Page 2 of The Passionate One (McClairen’s Isle #1)
Whitechapel London March 1760
Lord Tunbridge was cheating.
In the dank, smoky back regions of Rose Tavern, the young bucks’ festive mood had long dissipated. First their purses, then their jewelry, and finally their inheritances had bled into Tunbridge’s hands. They sprawled in the malodorous abandonment only four days of fevered carousal can imbue, staring at visions of paternal rage, or worse, debtor’s prison. There was nothing left for them to do now but wait for an end to their purgatory.
Because, though they knew Tunbridge was cheating—no one had so devilish luck—no one could say how. Certainly no one would dare make complaint to Tunbridge, an acknowledged duelist with an accredited five deaths to his record.
Only two men remained playing, Lord Tunbridge and Ash Merrick. A slack-mouthed wench snuggled on Tunbridge’s lap, her soft pink flesh glistening with the oppressive heat in the room, while outside a blustery, cold day reminded those abroad that winter had only recently ended.
Tunbridge ignored the doxie, his slim fingers straying like albino snakes amidst the piles of guineas and stacks of silver. It was not so great a heap as those that had already been won at that table, but it was a substantial sum, enough to recoup a decent portion of even the worst losses.
Tunbridge’s cold gaze fixed on his opponent. Thus far Merrick had fared better than his companions. It was rumored he had arrived in London months ago, after a two-year stay as a guest in Louis XV’s prisons, and had since seemingly fixed on making up for lost time.
London’s rakehell cubs had taken him up immediately, as one would a new toy. And a prime entertaining toy he was. No man was wittier, no company more obliging, no guide in the ways of dissolution more knowledgeable. And no one was less bound by society’s rules and had less care for society’s opinions than Ash Merrick. But that was only to be expected.
Lord Carr was his father, after all, a man who’d been exiled to the Highlands rather than face his creditors and then been forced to stay in exile losing three rich Highland wives in short succession.
If Merrick was notorious, his father was infamous and the titillation of following so nefarious a leader had proven irresistible to the bored elite.
But if they adulated Merrick, it was a tainted adulation, well tempered with contempt. He was a no one. Prison fodder. His own sire would not underwrite him, and his mother had been a known Jacobite bitch. He lived by his wits on the fringes of society, and therefore, while being amongst them, he was patently not one of them.
More provoking, he did not want to be. And he did not care to hide that from them.
He allowed them to follow him; indeed, he encouraged them, holding wide the doors to a nether world of pleasure. Then he stood aside. Often he profited from a night spent gaming but they did not take exception, as his profit was never great enough to cause speculation. Besides, he earned their money in other ways, they reasoned, by showing them a London they’d never known existed.
Even now, even against Tunbridge, he’d only lost a few hundred pounds. Merrick rarely lost, so those capable of wakefulness, and thus malice, watched his imminent downfall with petty satisfaction. Except that is, for Thomas Donne, an obscenely wealthy, mysterious, and cursedly suave Scotsman—and some said Merrick’s friend. Donne’s lean countenance conveyed a wicked, subtle amusement.
Merrick, his lawn shirt open at his throat, his dark hair falling loose from its queue, sans wig, sans jacket, sans reputation, smiled obliquely and fingered the pearl-handled stiletto with which he’d been prying open nuts. His dark eyes, raised to catch Tunbridge’s considering gaze, were vague and unfocused. Drunk. Tunbridge began shuffling the cards.
“Merrick,” Tunbridge drawled, “I’m afraid there’s no catching me this day. Another night is come and my taste for this sport wanes as my taste for another grows.” The maid on his lap giggled. “What say we call quit?”
“Surely not yet,” Merrick answered in wounded surprise. “You would not deny me the chance to retake what you’ve won?” The slight pause before he uttered the last word was less than a hesitation of breath. No one could say more and yet Tunbridge’s face reddened beneath its sweat-streaked powder.
“Well, then, since there’s just us two, what say to a game of piquet?” Tunbridge asked.
“Delightful,” Merrick murmured, his attention fixed on raising the tankard of ale to his lips. Tunbridge cut the cards and Merrick did likewise, sighing resignedly when Tunbridge’s king trumped his knave.
“Poor luck,” Tunbridge said. “Doubtless you’ll fare—”
The door leading to the public rooms swung open and a youth, dressed in the fashion of a courier, entered. He stood blinking in the smoky room, vapor rising from his wet cape. Spying Merrick, he picked a path over the outstretched legs of slumped bodies to Merrick’s side and bent low to whisper his message.
For an instant Merrick’s indolent gaze sharpened and the flesh seemed to cleave tighter to the well-shaped bones of his face. He held out his hand. With a furtive glance in either direction, the courier laid an envelope in it.
“I’ve your leave to interrupt play?” Merrick asked.
Tunbridge dealt the last of the five cards and shrugged. “By all means.”
“My thanks.” Merrick slid the stiletto’s tip beneath the seal and flicked off the embossed wax. He opened the note and scanned the contents before crumpling it.
With a peculiar violence at odds with his gentle expression, he tossed it unerringly into the open fire. “It seems my services are needed. I must away.”
“Ah well.” Tunbridge commiserated with a small smile.
“But nothing is so pressing I need leave before the end of this game,” Merrick added courteously.
Tunbridge’s hands, hovering over the pile of coins, froze and for a second something in the atmosphere alerted even the least sentient to something potentially dangerous occurring in the room. Then Tunbridge’s teeth flashed white in the dim light and he gathered his hand. “But of course.”
He studied it awhile, allowing a small expression of satisfaction to play upon his lips before calmly discarding. Merrick shouted for the innkeeper to bring more drink and then, with only a glance at his hand, flung down eight cards.
So it went.
Each hand played slowly. Whatever Merrick had read in that letter seemed to combine with four days of relative abstinence to give him a powerful thirst. Aided by his fellows, encouraged by the constant refilling of his cup, he drank steadily and deeply. Between hands he peeled roasted chestnuts with his knife, muttering disconsolately as Tunbridge’s point total grew steadily toward the hundred needed to end the game and take the ante.
With each hand, with each drink Merrick downed, Tunbridge grew more expansive and more contemptuous. His barbed goads grew sharper and his predatory smile flickered like guttering candlelight over his sallow countenance.
Finally, Tunbridge stood only eleven points from the win. He dealt. Merrick did not pay any great attention, being too busy draining the dregs of his ale into his mouth. Tunbridge’s mouth pleated with satisfaction. He reached out to gather his cards.
And Merrick, with a speed belied by his clouded eyes, struck savagely, instantly, skewering Tunbridge’s hand flat against the tabletop with the pearl-handled stiletto.
Tunbridge howled. The sound exploded in the thick, closed room, startling the sotted company to wakefulness. He clutched at the handle that stood quivering in the meat of his hand, swearing viciously.
Merrick rose, no hint of drunkenness in the graceful movement and swept the coins from the tabletop into his purse. Only then did he take hold the handle of the stiletto. For a moment his gaze locked with Tunbridge’s.
“If there is no card beneath your palm, Lord Tunbridge, I must most sincerely apologize.” With a savage jerk he freed the sharp knife from its fleshy bed. Instinctively, irresistibly, Tunbridge snatched his bleeding hand to his chest.
With a low laugh, Merrick swung around, pushed his way through the men lurching to their feet, and strode from the room. On the table behind him lay the bloodied ace of hearts.