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dog-eared. Oliver started signing chits.
"Are you sure, old man?" Comfort asked after the third or fourth.
Oliver waved his manicured hand. "M'cousin can't live forever, don't
you know. Besides, you'll be wishing me happy soon enough, and the dibs'll
be in tune then."
"Why, I'll wish you happy tonight," the viscount declared as he won yet
another hand. "Barty, how about some champagne?"
Oliver didn't see Comfort's signal to the butler, and he didn't taste the
powder that got mixed into his glass. He did hear the sum of his debts.
"I& I don't feel quite well, my lord. You'll have to excuse me."
As soon as Oliver staggered off to his bed, shaking his head like a dog
with water in its ears, Bartholemew placed a cup of coffee on the deal
table. He placed Oliver's "lucky, deck" beside it.
Craighton gathered up his winnings, leaving a neat stack of pound notes
on the table that was beneath either man's dignity to notice or discuss. He
held up Oliver's vouchers. "It seems I made myself a fortune tonight,
Barty."
The butler shook his head. "I hope you don't grow as old as I am, my
lord, waiting to be paid."
Comfort stood and put the marked deck in his coat pocket. "Oh, I fully
intend to collect."
Then he went to his room and undressed, coat, waistcoat, neckcloth,
shoes, and stockings. He debated about leaving his silk shirt, but
compromised by undoing the topmost buttons. Over the shirt and his
breeches he put on a maroon velvet robe. Then he opened his door and
listened. Sure enough, he could hear Oliver snoring from the room across
the hall. Pulling a card from the deck Bartholemew had handed him, the
viscount slid it half under the door of Oliver's room.
The card, of course, was the joker.
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
he screams came right on cue. First the viscount heard the whisper of
T
 satin, he guessed from behind his own barely cracked door. Then a knob
being turned. He'd have to tell old Barty the doors needed oiling. He
couldn't make out the whispered endearments, just a soft murmur, but he
could imagine the satin negligee drifting to the carpet, the white hand
reaching to turn down the bedclothes, and the lush body gliding onto the
bed, under the covers. Having played the scene so many times, Comfort
didn't need to hear the widow's next lines, about how her darling could
have stayed awake for her, could have left a lamp burning for her, could
have welcomed her with a bit more enthusiasm. Mistresses always found
something to complain about.
Aubergine wouldn't give up, not with so much at stake. She'd rouse her
reluctant lover one way or the other. Craighton hoped Barty'd mixed just
the right amount of the sleeping draught so Oliver got some pleasure out
of the evening. It was going to be his last, unless matters were concluded
to Comfort's satisfaction.
The clunch made either the wrong response or no response at all. The
viscount thought he detected a ribbon of light from under Oliver's door
and started counting. Two& three& A banshee's wail rang through the
corridors of Lord Carroll's country home. Aubergine wasn't waiting for her
maid to come cry rape or whatever she'd been planning; she brought the
house down herself.
In case anyone missed the screech, and to cover up Aubergine's cries of
"You sure as Hades aren't Comfort!" the viscount added his own efforts.
"What's toward?" he shouted as if to his valet. "Are we under attack? Is
the house on fire?"
Comfort's valet was long abed in the attics, but a voice down the hall
picked up the call. "Fire? Did someone say fire?"
Doors opened, half-awake guests poured into the hall. The viscount
made sure he wasn't the first in the corridor, so someone else had to say,
"I think the screams came from this room."
As if he'd read the script, Lord Carroll thundered down the hall,
nightcap bobbing, with his wife and daughters close behind. He pushed
open the door to Oliver's room and raced inside.
"Bloody hell, Oliver. In your own family's seat? Have you no pride?"
Aubergine was beating the hapless Oliver over the head with a pillow.
"You weren't supposed to be here, you jackass! This is Comfort's room!"
"Thought it was mine. Head's not quite right, don't you know." Oliver
was having trouble focusing his eyes, and not just because of the drugged
wine. Aubergine was stark naked. The pillow wasn't the only thing flailing
about.
The chorus in the hall gave a collective gasp. One matron fainted. An
ingénue giggled. Lady Carroll quickly ushered her daughters from the
crowded room.
The viscount stepped forward, since everyone else seemed too stupefied
to move, and handed the widow her robe. He was right; it was satin. He
held it out, eyes averted, so Aubergine couldn't see his grin. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]