Free Amanda Scott by Dangerous Games Page B

flushed, oval face. She looked frightened and untidy, like a child dragged after midnight from her bed. The heavy cloak concealed her slender—and memorably supple—figure in its swirling folds.
    “Who is that fellow?” Tommy demanded, putting down his cards and getting up.
    The din diminished abruptly to a buzz of curiosity, and Nick’s calm voice carried easily when he said, “Sir Geoffrey Seacourt.”
    “Oh, yes,” Tommy said, nodding. “Seen him at the Billingsgate, I think.”
    Nick said, “Not a stunning recommendation of the place, if that’s where he learned to drag females about, or to enter a room shouting a man’s name for all to hear. But no doubt you’re right. He seems to know Yarborne, at least.”
    “Yes, yes, I remember him. Must be in his cups now, for as I recall, he’s a pleasant fellow. Plays deep, but so do we all. Still, what the devil is he about to be bringing his peculiar into the Little Hell?”
    “I think you will discover that she is not his peculiar.” Nick wished that he had not drunk so much brandy. His mind was not working in its usual reliable way. He dragged his gaze from the girl back to Seacourt. The man’s lips were moving, but Nick could not hear the words.
    A hush fell when the rest of the men realized Seacourt was speaking, and his words floated across the room. “… and I always pay my debts.”
    “Do you indeed?” Yarborne said evenly. “I don’t recall that our agreement included such prompt or public delivery, however.”
    Tommy looked astonished. “Delivery?” he muttered under his breath. “What can he mean by that?”
    “Hush, rattle,” Nick said, “I want to hear this.”
    So, apparently, did everyone else, for aside from the astonished muttering that accompanied Tommy’s exclamation, not another sound was heard until Seacourt said, “As I recall the matter, Yarborne, I agreed to fetch the chit and deliver her to you here at Newmarket.” He glanced away, seemed to become aware of his audience, and smiled, saying to the room at large, “Yarborne agreed to accept an heiress in exchange for those of my vowels that he has collected to date. This is she.”
    When a collective gasp greeted this announcement, his smile widened, but he said, “Now, now, gentlemen, no need for that. Yarborne intends to marry her.”
    Yarborne, looking at the girl with a sneer, said, “You overstep yourself, sir. As I recall our agreement, I agreed to accept this little bird as payment for your debt, but I don’t believe I am bound in any way to marry her. She is but a prize in the game, fairly won, so I can do as I please with her, can I not? When she begins to bore me, would you not agree that I can simply discard her or stake her as the prize for another hand?”
    Nick realized he had clenched his teeth, and consciously relaxed his jaw. It was, after all, no business of his what Seacourt did with his daughter. Reaching for his glass, he sipped. The girl had squared her shoulders at the end of Yarborne’s discourse. She no longer looked like a child. When she tossed her head and reached to push strands of her silky hair back from her face, he saw a bruise darkening her cheek, and stiffened, wishing he might be granted a few moments alone with Sir Geoffrey Seacourt.
    Unruffled by Yarborne’s speech, Seacourt said with a shrug, “She is yours to do with as you please, Yarborne, but you’d do well to remember the reason you agreed to take her in the first place.”
    “Ah, yes,” Yarborne said, “the inheritance. I must say, if she is the great heiress you declared her to be, I don’t know why you would display her to all and sundry in this fashion. I’m by no means certain that I want a wife who has been exhibited as a public spectacle.”
    “Perhaps I was impetuous to deliver her to you at once,” Seacourt said in the same smooth tone that Yarborne had employed. Clearly enjoying himself now, he added, “You may certainly do as you please with the chit once