...
Derek turned the corner and made an incoherent sound. The gambling palace was roaring. The growl of fire was everywhere; the sky, the air, even the ground seemed to tremble. Derek staggered to the scene and watched as his dreams burned in an unholy blaze. He was mute, breathing and swallowing, trying to understand what was happening. Gradually he became aware of familiar faces in the awestruck crowd. Monsieur Labarge sat on the side of the pavement, numbly holding a copper pot he must have carried from the kitchen, too panicked to set it down. Gill was standing with the house wenches, some of them angry, some crying.
Worthy was nearby, the flames reflected in his spectacles. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. He turned and saw Derek. His face twitched convulsively. He tottered forward, his voice unrecognizable as he spoke. “Mr. Craven ... it spread too quickly. There was nothing they could do. It’s all gone.”
“How did it start?” Derek asked hoarsely.
Worthy removed his spectacles and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He took a long time to answer, having to choke the words forth. “It began on the top floor. The private apartments.”
Derek stared at him blankly.
Two police officers rushed by them, a snatch of hasty conversation floating in the air behind them.
“... knock down the next building ... make a fire gap..”