Page 30 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

Laurent raised a brow, surprised someone dared to question him. “A very old and very valuable heirloom from one of the oldest families.” He paused. “From your part of the world, by the way.”

Rivendale swallowed. “We don’t get to know what it is?”

Laurent shrugged. “Not until the winner is determined.”

“How can we properly evaluate our wagers when yours remains concealed?” Rivendale asked.

Melissande slightly shook her head, her lips pursed, urging him to stop the questioning.

Laurent laughed dismissively. “I shall overlook your breach of etiquette, considering this is your first visit to my home. But this is precisely how such matters are conducted. I am a gentleman of honor, as are you. Surely you would not question my word?”

Rivendale narrowed his eyes but forced himself to relax. He could wait for the cards to be dealt before determining whether the mysterious box contained his locket. But he was so close, it was almost painful.

And more importantly, he had nothing to wager.

Melissande flicked her wrist to catch his attention and smoothly slid a ruby ring from her finger—the only piece of jewelry he had ever seen her wear regularly. With a subtle motion, she gestured as if flicking something onto the table.

Understanding immediately, Rivendale made an exaggerated show of flicking his own wrist toward the center, and at precisely that moment, Melissande tossed her ring onto the velvet surface with a satisfying thud.

Laurent leaned toward the table, studying the gleaming ruby. The ring was the most valuable out of everything wagered, except for Laurent’s item, which was yet to be revealed.

“What an exquisite ring,” Laurent cooed, satisfied.

The assembled gentlemen leaned forward to examine it, murmuring appreciatively before accepting it as adequate for the final stakes.

Melissande gathered the cards and began to deal—

“Stop!” Baron von Donhoff boomed, silencing the whispers in the room.

Melissande froze, cards half-distributed.

“What is the matter, Baron?” Laurent demanded.

“I observed her dealing from beneath the deck,” von Donhoff declared, his eyes narrow. “I’m certain of it.”

Melissande gasped theatrically. “How dare you accuse me of sharping!”

“I dare because it’s true,” the Baron replied, straightening in his chair. “Though it pains me to make such accusations against a lady, you insisted upon serving as banquier, and I’m convinced you’ve been dealing from the bottom to favor Lord Rivendale.”

“Preposterous!” Melissande shot back.

Rivendale felt his own anger rising. “You’d better choose your words more carefully, sir.”

One of the men actually laughed. “Or what? Will you call him out? A cripple issuing challenges?”

Rivendale slowly rose from his chair, leaning against the table for support. “I assure you I can still outshoot any man at this table.”

Melissande stepped forward. “Gentlemen, there’s no need for threats of a duel. If my honor has been questioned, I shall simply deal again under your careful scrutiny.”

She collected all the cards, shuffled them while every eye watched her movements, then dealt fresh hands under intense observation.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “No deception of any kind.”

“If the Marquess wins this hand as well, we’ll know beyond doubt that cheating has occurred,” von Donhoff warned.

Melissande raised her hands in surrender. “Very well. If you cannot trust me to deal honestly, you’re welcome to take over the distribution yourself.”

“Turn your cards, Rivendale,” Laurent commanded with barely controlled impatience.

Rivendale’s gaze shifted between the mysterious black velvet box and the two cards lying face down before him. Everything he’d hoped for, everything he’d traveled so far to find, might be contained in that unremarkable container.

“Show them,” the Baron demanded.

Rivendale turned over his first card—a ten of hearts. Then the second—an ace of spades.

Twenty-one. Again.

The table erupted in chaos.

“I told you!” von Donhoff roared.

“Shameless cheating!” Girard added his voice to the din.

“Check those cards immediately!” Laurent bellowed over the growing uproar. “Summon one of my dealers! I will not tolerate sharping in my home!”

Melissande’s voice rang out higher than usual. “This is absolutely outrageous! How dare you impugn my reputation?” She gave Rivendale a meaningful look, then pointedly glanced toward the center of the table.

Of course. The locket.

In the midst of the chaos, with everyone shouting accusations and demanding investigations, Rivendale leaned forward and seized the velvet box.

His hands trembling with anticipation, he opened it—

“Put that down immediately!” Laurent’s voice rose over the tumult. “The winner has not been determined!”

But Rivendale barely heard him. Inside the box lay a gorgeous locket, gold-laced, set with three colorful stones. Invaluable, really. But as soon as he saw it, his heart sank.

It was not his locket.

“The cards are marked!” the summoned croupier announced, and absolute pandemonium broke loose.

Men leaped from their seats, reaching desperately for their own wagered items, shouting accusations of fraud and demanding satisfaction, hurling insults at everyone within reach.

“They were marked by someone else,” Melissande assured. “And if I remember, Signor de Piro shared quite a few wins. How do you explain that?”

“Then he was also in league with Miss Monroe!” the baron shouted.

“How dare you accuse me?” de Piro turned on the baron.

Melissande flitted from one gentleman to the next, quickly turning the attention away from herself and onto others, more fights breaking out around the room.

Rivendale dropped the locket back onto the table, and when Melissande met his gaze, he simply shook his head. With a nod, she approached him and whispered close to his ear, “We must leave. Now.” She gripped the handles of his chair as he settled down and turned the chair toward the exit.

“Meli, what about our—”

Laurent’s bellow cut through the noise around them. “Stop them! They cannot depart until this matter is resolved!”

Without wasting another moment, Melissande pushed his chair toward the doors with increasing speed. Everyone in the card room was too absorbed in their own squabbles to hinder their escape, and they crossed the threshold into the corridor before anyone thought to stop them.

She immediately grabbed a heavy decorative urn from a nearby alcove and wedged it against the door frame.

“What in blazes are you doing?” Rivendale demanded.

Melissande seized his chair again and resumed pushing. “Do you particularly wish to face the mob of angry noblemen? Because I most certainly do not.”

“Well, no,” Rivendale conceded with a frown. “But what about our winnings?”

“We’re abandoning them.”

“But—”

The doors behind them rattled violently as the trapped gamblers attempted to force their way out, and Rivendale had to admit that perhaps leaving was the best course of action. They could sort out the financial implications later.

They reached the grand staircase, and then the reality of the situation finally hit him.

Half a dozen angry gamblers were on their heels. Rivendale had lost everything they had wagered during the evening, and they had failed to recover his locket. More importantly, now they faced a steep staircase with him trapped in his chariot-chair.

“Blast and damnation,” Melissande muttered. “I forgot about the stairs.”

Rivendale glanced back at the rattling door before looking down at the stairs.

“Wait a moment,” he said, carefully rising from the chair and shaking the armrests.

“What are you doing?” Melissande frowned.

“The man who built the chair said he’d made a few modifications to—ah, here it is!” He slid the wooden planks out from over the armrests and locked them in place beneath the wheels, turning his chair into an oversized sledge.

Melissande’s eyes widened to an almost comical degree. “What in the world—?”

“At the moment,” Rivendale said proudly, “it’s a sledge.”

“Please tell me you’ve tested this contraption before,” she said, her voice climbing toward hysteria.

“No,” he admitted cheerfully. “But it was specifically designed for stairs.”

“What madman created this vehicle?”

Rivendale shrugged. “Well, he is named Chaos.”

“How perfectly appropriate,” she muttered as the sounds of splintering wood announced that their pursuers had broken through her improvised barricade.

“Are you ready?” Rivendale asked, settling back in his chair.

“Absolutely not.”

“Yes, you’re ready,” he assured her confidently.

“I am decidedly not ready for this.”

“Push me!” he commanded, and just as angry voices grew audible behind them, Melissande put her full weight behind his chair and sent him careening down the curved staircase.

The chair-sledge flew down the steps with terrifying velocity.

The spiral design of the staircase was simultaneously a blessing and a curse—it moderated his descent somewhat, but it also meant his improvised vehicle careened off both the banister and the wall repeatedly, jolting him violently in his seat with each impact.

Melissande ran after him, her skirts bunched in both fists, her face a mix of amusement and terror.

Rivendale clung to his chair’s arms desperately as he bounced and rattled down the treacherous stairs toward the ground floor and what he devoutly hoped would be freedom.

A thoroughly terrified butler threw open the main doors just in time for Rivendale to shoot past him like a cannonball.

The makeshift sledge hit the three exterior steps, launched briefly into the air, struck the gravel, and promptly overturned, depositing Rivendale in an undignified heap beside his overturned chair.

And just like that, Melissande managed to knock the breath out of him once again.

* * *

Oh dear God, I’ve killed him.

The thought raced through Melissande’s mind as she stared at Rivendale’s overturned chair, his body lying motionless beside it on the gravel drive. The sight sent ice flooding through her veins, her breath catching in her throat.

Again.

I’ve killed him again.

She rushed toward him, her skirts hampering her progress as she prepared to lift his unconscious form, to check for injuries, to somehow undo whatever catastrophe her reckless escape plan had wrought.

But before she could reach him, Rivendale pushed himself to a sitting position, his hunched shoulders shaking violently. Was he weeping from pain?

“Are you hurt?” she asked, hovering nearby but not daring to touch him.

He turned toward her, and she froze.

He was laughing!

Not grimacing in agony, not pale with shock, but genuinely, helplessly laughing. His dark eyes sparkled with mirth, his whole face transformed by an expression of pure, unbridled joy.

“I haven’t experienced this much excitement in years,” he said between chuckles, brushing dust from his coat.

Excitement? She looked at him in confusion.

The man had just careened down a flight of stairs in a makeshift sledge, and—

She supposed for her it would qualify as excitement. As for him, weeks earlier, he’d have called it disaster!

Then his gaze shifted past her shoulder, and she followed his line of sight to see their former gaming companions making their way down the stairs, their expressions bewildered.

“But we can discuss my newfound appreciation for adventure later,” Rivendale said. “Help me up, if you would.”

Melissande grasped his arm and assisted him to his feet. He wobbled momentarily before standing steady on his good leg, then reached for his overturned chair.

Together they righted the contraption, which appeared to have survived its dramatic descent remarkably well. The hidden runners had retracted upon impact, transforming it back into an ordinary bath chair, though one now decorated with scratches and dents.

Rivendale settled into the seat, then looked up at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Come here,” he commanded in a tone that made her pulse quicken unexpectedly.

“Where?” She glanced around, uncertain what he meant.

“Stop them!” Monsieur Laurent’s voice came from inside the house, followed by the sounds of footsteps.

“Come. Here.” Rivendale growled, low and rough.

Melissande stepped closer, and without warning, his hands closed around her waist and lifted her onto his lap. Before she could protest or even fully process what was happening, he had pulled the lever, sending them rolling smoothly away from Laurent’s house at a brisk pace.