Playing to Win

  Playing to Win

  By Diane Farr

  A Regency Romance

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  © 1999, 2011 by Diane Farr Golling

  To my hero

  William Earl Golling

  who touched my life and turned it to gold

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  An early version of this book was first published in 1999 as Fair Game by Signet Books, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam.

  Chapter 1

  "But there is nothing to explain," said Trevor Whitlatch. "It is quite simple, madam. You will either compensate me for the goods you stole eleven years ago, or you will suffer the consequences."

  A tense silence ensued, broken only by the soft ticking of an ormolu clock on La Gianetta's elegant mantlepiece. Mr. Whitlatch had not raised his voice, and his smile had not wavered. Nevertheless, Gianetta's admirably strong instinct for self-preservation warned her that her visitor was dangerous.

  With an effort, she hid her alarm behind a smile as smooth as Mr. Whitlatch's. Her smile had bewitched many men over the years. She hoped it retained enough charm to see her through one more crisis.

  On the other hand, Mr. Whitlatch was probably young enough to be her son. Her power to bewitch men in their prime had faded of late. Bah! If the smile failed, she would try tears. Surely one weapon or the other would melt the ice glittering in Mr. Whitlatch's gaze.

  She swept her graceful hands in a dramatic, self-deprecating gesture, and addressed Mr. Whitlatch in the throbbing tones that had once held audiences spellbound. "Ah, m’sieur, you must understand! The world was a different place in 1791, was it not? I was so bewildered, so frightened—all of France in such turmoil! I was leaving my home, all my possessions behind. My life was in ruins. I hardly knew what I did. I never meant to take the rubies off your ship, m’sieur; it was a mistake."

  "Yes, it was," he agreed. "A serious mistake." Mr. Whitlatch's swarthiness gave his grin the swift, white flash of a tiger's snarl.

  He leaned back in the fragile, spindle-legged chair, jammed his hands in his pockets and stretched his long, booted legs across her Aubusson carpet. The effect of this rudeness was that La Gianetta's elegant receiving room seemed suddenly small and stuffy. Trevor Whitlatch was a large man. He inhabited an impressive physique, and several years at sea and abroad had darkened his already harsh features. This, together with the careless way he shrugged into his clothes, gave him an out-of-doors air that dwarfed most interiors. Gianetta fervently hoped her delicate furniture would hold him. She could ill afford to replace it.

  Mr. Whitlatch's unexpected demand could not have come at a more unfortunate time. She was bitterly aware that her desirability increasingly depended upon illusion. She still possessed her hypnotic, lightly-accented voice and remnants of the exotic beauty that had made her famous, but she knew that her prominence among London's demimonde was due more to her celebrated name, and the style in which she lived, than what remained of her personal attractions. If her creditors began to suspect how perilously close to bankruptcy she was, they would hound her into debtors' prison.

  She schooled her features into a look of gentle inquiry. "May I ask what makes the collection of this old debt suddenly a matter of importance? I thought, naturally, that you forgave my little misstep. A small thing to miss, among the riches you bore on that ship alone—and you with so many more ships, so many more voyages! I daresay you would have given me the rubies, had I asked for them. Such a generous young man you were! And I so destitute! I believed if you noticed the loss at all, you considered it a charity, m'sieur."

  His smile turned sardonic. "I prefer to choose my charities, madam, not have them forced upon me by theft."

  "Then why did you not demand the jewels' return immediately? I have heard nothing from you for eleven years. Can you blame me for thinking you considered the rubies a gift?"

  "Yes, I can blame you," he said affably. "I do blame you. I thought I made that clear."

  "Ah, yes, today! But then? Then, m'sieur? I would have returned them to you at once, I swear!" La Gianetta made play with a fine pair of eyes.

  Mr. Whitlatch was unmoved. "Return them to me now," he offered.

  She spread her hands helplessly. "Now? I do not keep them in my house, m’sieur."

  "No, you don’t," he agreed blandly. "Because you sold the rubies immediately upon your arrival in England."

  Gianetta's eyes flashed defiance. "Alors! Do you mock me? Yes, I sold them. Why fly from death in France, only to starve in England?"

  Mr. Whitlatch's lip curled. "You could have sold in London what you had sold for years in Paris. Englishmen pay just as handsomely as Frenchmen for it. I suppose you have learned that by now."

  She arched one delicately drawn eyebrow. Her voice dripped honey. "M'sieur flatters me! But if you know I do not have the rubies, why are you here? Is it possible you have suffered some reversal, sir, that makes it necessary for you to recover funds—even from such as I?"

  Mr. Whitlatch uttered a short bark of laughter. "Unlikely!" he remarked. "No, ma'am, I am here only because your conduct has brought you to my notice once again. Can you guess how?"

  She shook her head, but regarded him warily from beneath her lashes.

  "No? I will tell you." But a small silence fell as Mr. Whitlatch pressed the tips of his long fingers together and frowned, unseeing, at the carpet. When he finally began speaking, his gaze returned to La Gianetta's face and watched her keenly.

  "When you repaid my kindness with theft eleven years ago, I let it go. Your conduct was disgusting, but I did not propose to make myself a laughingstock by prosecuting you. You had played me for a fool. You knew it, and I knew it. I saw no need for the world to know it. So I swallowed my pride and chalked the episode up to experience. You had crossed me, but only once." His voice became silky, and Gianetta shivered. "No one, male or female, crosses Trevor Whitlatch twice."

  "Twice? But I have done nothing else to you!"

  "No, not to me." His eyes lit with sardonic amusement. "Never to me, in point of fact. Even the rubies were not stolen from me. Everything on that ship belonged to my uncle. In those days, I acted merely as his agent, bringing his goods safely from India to England."

  She pounced on this digression. "If that is so, you do wrong to blame me. The fault is entirely your own! Your impulse to save my life was admirable, but you should not have followed it." Her hands swept dramatically to her temples. "You should have left me in Marseilles, to die at the hands of that mob!"

  "I was extremely young, and—er—impressionable." Mr. Whitlatch's teeth flashed in another swift grin. "You were really very lovely."

  She inclined her head stiffly, reluctantly acknowledging the compliment. His eyes twinkled. "You are still easy on the eyes, Gianetta. But in 1791 you were Beauty itself, to a boy who had been at sea entirely too long. And to have so famous a creature as La Gianetta begging for my help—to have stumbled upon Beauty in Distress, and have the means of rescuing her! Who could resist? Not I! That is why I promptly threw caution to the winds, concealed you on my uncle's ship, and brought you safely out of France to England with all the speed I could muster."

  "Your conduct was noble, m'sieur. Noble! I have ever said so. I was deeply grateful to you."

  Mr. Whitlatch's gaze hardened. "So grat
eful, in fact, that you stole a chest of jewels from your benefactor."

  "But, no—a small box!" she demurred, clasping one white hand to her bosom in a gesture eloquent of pained protest.

  "A small box of extremely valuable stones. You knew the theft would go undetected until the inventory sheets were checked, by which time you had disappeared. I was young, with a young man's vanity; you gambled that I would rather make up the difference out of my own pocket than publish to the world how La Gianetta had used me. It was a cynical gamble on your part, madam, but you won it. You then sold the stones and used the money to establish yourself here. You were quite brazen about it. You made no attempt to hide your identity."

  La Gianetta's expressive eyes were raised to his face. "My identity is my fortune, Mr. Whitlatch."

  "I daresay," he said drily. "And now that famous name of yours is lending its cachet to another enterprise that seems quite profitable. You run an elegant, and very popular, gaming hell."

  A demure smile curved her lips. "I hold a few private card parties, m'sieur."

  "Is that the euphemism you prefer? Very well. Your private card parties are extremely well attended, are they not? I understand the attraction of your rooms is enhanced by the presence of certain young women. One hears that these women are every bit as alluring as they are—accommodating."

  La Gianetta waved a dismissive hand. "People will say anything," she cooed. "Naturally I employ certain girls to run the faro table, the roulette wheel—"

  Mr. Whitlatch sat upright, feigning surprise. "Faro and roulette? At a private card party?"

  She stiffened, then eyed him with acute dislike. "As you say, m'sieur. I misspoke."

  "Hm. Well, let that pass. At any rate, we now come to the point where your activities crossed me a second time."

  "Crossed you! How?"

  Mr. Whitlatch leaned forward menacingly. "You have in your employ a certain female who, I have reason to believe, makes it her business to prey upon gullible young men."

  As this description could be applied to any of the young women presently in her employ, La Gianetta lifted an eyebrow but remained silent.

  "This creature has done irreparable harm to a young friend of mine. My friend, in telling me his tale, extracted a promise from me. I promised that I would take no vengeance upon the girl. My hands are tied, then, as far as punishing the hussy who is the principal actor in this little drama. However, madam, I have no doubt that the notorious La Gianetta, though not appearing on the stage, directed the play."

  La Gianetta, now thoroughly alarmed, hid behind a screen of indignation. "I do not know what you mean. What has happened? How am I to blame? Ah, dieu! I do not understand any of it!"

  "Again I say, the matter is simple. I promised my friend that I would not approach your hireling. I therefore approach you." He leaned back in the fragile chair, regarding her keenly. "Your recent crime against my friend I am not at liberty to avenge. I therefore will avenge your past crime against myself—which I otherwise might never have done. Ironic, is it not? But there it is. ‘The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.’ You may not understand the literary allusion, but I am sure you understand the rest of it well enough."

  La Gianetta nervously fingered the pearls clasped round her throat. For a moment she wondered if she could offer them to Mr. Whitlatch in lieu of the rubies. How long would it be before he discovered the pearls were paste? Not long, she decided. Mr. Whitlatch was no fool.

  "What do you want?" she whispered. "You are a businessman, Mr. Whitlatch. There is no profit to you in sending me to prison. What can I offer you to make amends?"

  "Nothing less than the value of the rubies, as listed on my uncle's inventory sheet in 1791. And be grateful I do not charge you interest."

  "What is the sum?"

  He named it. La Gianetta paled beneath her rouge. She had sold the gems for a fraction of their value, and still they had brought her enough to establish herself in style. She had no hope of paying him back the amount she had originally received for the jewels, let alone their actual worth. Ruin stared her in the face.

  "I cannot possibly raise such a sum today. You must give me time," she said hoarsely.

  "But you will pay it?"

  "Yes, yes, of course I will pay it!"

  Mr. Whitlatch studied her for a moment. Her eyes dropped beneath his level gaze. "Spoken too easily, Gianetta. Exactly how do you propose to pay me?"

  "How? Why, I will sell something, of course."

  "What will you sell?" he inquired softly.

  La Gianetta lifted one white shoulder in a petulant shrug. "That is no concern of yours."

  "Forgive me, but I think it is." His eyes bored into her. "In fact, I think it might be foolish for me to leave empty-handed this morning. Who knows? You might find yourself suddenly called out of town. And then where would I be? Particularly if you failed to return." He chuckled at the glare of pure hatred she shot him. "Exactly so, ma'am! I would be wise to take away with me whatever item you possess that you think might fetch such a price."

  The clock ticked. Motes of dust danced in the thin November sunlight pouring through the window. La Gianetta was clearly at a loss. Mr. Whitlatch waited politely.

  Slowly her look of confusion was replaced by an arrested look; she grew thoughtful. She cast him a speculative glance. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. That somehow seemed to decide her. She reached out briskly and rang for a servant.

  "I will show you my most valuable possession," she told him composedly. "You will decide its worth for yourself."

  Mr. Whitlatch was conscious of a feeling of surprise. What the devil was she about? He had expected tears, begging, panic. Instead, La Gianetta looked like a cat at a creampot. She almost purred.

  He frowned. "I am not competent to judge the value of jewelry on sight. If you propose to send me away with some trumpery bestowed on you by—"

  He broke off, instantly suspicious. Gianetta’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

  "You are competent to judge the value of this particular jewel, Mr. Whitlatch. All the world knows you are something of a connoisseur in this line."

  A scrawny wench in a mob cap arrived, and La Gianetta entered into a soft-voiced colloquy in French. Mystified, Mr. Whitlatch watched as the servant uttered a frightened protest, which Gianetta swiftly quelled with a sharp word. The girl then withdrew, eyes big with alarm, to perform whatever office her mistress had requested.

  "Marie is reluctant to do my bidding, Mr. Whitlatch. You have seen her reluctance." La Gianetta's eyes blinked rapidly, but Mr. Whitlatch perceived that the eyes behind the fluttering lashes were dry. "Ah, m'sieur, if you only knew what this costs me! I, too, am reluctant to bring before you my precious jewel, my pearl of great price. I very much fear that you will take my treasure away with you, never again to be seen by me! But I will not blame you; no, for this prize has only to be seen to be desired. You will be amazed, Mr. Whitlatch. Very few people know of my treasure's existence. My treasure of incalculable worth!"

  Mr. Whitlatch's eyes narrowed. Gianetta sounded exactly like a Calcutta street peddlar who had once tried to sell him a brass ornament, swearing it was gold. "What sort of treasure, madam?"

  She again made play with her eyelashes. "My only child, sir. A daughter."

  With an oath, Mr. Whitlatch rose and strode to the window. "I am no slaver, madam! You may keep your daughter."

  Her smile reflected in the windowpane. "You have not seen her yet," she said simply.

  Mr. Whitlatch, torn between exasperation and curiosity, turned his scowling gaze back to his hostess. "I never heard that you had a daughter."

  The catlike smile still curved her painted mouth. "Few know of her existence, and no one has seen her." La Gianetta’s voice resumed its dramatic throb. "She is completely untouched, sir."

  Mr. Whitlatch gave an inelegant snort. A likely tale! He was about to be presented with some pretty child La Gianetta had picked up, God knows whe
re, planning to foist upon the public as her own. Rich men would vie for the privilege of deflowering any wench believed to be the daughter of the legendary Gianetta. The chit would fetch a high price. He supposed his demand for payment had upset these well-laid plans, and Gianetta now would try to fob him off with the girl instead of proper repayment. Mr. Whitlatch felt a stab of disgust. La Gianetta was a whore to her very soul.

  "Let me be sure I understand you, madam. Do you propose to give me this unfortunate female in exchange for my stolen property? You would not hesitate to sell your ‘daughter’ to a virtual stranger?"

  "You are no stranger to me, Mr. Whitlatch. It is true we did not know one another before you rescued me from France, and we have not seen each other since, but your conduct in 1791 was heroic. Heroic! There is no other word for it."

  He almost yelped with derision. "I can think of several other words for it!"

  She waved this aside. "Your reputation, too, is well known to me. You are an honorable man, just and fair in all your dealings."

  A self-mocking grin flashed across his features. "If you believe me to be honorable where women are concerned, madam, you have been strangely misinformed."

  To his surprise, La Gianetta met his eyes frankly for the first time. "You are mistaken, Mr. Whitlatch. You offer marriage to no one, so you believe yourself to be a hardened rake. But me, I have some experience of rakes, m'sieur! You are no rake. On the contrary; you are a romantic."

  "I?" gasped Mr. Whitlatch, revolted.

  She smiled serenely. "You have told me, m'sieur, that you found me beautiful eleven years ago. I was completely in your power for many days, and deeply grateful to you as well. I would have refused you nothing. You must have known this, yet you never touched me."

  Mr. Whitlatch's frown returned. He shrugged, and leaned negligently against the window. "Only a cad would take advantage of a woman in such circumstances."