and slipped them to the Comte.
The Earl strode across the room and towered over them. His thin, strong hand clasped the Comte’s ruffled wrist. “Have you been gambling, Charles?” he demanded. Both Charles and the Comte were staring down at the Earl’s hand as if mesmerised. Then the Comte gave a light laugh and said, “I see I have been found out. These are unfortunately some love letters of mine. Charles was my messenger of love and took them to the lady but… alas…” His shoulders rose and fell in a Gallic shrug, “she returned them, as you see.”
“And what the hell has it got to do with you, Roger?” gritted Charles, his pallor highlighting the marks of dissipation on his young face. “Were you not my brother, I would call you out!”
The Earl released the Comte’s wrist, but his eyes still seemed to bore into the package of papers. “Please accept my apologies, Monsieur le Comte. I am… er… overprotective where my brother is concerned.”
“Very commendable,” drawled the Comte, shaking out his ruffles. “I gather you thought Charles was giving me his note of hand.”
“Precisely,” said the Earl. “You see it has happened before. But you have given me your word, Charles, that you have ceased gambling and it is monstróus of me not to take you at your word. Come, little brother, shake hands with me and say you forgive me.”
Charles glared at him and then felt the Comte prod him urgently in the back. “Oh, very well,” he said ungraciously. “But mind you don’t do it again. You ain’t my father, you know.”
“No,” said the Earl with a sigh, “I’m not—although I sometimes think it would be easier an’ I were.”
The Earl bowed to the Comte, nodded to his brother, and turned on his heel and walked back into the ballroom. A frown of worry creased his brow. Charles had been lying, of that he was sure.
Charles drew a breath of relief and then turned to his companion. “Look, de Chernier,” he said. “I can’t stand much more of this. I snitched these papers from Horseguards when I was visiting old Colonel Witherspoon. And I’ve been thinking. You can’t expose me without exposing yourself. What if I tell Roger everything?”
“Then you will hang,” said the Comte, “and so will I. But think, dear boy, my work here is nearly finished. Two more months and then you shall be free.”
“I can’t go on,” said Charles, his thin face working with emotion. “I’m a traitor to my country. Do you know what that means, damn you!”
“Keep your voice down,” said the Comte smoothly. He produced a roll of bank notes from his pocket and held them up in front of Charles who stared at the money as if hypnotised. “Payment for services rendered,” said the Comte softly.
“I won’t take it,” said Charles wildly. “At least you will no longer be able to say I took the money.”
“At Watier’s this evening,” said the Comte, still holding the money in front of Charles’s face, “there is a game of hazard. Golden Ball is playing.” “Ball” Hughes was reputed to be the richest man in London.
“No,” gasped Charles. “I won’t.” But already the gambling fever was burning in his eyes.
“Think,” went on the Comte, leaning his thin face close to the Viscount. “If you pay me back, all I have given you, then I shall return you the papers and you will be free.”
“You swear it,” gasped Charles.
“My word as a de Chernier,” said the Comte with a smile.
“I’ll take it, God damn your rotten soul,” said Charles. “I know I shall be lucky tonight.” He tore the money from the Comte’s hand and almost ran from the room.
The Comte brushed his fingers lightly and turned to enter the ballroom. He found his way was blocked by a large lady with a smile like an alligator.
“’Scuse me, dear Comte,” said this apparition, “being so forward and all. But I am a friend of the Hestletons. Miss Augusta Harvey is my name. Feel free to call on me
The Earl strode across the room and towered over them. His thin, strong hand clasped the Comte’s ruffled wrist. “Have you been gambling, Charles?” he demanded. Both Charles and the Comte were staring down at the Earl’s hand as if mesmerised. Then the Comte gave a light laugh and said, “I see I have been found out. These are unfortunately some love letters of mine. Charles was my messenger of love and took them to the lady but… alas…” His shoulders rose and fell in a Gallic shrug, “she returned them, as you see.”
“And what the hell has it got to do with you, Roger?” gritted Charles, his pallor highlighting the marks of dissipation on his young face. “Were you not my brother, I would call you out!”
The Earl released the Comte’s wrist, but his eyes still seemed to bore into the package of papers. “Please accept my apologies, Monsieur le Comte. I am… er… overprotective where my brother is concerned.”
“Very commendable,” drawled the Comte, shaking out his ruffles. “I gather you thought Charles was giving me his note of hand.”
“Precisely,” said the Earl. “You see it has happened before. But you have given me your word, Charles, that you have ceased gambling and it is monstróus of me not to take you at your word. Come, little brother, shake hands with me and say you forgive me.”
Charles glared at him and then felt the Comte prod him urgently in the back. “Oh, very well,” he said ungraciously. “But mind you don’t do it again. You ain’t my father, you know.”
“No,” said the Earl with a sigh, “I’m not—although I sometimes think it would be easier an’ I were.”
The Earl bowed to the Comte, nodded to his brother, and turned on his heel and walked back into the ballroom. A frown of worry creased his brow. Charles had been lying, of that he was sure.
Charles drew a breath of relief and then turned to his companion. “Look, de Chernier,” he said. “I can’t stand much more of this. I snitched these papers from Horseguards when I was visiting old Colonel Witherspoon. And I’ve been thinking. You can’t expose me without exposing yourself. What if I tell Roger everything?”
“Then you will hang,” said the Comte, “and so will I. But think, dear boy, my work here is nearly finished. Two more months and then you shall be free.”
“I can’t go on,” said Charles, his thin face working with emotion. “I’m a traitor to my country. Do you know what that means, damn you!”
“Keep your voice down,” said the Comte smoothly. He produced a roll of bank notes from his pocket and held them up in front of Charles who stared at the money as if hypnotised. “Payment for services rendered,” said the Comte softly.
“I won’t take it,” said Charles wildly. “At least you will no longer be able to say I took the money.”
“At Watier’s this evening,” said the Comte, still holding the money in front of Charles’s face, “there is a game of hazard. Golden Ball is playing.” “Ball” Hughes was reputed to be the richest man in London.
“No,” gasped Charles. “I won’t.” But already the gambling fever was burning in his eyes.
“Think,” went on the Comte, leaning his thin face close to the Viscount. “If you pay me back, all I have given you, then I shall return you the papers and you will be free.”
“You swear it,” gasped Charles.
“My word as a de Chernier,” said the Comte with a smile.
“I’ll take it, God damn your rotten soul,” said Charles. “I know I shall be lucky tonight.” He tore the money from the Comte’s hand and almost ran from the room.
The Comte brushed his fingers lightly and turned to enter the ballroom. He found his way was blocked by a large lady with a smile like an alligator.
“’Scuse me, dear Comte,” said this apparition, “being so forward and all. But I am a friend of the Hestletons. Miss Augusta Harvey is my name. Feel free to call on me
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