“What is it, Simon?”
“Lord Bramwell,” Simon hissed urgently. “He’s here—or was. I haven’t seen him for several minutes, but he’s prowling about. He’s speaking more openly now—asking questions about Miss Camden. Everyone’s uneasy tonight. Take care.”
Neil’s jaw tightened. “Understood. We won’t stay long.”
Simon grimaced but nodded, melting back into the crowd.
Neil drew a long breath and went to the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “Room for one more?”
Four men looked up: three seasoned players and one young fellow, ruddy-cheeked and barely out of the schoolroom. The youth’s eyes widened.
“You—you’re him,” he stammered. “The Gambling Devil!”
Neil chuckled. “Best not to mouth such names, lad. It’s poor taste and tempts ill luck to speak of them.”
Sir Thomas Bedford, one of the elder players, gave a low chuckle. The young man did not. He swallowed hard, looking down at the dice that awaited his throw.
“Are we betting, gentlemen?” Neil asked mildly.
“I… I think I’ll sit out,” the young man muttered, colouring. “I don’t wish to offend you, sir. You won’t challenge me to a duel, will you?”
“Only if you accuse me of cheating,” Neil said lightly. “Otherwise, you may leave unscathed.”
“He’s already thrown once,” Sir Thomas objected. “Let him finish his turn. He can’t simply—”
“How about if he were replaced?” came a soft, sharp voice from just behind Neil.
He recognised the voice at once. Goosebumps broke out all over Neil’s skin. He felt his stomach lurch, wanting to empty its contents, only he hadn’t eaten or drunk a thing for hours.
He didn’t turn, as there was no point. He knew who was there. A ripple of unease went around the table. One of the hard-faced gentlemen—not Sir Thomas—got up and left without a word. After a moment, his companion followed.
It was plain that Sir Thomas was the setter and so could not leave until the game was played out, but he shifted in discomfort.
Neil sat still. The gentleman—if he could be called such—crossed the table, taking his seat where the young fellow had been sitting.
“Lord Bramwell,” Neil forced himself to say, after a tense half-minute or so had gone by. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I could say the same,” the older man drawled. “I heard you’d retired from play when you left London. I heard the Devil had hung up his horns.”
Neil gave a brittle smile. “Did you? I had not imagined you to be the sort of man to concern himself with gossip.”
Bramwell only grinned. He was gaunt but elegant, his fine clothes stretched a little too tight over a softening waist. At forty-nine years old, he was still considered to be in his prime and, of course, was fabulously wealthy. Plenty of women were keen to snag a titled man with as much money as Lord Bramwell. He could probably even bring a debutante to the altar, if he so wished.
He doesn’t want a debutante, though,Neil thought grimly.He wants Maggie.
But why?
“Are we playing, or not?” Lord Bramwell said, interrupting Neil’s thoughts. He had glittering grey eyes, rather paler than they should be, and those eyes never seemed to blink. Clenching his jaw, Neil met his gaze.
“Of course,” he answered. “I believe you were taking over for that young fellow there.”
“So I was,” Lord Bramwell responded easily.
“We should begin the game afresh,” Sir Thomas said, clearing his throat and looking at no one in particular.
Bets were exchanged, modest ones. Nobody wanted to begin with a high price. Lord Bramwell rolled four times before he was out and passed the dice to Neil.
