Page 26 of To Catch an Earl

Luc leaned forward in his seat. “To the Tricorn?” He shot Emmy a questioning glance.

Barely an hour after Harland had left Waverton Street, a note had arrived for Luc containing two admittance cards for the Tricorn. The accompanying sheet had simply been signed “Mowbray.”

Whether Harland knew about the invitation or not was impossible to guess.

Camille nodded. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been dying to try your hand at the Tricorn’s tables ever since it opened, Luc Danvers.” She turned to Emmy. “And don’tyoupretend you haven’t been burning with curiosity to see what kind of place Harland inhabits.” She patted their hands with her own and gave them each a gentle smile. “I know you both too well,mes enfants.”

Emmy bit her lip. Camille was right; she’d dreamed of getting a peek inside the hallowed portals of the Tricorn for months. She wanted to see Harland’s lair. “What if someone recognizes me?”

Camille reached into her reticule and pulled out a black silk half mask with a thin ribbon tie. She blinked in mock innocence. “Oh, look. I must have left this in here after the Colcroft’s masquerade.”

Emmy took it with a dry snort. “How convenient. Some might even sayunbelievablyconvenient. What are you up to, Camille?”

Camille shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with doing a little reconnaissance on the opposition, darling. Just to see what we’re up against. He’s already called on us, remember. We’re simply returning the favor.”

Emmy fidgeted in her seat, plagued by indecision. The night was suddenly alive with possibility, but common sense dictated she keep her distance. This could be a trap, although how, exactly, she couldn’t imagine. There was nothing she planned to steal from the Tricorn. And it wasn’t as if she was going to get caught cheating at cards; she didn’t know how.

Camille waved her fan. “Don’t worry about me. I can share a carriage home with Lady Sutherland.”

Emmy glanced over at Luc. “Why not?”

She’d take care not to be identified by anyone. And the chance to gain some insight into Harland’s private world was too tantalizing to resist. Knowledge waspower and all that. She wanted to see him on his home turf.

Luc gave a resigned sigh. “Oh, all right, then. Come on.”

Alex suppressed a yawn as he gazed out over the main room of the Tricorn from his favored position up in the minstrel’s gallery. It was warm up here near the ceiling, but the elevated position made him feel comfortable, master of all he surveyed. Well, one-third master, as least.

He’d squandered plenty of his own fortune in gaming hells like this one before he’d left for the continent. He’d been adrift in theton, gambling and drinking, with no real aim in life save for having fun. The structure of the army had come as a welcome change; every mission had been clearly defined.Storm that citadel. Secure the mountain pass. Protect those townspeople.He’d thrived on the challenge.

Running the Tricorn gave him a similar sense of satisfaction, a feeling that he was doing something worthwhile with his life, instead of squandering his talents and time. It was a legacy, of sorts. Something he could pass down to the next generation.

Not that he was anywhere close toproducingthat next generation, of course. He’d have to find a woman he could stomach as a wife first. Some hope. The only woman he’d ever seriously considered might well be a criminal mastermind.

His stomach rumbled—he’d skipped dinner, chasing after little Miss Miscreant. He should have accepted her grandmother’s offer of food.Thatwould have annoyed her.

Unlike White’s or Brooks’, the Tricorn provided its members with a decent supper in addition to high-stakes games of chance. Benedict had convinced Alex and Seb to hire an outrageously expensive French chef, ReneLagrasse, to run the kitchens. Given the fact that they’d done nothing but try to kill Frenchmen for the previous three years, the two of them had needed some convincing, but once they’d tasted Lagrasse’s mouthwatering fare, they’d been in full agreement.

Now, almost a year since the Tricorn had opened its doors, there was a waiting list of two hundred gentlemen clamoring for membership, both aristocrats and wealthy cits. The three of them were well on the way to making their fortunes.

Alex smiled thinly. The Tricorn was an equal-opportunity club. Everyone, whether banker, mill owner, tradesman, or duke, was equally welcome to throw their money his way.

As a second son, he would inherit no title or property from his father’s estate. That would all go to his older brother, James. And yet Alex had never resented his brother’s position. James had no ability to choose the course of his own life. There had never been any question that he would attempt to join the army and fight against Napoleon. Their distant, unloving father would never allow his heir to endanger himself in such a manner.

Alex, however, had always been the “spare,” an insurance policy against the extinction of the illustrious Harland name. Ironically, that made him free.

Did his brother resent the cage of his seniority? Did he feel emasculated by his lack of choices? Alex had, after all, been able to prove his mettle in the army, both to himself and to his disapproving father. He’d made his fortune on his own.

The earldom that had recently been bestowed upon him by the Prince Regent had been the icing on the cake. Alex was justifiably proud of it; he’d earned that title, not simply been handed it for being born first.

Perhaps that was why the thought of the Nightjargetting away with it annoyed him so much. Stealing jewels wasn’t the same asearningthem.

Alex shook his head and checked the various employees down on the floor. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Each gaming table had an operator to deal the cards and two croupiers, who watched the play and ensured the players didn’t cheat the operator. Mickey, the ex-boxer, doubled up as both doorman and, on occasion, dunner, to collect any debts owed to the bank. A couple of waiters hovered between the tables to offer the players plenty of drink from the Tricorn’s excellent wine cellar.

It was crowded tonight. A couple of tables hosted noisy hands of whist and loo, while others dealt macao. Fortunes changed hands with alarming speed.

Most of the women on the floor were courtesans in the company of male members. Their brightly colored silks and satins glowed like so many precious jewels amongst the dark evening attire of the men. Fans fluttered and feathers bobbed from outrageously elaborate hairstyles. A couple of the women wore masks to add to the air of mystery. Or perhaps to hide less-than-perfect complexions, Alex mused cynically.

He took an appreciative sip of his brandy, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat, and felt the tension begin to leech out of him.

---