Most of the other players were her regulars. This one was new, and his manner set him apart drastically. Instead of intently contemplating his first move, he’d struck a lazy, careless pose. Broad shoulders strained his fine woolen serge jacket to the limits, and he’d shoved his long legs to one side of the game table. He slouched elegantly, staring relentlessly at her. His wind-tousled ginger hair feathered slightly at his neck, a thick, strong neck suggesting he might be a boxer.
But his eyes were what discomposed her the most. They were an odd shade of hazel, almost tortoise-like, depending on which way the light struck them. She had plenty of time to contemplate them because his gaze never left hers. Most men would have looked away by now, but he continued to stare - boldly, blatantly. What in the name of Circewas he about? She was determined to find out.
Charlotte glided quickly to his side and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Why are you being so rude? What do you want?”
He turned his head and smiled up at her, spreading his arms wide. “I want to unsettle you, Madame Domino. I’m a complete amateur at the game, and my only chance is to charm you witless.”
She jerked back as if singed by fire. “Be careful.” She leaned down again and murmured low. “If Captain Goodrum’s guards hear you talking that way, they’ll pitch you out on your, um, elegant arse.”
Charlotte punctuated that warning with a long, leisurely look at said arse. And it was lovely, filling out the fine woolen serge of his trousers in all the right places. Who the hell was this man? She usually knew in advance all about her challengers.
How had he managed to buy a coveted place in that night’s chess tournament without her knowledge? The vision of her boss, Captain Eleanor Goodrum, leapt to mind.
Why was he here, and what had he promised the forbidding owner of Goodrum’s in exchange for access to her exclusive games? Since he’d admitted he was a complete amateur, what did he really want?
The object of her thoughts broke into them. “I can tell the wheels of your mind are spinning at the thought of rolling over me in a game of chess. And, by the way, I also think I detected some interest in my, um, person. Let me save you some time. You have something I want, and I’m prepared to pay any reasonable sum you request. Or perhaps you’d like something else?”
The glint in his confounding eyes told her he thought he could romance away whatever it was she had that he wanted. He had no idea with whom he was dealing.
“Monsieur, I must confess I’m confused. What is it of yours you think I have?”
“My journal pages.”
* * *
Col reconsideredhis wardrobe choices for the evening. He was way too warm under the intensity of the chess mistress’s regard, but resisted the urge to tug at his carefully and intricately tied neckcloth. George would kill him. His valet had labored most of the day to make sure Col would be as well dressed as any of the others at the exclusive club, since they both knew he was going to fall flat on his face in the chess challenge.
The reaction of the chess mistress to his pronouncement had been interesting. She’d remained cool and unfazed, but he could tell the cogs were turning rapidly behind her emotionless mask. The mask and costume were nice touches. He wished he had something of the sort to wear when he visited the card tables at his friends’ gaming hell. He’d become fast friends of Julian, Duke of Montfort, and Hugh, Earl of Westfalia, when he’d taken care of a little matter for them. He’d discreetly discovered the source of huge losses in their card operation that had baffled the two of them for months.
In spite of her clever disguise, he knew her real identity. She was Charlotte Smythe, protege of the dangerous Captain Eleanor Goodrum. He’d checked with all his usual sources but had been stymied in discovering any information on Miss Smythe’s background. It seemed as though she’d walked into Goodrum’s ten years earlier, a mysterious orphan with no known familial ties.
He wished to hell he were there playing cards that night instead of trading ugly looks with the woman who held his portion of the infamous journal pages. He’d love to pummel the younger version of himself for being such an unthinking dunce at Cambridge. The youthful escapades he’d penned without a thought except to one-up his old school pals with whom he’d shared rooms had turned into a deadly liability. A liability not only for him, but for someone dangerously near and precious to him.
* * *
Charlotte resistedthe urge to smirk at the strange gentleman’s clumsy attempts at chess. For every move she made to the middle, he mirrored her strategy, until he had four of his pawns facing her…and leaving his side of the board open for her queen to play on as she pleased. With his king exposed and no guards against her queen, she ended his misery after about twenty minutes of play. At her quiet utterance of “Check,” he stared up at her, puzzlement in his eyes.
“I’ve put your king in check, sir.”
He stared a bit longer, making her wonder just what was going on behind those otherworldly hazel eyes. And then he carefully laid his king piece on its side before standing and bowing. “Thank you for tolerating my ignorance, milady.” With that, he turned as if to leave the club, but then turned back at the last minute. “I wonder if you could give me a moment of your time soon…away from here. And we might come to an agreement on how I could regain possession of my journal pages?”
“So, if you’re unable to romance them away from me, you’ll offer me money for them?” She tilted her head like an elegant cat considering whether or not to tear apart her mouse-like prey.
“Yes, I believe that’s the essence of my plan.”
“Perhaps, just perhaps if you can do a little better the next time, I might consider an, um, arrangement.” At her words, there was an audible gasp from the other players at the surrounding tables.
“Of course, milady. I will endeavor to find a suitable teacher so that I do not embarrass myself the next time.” He favored her with a mock salute and walked away toward the door to the game room and presumably on out of Goodrum’s into the foggy London night.
Once he’d left, the players at the various boards murmured low until she snapped her fingers. “I’m not done with the lot of you.” And then she proceeded to destroy each one’s carefully constructed defense.
3
APRIL 5, 1826
OUTSIDE GOODRUM’S, LONDON
Col cursed aloud at his own stupidity. What in the name of St. James’ bones did he think he’d accomplish by marching into her game room and challenging her to a bout of chess?
