A Stranger's Gamble (Lords of Chance Book 3)

by Tarah Scott

  If they stayed in Edinburgh long enough, he might be able to hunt down the mare’s owner. The horse could be just the mare to breed with Merlyn. A gust of wind blew his hair, carrying with it the scent of rain. He glanced heavenward. A line of dark clouds were sweeping down from the north. He had better turn back if he didn’t want to get caught in the rain. Adam cut across the heather and galloped toward the city.

  The sky had darkened when Adam handed his horse’s reins to a boy in the stables. Adam rubbed the back of his neck and stretched his legs. The exercise had stimulated his appetite. A dog barked in the distance as he headed toward his favorite tavern on Lacy Street. As he neared the church, the creak of harness reached his ears an instant before the coach-and-six he’d seen on the road turned the corner of the church.

  “Well, damn,” he murmured.

  Half a dozen seconds later, the mare he’d seen also came into view. Adam stepped out of the road as the coach passed. Boys’ shouts went up behind Adam. He glanced over his shoulder to see three lads chasing one another down the street toward him. He chuckled, then faced forward as the rider and mare neared him. Adam started to lift a hand to hail the rider. The boys reached where he stood, and one of the lads pushed the other into the street. He tripped and fell in the mare’s path.

  The mare screamed and reared, pawing the air. Adam dove for the fallen boy. The mare’s rider yanked the animal’s reins to the right, away from the boy. The horse’s hooves hit the ground two feet from where the boy had fallen as Adam rolled with the lad in the opposite direction. The boy pushed away and jumped to his feet. Without a backward glance, he raced off after his companions, who had taken off down the street.

  “Blasted fool,” the mare’s rider shouted after them.

  Adam agreed. With a groan, he rose. The rider turned his mare toward Adam as a gust of wind whipped Adam’s hair. The rider’s hat flew from his head. Adam froze when a wealth of brown curls spilled down onto the rider’s shoulders. A woman. The rider was…a woman.

  She gave a gasping sort of laugh and shifted as if to dismount. Adam scooped up the hat from the ground and looked up into a pair of laughing brown eyes. She held a finger to her lips, begging his silence. His gaze caught on her full mouth and his cock twitched. The little piece of baggage was a hoyden. He extended the hat toward her. She grasped it and tugged, but he held fast.

  “What is your name?” he asked before checking the impulse.

  Dimples appeared on cheeks flushed pink from the chill air. “I am no one, sir.”

  His mind snapped to attention. No one? She spoke far too cultured to be no one. He released the hat, and she quickly clamped it on her head, stuffing as many curls as she could beneath the rim, then kicked the mare’s flank and trotted down the street. She sat straight in the saddle. She would, of course. The woman was clearly born to ride. He slid his gaze downward along her slender breeches-clad legs.

  The coach-and-six rattled to a halt before a row of affluent townhomes down the street. A mist began to fall as Adam strode toward the carriage. Perhaps the driver might tell him who the lass was. He reached the carriage, then halted when he caught sight of the numbers on the large brass doorplate where the carriage had stopped. Number ninety-one.

  The footman hopped from his seat and opened the carriage door. A long, slender arm appeared, and the footman helped a woman from the carriage. She wore a fine ermine-trimmed pelisse over a light blue gown. The lady paused and glanced around. She drew her brows into a scowl and thinned her lips in displeasure.

  He drew back in dismay.

  Surely, she couldn’t be? Sophie. Madeline Forsyth’s niece.

  Chapter Six

  Sophie kept her attention on the carriage parked in front of her aunt’s house up ahead. A black iron handrail led up the three steps from the street to the front door of the townhouse. Dare she stop while the gentleman watched her? He was watching. She could feel his gaze on her. He had been too interested in learning her identity, she feared he would try to talk to her, and thus give away the fact she was a woman. Sophie prayed Beatrice would keep her nerve and figure out that if Aunt Maddie were home to greet her, Beatrice needed to pretend to be Sophie.

  Sophie hadn’t planned on Beatrice pretending to be her anywhere but in Sophie’s bedchambers by the low light of the hearth. This is what she got for not getting back into the carriage before they reached Town. Not to mention, she hadn’t given any thought to the servants seeing her arrive in breeches—or a handsome gentleman discovering that she was a woman.

  Sophie passed the coach then drew her horse up in front of the other horses. Maybe the gentleman would turn off before he reached them. The door of the house opened, and a footman stepped outside.

  She couldn’t have asked for more perfect timing. As the coachman handed Beatrice out of the carriage, Sophie called to the footman at the door, “Have you a stable?”

  He sniffed and lifted his nose in the air. “To the rear.”

  Sophie called to Beatrice, “I will send your maid to your room soon, miss.”

  Beatrice frowned, then Sophie winced at her audible gasp. Sophie tensed, then gave thanks when Beatrice didn’t call out. Sophie faced forward and urged Ophelia on.

  “Haddies from Newhaven,” a nearby fish-woman cried.

  Hooves clattered on the cobblestones around her. In the distance, a church bell rang. Sophie halted at the corner and waited for a carriage to pass so she could turn left toward the alley behind her aunt’s house. A nervous tremor rippled through her stomach. Her aunt hadn’t seen her since Sophie was five. Still, there was always the chance the older woman would realize Beatrice wasn’t her.

  “I trust you suffered no lasting harm, lass—er, lad?”

  Sophie started at the deep male voice and jerked her head in the direction of the man who had rescued her hat from the street. He stood on the corner. Her gaze caught on stunning hazel eyes flecked with green and gold. His dark hair, longer than the usual cut, nearly brushed his broad shoulders.

  “I am hale and hearty, sir.” She smiled. “Thank you for keeping my secret.”

  He executed a bow with an elegant grace that spoke of much practice. His brown coat and dark blue waistcoat were finely made and topped off with a rakishly tied cravat. A gentleman.

  “It is my pleasure, I assure you. Miss Sophie Shaw will never hear a word from my lips.”

  Her pulse jumped. “You know Miss Shaw?”

  The carriage passed and Sophie urged her mount to take the left turn, then kept a sedate pace as the man kept pace with them on the sidewalk.

  “I have not had the pleasure of Miss Shaw’s acquaintance,” he said. “But I have been informed of her arrival.”

  Sophie tensed. “By whom, sir? Are you acquainted with the Marquess of Monthemer?”

  Surprise quickly gave way to a cool expression. “I am acquainted with the man.”

  “He sent you to spy on m—my mistress to report back if she is worthy of marriage?”

  “Your mistress?” he said. “The marquess is a rogue and not particularly interested in the match.”

  So, the marquess didn’t wish to lower himself to marry a woman not of noble birth? Hadn’t he ever heard that beggars couldn’t be choosers?

  “Miss Shaw has no wish to marry the marquess,” she said.

  His brows rose in surprise…or was that amusement?

  She reached the alley and turned left onto the gravel road. The rear of the townhouses sat to the left, and to the right, small stables were interspersed among smaller homes, likely occupied by servants. To her surprise, the man followed. The devil gripped Sophie and she didn’t bother to resist.

  “Miss Shaw is a somber woman,” she said.

  “From the looks of her, I quite agree,” he replied.

  She blinked. He’d seen her? Of course, out front when Beatrice had exited the carriage—and he’d mistaken Beatrice for herself. Oh, this was simply too delicious.

  “She is a paragon of discontent. I have yet
to see her smile.” Sophie looked down at him. “How do you know the marquess?”

  A strange smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I am his man of affairs.”

  They reached the rear entrance to the house marked Number ninety-one, and Sophie pulled Ophelia to a halt.

  Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said. “I am Adam… Adam MacAlister.”

  “I’m Beatrice Frasier. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise, Miss Frasier.” He emphasized the word Miss and glanced meaningfully at her tight breeches, then winked. “Well, I must be off.” He took two backward steps. “Good evening, Miss Frasier.”

  “The same to you, Mr. MacAlister.” She angled her head in farewell.

  Her attention caught on the way his coat stretched taut across broad shoulders—and the tendrils of hair that brushed those shoulders. He turned onto the road and out of her view, and she jarred at the realization that she’d been staring.

  Fifteen minutes later, valise in hand, Sophie thanked the maid who showed her to Miss Shaw’s room and slipped inside a bright room. Beatrice jumped up from the chair where she sat in front of a window. To the right, sat a large four-poster bed with a peach-colored counterpane. The four trunks sat near the armoire to the left near the hearth where a fire burned.

  “Finally.” Beatrice wrung her hands. “Where have you been? Your aunt has sent a message that you are to attend to her in the drawing room once you have refreshed yourself. Oh, dear, but this is a mess you’ve gotten us into.” She took a breath, clearly with the intent to carry on her tirade.

  “Calm yourself, Beatrice. As you can see, I changed into my dress. The breeches are well hidden in my valise.” She lifted the valise to show her.

  In her desire to ride Ophelia, another thing Sophie had given no thought to was how a young male footman would gain entrance to Sophie Shaw’s chambers. However, she wasn’t about to admit that to Beatrice. Luckily, Mr. Carney arrived, and Sophie had quickly changed inside the carriage. She would plan better in the future.

  “A woman of your station should not wander the streets of Edinburgh alone,” Beatrice said.

  “My station?” Sophie snorted. “I am no lady, silly. No one cares what a calico-printer’s daughter does.”

  “Your father would. He will have my head on a platter if he catches a hint of this escapade.”

  Sophie took the breeches and shirt from the valise.

  “Please, I beg you, burn those hideous clothes,” Beatrice wailed.

  Burn them? She needed them.

  “Cease fretting, Bea.” Sophie crossed to the armoire, folded the clothes, then tucked them into the far corner of the chest, along with the valise.

  She faced Beatrice. “Now, close the drapes. We must prepare for my aunt to visit me. I have a headache, you know.”

  Beatrice frowned. “You never have a headache.”

  Sophie grinned. “I will be having a lot of them while I am in Edinburgh. Now, do as I say. Close the drapes.”

  Beatrice obeyed while Sophie searched her trunks until she found a nightgown, cap and robe. Beatrice helped her wash her face and arms, then combed her hair and splashed a little rose water on her locks. Even Sophie had to admit she could still smell the hint of horse on her hair. When Sophie finally slipped into the nightgown, cap and robe, she ordered Beatrice to turn off the lamp.

  Beatrice complied, and Sophie crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. When Beatrice pulled the drapes, firelight bathed the room in a low glow that pleased Sophie. Her aunt wouldn’t be able to get a good look at her.

  “Now, call for a maid,” Sophie said. “Tell her to inform my aunt I have a headache. If she decides to visit me—”

  A sharp rap sounded on the door, and a woman said, “Sophie, it’s your Aunt Maddie.”

  Sophie looked at Beatrice whose eyes had gone wide.

  “Hide,” Sophie whispered.

  “Hide?”

  “No argument.” Sophie shooed her away.

  Beatrice hesitated, then hurried to the small antechamber on the far side of the room and went inside.

  Sophie burrowed deeper into the bedding and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Come in,” she called in a small voice.

  The door creaked slightly, and a sliver of light fell across the carpet to the left of the bed. “Sophie.”

  “Here,” Sophie said.

  Her aunt entered, closed the door behind her, then walked to the bed. She frowned down at Sophie. “What is wrong, child?”

  “I am sick.”

  “Sick?” She sat on the mattress, and Sophie looked into dark keen eyes that she feared took in far too much. “Have you a cold?” Maddie asked.

  Sophie gave what she hoped was a wan smile. “Too many hours in a carriage, I fear.”

  Her aunt nodded. “Oh, yes, too many hours in a carriage will drive a body beyond endurance.”

  Sophie checked the impulse to agree too vigorously and simply gave a single nod.

  “Riding in a coach too long often irritates my gout,” her aunt said.

  “You have gout?” Sophie asked.

  She nodded. “A good rain can force me to a chair in front of the fire with my foot propped on a stool.”

  “That’s terrible,” Sophie said with feeling. “How do you feel now?”

  Aunt Maddie chuckled. “Never you mind, my dear.”

  “What does the doctor say?” Sophie surprised herself at the unexpected concern that flooded her.

  “He prescribed Dr. Anderson’s Pills.”

  “Have you been taking them?” The older woman’s brows shot up, and Sophie realized she’d caught her aunt in a fib. “I will fetch them for you tomorrow,” Sophie said.

  Surprise shone in Maddie’s eyes, and she laughed. “I can see you will keep me on my toes. But you needn’t worry about that tonight. I will have a tray sent up for you and Miss Frasier. You rest. You have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  “I do?” Sophie realized she’s displayed a little too much enthusiasm. She winced and rubbed her left temple.

  Her aunt patted her arm. “I have sent for the seamstress. She arrives tomorrow to work on your gown for the ball. But we will worry about that tomorrow.”

  Sophie groaned inwardly. Suffering through fittings wasn’t what she had in mind for tomorrow. “I have a dozen gowns I can wear to the ball,” she said.

  “You must arrive in the latest fashion, if you are to impress a marquess.”

  “I do not want the marquess any more than he wants me,” she blurted.

  “Nonsense, why wouldn’t he want you?”

  She recalled Adam MacAlister telling her the marquess was not in favor of the marriage. Sophie also recalled Mr. MacAlister’s wink and flushed.

  “Sophie?” her aunt prompted. “Oh dear, I have worn you out.” To Sophie’s surprise, Maddie pressed a kiss to her forehead, then stood. “You rest. Tomorrow, you will feel much better.” She looked around the room. “Where is Miss Frasier?”

  “I sent her to bed,” Sophie replied. Her aunt frowned. “She was exhausted from taking care of me.”

  Maddie nodded. “My room is three doors down should you need anything.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Maddie gave Sophie one last smile, then left. When the door clicked shut behind her, Sophie threw the covers back and jumped from bed as Beatrice emerged from the small room.

  Sophie waved her over. “We have plans to make, Bea.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning, Adam lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. A man would be a fool to shackle himself to a creature such as Miss Sophie Shaw. If he were to consider marrying a rich heiress, Miss Shaw wasn’t his only choice. Impoverished marquesses were in high demand. He couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a determined mama poised to throw her daughter at him. God help him. Was he really considering marrying strictly for money? Why not? The decision to marry for love had left him penniless.

  He would never
forget Lena’s words the day after his father’s death. “Given recent circumstances, I believe it is better if we sever our relationship.”

  Given recent circumstances.

  Recent circumstances being that, as the new owner of his father’s Edinburgh townhouse and her newfound riches—the twenty percent of his father’s losses she had collected as owner of the gambling hall—she was now a woman of means. She had no intention of continuing a relationship with a man of no means, even if he was a marquess.

  Adam threw back the covers and jumped from bed. To hell with feeling sorry for himself. His father may have gambled away Adam’s inheritance, but the old man had still managed to save him from the hell of marrying Lena. Adam had loved her, but she would have slowly killed him. He hadn’t been able to admit her true nature, so blind was he with passion.

  Memory rose of their lovemaking the afternoon his father seated himself in her card room and laid down his first bet. By the time Lena arrived at her gaming hall that evening, the old marquess had suffered heavy losses and was nigh drunk. Did she put a stop to the game? Nae. Rumors circulated about how she called for the solicitor she kept installed in the gaming hall, and he witnessed the signing of the old marquess’s marker.

  The personal items and furnishing in Brewhold were all he had left. To a man with money that might mean something, but without the money to maintain the estate, the house would fall into disrepair all too quickly. Even if he scrounged together enough money to maintain the estate for ten years, that would only make him ten years older with fewer options to support himself. Still, ten years of peace, ten years to forget, was hard to resist. Adam shook his head. He might survive ten years, but he wouldn’t raise any horses.

  The morning bustle had just begun when he reached Lacy Street an hour later. He hadn’t really thought of a plan beyond befriending the coachman to learn more of Miss Beatrice Frasier. She was his best chance of learning something about Miss Shaw. He had eleven days until the ball. Eleven days to decide whether or not he could sell himself like a common whore.