Yet as he now gazed at the man who had driven his mother to suicide and forever changed his life, Sebastian was surprised at how calm he felt. Perhaps it was because his plan for revenge was so simple?
Sebastian knew the course he must take had to be an honorable one. Hence a duel would be fought between himself and the earl.
The practice of dueling had been employed for centuries by gentlemen throughout the world as a means to appease honor and exact justice. Though frowned upon by society, it occurred nevertheless and in far greater numbers than many believed.
Sebastian knew he had the grounds to accuse the earl of causing his mother’s untimely demise, but he would not reveal the truth and sully her memory. Amazingly, his grandmother had managed to keep her daughter-in-law’s suicide a secret. There had never been a whisper of scandal attached to his mother’s name either before or after her death and Sebastian was determined to keep it that way. As far as society knew, this duel would be fought for a completely different reason.
It would be fought for something foolish and ridiculous and false—an accusation of cheating at cards. The ironic justice of it all sat well with both Sebastian’s conscience and macabre sense of humor.
It would actually be fairly simple to call the earl’s honor into question. After Hetfield had won an especially large pot, Sebastian would accuse him of cheating, demand satisfaction, set the duel, and thoroughly disgrace the man. Either swords or pistols would serve nicely, since Sebastian was an expert at both.
“Benton?” With a practiced gesture, Dawson held out the deck. “Will you draw?”
Sebastian gave his cards a cursory glance, declined any new ones, then tossed a coin in the center of the table. The key to winning at vingt-et-un was an awareness of what cards had already been played, coupled with the ability to calculate the odds as to which cards would next appear. It was something Sebastian excelled at doing.
He watched closely as the earl lifted the edge of one card and stared down at it, contemplating his next move. Sebastian’s adversary was a strong player, his moves bold and decisive. Of all the gentlemen at the table he was clearly the most skilled. Except for Sebastian, who was deliberately tossing away most of his winning hands.
At Dawson’s signal the players turned their cards face up. “Twenty-one,” Dawson said. “Lord Hetfield wins.”
“Damn, Lady Luck is certainly smiling upon you tonight, Hetfield,” Lord Faber grumbled. “That’s three times in a row you’ve won.”
“Perhaps you would prefer to switch to hazard, Lord Faber?” the earl asked with a smile.
“Ha! Hazard’s a game for young fools,” Lord Faber replied. “Makes no sense at all to throw away good coin on a pair of dice.”
Play continued. The earl won the majority of the next dozen hands, his pile of winning coins nearly double the size of any of the other players. Dawson was his usual congenial self, dealing the cards with good humor as he tried to keep the game light-hearted and friendly. Sir Charles continued drinking at a steady pace while Lord Faber pressed his luck with mediocre hands, inching the play to a higher pitch as he tried to recoup some of his losses.
Nerves on edge, Sebastian pushed his whiskey glass out of easy reach, not wanting to tempt himself. For this plan to work he needed to be sober and clearheaded. Accusations hurled by a man too deep in his cups were never taken seriously.
Sebastian would have preferred to confront the earl in a gaming hell, where the clientele was seedy and desperate, but that could have easily put his plan in jeopardy. Accusations of cheating in the hells were a common occurrence. With the rare exception, the recipients of these charges were less concerned about their honor and more focused on being allowed to continue in the game. Things rarely escalated to a duel.
“The bet is to you, Hetfield,” Dawson said.
The earl had a six and five displayed and a third card turned facedown. He hesitated. Sebastian marveled at his outward calm, for he knew the concealed card made the earl’s hand unbeatable.
Taking a deep breath, Sebastian smiled at the earl with the most serene expression he could muster. Hetfield returned the grin and tossed in another coin. Excellent.
“Another twenty-one?” Lord Faber exclaimed bitterly when the hands were revealed. “You really do have the devil’s own luck tonight, Hetfield.”
Finally! Lord Faber’s annoyance could not have been timed more perfectly. Emotions raging, Sebastian cleared his throat.
“Strange, the last time I checked there were four kings in a deck. How is it exactly that you were able to play a fifth, Lord Hetfield?” Sebastian asked, his tone carrying an edge of accusation.
“A fifth?” Sir Charles spoke in a slow, slurred voice. “Are you sure?”
“I am,” Sebastian replied forcefully, knowing it was indeed the truth, since he had been the one to maneuver the card into the earl’s hand.
“That’s preposterous!” the earl cried.
“No, wait, I think Benton might be on to something,” Sir Charles said. “I believe I did see the king of spades earlier in the game too.”
“Hell, Charles, you’re too foxed to see much of anything!” the earl exclaimed.
“Rubbish!”
Sebastian held his smile. Sir Charles’s exclamation of indignity would have been a bit more effective if he hadn’t followed it by downing the rest of the brandy in his glass. Still, that was one player on his side. Two more to go.
“Did you notice anything amiss, my lord?” Sebastian asked, turning to the gentleman on his left.
Lord Faber coughed nervously, his thick, stubby fingers pressed against his mouth. “Now that you mention it, I might have seen the king of spades in the first round of play.”
“You did,” Sebastian insisted.
“What are you suggesting, Benton?” the earl asked, his voice sharp.
“I am suggesting nothing,” Sebastian drawled. “I am simply stating a fact. ‘Tis impossible for you to have played that particular card legitimately.”
A gasp was heard, followed quickly by the low, muttering drone of voices. It spread through the card room like wildfire. Good. Let them all talk. An accusation of cheating was never lightly dismissed, even among the most hardened gamesters.
The tension in the room grew palpable and a remarkable stillness settled over everything. Play ceased at the nearest tables as the occupants turned their attention to the drama unfolding. Though it set him further on edge, Sebastian welcomed their interest. The more men who saw the exchange, the harder it would be for Hetfield to walk away.
“There is of course only one way for a true gentleman to settle the matter.” Sebastian set his hands on the table, then pushed himself to his feet. “Name your second, Hetfield.”
“What?” The earl jerked awkwardly to his feet, toppling his chair.
“I believe I have made myself perfectly clear. Are you going to defend yourself or not?”
A faint hint of emotion flashed in the earl’s eyes. Fear? Recognition? Had he finally figured out that Sebastian was Evangeline’s son, the woman he had scorned so cruelly all those years ago? The woman who had taken her own life because of the earl’s disgraceful behavior.
Two spots of red burned in the earl’s cheeks, yet his voice was calm when he spoke. “This is simply preposterous. You are, of course, mistaken, Lord Benton. I refuse to dignify this ludicrous bit of nonsense with a response.”
“Yes, quite right, my lord.” Dawson stuck his index finger inside the top of his cravat and tugged nervously on it. “I am certain there was only one king of spades. This was