Diane Gaston - The Mysterious Miss M

‘Ah, England, you shall be most difficult to leave.’ As she placed her finger in the dimple on his cheek, he pressed his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttocks. She felt his passion flare back to life and she made a primitive sound deep in her throat.

As he entered her for the second time, Madeleine whispered. ‘Lieutenant Devlin Steele. I shall remember you.’

London, April 1816

D evlin Steele glanced up from the cards in his hand. The acrid smoke and dim light muted the gaudy red velvet of the gaming room. He reached for his glass and set it down again. The prodigious amount of brandy he had already consumed threatened to fog his brain.

His months back on English soil were as hazy as his present thinking. Snatches of memory. His brother, the imperious Marquess, rescuing him from the dirty makeshift hospital in Brussels. Days drifting in and out of consciousness at Heronvale, his sisters hovering around him, dispatched there to return him to health. Eventual recovery and a flight to London for a frenzy of dissipation meant to banish images of blood and horror and pain. Thus far, Devlin had managed to gamble and debauch away his quarter’s entitlement. What capital he’d possessed had gone to money-lenders, but at present his pockets were flush, an unexpected surprise at Lord Farley’s table.

‘Your bet, Steele?’ Farley’s smooth voice now had an edge. His foot tapped the carpet.

Devlin stared at his cards, blinking to focus on the hearts and spades and diamonds. He had avoided Farley’s gaming hell until this night, preferring an honest game, but damned if the man had not sought him out at White’s. Predictable, Devlin figured, after he’d been tossing blunt all over town. Ripe for fleecing, by all accounts. A perfect pigeon for Farley.

He smiled inwardly. Farley had not yet heard the River Tick was already seeping into Devlin’s boots. All the fleece had been long shorn.

‘I’ll pass.’ Devlin barely glanced at the man seated across from him, concentrating instead on keeping his wits about him. Knowing Farley dealt a dishonest hand gave Devlin a slight advantage, if he could but hold on to it.

The cards were too good, though. Farley must be seducing him with a run of luck. He bet cautiously, against the cards, and avoided losing the successive hands. Farley’s brow furrowed.

Rumour had it that Farley had lost a fortune in bad investments. Moreover, Napoleon’s exile to St Helena had brought an end to the lucrative smuggling business everyone knew he ran. Farley was mortgaged to the hilt, a situation to make a man desperate—and desperate men made mistakes. War had taught Devlin that.

Farley indeed became more reckless, and Devlin stacked his chips higher.

Farley dealt the next hand, and Devlin carefully watched his expression. The man could still be considered handsome, though hard living had etched lines at the corner of his mouth and eyes. With his thin elegant nose, hair once fair, now peppered with grey, he had the look of the aristocrat he was, though his family fortunes had been squandered by an ancestry of fools. Typical of society, Lord Farley might not be a welcome suitor to the daughters of the ton, but, in the world of gentlemen who enjoyed his brandy, his card tables, and the young woman whose favours he doled out to the select few, Farley was top o’ the trees.

Farley’s fingers tapped a nervous tattoo on the table. ‘Steele, I believe I could allow you some time with our Miss M. She is delightful tonight. A Spanish maiden. Perhaps she will remind you of your service in Spain.’

Devlin peered over the fan of cards in his hand. ‘I have no wish to be reminded of Spain.’

He placed his cards on the table, and Farley blanched, pushing another stack of chips to Devlin’s side.

The man plastered on a smile, but a nervous twitch had commenced under his right eye. ‘I think you might recollect you won a time with Miss M once before. I assure you, she remains in good figure and has added to the delights she may offer.’

Devlin remembered her. Indeed, memory of her lovely face, so pale against her dark hair, had often warmed lonely nights as the British waited for Napoleon’s army to attack. Her spirit and sensibility had intrigued him more than young ladies in drawing rooms could do. Not that he had mixed in society to any great degree. Good God, he’d never even set foot in Almack’s.

Devlin smiled at his host. ‘I’m sure I’d be delighted to renew my acquaintance, sir. Perhaps after a hand or two.’

How long ago had he shared that memorable space of time with her? Three years and more? Just after Maguilla. What had her life been like under the thumb of this man?

Farley’s brow broke out in beads of sweat. Devlin suppressed his smile. The man was in trouble. Throwing caution to the wind, Devlin made a hearty bet. The tic in Farley’s eye quickened.

The cards were called, and the man on Devlin’s right let out a whoop. So intent on besting Farley, Devlin had forgotten the other player. As Devlin gave up half his stack of chips, he vowed not to continue such carelessness.

‘Enough for me, gentlemen. I think I shall stop before Barnes here takes my whole stack.’

Barnes bellowed with laughter. ‘I’d be pleased to do that, Steele.’ He gathered his winnings, leaving Farley with a scattering of chips too small to stack.

‘Another time,’ Devlin said, standing.

‘One more hand.’ Farley’s voice was thick and tense. ‘Don’t deny me the chance to recoup, Steele. One more hand is all I ask.’

It would hardly be civil to refuse. Devlin bowed slightly and sat back down. One more hand couldn’t break him, though that last loss had hurt a bit. Farley would have been wiser to quit. The man had lost all card sense. Devlin doubted he could even cheat effectively at this point. Barnes, too, was flush with his winning streak and eager to extend it.

Play was fierce. Devlin bet moderately, intent only on preserving his present winnings, but the cards came like magic. Was Farley setting him up, or had true luck shone upon him?

Caution be damned, he thought. Life’s the real gamble. Devlin bet deep.

And won.

Barnes good-naturedly laughed off his losses, still ahead with his one spectacular hand. Farley slumped back in his chair, his face drained of all colour.

‘You will accept my vowel, sir?’ Farley’s question did not demand an answer.

‘But of course,’ Devlin replied amiably.

As Farley wrote out his vowel, Devlin gazed around the room, into the dark recesses where Farley’s girls, looking like Spanish tarts, ran the tables.

‘Shall I make Miss M available to you?’ Farley asked, his voice flat.

Devlin considered, sweeping his gaze over the too-opulent room. Had this place truly impressed him three years ago with its wainscoting and brocades? Now it appeared as false as glory.

Perhaps it would be preferable to seek the relative silence of the street and preserve The Mysterious Miss M as a memory.

A shout came from outside the parlour. The door opened and a burly man dragged in a girl who was beating at his chest and kicking his legs in protest. She wore a mask.

‘Lord Farley,’ the huge man said, ‘she’s brawling again.’ He dropped the girl at Farley’s feet. Her pale delicate fingers grabbed the edge of the table to pull herself up. She lifted her head regally and smoothed the skirt of her red silk dress. Black sensuous curls tumbled to her shoulders in a tangled mass. The lace mantilla had slipped off and hung on one of her shoulders.

‘I have no patience for this,’ Farley growled. ‘What now?’

‘She refused a patron.’ The man tossed her a scathing look. ‘She bit him in…a most unfortunate place.’