It was impossible to tell by his expression which family he meant, the Hebdens or the Beshaleys. And so Nathan responded, 'For our families. Whoever they may be.'
The Gypsy let out a bark of laughter. 'Very well. If I have information to give, you shall have it.' And then, with a sidelong glance, 'If, when the time comes, you are still so eager to throw your life away on the past.' He tossed his cards on the table and stood up. He waved his hand in a strange gesture of blessing, and said, 'God keep you, Nathan. May I dance at your wedding.' He moved quickly away, so that he could not hear Nathan's responding curse to such a sarcastic parting.
Nate rubbed his temples, wondering if the Gypsy's headache was contagious. The air was oppressive, heavy with tobacco smoke and the smell of too much whisky and too many overheated bodies. He longed for the fresh scent of the park, the feel of the cool breeze on his face.
And if he were honest, the feel of a small hand in his. But he did not dare go back. For suppose he was to see her? She could have the park and Bond Street, along with the house. Half of all London would be hers, if it meant that he would not have to see her again. There was nothing left he could offer her. He had given everything he had, and there had been no response. He must accept it. This was home. Hyde Park was a million miles away from the room he was in, and as dangerous a journey as a trip to the Indies. It would be too painful to risk another meeting.
He heard ribald laughter from the front of the room, and then the crowd parted, as a woman timidly approached his table.
'Diana.' The cards slipped from his hands. He gathered them quickly and shuffled in a skilled, nonchalant manner, so that she might not see how her arrival had unnerved him. Why had she come here, just as he was trying to reconcile himself to the loss of her? He had to fight with all his might against the urge to jump to his feet, hide the cards behind his back and stammer an apology for being caught in so low a place.
But it would do little good. If she knew to seek him here, there was no way to present this to her as an isolated occurrence. He could not pretend that he was any different than what he was, a habitual gambler, as at home here as she was sitting before the parlour fire in his old home. And so, he composed himself. 'I beg your pardon. Miss Price.' He rose to honour her properly, and offered a bow and a smile that was courteous, but would give no indication to those around him that she was anything more to him than an acquaintance.
'Mr Dale.' She looked nervous. Was it just the gaming hell that made her uncomfortable or was it his presence? He had longed to see her again. But the sight of her unhappiness was even more painful than her absence had been.
'Mr Wardale,' he corrected. 'If you please.'
'You have decided to use your real name, then?' Her lips formed what might almost have been a smile of approval.
He nodded. 'It is time, don't you think? In the end, the alias proved to be more bother than it was worth.'
'What of your troubles with the Navy?'
'I mean to see to it that they are the Navy's troubles with me. They took me unjustly. They must acknowledge the fact.'
She nodded. 'It pleases me to see you are ready to face your past.'
And what good did it do him, that she was pleased? 'I assure you, it is hardly a magical transformation of my character. No matter my opinions on the past, the present is likely to stay just as it is.' He gestured around the room to remind her of their surroundings. 'I did not expect to see you again, certainly not in such a place as this. I trust that you will not think it a breach of my promise to leave you in peace. I will quit the city, if my presence in it is a problem for you.'
'No. No, of course not. That will not be necessary. It is a very big city, is it not?' She sat down at the empty seat across from him, fussing with her skirts. She was wearing the green silk dress that she had worn to seduce him; he wondered if that had meaning or was merely her attempt to blend with the gaudiness of the surroundings.
She leaned forward, almost confidentially. And he doubted, from the innocent look in her eyes, that she realized what a fascinating thing it did to her decollete. 'There is more than enough room in London for the two of us.'
The two of them. If for once his life had turned out the way he wished, they would have needed very little space at all. He stared fixedly back at her, reminding himself that a gaming table was no place to show emotion. He looked directly into her eyes, waiting for her to speak.
Then, without a word, she removed a wad of folded bills from her reticule and set them upon the table, pushing them to his side. 'I believe these are yours.'
'Not any more. At one time, they belonged to your father. I no longer wish to retain them.'
Her returning smile to him was surprisingly cynical. 'If you meant to repay what my father lost to you, then it is not enough.'