Logan called for Allison at five o’clock sharp.
He was invited by Joanna into the formal parlor where they engaged in a very awkward conversation for several minutes before Allison finally made her entrance.
He hadn’t realized until that moment what a lovely woman she was. He had always known she was pretty, but tonight she seemed to have matured far beyond her seventeen years. Before, she had been an attractive girl, but now her budding womanhood was given full reign. Some of it, to be sure, was affected by Allison. But what struck Logan was the natural beauty and grace which could not be feigned, a hint of the loveliness and poise of her handsome mother. Logan could only think that what she tried to put on with grown-up airs only detracted from what naturally dwelt within.
Her golden, silky hair was piled in curls atop her head, some of them falling daintily about her face. Tufts of baby’s breath were tucked about the curls like a crown. Her gown of periwinkle blue strongly resembled the one she had discovered in the catalog, only its stark severity had been softened by demurely flowing butterfly sleeves that fell to her mid-arm, and a satin belt around the waist, clasped with satin rosebuds. The overall effect had been to Allison’s satisfaction, the price to Joanna’s, and thus a very stunning compromise had been negotiated. An ancient strand of pearls that had been her great-grandmother’s graced her lovely, porcelain-smooth neck.
At that moment, Logan did not feel so bad about his winnings of the other night. He had been to Aberdeen and had purchased a tuxedo, if not the finest evening attire to be had in that provincial city, certainly more than adequate for whatever he would encounter north of London.
There was little call for a florist in Port Strathy, but Logan had engaged Dorey’s willing assistance to fashion a corsage of creamy white orchids, nurtured with love in the laird’s own greenhouse. He fastened the blossoms about Allison’s tiny wrist.
When he helped Allison into her rabbit-fur stole, he noted a tear glistening in Joanna’s eye. He wondered if it was simply the sentimentality of a mother seeing her daughter looking so grown-up, or if it had other more remote origins. Was she having last-minute misgivings about letting her precious daughter go off with a man they barely knew? She had given her approval, but perhaps was now having second thoughts.
Well, it was too late for that now, and perhaps Joanna sensed that fact as well. For she bid them goodbye and did not even remain in the doorway while Logan maneuvered the Austin down the long drive and out through the iron gates.
The Bramford estate, located a few miles southwest of Culden, was one of those early Victorian country homes which, from the passage of years, could have either taken on a quaint historical charm, or have become a run-down white elephant. In the Bramfords’ case, due to yearly maintenance and an ongoing familial interest in the estate, the former was happily true, and the home was one of the more elegant in the entire region.
The continued foul weather had prevented much in the way of outdoor festivities, and even as Logan and Allison stepped out of the Austin, leaving it to be parked by an attendant, dark clouds could be seen massing overhead. But that hardly dampened the party spirits of the young people gathered inside. Music, heavy with brass and drums, blared from the ballroom, creating a scene quite alien to the affairs the same room had seen in the days of Queen Victoria. The youths danced in a fashion that left Lady Edwina Bramford, who was positioned by the door greeting guests as they arrived, with a bewildered look on her highly refined face. She smiled thin smiles at the constant stream of arrivals, most of whom she did not even know, wondering how long her motherly duties would force her to remain in such close proximity to this unseemly display of modern merrymaking. She was from the old school, where young ladies did not wriggle around thus on the dance floor, and where gentlemen politely asked the favor of a young lady before a dance, not with a slick, “Come on, baby, let’s dance.” There had hardly been a polite word spoken, in her estimation, all evening. And these were the flower of the nation’s populus, the offspring of the very best—lords and ladies, financial magnates, military leaders. What was the world coming to if the children of the land’s elite had completely forgotten how to behave?
Thus, when Logan and Allison walked toward the ballroom door, it was little wonder that she was pleasantly surprised. Allison would have strode into the room without giving the woman a passing glance, but Logan took Lady Bramford’s hand, kissed it respectfully, and bowed with what she could only consider very gallant taste.
“I am honored, my lady,” he said when introductions had been made.
“We are pleased you could come, Mr. Macintyre,” replied Lady Bramford. “I haven’t heard your name mentioned, but you must know my son from Oxford.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance, nor that of the remainder of your esteemed family.”
“Mr. Macintyre is a friend . . . of my family,” broke in Allison, feeling an explanation was due before Logan was accused of party-crashing. “I hope it was all right for me to invite him.”
“Of course, Allison, my dear,” replied Lady Bramford. “I’m certain any friend of your family must be of the most sterling character.”
At length Allison steered Logan onto the dance floor. A five-piece band was beating out Fred Waring’s version of the 1927 hit My Blue Heaven, and the glossy parquet floor was alive with other dancers shimmering in brilliant color and displaying the wealth they represented. There were many friendly calls of greeting to Allison who, in return, waved and generally behaved as if the Bramfords’ ball had been given exclusively for her benefit. And, whereas the greetings had been largely lodged at Allison, the curious glances and muttered comments of Who is that she’s with? . . . quite a handsome chap, don’t you think? were reserved for Logan. The looks sent his way by a number of the young men, while not exactly hostile, were nevertheless guarded, as if to imply, He’s too suave . . . he must be up to no good. The girls, on the other hand, all wondered where Allison had found such a gorgeous man outside their circle, some asking themselves whether he might be fair game or whether Allison had him already sewed up.
Saundra Bramford, as hostess, took the opening initiative with the new arrivals.
“Allison, dear,” she said, approaching them graciously, as if she were a model for one of the new fashion magazines. All the years of training and dental work had paid off, for her natural homeliness was hardly evident beneath the exterior gloss. When she turned her head toward Logan and smiled, showing perfect caps, he might not have noticed her striking resemblance to her lumbering football-playing brother. But unfortunately, Eddie Bramford turned up almost at the same instant, accentuating the similarities in comic paradox—where he was thick and imposing like a mountain, she was thin and imposing like a tree. Yet despite their handicaps, they remained a good-natured pair.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Saundra went on. “It’s such a long ride, and in this abominable weather. And you even managed to bring a guest.” Here she smiled at Logan.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Allison replied as if it really didn’t matter anyway. “This is Logan Macintyre. Logan, these are our hosts, Saundra and Eddie—I should say Edward—Bramford.”
“Macintyre . . .” mused Eddie. “Didn’t you play for King’s College.”
“I’m afraid not,” Logan answered politely, not elaborating on the fact that he had played nothing for any college, had never so much as set foot on the campus of an institution of higher learning.
“Now don’t you go talking rugby, Eddie,” Saundra scolded. “You said you were cousins . . . ?” she prompted, wanting to know immediately where Allison and this good-looking Logan Macintyre stood.
“No relation whatsoever,” said Allison.
“I’m in the employ of the MacNeils,” Logan offered, part of him warming up to the challenge of keeping up the charade, another part curious to see how Allison might handle herself if he revealed just what a low fellow he was. He had agreed to come with her, but he didn’t want to give her too much control over him.
“What line are you in, Macintyre?” asked Eddie.
Logan opened his mouth to answer, but it was Allison’s voice that rushed in ahead of his.
“He’s in investments,” she said.
Logan snapped his mouth shut, wondering just what he would have said given the chance. As it was, he could not call Allison a liar, so he was forced to play the game.
“Investments,” parroted Bramford. “A sticky business these days.”
“We’ve weathered the crisis quite well.”
“And what firm would that be?”
“Oh, look!” broke in Allison conveniently, “Punch—I’m simply dying of thirst!” She grabbed Logan’s arm and dragged him toward the refreshment table.
Logan handed her a glass of the sweet red liquid but Allison stared into it as if it were the furthest thing from her mind. As Logan set the glass back on the table, his lips bent into a smile. Why not? he said to himself. He took her hand and tugged her toward the dance floor.
“Shall we dance?” he said. It was more of a command than a question.
She started at the initial gesture and glanced toward him, not a little bemused. In picturing this evening beforehand in her mind, somehow she had never envisioned what it would actually be like to have Logan Macintyre take her in his arms and dance with her. She had thought about what she would wear, about which perfume to choose, about what her friends would say, and about how she might flirt with Logan just enough to raise the attention of, say, Charles Fairgate. But of the moment when they would inevitably move around the dance floor, holding one another close, keeping time to the strains of the music, her face but inches from his shoulder—that was a moment she had not fully considered. Perhaps she was afraid of the effect such a moment might have on her.
The band had just begun playing Girl of My Dreams, and Logan gripped her waist for the waltz with rather more strength than she was accustomed to. She wondered if he was angry, but when he spoke his voice was smooth and pleasant.
“I think, Ali, my dear,” he said, “that you should have gone for broke. Why stop at a mere investment broker? You could at least have given me an earldom.”
“I thought you’d thank me,” she replied.
“Thank you?”
“I only thought to save you undue embarrassment.”
He chuckled softly in her ear, which was resting very near his lips. Embarrassment for whom, he wondered—herself or me? But he said nothing further. He had invested too much in this suit to see the evening degenerate into an argument. Besides, he wanted to enjoy himself. This young vixen was not altogether without her charm. Whatever her motives had been, he decided, she had apparently resolved to make the best of the situation, for she snuggled closer to him as the tune progressed. For all their discord of a few days earlier, they seemed to move like a single dancer, in almost perfect unison. Wary as they had been of one another, neither had to be forced to enjoy floating over the dance floor. Nor did they say a word for some time. On they danced, and Allison had just rested her head softly against Logan’s chest and shoulder when Logan felt a firm tap on his shoulder, intruding into his contented thoughts.
He loosened his hold on Allison and spun around to behold an uncomfortably familiar face out of his past. Suddenly the years fell away in his mind, and he was fifteen, sitting in a card game, trying out his skill against the wealthy son of a lord. And after seven years, his adversary—though older and wiser, and now a man—had not changed. If anything, his dark and arrogant good looks had become even more pronounced.
Charles Reynolds Fairgate III! thought Logan, managing to keep his expression as cool as ever. If he recognizes me, the jig’s up! He would love nothing better than to expose me now after he couldn’t make the charges stick the last time!
“I hope you don’t mind, old chap,” said the man who had caused Logan several anxious days in jail. He nodded toward Allison, and Logan was momentarily relieved. Perhaps, this far away, in this setting, after seven years, he won’t recognize me, thought Logan. But then almost as if reading his mind, Fairgate’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Have we met before?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Logan replied, thrusting out his hand. “Macintyre’s the name.” He cringed inwardly even as the name left his lips, but he could see no way to avoid it. He only hoped Fairgate’s memory for names was as fuzzy as it apparently was for faces. Besides, back in those days, Logan went by so many aliases that perhaps he could sneak his real name by with minimal risk.
“Hmm . . .” muttered the young lord thoughtfully. Then in a different vein, “Allison,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for a dance with you.”
“By all means, Charles.” She stepped away from Logan, betraying a twinge of disappointment, which surprised her more than anyone, and into Fairgate’s arms.
Logan stepped back, folding his arms, and watched the couple swing away from him. He tried to keep a nonchalant smile in place, but it was not as easy as it once might have been. He had rather enjoyed that last dance, or more accurately, had enjoyed holding Allison in his arms.
No doubt most observers would have felt the two made a fine couple, he thought. She probably had brought him here as part of a scheme to work her wiles on Fairgate. It would be just like her, he thought. But as he watched them, Logan could not help but think there was something sharp and dissonant about Fairgate’s harsh, angular features next to Allison’s soft loveliness. It grated against Logan’s sensitivities, even as he tried to convince himself that he should not care whom Allison danced with. He would not be here that much longer. He would be gone and that would be that.
With the thought of his business in Port Strathy came the jarring reminder that Fairgate’s sudden appearance could prove a major dilemma. If he should chance to remember their previous association, and revealed what he knew, it might be difficult for Logan to talk his way out of. But Logan was not left to his thoughts, or his aloneness, for long. The moment Allison melted away with Fairgate, several girls swarmed toward him. The first to lay claim was Saundra Bramford.
“We are very progressive around here, Mr. Macintyre,” she said. “The girls are not expected to have to wait to be asked. And I especially, as hostess, must see that my guests are properly cared for.”
All for progress, Logan took Saundra’s slim arm just as the slow beat reverted to a swing. For that Logan should have been thankful, for the Bramford girl, in many years of trying to teach her cloddish brother to dance, had nearly forgotten how to do anything but lead. But Logan soon found himself being handed off from girl to girl to girl, and it was not until the call for dinner sounded that he saw Allison again.
Following dinner, Logan and Allison found themselves together for several more dances. Whenever the music turned to a slow tune, each unconsciously sought the other out, trying, however, to make their encounters seem accidental. But whenever Allison was in the company of another man, Logan found himself with no scarcity of society girls, for they seemed ever available. He was frequently the object of scowls from the young men whose dates seemed far too intrigued with Allison’s mysterious friend.
He managed to avoid any further contact with Fairgate, though Angela Cunningham, who had accompanied the young lord of Dalmount, always seemed to migrate toward Logan whenever Charles was with Allison. The last thing Logan wanted to do was attract Fairgate’s attention. But Miss Cunningham, in addition to being rather pretty herself, was precocious and difficult to refuse.
When the huge grandfather clock in the entryway chimed ten o’clock, Logan began to give thought to the trip home. It had taken a good hour to drive to the Bramford estate, but since their arrival a fresh rainstorm had descended and the roads, already poor, might add still another hour to the return. The MacNeils had said nothing to him about when they expected their daughter home, but he did not want to take any chances with their good graces.
He determined to seek out Allison at the first opportunity. However, when next the music stopped, it was to the sharp ringing of a spoon against a crystal glass. A gradual hush fell over the crowd, the band stopped playing, and all eyes turned toward where Lady Bramford stood on the platform beside the band.
“Children,” she said, “I have an announcement.” She paused, as if for effect, then continued. “I’ve just had word that our road is washed out. I’m afraid you are all quite stranded—”
Before she could finish, a great cheer rose from the young people, for in their youthful estimation, the most perfect end to an evening such as this would be not to have it end at all.
Lady Bramford, none too pleased at the prospects, but attempting to make the best of it, cleared her throat daintily. When that had no effect on the reveling group, the cornet player blasted a shrill note, bringing silence. “As I was saying,” she continued, “you will be our guests until morning, at which time we will be able to send a crew out to repair the road. Accommodations will be prepared for you all—I hope you won’t mind being a bit crowded.”
Far from minding, the guests doubted that anything could be more exciting! Logan, however, was hardly looking forward to another twelve hours of such highbrow company. He would have given anything to be able to spend the night with the fishermen at Hamilton’s.
The next hour was spent telephoning families with the news, made all the more frantic by the fear that the phone line would go out any minute.
“I know, Mum, it’s a rotten go, but what can I do?” . . .
“Yes, Father, you’ll have to mention the conditions of the roads in the next House session. Until then . . . we’ll just have to make do.” . . .
“It’s terrible—but somehow, Mother, I’ll survive it.”
And so went the calls until scores of parents were feeling sorry for their hapless children. And the children themselves did little to dissuade such feelings, knowing that no parent would feel very comfortable with the thought that their children were having a good time.
By midnight the sleeping accommodations had been arranged—the young ladies in the east wing, the men in the west.
It would be hours before slumber would descend in either wing, however. To the east, sleep was forestalled by the endless gossip concerning the evening. Who had danced with whom, and how often. Wasn’t Saundra Bramford’s engagement to be announced tonight? What had happened? And why was her beau so conspicuously absent?
Logan’s name came up frequently in the various rooms of the east wing. Who was the dashing stranger? Why hadn’t anyone heard of his family before this? Could he be from the Continent? No, he had an unmistakable Scottish accent. But hadn’t someone said he was from London? Too bad of Allison to keep him all to herself.
On her part, Allison wasn’t quite sure how to react to all the attention Logan had generated among her friends. She had brought him for this very purpose, but now that it had worked so well, she had mixed feelings about the whole thing. He was her discovery, and the raves of the other young ladies naturally reflected on her. But they detracted from her in a sense, as well. She wouldn’t have minded so much if during her sallies among the other young men, he had been idle and disconsolate at her absence. But he hadn’t appeared to miss her company in the least.
She joined halfheartedly into the girlish banter around her, and was downright sullen as she finally snuggled down under the blankets to try to find some solace in sleep. What she had expected from the evening, she couldn’t quite specify. Had she brought Logan Macintyre here hoping to make him fall in love with her? Was she irritated because she was unexpectedly beginning to fall in love with him? No—of course not! That was ridiculous! He was nothing! A commoner! And a brash egotist as well! She refused to think about it anymore.
And with such a turmoil of confusions and questions rattling around in her brain, Allison drifted into an uneasy but dreamless sleep.
Logan had other matters occupying his mind at that moment. The young men, not given to gossip, had found more practical means of passing their time. By some ill stroke of the draw, Logan had been housed with the boorish Clifford Arylin-Michaels and Charles Fairgate. His first thought was that the young lord had purposefully machinated the seemingly coincidental accommodations in order to get him alone to question him, or perhaps for some other purpose yet to be named. Somehow he did not perceive Fairgate as a man who ever fell victim to mere chance. But as the young lord said nothing, there was no way for Logan to find out what he knew without dangerously jogging his memory. His only choice for the present was to continue playing the innocent, and hope that what Fairgate knew about his Glasgow background would not come to light.
A few minutes after they were settled, Eddie Bramford and two others whom Logan did not know came into the room.
“It’s too early for sleep,” said Bramford, brandishing a deck of cards. “Anyone game?”
Fairgate nodded his assent, but Arylin-Michaels abstained on the grounds that he was too intelligent to participate in low games of “chance.” Then several eyes turned to Logan. What he most feared was to get involved in a game which would simulate that situation so many years ago and which might therefore refresh Fairgate’s memory all too keenly. He had changed a lot from the coarse and grubby fifteen-year-old he was then. But not enough to stand up to a test this severe.
“I think I’ll pass,” he said, punctuating his words with a convincing yawn and stretch. “I’m awfully tired.”
“Aw, come on,” prodded Bramford. “You stole all our girls tonight. The least you can do is give us a chance to get even.” His voice revealed his cheerful nature.
“I hope you don’t think I was trying to—”
“No,” interrupted Bramford. “We’d never hold a little thing like that against you. It’s hardly your fault if those crazy girls—you know they’re all younger than us men!”—he looked around at his two friends knowingly and with a sly grin—“all go a bit featherheaded the minute they lay eyes on someone new.”
Logan laughed, looking quickly from face to face. They all seemed in accord except for Fairgate. His look, fairly well concealed but evident to one like Logan whose business required a knowledge of faces and their masks, revealed that he had indeed not forgotten Logan’s advances in the directions of his Angela Cunningham. His silence was all the more foreboding, knowing what Logan knew he knew, and he wondered what revenge the young lord might even now be planning.
“I’m not really much of a card player,” said Logan.
“We’ll be more than happy to teach you,” replied Fairgate, speaking now for the first time and looking him evenly in the eyes.
“I . . . I really—”
“We won’t take no for an answer,” insisted Bramford, “except from Clifford, because he’s a wet blanket, anyway.”
Seeing that to continue with his resistance would only raise more questions than to give in, Logan resigned himself to his fate.
The five, including Bramford’s Oxford cronies Raymond Crawford and Mitchell Robertson, sat in a circle on the floor since there was no table in the room large enough for the gamesters. Ray produced a box of chips and began placing stacks in front of each player.
“I’m afraid,” said Logan, making one final attempt to retreat, “that I haven’t come prepared with much ready cash—”
“Not to worry,” said Bramford. “We know you’re good for it.”
Logan didn’t even want to think about what the progression of chips were worth, and he certainly wasn’t about to ask. Perhaps, being but the sons of wealth, these fellows might have little real wealth at their fingertips. The stakes might not be that high. But who could tell? He’d just have to put it out of his mind, and concentrate on playing like an amateur, making sure he neither won nor lost too much, and making sure the attention stayed on someone else when the pot grew large.
Bramford dealt out the first hand, identifying the game as five-card draw. Each player threw a white chip into the pot. Logan had no idea if it represented a shilling, a quid, or a hundred pounds, but he tossed it in as if it were worth only the wood from which it had been made.
The game progressed without incident. The pots remained small, the hands nothing much more than an occasional full house or straight, and Logan managed to lose an occasional big one for the sake of appearances, always gradually winning back his losses over the following several hands in small enough chunks that his profile in the game remained obscure.
Whether Fairgate was watching him he could not tell, but the longer the game went the more he remembered why Fairgate had been such a perfect setup seven years earlier. Not only was his manner irritating and conceited—a fact which had only grown worse with the passage of time—his poker playing was of the worst sort. It was all Logan could do not to forget that he was supposed to be an inexperienced gambler. He simply could not pass up such an opportunity to outplay these “golden boys.” Especially Fairgate.
At length the hand Logan had been waiting for came. With deuces wild—a typical university trick, Logan told himself, which had no part in men’s poker, but which he would take full advantage of since it was the house rule—he had drawn two cards to a jack-high full house. Bramford and Crawford were out. Robertson had raised twice, and he and Fairgate had both remained in. After Robertson’s second raise, Fairgate had raised again. Robertson folded. His eyes gleaming with the old magic, Logan threw in the calling chip, hesitated a moment, then threw in another blue.
“Let’s see how good your hand really is, Fairgate. I’ll raise you again.”
“You’re a cocky one, aren’t you, Macintyre,” replied Fairgate. “On the poker table as well as the dance floor. But this time I don’t think you can beat me. In fact, Macintyre,” he added with a slight curl to his already scornful lip, “I think you’re bluffing. I don’t think you’re quite man enough for our game. I don’t know where you come from, though I could swear I’ve seen you before. But one thing you’ll soon learn is not to mix where you don’t fit. So I’m going to call your bluff, Macintyre.”
With the words he brazenly tossed a final blue chip into the middle of the floor, and with a flourish abandoned protocol and displayed his cards for all to see—a queen-high straight.
“Beat that, Macintyre!” he said with a sneer, looking Logan deeply in the eyes, as if still trying in vain to recall the connection his mind seemed intent on making.
Logan returned his gaze, debating within himself. After a pause of several moments, he laughed, almost nervously, and said, “You’re right, Fairgate; you’re a better man than I!” With that he threw his winning cards face-down onto the rest of the discarded deck. “You win!”