Page 39 of Rakes & Reticules
Huxley made a noncommittal noise in his throat but nodded, his buggy eyes glinting with interest.
“Gentlemen.” Lord Darius gave a short bow before departing.
Not one of the other men acknowledged his farewell, nor did Lord Huxley introduce Siobhan. Just as well because as fraught as her nerves had become, she would never have remembered their names. She could barely recall her assumed name.
Until now, she had never understood why gambling and gaming entranced so many otherwise sensible people, but these men gave her the merest glimpse into the addiction.
Da had played dice.
Too much sometimes, according to Maura’s late-night scolds.
“Irish?” Huxley’s peat-brown eyes lit up. “My grandmother on my mother’s side was Irish. She had the most beautiful singing voice. A tear still forms when I hear a ballad she used to sing.”
“I am, indeed, Irish, my lord.” Siobhan produced a siren’s smile and fluttered her eyelashes. Lord, she probably looked like she was amid an apoplexy. “I’m flattered you noticed.”
“Come, my dear Mrs. McKinney. Make yourself comfortable.” Huxley motioned for her to sit.
“Thank you, my lord.” With a swirl of silk, she sank onto the gold velvet cushioned chair. The same chairs she’d been responsible for putting in place each morning until a fortnight ago. Leaning the merest bit in his lordship’s direction, she allowed him a whiff of her perfume. “You aremostkind, my lord.”
“Tell me, do you sing?” He darted her a sideways glance before examining his cards.
“Only on special occasions, my lord.” She tipped her mouth upward. “But then any occasion to sing to a viscount would bevery special.”
Lord save her.
Only a dimwitted nincompoop would believe her gushing.
A pleased smile arched the viscount’s mouth, but he said no more.
Several minutes passed as the players made bets, discarded cards, and collected new ones. Siobhan hadn’t a bald notion of how the game progressed, but Huxley threw down his cards with a satisfied hoot.
“I win!” Huxley scooped his winnings toward the table’s edge.
Disgruntled mutters echoed around the table.
Unexpectedly, after pocketing his haul, Lord Huxley scooted his chair backward and stood with his hand extended.
“My dear Mrs. McKinney, walk with me, would you? I’m fair parched.”
As half a tumbler of brandy remained where he sat, Siobhan doubted he was thirsty.
Swerving a nervous glance around the room, she forced herself to remain composed. She wasn’t supposed to have to accompany Huxley anywhere.
Not once had Lord Huxley spared a glance for his wayward wife, who still hadn’t reappeared. Neither had Fletcher.
Did that mean things were proceeding well?
Siobhan refused to consider just what that might entail.
Chandler met her roving gaze and inclined his head as he and another security guard inconspicuously maneuvered their way through the crowd in her direction.
Stalling for time, she dropped her reticule, intending to notice its loss when halfway across the room and forcing his lordship to retrieve the dainty pouch. It only contained a handkerchief, a few coins, smelling salts, a small jar of rouge, and one very sharp hat pin for protection.
“Mrs. McKinney, you’ve dropped your reticule.”
Huxley was more observant than Siobhan gave him credit for, and that disconcerted her.
She’d best not underestimate the man again.
