Rockwell took the first two tricks, then Lord Devon, followed by Isabella. Deana looked at Rockwell, who, as ever, was fairly expressionless when playing cards. She recalled how calm he had been during that fateful hand at vingt-et-un when he possessed an ace and queen to best her king and ten.
Rockwell won the next trick, and Deana could not stop her heart from thumping. She wanted another glass of port but no wish to ask permission for it before Lord Devon and Lady Isabella. Eight tricks remained, and Devon took three of them in a row. Deana wondered if he had been overly modest in downplaying his abilities at cards.
Deana won a trick, then Rockwell, then Isabella.
“I say! This is the most exciting round of whist!” Devon said.
“What would you claim if you win?” Isabella asked of Rockwell, her gaze inviting as she peered over her cards at him.
Rockwell only smiled as he won the next trick. Two tricks remained, but Deana had a sinking feeling. Given the cards that she had already observed and the two remaining in her hand—a paltry two of clubs and four of diamonds—unless Rockwell had two trumps remaining, their chances did not look well.
Devon won the next trick. Deana saw the muscle along Rockwell’s jaw tighten. The final suit was diamonds. Isabella had no match. Rockwell had no match.
And Lord Devon had a jack of hearts.
* * * * *
They were headed to the East Wing.
With a silent curse, Halsten watched as a smile spread from ear to ear upon Lord Devon’s face. Halsten had nothing against taking Miss Herwood there. On the contrary, he would have liked nothing less. But she had not been long at Chateau Follet. And he would have wanted her there on his own terms.
“Well played,” Devon complimented Miss Herwood. “Do not be disheartened Miss Sherwood. As you say, there is the element of luck. It is not always about your skills.”
He finished off his glass of wine. “Now then, shall we begin the night properly?”
Halsten had studied Isabella throughout the game. She had shown none of the hesitancy or reserve from the afternoon. He wondered at her change. He looked next to Miss Herwood, who did not seem as confident as she was earlier. He had allowed her a glass of port to calm her nerves and contemplated another glass for her. He would ensure her safety, but she may well need the additional support.
He should not have placed her in such a position. The enticement to name the prize should they have won was too much. He knew exactly what he would have asked for: Lord Devon was to leave Chateau Follet at daybreak.
“I have the perfect room in mind,” Devon said and practically skipped out of the drawing room and into the hallway.
Rockwell clenched his jaw but followed the man with Miss Herwood on his arm.
“Have you explained to Lady Isabella what she may expect in the East Wing?” he asked of Devon.
“She has seen for herself,” Devon replied.
“You are quite droll, Halsten,” Isabella said, glancing back at him, “but I am hardly your sister Lucille.”
They were in the East Wing, and the art soon reflected the darker nature of the activities there. Whereas the West Wing was adorned with nudes or paintings of a man and a woman in various positions of copulation, the same nudes held whips and chains in the East Wing, and paintings of couples were often engaged in ménage-a-trois. One such painting featured a woman penetrated by two men with disproportionately large cocks. Rockwell noticed Miss Herwood’s eyes widening as she realized that one of the cocks was inserted in the woman’s arse. She turned red and tightened her grip upon his arm.
“The images may seem frightful at first,” he said to her, “but there are many women who enjoy anal penetration.”
She seemed to believe him, but he could not tell if she were comforted by the fact.
“I had this room specially reserved,” Devon announced as he paused in front of a set of gilded double-doors.
He pushed one of the doors opened, bowed and swept his arm. “Ladies first.”
Isabella entered and gasped. Miss Herwood followed and paused briefly in her tracks.
Unlike the ornate set of doors that led to it, the chamber was sparse and austere. No silk wallpaper or golden candelabras adorned the walls, no carpeting or rugs to cover the cold dull floor. The only furnishing comprised two beds on either side of the room, facing each other. The head and foot boards were made of wrought iron more appropriate for a dungeon cell. Upon them dangled chain shackles. Only plain white sheets of suspect cleanliness covered the mattresses. Along the back wall hung all manner of instruments: canes, crops, whips, and more. Upon the shelves were additional accessories of pain and pleasure. A fire had been started in the stone hearth, casting eerie shadows throughout the room.
“Are you sure you’ve the right room?” Isabella asked.
“Undoubtedly,” Devon murmured as he appraised the room, the glow of lust already lighting his face.
Halsten eyed Miss Herwood. She was not entirely new to such a spectacle, having been at his London house where he kept many of the same implements, but Devon’s room was far more grim.