CHAPTER ONE
Somerset, mid-September 1812
Gerald Hawkesworth stared at his cards. Though not a religious man, he began to pray to the Almighty that no one would call his bluff.
But his cousin, the raffish Peter Stephens, who had been winning at piquet the whole night, declared, "I'll bet another five pounds."
Gerald's mouth went dry. He ran the fingers of one hand through his already-thinning mousy brown hair. His voice came out as a whisper. "I haven't got another five pounds."
"Pardon?" Peter demanded.
Gerald cleared his throat, but could not stall forever. "I said, Cousin, I haven't got another five pounds."
Peter smiled mockingly at his discomfiture. He was about to offer to take his vowels at a substantial rate of interest, but the rest of the group were growing impatient.
"If you have nothing left, you shall have to show your cards, and there will be an end to it," dark-haired Malcolm Branson said.
Gerald looked from Peter to Malcolm, and laid them down on the table reluctantly. Everyone at the table laughed, and the men on either side of Peter clapped him on the shoulders.
"Well done. He was feigning all along, thinking to face you out," Timothy Bridges said with a laugh.
Stephens began to gather up the huge pot, looking immensely pleased despite the fact that he had just cleaned out his own cousin.
Or perhaps because of it? The rest of the men didn't care to speculate too deeply on the family rivalry, and started to rise from the table. After all, it was a ball. They really ought to have at least a couple of dances before going home, if only to keep the ladies happy.
Gerald was puce with embarrassment and ire. "I'm not finished yet!"
They turned back to stare at him in astonishment.
Malcolm, son of the local magistrate and ever a peacemaker, decided to do what he could to avoid a scene. "My dear fellow, you couldn't even match the five pounds Peter put down. Don't you think you've lost enough for one night?"
"Enough? I've lost it all, nearly. That's why you simply have to give me a chance to get some of it back."
They all stared at him, stunned by his admission.
"One last bet gentlemen, please."
"What do you have left that's of any value?" Toby Stephens asked. "You've sold everything you own inside Hawkesworth House, which is mortgaged to the hilt. What can you offer that would be of equal value to the pot on the table?"
They watched Gerald's mind racing. Suddenly he grinned from ear to ear. "My sister Vanessa."
A gasp went around the room.
"Good God, man, you're drunk!" Malcolm exclaimed.
Gerald declared above the buzz of conversation which had resumed, "I'm perfectly sober and serious. Her maternal aunt has just died, leaving her a wealthy heiress in her own right. I'm willing to bet Vanessa and her fortune against every penny on that table, and more besides, if anyone else is eager to secure a rich as well as beautiful young bride."
Timothy Bridges sniggered. Others stared open-mouthed.
But Malcolm could see the rather wild Gerald Hawkesworth was completely in earnest. "I say it's impossible. You can't gamble for a woman. Besides, several of the men here are already married. Even if your sister were amenable to be put up as a stake, they are not eligible to win her."
"But there might be others willing to pay the ante to take their place around the table," Gerald urged. "With her wealth..."
To Malcolm's horror, several of the men standing nearby nodded. He searched their faces for any sign of repugnance, but found none. "This is madness," he protested.
"Well, I'm game," Timothy declared, rubbing his hands together. "By all accounts she's a lovely little filly. Her fortune is certainly not a mean one."
"But Timothy, you're already engaged to the Clarence girl. Stop this folly at once!"
Timothy turned on Malcolm. "Mind your own business. I can do as I like. The Clarence girl is ugly, and her fortune isn't nearly as good as Vanessa Hawkesworth's. Deal me in."
"And me," said Gerald's friends James Cavendish, and his twin brother Charles simultaneously. Both gave each other a knowing look.
Malcolm tried to appeal to their common sense. "How on earth could you even be sure Miss Hawkesworth would agree? I'm told she is a woman of discretion and good breeding."
Gerald said haughtily, "Where family honor is at stake, she would agree. I say let the game go ahead. If anyone else wants to be dealt in or out, declare it now."
Tall blond Clifford Stone, who had been standing in the corner silently watching his neighbor make a complete ass of himself, could now see that Gerald and the other men were completely in earnest upon this new game.