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? ' gathered 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
