Warren paused outside as if to light his cigar and surveyed the two chaps through the door. They didn’t stop in the taproom, but headed right through it to the card room in the back.
Sauntering into the taproom, Warren debated how to act. Pretending to be someone else would be pointless. Aside from the fact that Owen had seen him today, many of the other gentlemen would know him from his numerous visits to the stews.
He supposed he could leave and just warn Miss Trevor next time he saw her that her suitor was a gamester. But he still wasn’t even sure the youth in the too-large hat was her suitor. Besides, he wanted to at least get the fellow’s name and find out his intentions. Not blunder in without understanding the situation.
Very well. Best to join the card play as himself. But first, he’d see what he could glean about the gentleman he could hear being greeted jovially by the other players.
As Warren walked up to the bar and ordered a brandy, the owner of the hell approached. “Knightford!” Dickson cried. “It’s been an age.”
“Indeed, it has. I’ve been too busy up the street at Mrs. Beard’s to come wallow with you fellows much,” Warren said. “More congenial company there.”
“I’ll wager you’re right about that,” Dickson said with a chuckle. “Her girls know how to keep a man happy.”
They certainly did. And how to keep his mind off the night.
Sipping his brandy, Warren watched through the doorway as the chap with Owen took a seat at a piquet table. That was a game primarily of skill. It made sense that a fortune hunter would prefer it.
“Who is that young devil there in the oversize hat, who just came in?” he asked Dickson. “I don’t recognize him.” In truth, he still hadn’t even had a good look at the youth’s face.
“That’s Jack Jones. He’s a Welsh cousin of that other fellow Owen, although Owen never plays, just watches.”
A cousin, hmm. Perhaps Owen was trying to broker a marriage between his mistress and his cousin? Or perhaps his mistress didn’t know that the arse was Owen’s cousin.
Warren took a drag on his cigar. “Where in Wales is he from?”
“He’s never said. All I know is he don’t talk much, don’t drink much, just plays his cards. Always leaves well before dawn. Don’t seem to like people. And in the month since he’s been coming here, he’s brought in more business than I’ve had in the previous three.”
“How the bloody hell has he done that?”
Dickson shrugged. “He doesn’t lose. Jack’s damned good at cards, although he can’t be more than twenty, at the most. He prefers games of skill like piquet, and he plays them well. So word has got round that Jack Jones is the man to beat, and all the players in town have been trying to prove they can top him. But nobody ever does.”
“Which means he’s probably cheating.”
“I’ve never once caught him at it.”
Stubbing out his cigar, Warren downed the rest of his brandy. “Perhaps I can.”
“You can try, but I’m pretty good at ferreting out the sharpers. And I would swear that young Jack is as good as he seems. Hell, I’m not even sure I care if he’s cheating, as long as he’s not found out. If he brings me more people, I can make money on what they lose at hazard alone.”
“Tell you what,” Warren said. “I’ll see what I can discover myself. It just so happens my brother Hart and my cousin Niall used to bet me that I couldn’t catch them cheating at cards, and I always did. Took a lot of money off them. They were young, and I figured it would teach them to behave themselves.”
“And did it?”
“They don’t cheat. Although they’re both still rascals of the first order.” He grinned. “And yes, so am I. Which is why I shall see if I can’t beat your Jack Jones.”
As Dickson chuckled, Warren strode into the room and joined a group of watchers that had formed about the table where the piquet game was going on. He was careful to stay behind Owen—it wouldn’t do for the servant to notice him yet.
While observing the play, he looked for anyone standing behind Jones’s opponent who might be signaling Jones concerning what his opponent’s cards held. Warren knew all the tricks from spending so much time gambling in the evening. A slightly open mouth generally signified hearts, a glance at the stack of cards between the men signified a knave, and the combination meant the opponent had a knave of hearts.
There were many such signals, and while he didn’t know them all, he knew enough of them to recognize when someone was using them.
But after a half hour of playing, he could see no signaling being done. The only thing he could tell was that Dickson hadn’t lied about Jack Jones being a damned fine piquet player. The man never took a step wrong. He had a strategy for every combination of cards, and he knew precisely how to work it to his advantage.
Dickson was right about the fellow’s disposition, too: He was as quiet as an executioner. He sat hunched over the table, muttering his declarations just loudly enough to be heard. The observers might chatter around him, but he didn’t participate in any conversation.
When he did speak, his voice had the odd timbre of a youth trying to sound older. From time to time, he would wipe his nose on his sleeve—not exactly the behavior of a gentleman. But though his hands looked a trifle dirty, they were nimble and his plays quick. It didn’t take long for him to trounce his opponent.
As Jones raked in the money, Warren stepped forward. “Evening, sir. The name’s Knightford. Might I try my hand at a game with you next?”
Apparently taken off guard, Jones jerked his head up to meet Warren’s gaze. And as Warren caught sight of arresting blue eyes, he realized that everything he’d thought about Owen’s friend was wrong.
The forced husky voice, the lack of gentlemanly behavior, the ill-fitting clothes, all made sense now.
Because the card player taking the gaming world by storm was none other than Miss Delia Trevor.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Five
The bottom dropped out of Delia’s stomach. What wretched luck! Why must it be him? Why here? Why now?
She ducked her head, praying he hadn’t recognized her.
Oh, what was she thinking? Of course he hadn’t recognized her. No one ever associated the outrageously attired miss who liked to tease with the mumbling, nondescript young chap who played cards like a sharper, had dirty hands and dirty habits, and kept his hat low over his face. She’d actually met some of her suitors in this place, and they hadn’t noticed anything.
But most of them were fools. Lord Knightford was decidedly not a fool. And Owen’s nudge of her knee—their signal for danger—reminded her that Lord Knightford had seen Owen with her. That alone would register with the man.
That is, if he’d noticed the servant. Most lords did not.
“Mr. Jones?” the marquess prodded. “May I play you in piquet . . . sir?”
That hesitation before “sir” gave her pause. Please, Lord, let him not have figured me out. He could ruin me with a word, and then all my plans would be for naught.
But she dared not refuse to play him. She had never refused anyone else, and the others would wonder about that change in behavior.
“Certainly, my lord.” She opened a new pack of cards and began to shuffle.
He took a seat. “How did you know to call me ‘my lord’?”
Bother it all. He was already rattling her. “Everyone knows the Marquess of Knightford around here.”
“So we’ve met before.”
Was she imagining the sarcasm in his words? No one else seemed to notice. And if he had figured her out, wouldn’t he have said something right away? “Of course not. But your reputation precedes you.”
“It generally does. Though I didn’t imagine it stretched to Wales. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”
Oh, Lord, he’d been asking around about Jack Jones before he’d even sat down to play. “Yes, but I came to London a while ago. A man’s got to work, you know. And are we
playing cards or not?”
They settled the terms, then drew to see who got to choose who dealt. She won the cut, so she chose to deal and be Youngest, while he would be Eldest. Although Eldest had the advantage in every partie of the six, the alternating deals meant that she would end up Eldest for the last partie—so it was a strategic move to let him have the advantage for the first one.
They began the game. He actually allowed her a whole five minutes before he began chattering away again. “Who taught you to play cards so well, young Jones?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Was he seeking to distract “Jones” in an attempt to make him lose? Or had his lordship figured out who she really was and was toying with her, like a cat batting at a mouse?
She couldn’t tell from his faintly amused expression. “My father taught me to play. He enjoyed a game of whist or piquet now and then.”
“So he was a gamester.”
She grunted, her usual response when people got too inquisitive. She was telling the truth, after all. She and Reynold had inherited Papa’s talent for cards, which Papa had cultivated. And that was why she knew Reynold couldn’t have lost so much without being cheated by someone very adept.
Unfortunately, in all the nights she’d been playing here, no one had shown up who fit that description. There had been the occasional cheater—it was almost impossible to avoid that in the hells—but they’d been clumsy ones she could easily get around.
She’d considered trying other hells in her search, but it seemed better to stick with the one where the sharper had played her brother. If the man had come here once, he’d come again. Besides, only certain hells specialized in piquet, and this was one.
She and the marquess played a few cards, the silence only broken by their declarations of points.
Then Lord Knightford started his inquisition again. “Where in Wales are you from?”
She swallowed her panic. It certainly seemed as if he were trying to find her out. “Corwen.” It was Owen’s home village. He’d schooled her in everything she needed to know about it.
“Ah, I’ve been there. The town famous for its well.”
Owen nudged her knee. Danger.
“Don’t know about a well, sir. But there’s sheep and cows.”
“And corn?”
Her heart stuttered. Oh, Lord, could he be referring to their conversation earlier? “Beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.” He eyed her intently over his cards. “What did you do in Corwen, before you came to London?”
Time to put an end to this. “None of your damned business.”
“You should be more courteous to your betters, brat,” he said mildly.
“And you should pay more attention to your cards, old man,” she countered as she played her last card and won the partie.
Though she knew she shouldn’t have beaten his lordship, since it was unwise to make him angry when she wasn’t sure if he recognized her, it gave her a secret satisfaction when the faintest frown marred that perfect brow of his.
Take that, Lord Inquisitive. Perhaps now you’ll stop hounding me and start paying attention to the game.
He gathered up the cards and shuffled slower than anyone she’d ever seen. “So, brat, have you sampled any of the other pleasures in Covent Garden?”
“Naw, I only like the pleasures that make me money. Like trouncing you, which is quite a pleasure, m’lord, I’ll admit.”
She loved that aspect of pretending to be Mr. Jones. She could say what she liked, which was enormously freeing, since she normally had to govern her words.
And why was it that women had to stifle themselves while men got to say whatever they pleased? It simply wasn’t fair. Sometimes she thought she wouldn’t mind becoming Jack Jones for life, being able to live on her own terms.
Except that then she’d be just like Papa and Reynold, risking her future on the turn of a card. That was no way to live. Bad enough that she had to do it to find the unknown card cheat; she couldn’t continue forever. Someone was bound to catch her.
Like the pesky Lord Knightford—who even as he dealt the cards was watching her with that brooding gaze that made her stomach quiver.
In alarm. Only alarm.
Catching the attention of the taproom maid named Mary, Lord Knightford ordered a bottle of port and a glass. With a wink and a flirtatious smile, Mary flounced off to the bar to fetch it.
After a long moment of watching the swing of Mary’s derriere with obvious approval, Lord Knightford picked up his cards.
For some reason, his private little smirk annoyed Delia. “From what I hear, my lord, you sample enough of the pleasures of Covent Garden for the both of us.”
He eyed her over his hand, a hint of calculation in his expression. “You’re telling me that a randy young lad like you, here every night in the stews, doesn’t ever take a tumble with a whore?”
A chill swept down her spine. What had she been thinking, to bait him? She hunched over her cards and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “I ain’t throwing my money away on a whore when I need it for keeping a roof over my head and getting my supper.”
“From what I hear,” Lord Knightford said as he arranged his cards, “you take in more than enough to cover that. So, perhaps you have another reason. Perhaps you simply don’t like women.”
The room fell silent, and the very air froze. Even the smoke from Lord Knightford’s cigar seemed to pause in its writhing. Was he accusing Jack of what she thought he was?
She’d learned all sorts of unusual things during her month in the stews, including what it meant when a man preferred to have other men as bed partners. If the fellows in the gaming hell thought she was a molly, they would turn on her, and that would be the end of her career as Jack Jones.
“I like women well enough,” she muttered. Just then, Mary returned with his lordship’s port, so as she passed, Delia slapped her on the derriere the way she’d seen some of the men do. “But why should I spend my winnings on whores when there’s good loving to be found for free?”
As the tension broke and the men laughed, the maid scowled at her. “Mr. Jones!” She tried to mop up some of the port that had spilled out of the glass onto her tray. “And here I thought you was a gentleman!”
“Never claimed to be that, Mary,” Delia said gruffly. She laid a coin on the tray. “But here’s for the spilled wine, if it’ll make you quit your complaining.”
Taking the coin with a sniff, Mary waltzed over to his lordship. “Well, there are gentlemen here who know how to treat a lady right.” She set the bottle and the glass down in front of Lord Knightford, then bent low enough that he could probably see clear to her navel inside that loose blouse. “Can I get you somethin’ else, m’lord?” she cooed.
He smiled at Mary. “Not at present, luv,” he said, and tucked a sovereign in her cleavage. “But I’ll be sure to take advantage of the offer another time.”
Delia couldn’t resist a snort, which drew his attention back to her. The gleam in his eye gave her pause. Was he just having a bit of fun at Jack Jones’s expense? Or trying to annoy Miss Delia Trevor? Because if it was the latter, he was succeeding.
“Something wrong, Jones?” the marquess asked lazily as he sipped his port.
“Nothing that getting on with this game wouldn’t take care of.”
“You really are a surly sort. It’s a wonder anyone ever agrees to play with you.”
Ignoring that remark, Delia laid down her card, and the next partie was on. For a while, he was blessedly quiet except for his declarations. Since it was her turn to be Eldest, she had the advantage and she used it ruthlessly. The cloud spreading over his brow showed that he knew she was trouncing him. Again.
But she couldn’t glory in it for fretting over whether he’d guessed who she was. Even winning the second partie and having her score leap ahead of his by twenty-two points couldn’t banish her worry.
Grimly, she gathered up the cards and began to deal.
“I see you
’re left-handed,” he said.
She paused half a second before forcing herself to go on. The fact that he was bringing up the subject they’d discussed at the breakfast earlier didn’t have to mean anything. Perhaps the conversation had merely stuck in his head, so that now he noticed left-handers everywhere.
And if wishes were horses, beggars would win the Derby. “Actually, I’m ambidextrous. Use both hands the same.” Which was a lie, but she had to tell him something to get him off the track.
“Ambidextrous, is it?” Lord Knightford said. “You have an awfully big vocabulary for a country lad.”
“You have an awfully big mouth for a card player. Do you ever shut up?”
The marquess chuckled. “When it suits me.”
“Could it suit you now, if you please? Because I’d like to finish this game before the morn.”
“Very well,” he said, but his smirk told her he wasn’t done with her.
Was he building up to exposing her? Or was she just so nervous around him that she was reading too much into his remarks?
Whatever the case, she’d best find a way out of here before he either revealed who she was or plagued her until she slipped up and revealed who she was herself. Leaving before the game was over would rob her of the chance to beat him at cards, which she sorely regretted, but it wasn’t worth risking exposure.
When they started the third partie, she could feel Lord Knightford’s gaze on her, as if he were attempting to see beyond the layers of her disguise. Lord. She had to escape—and without his being able to follow, in case he had figured out who she was.
When Mary came through again, carrying a tankard to another table and glaring at “Jack” as she passed by, an idea leapt into Delia’s head.
Delia leaned forward to lay down her card, calling, “Could you bring me one of those ales, lass?”
Pretending to be distracted by her ordering, she brought her hand back just enough to knock over the port bottle so it fell and spewed port into Lord Knightford’s lap.
The Danger of Desire Page 5