Chapter 18
The banging on his door awoke him. Evan groaned, his head pounding with the force of an anvil, wishing that whoever it was would go away. Then he recalled the prior evening and instantly he was ill.
“Evan! The maid said you haven’t left yet. Please, open the door and let me in,” Bartolla Benevente said, sounding quite annoyed.
He did not really listen. He lay very still, recalling every bet he had placed, the roll of every pair of dice, the spin of the roulette wheel, and finally, the far too serious game of poker.
How much had he lost last night? He seemed to recall the sum of eighteen thousand dollars, all of it credit, and he already owed Hart fifty thousand, not to mention that he owed more than that to another creditor.
He had been so upset last night that after three drinks he had wandered to a club, never mind that he had told himself he would not go inside.
But he had. Then he had told himself he would only drink and watch, and he had—for a few hours.
And then he had told himself he’d only place one bet—one single bet—and he’d leave.
But he had known he was lying to himself.
One bet had brought back that familiar rush and he had forgotten everything—Bartolla, the child she claimed was his, Maggie.
Gaming was far more addictive than any opiate could ever be, and he was no different from a drug addict.
Damn it.
His father had disowned him because of his gambling.
He was deeply in debt—Andrew refused to pay his creditors.
Because of his dissolute nature, because of his weak, flawed character, he was living in this goddamned hotel, about to marry a woman he no longer liked and, in fact, could barely stand.
Now he would never have a chance to become acquainted with Maggie Kennedy and discover if his feelings were reciprocated at all.
The key turned in his lock. Evan was too much of a gentleman to curse aloud, but in his mind, a few unsavory words echoed. Bartolla stepped inside, clearly quite outraged.
Evan sat up. He slept in the buff, so he stayed under the bedcovers. Now he recalled why she was so livid. He had failed to meet her for their engagement last night.
“Well, at least you aren’t with another woman,” she said, stepping into his suite.
And something inside of him snapped. He stared at her, in her striped burgundy suit, garishly low cut and far too fitted across the hips.
In the past, such a style had inflamed him; now it repulsed him.
Suddenly her body, which he had once considered magnificent, seemed overly ripe.
It occurred to him that her hair was as distasteful, too, the shade more ruby than red and clearly unnatural.
Maggie’s soft blue eyes filled his mind, her regard tender, worried, searching.
She always put everyone before herself; never would she put her own needs first.
He held his simmering temper in check, slowly threw off the covers and got up. He ignored Bartolla, aware of her gaze upon him as he went to the love seat at the foot of the bed, where he had left his trousers. He quickly stepped into them, keeping his back to her.
“What happened last night? We had supper plans,” she snapped.
He needed a glass of water, he thought, although he knew that would not alleviate his throbbing head or his disgust with her—and himself.
“Evan! What is wrong with you? I thought you were going to pick me up, and when you didn’t, I went to the Farleys’ alone, thinking you were meeting me there. But you never showed up!”
He poured himself a glass of water, his hands shaking. Bartolla marched around him to face him. She grabbed the glass from his hand. “I was humiliated.”
He met her heated eyes. “I am sorry—”
“I should hope so!” she said, cutting him off.
“I am sorry, but I cannot marry you, Bartolla,” he continued.
She turned white. “I know you do not mean what you just said.”
“As for last night, I was gambling.” He turned away from her, ill once again. What was wrong with him? Like a drunkard suffering from the effects of a binge on the next day, he regretted every bet he’d placed.
She seized his arm. “I thought those days were over!”
He gently dislodged her. “I had thought so, too.”
Her face softened. “Evan, I see you have had a bad night. I am sorry. We both know that gambling is a disease for you. I see I have overreacted. How can I help? Oh, I think I know the cure for what ails you,” she said, her tone turning husky.
And she grasped the waistband of his trousers, her fingertips pressing against his skin.
He did stir, but only slightly. “I have had a very bad night,” he said, pulling away from her.
There was only one woman whose comfort he wanted—whose touch he wanted—and while she might comfort him, he felt rather certain she would never touch him.
“I want you to know that I will take care of you and the child. I will be very generous.”
Bartolla cried out. She lost all of her coloring now.
He hoped that would be the end of it. He could not manage a scene right now. “I am going to get dressed.”
But she followed him into the boudoir. “Of course we are marrying—we are eloping, as soon as possible. I am carrying your child!”
“And I said I would take care of you.”
She trembled in anger. “How?” she spat. “You have been disowned and you work for a lawyer. You can’t even afford a decent ring! And clearly, you have not recovered from your urge to game. That will certainly tighten your purse strings!”
He was suddenly alert. “Bartolla, I was a penniless clerk when we first agreed to elope. You did not seem to mind then.”
She shook her head. “I have always minded! And I have always assumed it was a temporary aberration on your part.” Suddenly she reached for him.
He stepped back, but she managed to place her hands on his chest. “Darling, I am a countess. I would never agree to marriage to a clerk. I intended to encourage you to make amends with your father after we wed. I know you had a rotten night, Evan, but we have to think of the child.”
“I am thinking of the child. I am thinking that I will grovel before my father and beg his forgiveness so that I can support you and the child in the manner you deserve. But I am not marrying you.”
She had become still. Her hands slipped from his chest. “You are going to go to your father and patch things up? So you can support me?”
He could not breathe. There did not seem to be enough air in the small chamber for them both and he walked out.
Maggie’s eyes followed him, sad and somewhat reproachful.
She was going to be very disappointed in him, he thought, as she had made it clear that she thought he should marry Bartolla.
He hated letting her down. And she would be horrified when he told her how he had slipped back into gambling last night.
“I do not lie.” He did not look at her now.
“My one redeeming quality, I suppose. You need not fear for the future, Bartolla. Until my son or daughter comes of age, you will be taken care of.”
Bartolla had followed him back into the bedroom and she sat down, appearing thoughtful. After a moment, she said, “My heart is broken, Evan.”
He wasn’t foolish enough to believe her. “And I am also sorry for that.”
“I think I should send my lawyer to meet yours so we can finalize all of the arrangements.”
He shrugged. “Just give me a day or two to speak with Andrew.”
She stood. “Of course.” She hesitated. “I will be here if you change your mind. We are a good match.”
He tried to smile and failed. He wasn’t going to change his mind, but he did not tell her that. “I am late for work. That is, if I haven’t lost my position.”
“Well, after you speak with Andrew, you won’t need your employment, now will you?” She started across the room, reticule in hand.
He suddenly thought of what Maggie had told him. “Bartolla?”
At the door, she paused. “Yes?”
He walked over to her. “My support is conditional upon one thing.”
“What is that?” she asked, unperturbed.
“I want you to stay away from Mrs. Kennedy and her children.”
Her expression changed. “Is that what this is about? Are you breaking it off with me because of her?” Disbelief heightened her tone.
“I care for her, but no, that is not the reason I have broken things off.”
Bartolla was shaking. “You fool! You jilt me—a countess—for a seamstress with four children and callused hands?”
He felt an answering rage sweep through him. “She is a true lady, Bartolla,” he warned. “And she would never have me. So no, I did not jilt you for her.”
“She would not have you?” Bartolla gasped. “Are you mad? Are you in love with that trollop? Are you so in love that you cannot see clearly?”
Evan just stared, her words striking him with the force of a gale wind. He was dumbfounded. Bartolla was precisely right. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” Bartolla cried. And her cheeks flushed, she stormed out.
“I was hoping you would be in,” Francesca said, from just outside of Bragg’s office.
He stood up in surprise, glancing at the clock on his desk. “It’s only half past ten.”
Francesca slipped inside and closed his office door. She hurried to him. “I wanted to call you last night. I have learned something very interesting, but out of respect for Leigh Anne and the children, I waited until this morning. And of course, I did not want an operator to overhear us.”
He walked around his desk. “What has you so excited?”
“Joel has been tailing Farr. It appears that he is having an affair with Rose.”
Bragg registered her words. “Are you certain?”
“No. But yesterday, he was leaving Daisy’s house when I arrived to speak with Rose. Homer said that they met briefly behind closed doors. Rose claims he was on official police business, but Joel saw them in an embrace last night.”
“You think that she was with Farr the night of the murder, and she is afraid to name him as her alibi?”