A Falcon Flies b-1 Read online

  The women's skirts were taffeta and flounced silk over pyramids of petticoats. However, they were at least two years behind the London fashions, for only the most daring ladies had bared their shoulders, and powdered them dead white.

  Robyn's own dress made no concession to fashion, for it was years old, the only one that she possessed even vaguely suitable for the occasion. The cloth was wool, the skirt narrow, the bodice adorned with neither seed pearls nor sequins. There were neither ostrich feathers nor diamantines to sparkle in her hair. She should have been dowdy, but instead she was strikingly different.

  When she had told Codrington that she did not dance it was because she had never had the occasion, and she regretted it now as she watched Zouga lead Aletta Cartwright on to the floor and swirl away in the graceful dip and turn of the waltz.

  She knew that nobody would invite her to dance, and that if they did she would be awkward and untutored.

  She turned away quickly, seeking a familiar or friendly face, She did not want to be left standing alone in the crowd. She began bitterly to regret that she had not stood by her resolution to stay away.

  Her relief came with such a rush that she could have thrown her arms around his neck and embraced him.

  Instead she said evenly, "Ah, Captain Codrington. Good evening."

  He really was one of the better-looking men in the room, she thought. She could sense the resentment of some of the younger women, so quite deliberately she took his arm as he offered it, but was surprised that he led her immediately through into the garden. He's here! " he said quietly, as soon as they were out of earshot of the others.

  She did not have to ask who, and she felt the little jolt of shock that kept her silent for a moment. You have seen him? "He arrived five minutes before you did, in the Governor's carriage.

  "Where is he now? "He went into Slogger's study, with the Governor."

  Clinton's face was set and hard. "The fellow flaunts himself."

  A servant approached them with a silver tray of champagne flutes.

  Robyn shook her head distractedly but Clinton took a glass and drank it in two gulps. The devil of it is that nobody can touch him, " he fumed.

  When the evening turned chill, the Marine band moved on to the orchestral balcony above the ballroom floor and punched out the dance tunes with a bouncing martial air that set the dancers spinning and prancing.

  One dancer stood out above the others, not merely because of his physical height. When the others hopped and strained with gasping breath and flushed faces, Mungo St. John seemed to turn and dip and glide with measured, unhurried grace although he completed a circuit of the ballroom floor more swiftly than any other dancer. Always there was one of the prettiest women in the room swinging in the circle of his arms, laughing up at him, cheeks flushed with excitement, and a dozen others watching him with covert envy over the shoulders of their own partners.

  Clinton and Robyn watched hi-in also, from the raised and colonnaded balcony that surrounded the dance floor.

  They stood in a small circle of Clinton's brother officers and their ladies, making no serious effort to contribute to the light chatter around them.

  Robyn found herself hoping that St. John would look up at her, would catch her eye so that she could flash her hatred at him; but he never glanced once in her direction.

  She even thought of suggesting to Clinton Codrington that they should dance, despite her earlier protestations, but quickly decided against it. She knew that as a dancer, the naval captain would not be able to stand comparison with the elegant American.

  When she went in to dinner on Clinton's arm, she saw St. John ahead of them. He had a blond woman on his arm, notoriously the Colony's prettiest, richest and most voracious widow. Her coiffure was an elaborate creation of diamantE and ostrich feathers, her shoulders were bared and she showed more of her bosom than she concealed beneath a brocaded bodice stiff with seed pearls.

  Mungo St. John wore simple black and white evening dress with more panache than any of the most elaborate military uniforms around him.

  Robyn watched the woman tap his shoulder with her fan to attract his attention and then reach up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, while St. John stooped gravely to listen. The woman's a brazen whore, Robyn hissed, and beside her Clinton covered his shock at the word, and then nodded. And he's the very devil himself."

  it was as though St. John heard them, for he glanced up and saw them watching him across the room. He bowed and smiled at Robyn.

  It was such an intimate, completely knowing smile that she felt as though he had stripped her naked again, the way he had in the stern cabin of Huron, and immediately she felt the same feeling of helplessness overwhelm her.

  with a huge effort she managed to turn away, but Clinton had been watching her. She could not meet his eyes, she felt he would be able to read it all if she did.

  Two hours after midnight the Marine band was playing the less strenuous airs for the lovers and romantics who still circled the ballroom floor, but most of the company had gone up to the cardrooms on the first floor, if not to play themselves, then to crowd around the tables and watch with hushed attention and the occasional bursts of applause at a particularly audacious or successful coup.

  In the largest room the game was whist and the players were Slogger Kemp and the older guests. In the second room the younger set were at the light-hearted cheminde-fer and Zouga smiled at Robyn as she passed. He and Aletta. Cartwright were playing a single hand between them, and the girl squealed with glee as she won a handful of silver shillings.

  Robyn and Clinton passed on into the third and smallest salon. Here it was the game that had once been popular only in America. Recently, however, it had come into sudden vogue at court when the Queen had found it fascinating, and in consequence it was all the rage around the empire despite the odd name, poker.

  In spite of Her Majesty's interest in it, it was still not considered a game for ladies to play in mixed company.

  Only men sat at the green baize, although the ladies fluttered around them like bright butterflies.

  Mungo St. John sat facing the doorway so that Robyn saw him the instant she stepped into the room. He lazed in his chair, the waves of his dark hair unruffled and sleeked down as if carved from polished ebony, holding a tight fan of cards low against the snowy lace front of his shirt. There was a long black unlit cheroot between his teeth, and as Robyn watched the blond widow leaned across his shoulder displaying the creamy cleavage between her breasts and held a Vesta to the cheroot.

  St. John sucked flame into the tip of the cheroot, blew a long feather of blue smoke and thanked her with a slant of his eyes before he made his next bid.

  He was an obvious winner, a careless pile of gold spilled across the table in front of him, each coin embossed with the Grecian style head of Queen Victoria looking much younger than her forty-one years, and as they watched, he won again.

  Excitement seemed to exude from the man like a tangible substance, infecting the women about the table so they exclaimed at every wager he made, and sighed with disappointment if he folded his cards and declined to play a hand. The same excitement spread to the five other men at the table. It was obvious in the glitter of the eyes, in the white knuckles of the fingers that held their cards, in the rash calls and the imprudent urge that made them remain in play long after chance and the odds were evidently against them. It was clear that all of them saw St. John as the main adversary, and the tension went out of each hand if he was not in play.

  Robyn felt herself held by the same fascination, and unconsciously tightened her gnip on Clinton's arm as the suspense mounted in each hand and the gold coins tinkled in the centre of the table, and she heard herself gasp with chagrin or relief at the show of cards that ended each hand.

  Unconsciously, she had moved closer to the table drawing Clinton with her, so that when one of the players exclaimed with disgust, "Fifty guineas is enough for one night. Will you excuse me, gentlemen? " g
athered his few remaining coins from the table and pushed back his chair, they had to stand back to allow him to leave.

  With surprise Robyn felt Clinton disengage her fingers from his arm, and then he slipped quietly into the vacant chair. May I join you, gentlemen? " There were preoccupied grunts of acknowledgement but only St. John looked up and asked civilly, Are you aware of the stakes, Captain? " Clinton didn't reply but took a roll of five-pound notes from an inside pocket and placed them beside him.

  The amount surprised Robyn, it could not have been less than one hundred pounds. Then she remembered that Clinton Codrington had been for many years one of the most successful blockade commanders on the slave coasts. Her brother had repeated to her the rumour that during that period he had won prize money in excess of ten thousand pounds, yet somehow she had never thought of him as a rich man.

  Then with sudden intuition Robyn realized that by that gesture Clinton had laid down a silent challenge, and with a little smile Mungo St. John had accepted it.

  Robyn felt a flare of alarm. She was certain that Clinton Codrington had chosen an opponent too experienced and skilled. She remembered that Zouga who relied on gambling to eke out his regimental pay, had been no match for the man, even with moderate stakes, and in his frustration Clinton had been drinking steadily during the evening. She was sure his judgement would be faulty even if he had any knowledge of the game.

  Almost immediately St. John subtly altered the style of his play, doubling the stakes before the draw, crowding the game, dominating it, playing from the strength and confidence of his already considerable winnings, and Clinton seemed immediately uncertain of himself, hesitant in accepting the doubled stakes, discarding rather than going at risk for more than a few guineas, lacking the nerve to meet St. John head on.

  Robyn moved slightly to a position from which she could watch both men. Clinton was pale under the deepwater tan, the rims of his nostril bloodless and his lips compressed into a thin line, and she remembered that he had drunk a dozen glasses of champagne during the evening.

  He was nervous, indecisive, every watcher could sense it, and their disappointment was evident. They had hoped for a dramatic confrontation when Clinton had made the flamboyant gesture of placing a hundred pounds on the table, but when the amount was slowly whittled away by unexciting over-cautious play, their interest was transferred to a lively exchange between Mungo St. John and one of the Cloete sons, the family that owned half the Constantia valley with its fabled vineyards.

  They laughed at the light banter with which the two men made their bets, and admired the grace of the loser and the easy manner of the winner. The other players at the table were almost forgotten, picking up an uncontested ante or falling before the aggression of the leading pair.

  Robyn could only pity Clinton, nervous and pale when he fumbled his cards to expose prematurely one of his few winning hands and suffer the chuckles of the spectators as he picked up odd guineas instead of the fifty that might have been his if he had played it correctly.

  Robyn tried to catch his eye, to make him leave before he was further humiliated, but Clinton played on doggedly refusing to look up at her.

  Cloete won a hand with four of a kind and as was his right called for a pot to celebrate his good fortune. Three of a kind to open the pot and guinea sweeteners, " he announced and grinned across the table at St. John. "To your liking, sir? "Very much so, St. John smiled back, and the other players tried to cover their discomfiture. It was a dangerous game, requiring one of the players to be dealt an initial three of a kind to commence the game, but for every unsuccessful deal each player had to contribute a guinea to the pot, and when a lucky player achieved the minimum requirement, he could advance the stakes by as much again as was in the centre of the table. It could amount swiftly to a huge sum, and there was no option of withdrawal, a very dangerous game.

  Ten times the deal failed to produce an opening hand, and then with the pot at seventy guineas Mungo, St. John announced quietly, She is open, gentlemen, as wide open as my motherin-law's mouth."

  Play had stopped at the other tables in the room as St. John went on, it will cost you another seventy iron men to stay in the game. " He had doubled the pot, and the watchers applauded the bet and then looked eagerly to the other players. I am your man, said Cloete, but at last there was a breathlessness to his voice. He counted out the notes and gold coins and spilled them into the considerable pile in the centre.

  Three other players withdrew, dropping their cards with alacrity, clearly relieved to have got out of danger for a mere ten guineas, but Clinton Codrington hunched miserably over his cards and St. John had to prod him gently for his decision. Please don't hurry, Captain. We have all evening."

  And Clinton looked up at him and nodded jerkily, not trusting his voice, then pushed a sheaf of notes into the centre of the table. Three players, St. John said, and swiftly counted the money in the pot. "Two hundred and ten guineasr The next bid could double that amount, and the one after could redouble it. The room was silent now, the players at the other tables in the room had left their seats to watch as the dealer gave two cards to Mungo St. John to replace those he tossed into the centre of the table. He was buying honestly, trying to add to the triplets with which he had opened the pot, neither faking a flush nor a full house. Cloete bought three cards, evidently looking for a third to a high pair, and then it was Clinton's turn to request cards. One, he mumbled, and held up a single finger. The finger quivered slightly. The dealer slid the card across to him and he covered it with his hand unable to bring himself to look at it yet. It was all too obvious that he was attempting to find the missing card to a flush or straight. The opener to bet, " said the dealer. "Mr. St. John."

  There was a pause as St. John fanned open his cards, and then he said evenly without a change of expression:The bet is doubled. "Four hundred and twenty guineas, " said somebody loudly, and this time nobody applauded but every eye swivelled to Cloete as he consulted his cards. Then shook his head abruptly, and let them drop. He had not found another king to go with the original pair.

  Now everybody looked to the remaining player. A transformation had come over Clinton Codrington, it was hard to define it exactly. There was just a touch of colour under the tanned cheeks his lips were slightly parted and for the first time he was looking directly at St. John, but somehow confidence and a barely suppressed eagerness shone from him. There was no mistaking it.

  The man positively glowed. Double again, he said loudly. "Eight hundred and forty guineas He could hardly contain himself, and every man in the room knew he had found the card he needed to transform his hand from worthlessness to a certain winner.

  St. John did not have to deliberate more than a few seconds. Congratulations, he smiled. "You found what you were looking for, I must concede this one to you."

  He dropped his cards and pushed them away from him. May we see the cards you required to open the pot? "

  Clinton asked diffidently.

  I beg your pardon. " St. John's tone was lightly ironical, and he flipped his hand, face upwards. There were three sevens and two odd cards. Thank you, said Clinton. His manner had changed a gain. The trembling eagerness, the nervous indecision, both had disappeared. He was calm, almost icy as he began to gather in the piles of scattered gold and bank notes. What cards did he have? " demanded one of the women petulantly. He does not have to show them, her partner explained. "He beat the others out without a showdown."

  Oh, I'd die to see them, " she squeaked.

  Clinton paused in gathering his winnings and looked up at her. I beg of you, madam, not to do so, Clinton smiled. "I would not wish to have your life on my conscience."

  He turned his cards face upwards on the green baize, and it took the company many seconds to realize what they were looking at. There were cards of every suit, and not one of them matched another.

  There were delighted exclamations, for the hand was utterly worthless. It could have been beaten by a single pair of
sevens, to say nothing of the triple sevens which St. John had discarded.

  With this valueless hand the young naval captain had beaten the American, out-smarting him for almost 900 guineas. It was a spectacular coup. The company gradually realized how carefully it had been engineered, how Clinton had lured his adversary, how he had made a pretence at fumbling uncertainly until exactly the right moment, the moment when he had struck boldly and decisively. They burst into spontaneous applause, the ladies oohing with admiration and the men calling congratulation. Oh jolly good play, sir! " St. John held the smile, but his lips drew tighter with the effort, and there was a savage glitter in his eyes as he stared at the cards and realized how he had been duped.

  The applause subsided, some of the spectators were beginning to turn away still discussing the hand, and St. John began gathering the cards to shuffle when Clinton Codrington spoke. His voice was low but clear, so that nobody about the tables could miss a word of it.

  Even a black-birder's luck can run out at last he said. I must admit, I would rather have caught you at your dirty slaver's game than beaten you out of a few guineas tonight."

  The company froze, with gaping at Clinton expressions of horror and comical amazement. The silence in the room seemed impenetrable, the only sound was the ripple and click of the cards as Mungo St. John began to shuffle them, splitting the pack with a click and then running them into each other under his thumbs in a blur of movement.

  He did not look down at his hands as he rippled the cards. He never removed his gaze from Clinton's face, and his smile had still not slipped, only there was a flush of colour under the dark sun-touched skin.