Nate hurried out of the Carlow town house and down the street, feeling the cold sweat beading on his brow. Of all the people, in all the places, why had he been greeted by Diana Price? He had been nervous enough, going to the house at all. But once he had arrived on Albemarle Street, the feelings of his youth returned. As a boy, he had run across the chequered floor of the front hall, chasing and being chased, laughing and playing. It had been as a second home to him. And to feel that moment of pleasure, as the young woman had entered the room. The Carlow daughters grown to beauty? But no. A stranger. A very attractive stranger. Delight, curiosity, an awakening of old feelings in him, long suppressed.
She was a lovely thing, with shining dark hair, and a small pursed mouth, ready to be kissed. Her large brown eyes were intelligent, but full of an innocence he never saw in the female denizens of the Fourth Circle.
She had looked at him without judgment or expectation, and a hint of responding interest that proved she was not wife to Marcus or Hal. Nate had felt quite like the man he once hoped to be. For a few moments, he was an ordinary gentleman meeting a pretty girl in a nice parlour, with none of the stink of the gaming hell on his clothes or in his mind.
And then he had discovered her identity, and it had all come crashing down. Thank God he had not decided to use his true name, for if she'd realized...
He hailed a cab in Piccadilly to Covent Garden and Suffolk Street, to the low haunts inhabited by Nate Dale the gambler. If the man he sought was anywhere, he would be here, waiting in the spot that he'd last been seen.
Nate went from the dim street, into the dim tavern connected by a tunnel to the Fourth Circle. 'Mr Dale, returning so soon? And in daylight.' Dante Jones saw him less as a friend than as a way to bring more people to the tables. 'To what do we owe this honour?'
'Mr Jones,' he responded, with barely a nod, resenting the grimy way he felt when the man looked at him as though he was nothing more than a meal ticket. 'Where is the damned Gypsy?'
'The man who you beat last night? In the same spot as when you left him. And I am glad to have him, for his play draws quite a crowd. He is very nearly as lucky as you.'
'Not any more.' Nate stalked past Dante and into the gaming room to find Stephano Beshaley, or whoever he chose to be called today, seated in Nate's regular chair, as though he owned it. He seemed impervious to the action around him, nursing his drink, long slender legs outstretched, as though he had been waiting for Nate's return.
Nate pulled the silk rope from his pocket, and threw it down on the table in front of the Gypsy. 'Take it back.'
Stephano only smiled and sipped his drink. 'Once it is given, there is no returning it.'
'Take it back. You have had your fun.'
'Fun?' Nate's former friend greeted this with a bitter twist of his mouth and an arched eyebrow. 'Is that what you think this is for me?'
'I think you take pleasure in tormenting me. But you have done enough.'
And there was the ironic smile again. 'You have changed much, in a few short hours. Last night, you said that there was nothing left to hurt you.'
'And I was wrong. I freely admit it. You have found the one thing.'
Beshaley laughed. 'I? I found nothing. But apparently you have. And I wish you to get what you deserve from it.'
'You knew where I would go, when you returned. And you knew that Diana Price would be there, waiting for me.'
'Who?' The Gypsy seemed honestly puzzled.
Nate reached into his pocket, and removed the tattered piece of paper that he had carried with him for ten years, like Coleridge's albatross. He set it on the table before his old friend, who read aloud.
Should I lose the next hand, I pledge in payment my last thing of value. The maidenhead of my daughter, Diana.
Edgar Price
June 3rd 1804
Beshaley sneered back at him. 'Just for a moment yesterday, I almost believed you. If you are innocent of any crime, then to carry vengeance to the second generation is to damn myself. But a man who would take such a thing in trade for a gambling debt deserves to suffer all that fate wishes to bring him.'