In the windowless room of a gaming hell in another part of town, the air was heavy and the candles flickered in the wall sconces. Talbott Stoddard glowered across the table at his companions. His long white fingers played with a pile of chips, clicking them together with annoying repetition. His pale blue eyes reflected his impatience at the continued conversation.
"Then after Tattersalls, I took him round to White’s," Sir Edgar Willoughby concluded, his voice a monotone of boredom as befitted those aspiring to the dandy set. The fact that he was well under the hatches contributed to a slight slurring of his words.
"Your hospitality has been superb, cuz, but I much preferred yesterday. Spent the evening at a private establishment," James Chittenden announced, snickering at the remembrance.
"You old dog, Willoughby," Chester Morrison cried. "Don't tell me you went off to Madame Farrageau's."
"Well, rather," Sir Edgar drawled. "The Madame has a magnificent little blond who looks all of ten and three but has the ingenuity of a much traveled wench. Startling cornflower eyes."
"Devil take it, Willoughby, are we here to play cards or to discuss the attributes of every tart in the vicinity of London?" Stoddard snarled.
"I say, old chap, no need to go all toffy-nosed, just because you've had little success with the entrancing Maggie Mason," Willoughby smirked. Drink had made him brave and he was unmindful of the deadly coldness that entered Stoddard's eyes.
Chittenden and Morrison eyed each other in dismay but made no attempt to turn the conversation. For all their apprehension, there was an edge of enjoyment in watching the rising anger of the blond nobleman. Over the years, Stoddard had made many enemies by his unwarranted arrogance and vicious competitiveness. Now the men waited to see if he would rise to the bait.
"I do not recall that I intimated my intentions to acquire La Solitaire. If I had, I assure you even now she would be panting beneath me and you, sir, would be grinding your teeth in envy." Stoddard flicked a hair from his dark blue sleeve of Bath superfine in a patent show of disinterest.
The youthful Willoughby was too deep in his cups to perceive the danger of twitting the man. "The betting book indicates that Lord Farrington will mount her before you ever leave the stalls," he said.
Stoddard slapped his beringed hand on the table. His pile of chips scattered with a tinkling sound that was loud in the silence that followed. "Perhaps you would care to test your knowledge against mine?" he said, his husky whisper more menacing than a shout.
Chittenden rushed into the conversation, knowing full well that, in his present ugly mood, the nobleman was looking for a fight. "Willoughby's foxed, milord. Just running off at the mouth. No reason the rest of us fellows need take offense." He kicked his cousin brutally beneath the table and vowed he would trounce the doltish youngster for daring to risk angering Stoddard to the point of a duel. "Do apologize, Edgar, so that we might get on with our game," he ground out between clenched teeth.
An awareness of the danger he stood in seeped through to Sir Edgar and fear sobered him amazingly fast. He blinked owlishly at the malevolence visible beneath the angelic features of the furious nobleman. His body was bathed in sweat as he cravenly apologized for the stupidity of his words.
Stoddard was cognizant of the pulsing tension of the men at the table and the awareness of their alarm went a long way to lighten his mood. Fear in others excited him. He could smell it and the scent heightened his own pleasure. The remembrance of golden-hazel eyes flashed before his mind. La Solitaire feared him despite her sharp words. He had felt the jump of her pulse when he grasped her wrist. Her eyes had flashed with contempt but before he possessed her those golden eyes would respond as he wished.
Fingers steady, Stoddard gathered his chips into a pile. He smiled at the sigh of relief from his companions as the cardgame resumed, but beneath the cold mask of disdain, he was still filled with an angry core of determination. Drew Farrington would never win La Solitaire.
Drew had been his nemesis for many years. Since their schooldays, Stoddard had forever been in the shadow of the man. The pampered only son of a widowed mother, Talbott had learned at an early age that his angelic looks could be used to advantage. For the most part, he had only to ask for something and it had been given to him. The first time that he had wanted a woman and she did not fall into his lap, had been a bitter experience for him. It was Drew Farrington that the woman had chosen and, for that insult, Stoddard never forgiven the man.
A thin smile etched Stoddard's mouth as he remembered the revenge he had enacted. Drew's best friend was Jason Barringer, a man more comfortable with books than the more manly pursuits. Stoddard had gone out of his way to antagonize Jason until the man had finally insulted him. With steady purpose, Stoddard had demanded satisfaction and met Jason on the field of honor one cold winter dawn.
He could still recall the helplessness in Drew's eyes as he acted as Barringer's second for the duel. Stoddard had taken deadly aim after Jason had fumbled his shot, and it was with great satisfaction that he fired his pistol, killing his man. Granted he had been forced to leave the country for a short period, but it was worth it to see the agony on Farrington's face as he held the body of his friend.
It rankled that Farrington did not know that his friend's death was a well-planned revenge. Stoddard never baited Jason Barringer in Drew's presence and he was careful to have witnesses that would swear Jason had instigated the final argument that led to the challenge. Stoddard knew Farrington's proficiency with both swords and pistols and he would give him no provocation, gloating in the impotent hate he saw reflected in Drew's eyes.
Farrington did however try to thwart Stoddard whenever possible. It still set his teeth on edge when he recalled the set of chestnuts for which Drew outbid him. Later, he had entered a curricle race to Bath, and the damnable Farrington had entered as well, beating him soundly much to the amusement of the other men involved. The few times they had sat in on a card game together, Drew had stripped him of his winnings with a smile of derision that induced a deep loathing in Stoddard.
He had known of Drew's interest in La Solitaire. It was that which first drew his attention to the actress. Since she acknowledged to be unattainable, he wanted the status that would accrue in winning the prize, with the additional fillip that he would have beaten out Farrington. However once he had seen Maggie Mason, he was consumed by desire and the overpowering need to possess her. He pursued her with the single-minded fervor reserved for the Holy Grail. He would risk all to obtain La Solitaire.
Chapter Three