Joanna Maitland - Rake's Reward

Lady Luce took her time. Indeed, she smiled round at the three men before she even touched the deck. She seemed remarkably confident.

She faced her first card and laid it to the left of the deck. Nine!

Lady Luce gave a little nod of satisfaction and collected the stake from Mr Stratton’s losing card.

He did not even blink. Marina decided he now looked even more like a marble statue—beautiful, cold and stony-hearted. Greek gods had been said to amuse themselves by treating human beings as pawns in their Olympian chess games. Kit Stratton looked as if he felt exactly the same about his opponents.

He threw two more bills on to the nine in the livret, never once raising his eyes to look at the banker or at any of the other players. He seemed to be focused totally on the cards.

Marina recognised that stare. She had seen it on her father. Mr Stratton was almost certainly a practised player with the ability to remember every card played. She had been taught to do the same herself. The knowledge helped improve the odds, especially towards the end of the game when few cards remained to be dealt. Kit Stratton was very definitely playing to win.

The Dowager faced the cards for the next deal. A king for the banker, followed by a two. No winners. With so few players, there could be several such barren deals. If the banker moved quickly through them, it would be more difficult than normal to memorise the cards. Marina set herself to doing so, too. The task would help her to remain calm, especially if Mr Stratton were to win.

Three more barren deals followed in quick succession. Marina knew exactly which cards had been played. Did Kit Stratton? It was impossible to tell from his face.

Lady Luce faced a six on to the banker’s pile to the left of the deck. The bald man groaned and muttered an oath as his stake joined the heap in front of the banker. He started to scribble his next vowel even before the players’ card had been dealt. The man at the far end drew an audible breath. Another nine! Lady Luce placed it carefully on the heap of players’ cards. Then she picked up the two bills that Mr Stratton had lost earlier and, holding them between finger and thumb as if they were contaminated, dropped them on to the nine in the livret.

Mr Stratton smiled down at the money for just a second before returning to blank-faced impassivity. He laid his hand flat on the bills, fingers spread in possession. He had well-kept hands, Marina noticed, momentarily distracted from the cards. Strong, too. Marina doubted they were gentle hands. He would like nothing better than to put those long fingers round the Dowager’s throat and squeeze the life out of her.

What on earth had made her think that? Marina was suddenly horrified by the picture his lean fingers had conjured up. He was only a gambler. Ruthless, yes, but a gentleman, surely?

Without raising his hand, Mr Stratton slid all four bills from the nine to the ten. The moment he lifted his hand from the table, Lady Luce dealt another banker’s card. Another nine!

The bald man gave a crack of laughter. He made to comment on such amazing luck, but the Dowager frowned him down. It was not surprising that she wanted no distractions in this duel. She dealt the carte anglaise with careful deliberation. This time, the players’ card was a queen. The young man won. With a quick sideways glance, he pocketed his winnings and moved his original stake to join Mr Stratton’s on the ten.

He, too, senses that this is a battle to the death, Marina thought. And he has chosen to side with the men, and with youth, against one solitary old woman.

Marina forced her thoughts back to the cards. Thirteen had been played. She could remember every one. Kit Stratton had staked four hundred pounds on the ten. There were still thirty-nine cards to be faced. And among them were four tens.

Marina was having difficulty remembering the cards.

It had never happened to her before. She had prided herself on that ability, yet now, when it really mattered, it seemed to be deserting her. It was something to do with those strong, lean hands. She could not take her eyes from them. What was it about them? Mostly, they lay relaxed and utterly still on the baize table while Kit Stratton watched the deal of every card. He was like a hawk—a detached, ruthless hunter, ready to launch itself on any quarry that became even slightly vulnerable.

There were only nineteen cards left. And still not a single ten had appeared.

Beyond the archway, a knot of onlookers was gazing across at Lady Luce and her cards. Clearly, Lady Marchant’s table had broken up in order to watch the excitement of the duel between Mr Stratton and the Dowager. Lady Luce frowned across at her unwelcome audience, and then returned her attention to the players. The bald man was leaning back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. The youngster was all excitement. He did not speak, but his eyes kept flicking back and forth from the money lying on the ten to the banker’s set face. There were beads of sweat on his furrowed brow. His fate was bound up with Kit Stratton’s…and the elusive ten.

Lady Luce faced another pair of cards. The bald man’s card won. Impassive, the Dowager pushed his winnings across the table and waited while he decided on his next wager. The pile of paper and coin in front of her was now pitifully small. She desperately needed a winning card.

Marina could see the increasing tension in the Dowager’s fixed smile. Her lips were becoming thinner and thinner. Her hands were absolutely steady, however, as she turned up the next card. A nine to the banker. Useless.

And then the players’ card. A ten.

There was a tiny gasp, quickly muffled, from one of the watchers by the archway. The young man at the table was grinning from ear to ear, but Mr Stratton had not moved a muscle. He was still gazing at the cards.

The Dowager pushed her last two bills across to the young man. With what seemed to be an apologetic glance at Mr Stratton, he pocketed his winnings and moved his stake from the ten to the queen. Lady Luce had no more bills. Rather than count out two hundred pounds in coin, she reached for pen and ink to scribble a vowel for Mr Stratton’s winnings.

His raised hand stayed her.

Marina held her breath, knowing instinctively what was to come.

With a long finger, Kit Stratton indicated that his winnings remained on the table.

This time, Marina herself could not stifle a groan. Kit Stratton was riding his luck. If he won again, the Dowager would have to pay him seven times his stake. That was nearly three thousand pounds!

Lady Luce reached towards the cards. Marina closed her eyes, not daring to look. There were still three tens in the pack under the Dowager’s hand.

A groan from the bald man made her open her eyes once more. The bald man had lost. And Kit Stratton had won with another ten.

This time, Marina knew exactly what he would do. That long finger moved again. All his winnings—against a prize of fifteen times his stake!

Three more deals, and no more tens appeared. The young man lost on his queen. The bald man won on a king.

Kit Stratton sat as if turned to stone.

There were only seven cards left.

Marina forced her whirling mind to concentrate on the cards. What were they? She ought to know.

She frowned into the silence, pushing every other thought out of her mind. Her brain cleared quite suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn back from a chalkboard on which the cards had been written. Two aces, a two, a three, a knave…and two tens.

The bald man had two hundred pounds on the ace. The young man had put his stake on the six. Clearly he had no ability to remember cards.

Mr Stratton’s hand lay carelessly on the green baize, his index finger extended towards one corner of the ten.