by Erica Ridley
She was his talisman. His saving grace.
Her moss-colored gown was simple muslin, but the blood-red rubies about her neck and dangling from her ears indicated wealth. A nondescript bonnet bathed her face in shadow. Were it not for a rogue ringlet slipping out the back, he would not have known her hair was spun gold.
“Fairfax?” prompted Leviston. “You in?”
“Absolutely.” Anthony placed a dizzying sum of money on the corner of the table. Thirty pounds was more than he’d seen in months—and far more than he could afford to lose. But with Lady Fortune gazing in his direction, he knew he could not fail.
Mr. Bost, failing to hide his smug expression, tossed his final cards onto the table, face up. Mr. Leviston and Mr. Whitfield groaned as they displayed their cards.
As Anthony had expected, their cards were no match for his. Not tonight. He turned over his straight flush without fanfare.
Bost gasped in dismay. “You are positively beggaring me tonight, Fairfax!”
Anthony gazed back impassively as he tucked his winnings into his purse. He knew a thing or two about being beggared. It was what had chased him from London to Scotland—but only temporarily. He would recover his losses. Every penny.
Beau Brummell might be able to hide in France for the rest of his life, but Anthony had friends and family in England. People he loved dearly and would miss dreadfully. He straightened his shoulders. London would welcome him back with open arms once his vowels were paid. A few more big wins, and his IOUs would be a distant memory.
Tonight was the night. He could feel it. Fate had been on his side from the moment Leviston had suggested a game of three-card Brag. Anthony could not possibly have resisted.
He had always preferred games of chance over strategy. His strength was not in counting cards or doing figures, but in being incredibly lucky. Any gambler experienced periods of soaring highs and devastating lows but, in Anthony’s case, fortune favored him so often that his winnings at the gaming tables had been his family’s sole income for years.
True, he had also suffered agonizing losses but, as any gambler knew, a windfall was always a mere turn of the cards away. Tonight, in fact.
All he needed was one big win.
Whitfield shook his head. “Demme, I should never have believed the rumors of your luck running out. You’re unsinkable! Think you’ll ever retire from the gaming tables and leave a few pence for us mortals?”
“Never!” Anthony twisted his face into a comical expression of horror.
Chuckling, Whitfield gathered the remaining cards and began to shuffle.
Anthony sent a quick smile toward his shadowy Lady Fortune. She was his charm, his muse. Her power was immeasurable. He had won that last round simply because she’d gazed upon him.
“I see our would-be adversary has caught your eye,” said Whitfield.
“She wagers?” Anthony asked in surprise.
“She’d like to,” Leviston answered dryly, “but Bost wouldn’t let her join us.”
Bost drained his brandy and waved his empty glass at a barmaid. “What do women know about cards? She’ll lose her money. Her husband should pay more attention to the purse strings.”
Whitfield’s eyes glittered. “And if she hasn’t got one, she should just say the word. I’d be happy to step in for the night.”
Anthony’s lips flattened in distaste. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?” Bost’s laugh was cocky. “You have claims on the lady?”
“You certainly do not,” Anthony countered icily. His tone served to silence the blackguards.
Good. He needed to keep winning. A brawl over Lady Fortune’s honor would have ruined everything.
“Your wine, my lords.” The harried barmaid refilled the other gentlemen’s glasses, then turned toward Anthony. “Anything for you, sir?”
“Not for me.” Anthony placed a gold sovereign he’d set aside onto her tray. “For you. Everyone deserves some good luck once in a while.”
Her eyes glistened. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Anthony inclined his head. Inn staff would not know him this far north, but he always shared a small token from his winnings. Everyone did deserve good fortune. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to be employed to scrape out a living—not only because gentlemen of his class did not work. Anthony had never cleaved to anyone else’s schedule or demands. Gaming hells were much more suited to his style of living.
In fact, he won the next several rounds. A thrill shot through him each time. Lady Fortune’s presence had made him unconquerable indeed. Tonight’s total winnings were well over a hundred pounds.
“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”
“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London had closed their doors to you.”
“London?” Anthony leaned back in his throne with a careless grin. “Try England. Why do you think I came all the way to Scotland to deprive you of your last ha’penny?”
“Scoundrel.” Whitfield shook his head with a chuckle. “Good night, all.”
Bost adjusted his hat with a sigh. “Next time I see you, Fairfax, I’m winning back my blunt.”
“You can try,” Anthony agreed with good cheer before handing the cards to Leviston. “One last round?”
“I’ll no doubt regret this,” Leviston grumbled as he shuffled the cards.
A movement caught Anthony’s eye. He straightened his spine as Lady Fortune rose from her shadowy corner and made her way toward their table. Her very presence dazzled.
“Now is there room for a lady?” she asked in a rich, sultry voice.
“Without question.” Anthony leaped up in deference while she took her seat. She had no chance of winning, not with Anthony’s luck tonight, but he saw no reason not to welcome her to the table.
“Your funeral,” Leviston said to her under his breath. “Fairfax here is unbeatable.”
Anthony was in full agreement. Leviston could bid his last farthing adieu. Now that Lady Fortune was seated at their table, Anthony’s luck would be boundless. He was on the longest winning streak of his life.
“Fairfax, meet Miss Devon.” Leviston began to deal the cards. “Starting wager is ten pounds, pet.”
She placed her bet on the table without changing expression. Either the sum meant nothing, or she expected to win.
Anthony couldn’t stop staring at her from the corner of his eye. He was normally quite gifted at sizing someone up in the briefest of moments—it was the key to reading tables, and knowing when to pass or when to triple his wager—but he couldn’t quite get a fix on Miss Devon.
It wasn’t just the high-necked modesty of her thick fichu being paired with extravagant rubies, or her concealed golden tendrils and pristine white gloves. Now that she was close enough for him to read her features, he still couldn’t do so. Her clear blue eyes were as calm as a winter lake and her pretty, unlined face betrayed nothing.
He was fascinated, tempted to give up on cards altogether in favor of unraveling the far more intriguing mystery beneath the simple, oversized bonnet.
But winning big was his only chance of repaying his debts.
Anthony took the next round, and the round after that. Leviston took the third, only for Anthony to win it back double the following hand with three jacks.
By the fifth round, Leviston’s grip on his cards was white-knuckled and he trembled with obvious anxiety.
Miss Devon turned as if to soothe him. “Breathe in through your nose,” she murmured, “and out through your mouth. It is but one hand of cards amongst many. A moment in time. Feel your fingers relaxing. If you wish to stop, you may do so. It is only a game.”
To Anthony’s amazement, Leviston visibly relaxed as he listened to Miss Devon’s soft, coaxing words. His knuc
kles returned to their normal color and his hands ceased trembling.
“You’re right,” Leviston said with a rueful smile. “How easily we forget that the turn of a card is meaningless overall.”
Meaningless? Anthony would have laughed if so much wasn’t riding on his continued lucky streak. For him, the turn of the cards meant the difference between eating or not. Between having a roof to sleep under or not. Between being able to look his loved ones in the eyes or consigning them to poverty. Or worse.
Thank God, up ’til now, Lady Fortune had only worked her calming magic on Anthony, or he would not have won a penny. He needed the other players to be on edge. The sight of white knuckles and trembling fingers was his cue to wager big.
Then again, Fate alone dealt the hands. All the subtle cues in the world were useless without the capacity to win.
He glanced down at his cards. Indescribable joy spread through him. He should never have doubted Lady Fortune’s effect. A rush of excitement surged through him. Miss Devon could calm Leviston with as many reassuring words as she wished, because Anthony’s hand was unstoppable. Triple aces. These were truly the best cards he’d ever been dealt in his life. The best cards anyone had ever been dealt.
Leviston was about to go home in tears.
“All in.” Anthony dropped the entire contents of his purse next to the pot. “Seventy pounds per player if you stay in.”
“Curse you, Fairfax.” Color drained from Leviston’s face, but he kept a stiff upper lip and ponied up his blunt. “This is my last hand.”
With her porcelain face as smooth as a doll’s, Miss Devon placed her purse alongside her bet.
A twinge twisted Anthony’s stomach. He felt bad about taking money from a lady. It wasn’t gentlemanly. Once he won, he would return her portion to her and take the rest straight back to London. The other toffs could afford to lose a few pence, Anthony reasoned, but he needed every penny he could get in order to stay out of prison. Two thousand pounds’ worth of pennies, in fact.
It had taken a year of ill luck—and increasingly riskier bets in growing desperation—to amass such mindboggling debt. Because Anthony had always gambled everywhere and with everyone, months had passed before his peers began to realize he had no means to repay them. Not even a few pence. To say they were displeased would be an understatement.
His goal was much higher than repaying his debts, of course. He wanted a pot so full of gold he couldn’t budge it without a wheelbarrow. Not only to win enough never to fear being poor again, but also to win big enough so that those he cared about would never lack for anything. He wanted to be rich. Not just for a few months or a few years. Forever.
With a sigh, Leviston displayed his cards. A low flush. Poor pup. The man had no chance of winning, and likely knew it.
Anthony felt oddly proud when Lady Fortune turned over her cards to reveal an astonishing hand. Three tens. If Anthony hadn’t held triple aces, the mysterious Miss Devon would have swept the table—and the two-hundred-pound pot.
Alas for her, luck was firmly on Anthony’s side. This was his night. His streak was invincible. Finally, he could go back home.
He flipped his cards face up with a flourish.
Leviston covered his face with his hat. “I suspected as much.”
A streak of visceral, hopeless dismay flashed across Miss Devon’s face so quickly that Anthony almost missed it.
“We can play again,” he said. “You might earn your money back.”
“I’m out,” Leviston reminded him with a sigh of regret.
“Not you.” Anthony shot him a pointed look. “Miss Devon.”
Her eyelashes lowered. “I have no more money.”
“You can wager something else.” When her blue eyes widened with outrage, he regretted his unfortunate phrasing. Anthony had meant to be gentlemanly, not offensive. He added hastily, “A lock of hair, perhaps. I’ve just the locket to put it in.”
“Don’t do it,” Leviston advised her under his breath. “This man is why half the members of the House of Lords have grown bald.”
Miss Devon’s lips twitched. “And yet, I am tempted. What, precisely, is the bet? Just seventy pounds? Or are we playing for the entire pot?”
Anthony stared at her. His blood raced at the idea of such a fearless wager. He should reply “Just seventy pounds” and be done. He knew he should. There was nothing to be gained from risking it all. Except for bragging rights when he won the entire pot all over again.
“The whole pot,” Anthony assured her magnanimously. She wouldn’t win—no one could beat him tonight—but he would still be certain to return her seventy-pound portion to her after he won. This way, she would feel as though she’d had a fair shot.
“Very well.” She gave him a brave smile and his insides melted with pride. “I’m in.”
As the most impartial party at the table, Leviston agreed to deal again.
Fifteen years of daily gaming was the only reason Anthony’s body didn’t betray him with even a flicker of satisfaction upon seeing his first card. It wasn’t going to be the same hand he’d held last time—that was a rare enough instance he’d dream about for weeks—but it was close enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His luck was damn near unbeatable.
His first card was breathtaking. And the second.
“I’m afraid you won’t like my hand,” he said when it was time to display triple kings. Twice in a row! What were the chances? His luck was unbreakable.
Leviston nearly choked into his cravat. “How do you do it?”
“And I’m afraid you won’t like mine,” Miss Devon said as she turned over hers.
Anthony froze.
No. She couldn’t have triple aces. The only hand capable of beating his.
It was impossible.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin as his stomach dropped… and dropped… and dropped. The room was spinning, spiraling him down into a void of nothingness and despair.
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
“I won the entire pot,” Miss Devon crowed with delight. She had destroyed him. “Just over two hundred pounds, is it not?”
Anthony stared at her. He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t blinking. His body wasn’t responding to anything his mind offered. How could it? All Anthony could think was no, no, no. And, this is the end. He needed every florin and crown in his possession order to keep winning.
How could he possibly have lost it all?
“Y-you can get your pound back from the serving wench,” Leviston stammered, clearly suffering just as much shock as Anthony. “A barmaid can’t have expected to keep such a sum.”
“No,” Anthony snapped. “Once I handed over that sovereign, it became hers. The barmaid’s luck was in. Mine will have to come back around.”
Somehow.
He hoped.
Miss Devon motioned toward the pile of purses on the table. “May I, then?”
Every muscle in Anthony’s body shook with fear and desperation. The night was young. There was plenty more money to be won. Just as soon as he got his winnings back. Or at least a few shillings. Something. Anything.
There had to be a way.
Charm, he reminded himself. When his empty wallet got him tossed out through doors, his charm was the one thing that could open new ones.
“Of course,” he replied easily, and pushed all three purses to her side of the table as if they contained nothing more valuable than handfuls of dirt. “Although I’m certain you’ll return the favor and allow me one last wager, will you not?”
Her expression was more than enough answer. And that answer was no.
“Just enough to stay in the game,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to wager the full pot. Just give me a chance to win my seventy pounds back. One chance. That’s all.”
She hesitated, her fingertips mere inches from the stack of full purses. Anthony tried not to fall to his knees and beg.
No, she did not wish to return the favor. Who would
? But luck was a powerful seductress, promising lies of invincibility too sweet to resist. Perhaps she would succumb to its sway.
“What would you wager? I’m afraid I don’t collect hair,” she hedged. “I wouldn’t want any of yours.”
Relief coursed through Anthony’s veins. He had her. Maybe. He wiggled his eyebrows, affecting a teasing mien. “A boon, that, as I’m quite attached to my mane. Let us wager something far more valuable. If I lose, I’ll offer you my… purity.”
Her eyes lost their twinkle. “I doubt you have any.”
Blast. His ill-advised joke had alienated him even further. Yet there must be something a penniless rogue could offer… Anthony leaned back in his chair, careful not to show his desperation. “Then I shall be your slave for the evening. A servant of any sort you desire. I’ll darn socks if I have to.”
He wouldn’t have to, of course. He would win his seventy pounds. And then he would win back the entire pot.
Lady Fortune sent him an arch look as she picked the heavy purses up from the table. “I might enjoy seeing you muck out a chimney.”
But she didn’t say no.
“Is that a yes?” he asked lightly.
He held his breath as he awaited her decision. Anxiety flooded him. Miss Devon was the most unpredictable card he had ever been dealt. She held all the power. The wisest choice for her would be to leave the cards, pick up the money, and walk away. Then again, gamblers weren’t known for making wise decisions.
The question was… What would Miss Devon choose?
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About the Author
Erica Ridley is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of paranormal romantic comedies and historical romance novels.
In the 12 Dukes of Christmas series, enjoy witty, heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!