Joanna Maitland - Rake's Reward

At the table, they were playing Faro. Lady Luce had clearly been there all the time, hidden by the dividing wall.

Marina’s heart sank when she realised her employer was acting as Faro banker. This was no mere flutter. This was serious gambling. Heavens, why did this have to happen? And why Faro? Faro was the game that she hated above all others, the game that had ruined her father. It could be a game of infernally high stakes and incredible losses. Men played and played, always hoping to recoup their losses on the next card, until eventually they had nothing left to stake. Faro had led many a man to blow his brains out. Her father might eventually have done the same, if he had lived through the war.

No one had taken the least notice of her entrance. She leaned back against the wall alongside the arch, trying to steady her rapid, anxious breathing. She forced herself to think logically and sensibly. She must not panic. Surely Lady Luce would not play for higher stakes than she could afford? And besides, as banker, she would certainly have the odds in her favour. There must be a good chance that she would leave the table a winner. At that thought, Marina began to feel less uneasy and craned her neck a little in order to watch the play without disturbing those at the table.

There were five players besides Lady Luce. All were men. All had their backs to Marina. Lady Luce was gathering up a pile of coin and notes. Her crow of triumph had been justified, to judge by the amount she was pulling towards her. So far, she looked to be on top. With expert fingers, she broke a new pack and began to shuffle the cards. The discarded pack had been swept to the floor.

The only noise to be heard was the slap of the cards. The players seemed to be frozen in their seats. Then a deep voice broke the silence from beyond the archway. ‘You seem to have remarkable luck, ma’am,’ it said. ‘Do you dare to raise the stakes for this next deal? Shall we say a minimum of twenty guineas? Or would you prefer to pass the bank?’

Marina did not need to look round in order to recognise the speaker. It was Mr Kit Stratton. His tone was light, but mocking. It was as near an insult as it was possible to be.

Marina saw the spark of indignation in Lady Luce’s eyes and the sudden frown as she looked across at her rival. ‘By no means, Mr Stratton,’ she said in remarkably even tones. ‘I have no intention of surrendering the bank just yet. But I certainly agree that the stakes have been too low. Did you suggest twenty? Why, I would not dream of proposing such a paltry sum. What say you to fifty?’

The gentleman sitting opposite the Dowager rose immediately. ‘Too steep for me,’ he said and left the room.

Mr Stratton strode forward and very deliberately put his hand on the back of the vacant chair. He and Lady Luce stared each other out. Marina knew, even from behind, that he was daring her employer to continue. She also knew that Lady Luce would never back down against this man.

What was Marina to do? She racked her brains, but for some reason she seemed unable to think straight. In her very first day in her new post, she was failing to prevent her charge from gambling for enormous stakes. What on earth was happening to her?

At length, Mr Stratton’s voice replied, ‘Fifty? Certainly. Unless you wish to go higher?’

Marina prayed silently that Lady Luce would not accept this further challenge. Surely it was bad enough with the stakes they had already agreed?

Lady Luce smiled slowly, first at Mr Stratton, and then at the other players. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘as banker, I will accept any stakes that Mr Stratton cares to name.’ She looked across at him once more. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was sure of her victory now.

For what seemed a long time, Mr Stratton said nothing at all. Then, in a very quiet, calm voice, he said, ‘Madam, you do me too great an honour, but it would be ungentlemanly to disappoint you. A lady’s whims must always be humoured. Shall we say…two hundred pounds?’

This time the gasp echoed round the room. Two more of the gentlemen made to rise, muttering excuses. Such stakes were almost unheard of.

Mr Stratton did not move an inch as the players left the table to congregate by the archway. He laughed, though Marina could detect no mirth at all in the sound. ‘It shall be a snug little party, then, my lady,’ he said, pulling out his chair.

Marina was beginning to feel quite light-headed. She put a hand against the wall for support. This could not be happening. Two hundred pounds was a fortune—and it was to be staked on the turn of a single card. She moved a couple of steps nearer, in hopes of drawing the Dowager’s attention to herself. Perhaps she could signal to Lady Luce, distract her, somehow make her stop?

The movement caught Lady Luce’s eye. ‘So there you are,’ she said caustically. She pointed to an empty chair at the far end of the table. ‘Sit down, and do nothing. This is too important to allow of any distraction.’

Marina moved across the room and sank into the chair. The Dowager’s sharp glance indicated very clearly that she must neither speak nor move.

She closed her eyes and rested her chin on her hand. If only she could do something. Her only hope was that Lady Luce would win. Her overpowering fear was that Mr Stratton—bold, ruthless Kit Stratton—would ruin her mistress.

And herself into the bargain.

Kit watched the tiny hands deftly shuffling the cards. Keeping his eyes fixed on the cards helped his concentration. It also helped him to spot any sign of cheating though, in this case, he expected none. Lady Luce was much too proud to stoop so low, even if she knew how, which he doubted. No. This would be a straightforward test of skill and nerve. Kit’s well-trained memory for cards would probably cancel out some of the banker’s inbuilt advantage.

After that, it was all down to luck.

Lady Luce gathered her cards together and pushed the pack towards Kit. ‘Do you care to shuffle them yourself, sir? Perhaps one of the other gentlemen would cut?’

Kit stretched out a hand. ‘I am sure the cards are well enough mixed already,’ he drawled carelessly, not bothering even to glance at his opponent. ‘I will gladly cut, however. Then, perhaps, we may get to the business of the evening?’ He cut the cards to her with a decided snap.

Marina saw how the Dowager’s lips thinned under the lash of his scorn. Mr Stratton seemed to be seeking to force a quarrel on her, in addition to everything else. How could two people have come to detest each other so? It was quite beyond Marina’s understanding.

‘Stakes, gentlemen, please,’ said the Dowager in a hard voice.

Without hesitation, Mr Stratton extracted a fat pocketbook and, peeling off two banknotes, laid them on the nine in the livret of cards on the players’ side of the table. Lady Luce watched impassively, waiting for the other two gentlemen to decide on their wagers. The bald man nearest Marina scribbled a vowel but then sat undecided, his hand hovering between the five and the six in the livret. The very young man at the far end was much more decisive, quickly pushing a heap of notes and coin on to the queen.

As the bald man’s hand continued to hover, Lady Luce cleared her throat ominously, staring across at him. He coloured slightly and dropped the scrap of paper on to the six.

Marina held her breath, waiting for the first card to be faced. Her father had always said that it was an omen for the whole game. Normal Faro deals consisted of two cards—the banker won on the first, and the players on the second—but the first and last deals were banker’s cards only. Papa had been convinced that if the banker won on that first card, the players would lose heavily throughout the game. Marina had never really believed it—it had not prevented her father from losing his shirt—and yet she found herself offering up a little prayer that the Dowager’s card would win. It needed to be a six, or a nine, or a queen. Best of all if it matched Mr Stratton’s nine. She wanted to see him lose.