Page 5 of A Rake's Redemption
Alex recognized most of the faces. One was an American he’d won the deed to a house in the French Quarter of New Orleans from several weeks ago. Maybe he’d let the poor sot win it back tonight. Then again, the War of 1812 had ended a year ago, and he’d never been to the States. If he ever got caught in the compromising position offlagrante delicto, a change of scenery might be in order.
The dealer laid out the first faro suit and the men put down their stakes. As the evening wore on, a man by the name of John Adler—who looked like somewhat of a misfit even in this group of misfits—started placing riskier bets as the game changed to poker that the American had introduced them to. Normally, Alex didn’t take advantage of someone in his cups, but the man didn’t appear to be foxed. In fact, he’d only nursed an ale. A compulsive gambler? That was fair game. Alex added a large pile of bills to the middle of the table where the last pot had been left as ante.
“Too much for me,” one man said.
“Right,” another added while two more put down their cards.
John studied his hand and then eyed the money. “I don’t have enough coin to match that.”
Alex smiled. “Then the round is mine.”
“Not so fast.” He looked at the coin again and frowned. “I’ve got me a person in servitude that I can trade.”
Alex studied the man. “What do you mean, the lad is in servitude? We don’t have indentured servants.”
“Well, this one stowed away in my carriage a week ago. Didn’t see him until I got home from a whorehouse. The lad said he was orphaned and got robbed coming to the brothel.” John paused as the men laughed. “When I saw how well he handled horses, I agreed not to turn him over to the authorities. I figure his debt to me is worth several months’ wages.”
Alex didn’t much like the idea of anyone being indentured, legally or otherwise, but it wasn’t his business if the lad stowed away. He reached for the winnings. “I have staff. I don’t need another servant.”
“This one is an Irish lad who knows horses.”
His hand stopped midway. Horses were special to him. How many times as a boy had he galloped wildly across his father’s estate to get away from George and his annoying friends?
“Knows horses?”
John nodded, glancing again at the money. “He’s managed to get those nags I rent out to pick up their hooves and trot. Also good with my private horses. Hard worker, too.”
If the boy really understood horses, Alex could use him. Besides, his conscience was already niggling at him to free the boy. At least he could pay the lad a fair wage. “I accept your bet then.”
John laid down his cards and smirked. “Two tens and two queens.”
Alex smiled and showed his hand. “Four kings.”
…
The next morning, Inis stood on the gravel driveway of a West End estate where John had dropped her off. She looked up at a large stone house the size of a castle. Perhaps the faeries were still at work. Although John lived near Regent’s Park, Inis slept in a tack room at the livery stable he operated in Covent Garden, an area that in the evenings transformed itself with painted ladies parading the streets. It seemed London was teeming with bawdy houses.
Many patrons temporarily stabled their horses at the livery while they visited the women, so Inis hadn’t been able to bolt the barn doors. She’d had a couple of scares when men returning for their horses had eyed her a little too interestedly. One had even said he preferred boys. So much for her disguise keeping her safe. When John told her he’d wagered her remaining months of servitude in a game called poker and lost, she’d signed his IOU without putting up any resistance, even though she didn’t approve of gambling.
Inis looked at her new surroundings. The grounds were well maintained, and the hedges neatly trimmed. John had told her to wait where she was while he went inside to take care of the paperwork, but she wanted to see what was behind the house. Besides, she didn’t like standing still; it wouldn’t hurt to walk about.
As she rounded the corner, her attention was immediately caught by the whitewashed stable. It had freshly painted doors and a tile roof that would make it more fire safe for the animals. She liked the fact the owner cared for his horses and didn’t use thatch or wood shingles.
At the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel, she turned and caught her breath. The tall, broad-shouldered man coming toward her with his windblown dark hair moved with the lithe grace of a stalking panther. Or maybe that was the impression she got because his sea-green eyes riveted on her like she was prey. The white linen shirt he wore had its sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tanned forearms. The collar and several buttons were open, exposing a sculpted chest. Tight breeches clung to well-developed thighs. He looked wild and untamed. Inis felt a tingle of excitement and then remembered she was supposed to be a lad. She pulled her cap down farther.
He stopped in front of her. “You are Inis O’Brien?”
“Aye,” she replied, trying to pitch her voice low, but not too successfully.
“I am Alexander Ashley.” He gestured. “This is Dansworth House.”
Inis felt her blood chill. Sweet Mary and all the saints. What mischief had the faeries done? Although she’d never actually met him, the Duke of Dansworth was her uncle’s friend. If he found out she was Lady Inis Fitzgerald, she’d be sent home for sure.
“’Tis an honor to serve ye, Your Grace,” she stammered, hoping he’d think the catch in her voice was due to his lordly presence rather than her fear of recognition.
A look of amusement swept over his face. “I am not the duke. He is my brother.”
Her blood thawed a little. The brother of a duke could still be dangerous. She would have to be doubly careful to hide her identity. “’Tis still an honor, my lord.”
