by Erica Ridley
“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”
“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London closed their doors to you.”
“London?” Anthony leaned back on his throne with a careless grin. “Try England. Why do you think I came all the way to Scotland to deprive you of your last ha’penny?”
“Scoundrel.” Whitfield shook his head with a chuckle. “Good night, all.”
Bost adjusted his hat with a sigh. “Next time I see you, Fairfax, I’m winning back my blunt.”
“You can try,” Anthony agreed with good cheer before handing the cards to Leviston. “One last round?”
“I’ll no doubt regret this,” Leviston grumbled as he shuffled the cards.
A movement caught Anthony’s eye. He straightened as Lady Fortune rose from her shadowy corner to make her way toward their table. Her very presence dazzled.
“Now is there room for a lady?” she asked in a rich, sultry voice.
“Without question.” Anthony leapt up in deference while she took her seat. She had no chance of winning, not with Anthony’s luck tonight, but he saw no reason to not welcome her to the table.
“Your funeral,” Leviston said to her under his breath. “Fairfax here is unbeatable.”
Anthony was in full agreement. Leviston could bid his last farthing adieu. Anthony’s luck would be boundless now that Lady Fortune was seated at their table.
“Fairfax, meet Miss Devon.” Leviston began to deal the cards. “Starting wager is ten pounds, pet.”
She placed her bet on the table without changing expression. Either the sum meant nothing, or she expected to win.
Anthony couldn’t stop staring at her from the corner of his eye. He was normally quite gifted at sizing someone up in the briefest of moments—it was the key to reading tables and knowing when to pass or triple his wager—but he couldn’t quite get a fix on Miss Devon.
It wasn’t just high-necked modesty paired with extravagant rubies, or her concealed golden tendrils and pristine white gloves. Now that she was close enough for him to read her features, he still couldn’t do so. Her blue eyes were as dark as a winter lake and her pretty, unlined face betrayed nothing.
He was fascinated … tempted to give up on cards altogether, in favor of unraveling the far more intriguing mystery beneath the simple, oversized bonnet, but winning big was his only chance to repay his debts.
Anthony took the next round, and the round after that. Leviston took the third, but Anthony won back double with three jacks the following hand.
By the fifth round, Leviston’s grip on his cards was white-knuckled and he trembled with obvious anxiety.
Miss Devon turned as if to soothe him. “Breathe in through your nose,” she murmured. “And out through your mouth. It is but one hand of cards amongst many—a moment in time. Feel your fingers relaxing. If you wish to stop, you may do so. It is only a game.”
To Anthony’s amazement, Leviston visibly relaxed as he listened to Miss Devon’s soft, coaxing words. His knuckles returned to their normal color and his hands ceased trembling.
“You’re right,” Leviston said with a rueful smile. “How easily we forget that the turn of a card is meaningless overall.”
Meaningless? Anthony would have laughed if so much wasn’t riding on his continued lucky streak. For him, the turn of the cards meant the difference between eating or not, having a roof to sleep under, and being able to look his loved ones in the eyes, or consigning them to poverty or worse.
Thank God, up ’til now, Lady Fortune had only worked her calming magic on Anthony, or he would not have won a penny. He needed the other players to be on edge. The sight of white knuckles and trembling fingers was his cue to wager big.
Then again, fate alone dealt the hands. All the subtle cues in the world were useless without the cards to win.
He glanced down at his hand, and indescribable joy spread through him. He should never have doubted Lady Fortune’s effect. A rush of excitement surged through him. Miss Devon could calm Leviston with as many reassuring words as she wished because Anthony’s hand was unstoppable. Triple aces. These were truly the best cards he’d ever been dealt in his life. The best cards anyone had ever been dealt.
Leviston was about to go home in tears.
“All in.” Anthony dropped the entire contents of his purse next to the pot. “Seventy pounds per player if you stay in.”
“Curse you, Fairfax.” Color drained from Leviston’s face, but he kept a stiff upper lip and ponied up his blunt. “This is my last hand.”
With her porcelain face as motionless as a doll’s, Miss Devon placed her purse alongside her bet.
A twinge twisted his stomach. He felt bad about taking money from a lady—it wasn’t gentlemanly. Once he won, Anthony would return her portion to her and take the rest straight back to London. The other toffs could afford to lose a few pence Anthony reasoned, but he needed every penny he could get to stay out of prison—two thousand pounds worth of pennies, in fact.
It had taken a year of ill luck, and increasingly riskier bets in growing desperation, to amass such mind-boggling debt. Anthony always gambled everywhere and with everyone, months passed before his peers began to realize he had no means to repay them—not even a few pence. To say they were displeased would be an understatement.
His goal was much higher than repaying his debts, of course. Anthony wanted a pot so full of gold he couldn’t budge it without a wheelbarrow. He wanted to win enough to never fear being poor again. Enough so those he cared about would never lack for anything. He wanted to be rich. Not just for a few months or a few years—forever.
With a sigh, Leviston displayed his cards. A low flush. Poor pup. The man had no chance of winning and he likely knew it.
Anthony felt oddly proud when Lady Fortune turned over her cards to reveal an astonishing hand. Three tens. If Anthony hadn’t held triple aces, the mysterious Miss Devon would have swept the table and taken the two-hundred-pound pot.
Alas for her, luck was firmly on Anthony’s side. This was his night. His streak was invincible. Finally, he could go back home.
He flipped his cards face up with a flourish.
Leviston covered his face with his hat. “I suspected as much.”
A streak of visceral, hopeless dismay flashed across Miss Devon’s face so quickly that Anthony almost missed it.
“We can play again,” he said. “You might earn your money back.”
“I’m out,” Leviston reminded him with a sigh of regret.
“Not you.” Anthony shot him a pointed look. “Miss Devon.”
Her eyelashes lowered. “I have no more money.”
“You can wager something else.” When her blue eyes widened with outrage, he regretted his unfortunate phrasing. Anthony had meant to be gentlemanly, not offensive. He added hastily. “A lock of hair, perhaps. I’ve just the locket to put it in.”
“Don’t do it,” Leviston advised her under his breath. “This man is why half the members of the House of Lords have grown bald.”
Miss Devon’s lips twitched. “And yet, I am tempted. What, precisely, is the bet? Just seventy pounds? Or are we playing for the entire pot?”
Anthony stared at her. His blood raced at the idea of such a fearless wager. He should reply “Just seventy pounds” and be done. He knew he should. There was nothing to be gained from risking it all. Except for bragging rights when he won the entire pot all over again.
“The whole pot,” Anthony assured her magnanimously. She wouldn’t win, no one could beat him tonight. He would still be certain to return her seventy-pound portion after he won. This way, she would feel as though she’d had a fair shot.
“Very well.” She gave him a brave smile, and his insides melted with pride. “I’m in.”
As the most impartial party at the table, Leviston agreed to deal again.
Fifteen years of daily gaming was the only reason Anthony’s body didn’t betray him with even a flicker of satisfaction upon seeing his first card. It wasn’t going to be the same hand he held last time—that was a rare enough instance he’d dream about for weeks—but it was close enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His luck was damn near unbeatable.
His first card was breathtaking … and the second.
“I’m afraid you won’t like my hand,” he said when it was time to display triple kings. Second time in a row! What were the chances? His luck was unbreakable.
Leviston nearly choked into his cravat. “How do you do it?”
“And I’m afraid you won’t like mine,” Miss Devon said as she turned hers over.
Anthony froze.
No ... she couldn’t have triple aces—a hand capable of beating his.
It was impossible.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin as his stomach dropped … and dropped … and dropped. The room was spinning … spiraling him down into a void of nothingness and despair.
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
“I won the entire pot,” Miss Devon crowed with delight. She destroyed him. “Just over two hundred pounds, is it not?”
Anthony stared at her. He wasn’t breathing or blinking. His body wasn’t responding to anything his mind offered. How could it? All Anthony could think was no, no, no, and this is the end. He needed every florin and crown in his possession to keep winning.
How could he possibly have lost it all?
“Y-you can get your pound back from the serving wench,” Leviston stammered, clearly suffering just as much shock as Anthony. “A barmaid can’t expect to keep such a sum.”
“No,” Anthony snapped. “Once I handed over that sovereign, it became hers. The barmaid’s luck was in. Mine will have to come back around.”
Somehow … he hoped.
Miss Devon motioned toward the pile of purses on the table. “May I?”
Every muscle in Anthony’s body shook with fear and desperation. The night was young. There was plenty more money to be won just as soon as he got his winnings back, or at least a few shillings. Something. Anything.
There had to be a way.
Charm, he reminded himself. When his empty wallet got him tossed out doors, his charm was the one thing that could open new ones.
“Of course,” he replied easily, and pushed all three purses to her side of the table as if they contained nothing more valuable than handfuls of dirt. “Although, I’m certain you’ll return the favor and allow me one last wager, will you not?”
Her expression was more than enough answer—no.
“Just enough to stay in the game,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to wager the full pot. Just give me a chance to win my seventy pounds back. One chance … that’s all.”
She hesitated, her fingertips mere inches from the stack of full purses. Anthony tried not to fall to his knees and beg.
No, she did not wish to return the favor. Who would? Luck was a powerful seductress, promising lies of invincibility too sweet to resist. Perhaps she would succumb to its sway.
“What would you wager? I’m afraid I don’t collect hair,” she hedged. “I wouldn’t want any of yours.”
Relief coursed through Anthony’s veins. He had her—maybe. He wiggled his eyebrows, affecting a teasing mien. “A boon, as I’m quite attached to my mane. Let us wager something far more valuable. If I lose, I’ll offer you my… purity.”
Her eyes lost their twinkle. “I doubt you have any.”
Blast. His ill-advised joke alienated him even further. Yet, there must be something a penniless rogue could offer. Anthony leaned back in his chair, careful not to show his desperation. “Then I shall be your slave for the evening. A servant of any sort you desire. I’ll darn socks if I have to.”
He wouldn’t have to, of course. He would win his seventy pounds, then he would win back the entire pot.
Lady Fortune sent him an arch look as she picked the heavy purses up from the table. “I might enjoy seeing you muck out a chimney.”
“Is that a yes?” he asked lightly.
He held his breath as he awaited her decision. Anxiety flooded him. Miss Devon was the most unpredictable card he had ever been dealt. She held all the power. The wisest choice for her would be to leave the cards, pick up the money, and walk away. Then again, gamblers weren’t known for making wise decisions.
The question was… what would Miss Devon choose?
Chapter 2
Miss Charlotte Devon hefted the three gaming purses in her hands and hesitated. Should she play another round?
She wasn’t penniless. She wasn’t even risking the entire pot. She could afford the wager. Besides, her father might even settle a sizable sum upon her, either as a dowry or as an independent living or as… as something. Of this, she was certain. The problem was finding him.
In the meantime, she oughtn’t to be gambling away fortunes. Even parts of fortunes. The future was too uncertain. She probably ought not to have been gambling at all. But she could do with the money. The other men’s earlier rebuff had been so infuriating that when Mr. Fairfax had joined their table and sent her so many curious, amiable glances, the lure had been impossible to resist.
When was the last time a gentleman had sent her a friendly look, not a lewd or dismissive one? Come to think of it, when was the last time anyone had been friendly to her at all?
Ladies treated her with disdain, if they even acknowledged her presence. Gentlemen only sought a quick tup with a nameless bit of muslin they could easily discard. As far as society was concerned, Miss Charlotte Devon wasn’t a person at all. She was nobody. Meaningless.
Was it any wonder this profligate’s roguish smiles and open face had drawn her like a moth to a flame?
It wasn’t merely attention from someone above her station. Everyone was above her station. Charlotte was long used to being treated as such.
Mr. Fairfax was different. She’d suspected as much from observing his interactions with his peers, yet he continually delighted her. Her surprise when he’d treated the barmaid like a person, rather than a stick of furniture, had turned to amazement when he’d given the woman an entire sovereign to do with as she would. Charlotte’s astonishment was eclipsed by shock when he’d lost his winnings and still let the barmaid keep the coin.
His friends had seen nothing wrong with asking for its return. After all, the recipient was a mere serving wench. To them, her sentiments and situation need not enter the equation.
But not to Mr. Fairfax. His gifts were permanent. His debts were his own.
Now he wanted a chance to replay the game. She shouldn’t give him one. Perfectly nice gentleman or not. Chimney slave or not. She had won the money fair and square.
But he had given her a chance when he should not. When no one else would have done. Charlotte’s pulse skipped. No one else had ever cared before. No gentleman, anyway.
He had not only allowed a woman to join his gaming table, but also allowed her to wager nothing more than a lock of hair to stay in the game.
The only explanation for such an illogical act was that Mr. Fairfax was kind to a fault. So how should she repay his kindness?
Undecided, she watched him from beneath her lashes. He might be too handsome and charming for his own good, too reckless and overconfident with his wagers. But, by all appearances, this happy, devil-may-care rogue was also a genuinely nice person.
She would have to return the favor. A begrudging sigh escaped her lips. Blast.
“If you lose, you may escort me safely to the guest quarters,” she began, and frowned sternly when he gave his dark eyebrows an exaggerated wiggle. “And then you may return to your own chamber without so much as crossing the threshold into my chamber. Or donating any hair.”
His green eyes sparkled at her merrily. “Done.”
Laughing in disbelief, Mr. Leviston gathered up the cards and fumbled them into a shuffle. “In case you were unaware, you are both delightfully mad.”
Didn’t she know it. Charlotte tightened her lips.
She counted seventy pounds back onto the table. “All in?”
“All in.” Mr. Fairfax smiled back at her, both dimples showing sweetly.
Charlotte picked up her first card.
If Mr. Fairfax was watching her for a reaction, he would not discern one. Not solely because of Charlotte’s legendary self-control. But because she was in shock. Expressionless. Emotionless. Even she couldn’t believe the hand she’d been dealt.
Three of hearts.
This was surely the worst opening card anyone had ever held in the history of stupid wagers.
She touched her jewels in nervousness. Her necklace and earrings were the sole possessions she could not lose at any cost. She normally wouldn’t even wear them in public, but Scotland was the one place where a bit of ostentation might help rather than hurt her cause.
The other reason she wore them was to keep them safe. For the past few days she’d felt as if someone was following her. She never saw the same person two days in a row, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy sense of being spied upon.
Today, there had been a man with a limp and a scuffed beaver hat who had stared at her with far more than casual interest. Her breath caught. Perhaps he had seen the jewels and was waiting for her to leave them unattended.
A prickle went down her spine. She was positive the contents of her valise had been rifled through at the last inn. Nothing had been taken—perhaps because the rubies were still on her person. But she couldn’t take the risk of losing them.
And now, without her purse, she couldn’t even afford to pay a maid or a hall boy to watch over her at night. Just until she was reunited with her father, that was. Protection was the real reason she’d agreed to let accompanying her safely to her chamber be Mr. Fairfax’s wager.
That, and she hadn’t expected him to win.
