Page 6 of The Duchess in His Bed
He grinned such a masculine, sensual grin that she feared she’d find herself swimming in unchartered waters with this man. “That reasoning is a bit convoluted.” With another shrug, he dipped his head to the side, held her gaze. “Ever played the shell game?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“The patterer—that’s what you call the person who manages it because he talks the entire time—has three cups. He lets you see him put a pea or a ball or some other small object beneath one of the cups, then he starts moving them around quickly, talking, talking, and when he stops, he wagers an amount that you can’t correctly identify where the pea is. You guess correctly, he pays you. You guess wrong, you pay him. Not a lot, usually. Threepence, sixpence. Depends on the crowd, what it looks like they can afford.”
“And you always guessed correctly where the pea was.”
That grin again that did funny things to her chest, made it tighten until it was difficult to breathe. “Iwasthe patterer and always knew exactly where the pea was. Right in the palm of my hand. So no matter which cup they picked, they were wrong. As I was lifting the cup under which the pea was supposedly hidden, I would slip it into place. ‘Sorry, mate, here it is,’ I’d say and collect the winnings.”
“You cheated.” She was horrified at the thought, even more horrified that she was impressed with his strategy and quick sleight of hand.
He chuckled darkly. “Of course I did.”
“That’s how you made enough money to finance your business? On ill-gotten gains?”
She seemed to be amusing him because his smile got even broader. “No. I had this rickety little table with one leg in its center that I carried around with me, so I was always on the move, going from one place to another. Had my three cups, had my pea. One day a crowd had gathered. This bloke comes up, dressed all fancy. Red brocade waistcoat. I remember that the most, being impressed by the waistcoat and judging him on it. I was eleven. Had been doing my trick quite successfully for a while, was full of myself. Decided this toff had money. I was going to take him for a guinea. I laid out my terms, and he agreed to them.
“So I went through my little routine. Showed him the pea going under the cup, palmed the pea, shuffled the cups fast, egging him on, ‘Where’s the pea? Where’s the pea?’ I stop. ‘Where do you think it is, guv?’ I fairly crowed. He lifted a cup, and damned if there wasn’t a pea beneath it.”
She released a quick burst of laughter, taken off guard by the profanity he voiced so casually in her presence—no one ever used foul language in her vicinity—and the self-mocking look he gave her, as though he understood he deserved getting caught in his arrogance. “He was a swindler as well?”
He nodded. “He grew up on the streets, knew the game. Brought his own pea and slipped it into place as he was lifting his cup. I couldn’t very well call him out for a cheat without exposing my own trick.”
“So you had to pay him an entire guinea?”
He shook his head. “He told me, ‘Never let the mark lift the cup himself.’ He’d been watching me for some time apparently. Introduced himself. Jack Dodger he was.”
Her eyes widened. “NottheJack Dodger?” One of the wealthiest men in London, in all of Great Britain for that matter.
He nodded. “Indeed. I went to work at his gaming hell, Dodger’s Drawing Room, learning my way around proper gaming. Eventually I became a dealer, the youngest they’d ever had. But I wanted to be the one standing in the balcony looking down on my domain, not standing on the floor being watched. So when I was nineteen I struck out on my own. I didn’t think it was right to go into competition against a man to whom I owed so much, so I opened the Cerberus Club in Whitechapel, more for the dregs than the posh, but dregs have coins, too. And not all the nobility is welcomed in the finer circles.”
“And from there you decided women needed a place as well.”
“I can’t take credit for that. It was my brother’s idea, but his heart was never truly in it, so he gave the place to me.”
“Gave it to you? Without recompense? Just like that?”
“He felt he owed me.”
“Why?”
“Ah, darling, that’s another story entirely.” Abandoning her feet, he straightened and leaned toward her. “Now you need to tell me a tale. What brought you here tonight?”
“A carriage.”
He chuckled low at her quick response, her deliberate failure to properly address his question. This one was full of secrets. He’d wager the entirety of tonight’s take on it. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that drew his attention, that kept him at her side. Normally, he didn’t linger with the ladies, having no desire to make any of them jealous—jealousy was bad for business. But for some odd reason, he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from her. Perhaps it was the sadness in her eyes, or her discomfort. Most women had excitement thrumming through them when they came here, but with her, it was as though she had no interest in the place but felt compelled to be within these walls. She was searching for something, thought she’d find it here, but he could have told her no treasures resided within these rooms. They provided only momentary escapes. There was value in that, but it was always fleeting. Which was the reason people returned. Because the joy they found here could not be taken with them. It always dissipated once they exited.
Which was good for business. Ensured they’d return.
A footman came by, refilled her wineglass, and went on his way. She didn’t object, and he suspected she was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed. Reaching for her free hand, he began rolling her glove down past her elbow. Why did ladies wear frocks that exposed their arms and then add an accessory to hide them?
“What are you doing?” she asked, and he heard a measure of alarm in her voice.
“Gloves are a nuisance.”
She closed her fingers into an ineffectual fist. “Please don’t remove them.”
He thought of the ring that might be recognizable to those who knew her. “We could place your ring inside one of the gloves. It would be safe there. We have no thieves here. Or I could tuck it into one of my pockets.”
