The bald man gave a crack of laughter. He made to comment on such amazing luck, but the Dowager frowned him down. It was not surprising that she wanted no distractions in this duel. She dealt the carte anglaise with careful deliberation. This time, the players’ card was a queen. The young man won. With a quick sideways glance, he pocketed his winnings and moved his original stake to join Mr Stratton’s on the ten.
He, too, senses that this is a battle to the death, Marina thought. And he has chosen to side with the men, and with youth, against one solitary old woman.
Marina forced her thoughts back to the cards. Thirteen had been played. She could remember every one. Kit Stratton had staked four hundred pounds on the ten. There were still thirty-nine cards to be faced. And among them were four tens.
Marina was having difficulty remembering the cards.
It had never happened to her before. She had prided herself on that ability, yet now, when it really mattered, it seemed to be deserting her. It was something to do with those strong, lean hands. She could not take her eyes from them. What was it about them? Mostly, they lay relaxed and utterly still on the baize table while Kit Stratton watched the deal of every card. He was like a hawk—a detached, ruthless hunter, ready to launch itself on any quarry that became even slightly vulnerable.
There were only nineteen cards left. And still not a single ten had appeared.
Beyond the archway, a knot of onlookers was gazing across at Lady Luce and her cards. Clearly, Lady Marchant’s table had broken up in order to watch the excitement of the duel between Mr Stratton and the Dowager. Lady Luce frowned across at her unwelcome audience, and then returned her attention to the players. The bald man was leaning back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. The youngster was all excitement. He did not speak, but his eyes kept flicking back and forth from the money lying on the ten to the banker’s set face. There were beads of sweat on his furrowed brow. His fate was bound up with Kit Stratton’s…and the elusive ten.
Lady Luce faced another pair of cards. The bald man’s card won. Impassive, the Dowager pushed his winnings across the table and waited while he decided on his next wager. The pile of paper and coin in front of her was now pitifully small. She desperately needed a winning card.
Marina could see the increasing tension in the Dowager’s fixed smile. Her lips were becoming thinner and thinner. Her hands were absolutely steady, however, as she turned up the next card. A nine to the banker. Useless.
And then the players’ card. A ten.
There was a tiny gasp, quickly muffled, from one of the watchers by the archway. The young man at the table was grinning from ear to ear, but Mr Stratton had not moved a muscle. He was still gazing at the cards.
The Dowager pushed her last two bills across to the young man. With what seemed to be an apologetic glance at Mr Stratton, he pocketed his winnings and moved his stake from the ten to the queen. Lady Luce had no more bills. Rather than count out two hundred pounds in coin, she reached for pen and ink to scribble a vowel for Mr Stratton’s winnings.
His raised hand stayed her.
Marina held her breath, knowing instinctively what was to come.
With a long finger, Kit Stratton indicated that his winnings remained on the table.
This time, Marina herself could not stifle a groan. Kit Stratton was riding his luck. If he won again, the Dowager would have to pay him seven times his stake. That was nearly three thousand pounds!
Lady Luce reached towards the cards. Marina closed her eyes, not daring to look. There were still three tens in the pack under the Dowager’s hand.
A groan from the bald man made her open her eyes once more. The bald man had lost. And Kit Stratton had won with another ten.
This time, Marina knew exactly what he would do. That long finger moved again. All his winnings—against a prize of fifteen times his stake!
Three more deals, and no more tens appeared. The young man lost on his queen. The bald man won on a king.
Kit Stratton sat as if turned to stone.
There were only seven cards left.
Marina forced her whirling mind to concentrate on the cards. What were they? She ought to know.
She frowned into the silence, pushing every other thought out of her mind. Her brain cleared quite suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn back from a chalkboard on which the cards had been written. Two aces, a two, a three, a knave…and two tens.
The bald man had two hundred pounds on the ace. The young man had put his stake on the six. Clearly he had no ability to remember cards.
Mr Stratton’s hand lay carelessly on the green baize, his index finger extended towards one corner of the ten.
It seemed that no one dared to breathe while they waited for Lady Luce to face the next pair of cards. An ace for the banker. And a three for the players.
Lady Luce reached out to remove her winnings from the ace. Marina offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Now, let the same happen with the ten. Please.
The bald man was not prepared to retreat. He looked a little shiftily at the other players and then placed a stake on the ten. It seemed he had decided that Kit Stratton’s luck was in.
With calm deliberation, the Dowager faced her next card. It was a useless two. She paused a moment, then quickly turned over the carte anglaise.
Ten!
The bald man gave a little crow of triumph. It was followed by a pregnant silence as everyone in the room watched to see what Kit Stratton would do. He could take his money now—six thousand pounds—or he could let it ride, in hopes of redoubling his winnings to thirty times his original stake.
For several seconds he sat as still as a statue. What was he thinking? There were only three cards left. Such an experienced gambler must know that the banker now had two chances of winning while the players had only one. The bald man had quickly pocketed his money. He was wise to do so, Marina judged. Surely Kit Stratton could not win again? Only the most hardened gamester would play on.
It seemed that Kit Stratton was a gambler to the core. With total nonchalance he tapped his pile of winnings into place. He never once raised his eyes from the cards.
But, for the briefest moment, an ironic smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.
Marina’s heart was racing. That twitch of the lips had told her everything. Kit Stratton was well aware that the odds were against him, but he was prepared to run with his luck in order to defeat a woman he detested. And if he did not succeed now, he would make sure there were other occasions. He was the Dowager’s enemy.
Marina looked towards Lady Luce. Under her old-fashioned face-paint, her skin was grey. Yet her eyes sparkled angrily. She had accepted Mr Stratton’s latest challenge. Better to risk an unlikely loss of twelve thousand than to pay out on a certain loss of six.
Surreptitiously, Marina crossed the fingers of her right hand. She was not superstitious—she prided herself on being too well educated for such things—but she could not resist the impulse. She must not cross the fingers on her left hand, for that, she remembered a little guiltily, would bring bad luck. She forced herself to watch. Like the Dowager, she would show she was no coward.
Three cards remained—an ace, a knave, and a ten.
Lady Luce’s tiny wrinkled hand hovered over the pack. Then, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, she faced the first of them with a snap. The ace.
Marina dug her crossed fingers into the palm of her left hand. Two cards only. The chances were equal now.
Lady Luce smiled calmly across at the players, but Mr Stratton continued to stare at the table. He could not see the banker’s defiance as she turned the