“So… I may have done something. I’m not certain if you’ll be pleased or cross,” Georgie said, wringing her hands for a moment.
“You’ve done something…”
“She began researching your Lord Sinclair before I broached the idea,” Eliza’s father interjected, cutting off what was certain to be a fair bit of hawing by Georgie.
Eliza’s brow crept up of its own volition. “And?”
“We’ve no record of him here. Doesn’t mean he isn’t gaming in the silver hells or on the tracks,” Augie said.
“It seems unlikely that greed is the sin they’re referencing,” Georgie added.
Augie sighed, pinching his brow. “‘Lord of Sin’? Truly Eliza? I should have thought you would find that sobriquet too humiliating to consider.”
“I didn’t know of it before I accepted a dance, or I should have rejected him outright,” she assured him.
“Give us time. We’ll ensure he’s worthy if you want him as the future Lord of Hell.”
“What have I told you about calling my club hell?” her father grumbled.
“I did not actually visit about him,” Eliza interrupted before the playful bickering could begin. “Sophie wanted to play.”
Another sigh escaped Augie, and he pushed off his chair to his feet with both hands.
“Bash has it in hand,” she rushed to urge him back into his seat. “Though she may have flirted her way into ensuring he’ll give away the entire bar on the house.”
“Try to keep her from ruining someone entirely?” her father asked.
She nodded before slipping back out the door.
The workof two hours had one of the two men who remained at the card table sweat-soaked, desperate, and a little drunk. Neither of the men had won a round in nearly three quarters of an hour—and that loss had been strategic by Eliza—to ensure the men didn’t abandon the game entirely.
Sophie sat across from Eliza, entirely without guile. If she was winning, everyone knew by her grin and the excited bounce in her seat. Poor Hughes, so eager to lose his new inheritance, had developed a tick about the eye whenever Sophie so much as moved, now too aware of what her little grins meant for his pocketbook.
In contrast, Eliza gave not a single reaction to her hand, instead preferring to observe the beads of sweat along a man’s brow and the heedless way he tossed back his drink.
Both strategies worked, though Eliza was poised to edge out Sophie. Eliza had netted a tidy sum that afternoon.
She startled when someone dropped into the chair beside her and flicked her gaze over, disinterested.
It took two full beats of her heart before it recognized the man and tripped in astonished delight.
Eliza turned to him casually, refusing to allow the traitorous organ to rush her into overeagerness.
His dark eyes and self-satisfied smirk pinned her in place. Those pleased lips moved, curving to form the words, “Hello, MissWayland.”
Chapter Six
Eliza was gaping.She never gaped.
“Miss Elizabeth?” the lordling beside her asked, drawing her attention to the game.
She forced her mouth shut as she straightened, then set her king down with a distracted glance at the others. Hughes groaned and tossed back the dregs of his scotch.
Eliza hardly noted him. Her attention was fixed on her other side, where Sinclair leaned in his chair—a little bemused, with a glass of scotch tucked between his thumb and forefinger. His hand spanned the glass. She’d never particularly noticed a man’s hands before, but his were appealingly large.
“Lord Sinclair,” she croaked in greeting. Her tongue darted out to wet suddenly dry lips, which proved to be a mistake. His dark gaze darted down to her lips before catching her eyes again. He was even more handsome with the sparse club lighting.
“It seems I had no idea just who I was dancing with.” His voice was low, intimate.
