Crafty looks were exchanged amongst the three bounders.
“What are you planning to do with all that blunt?” O’Toole said.
Finally.
“The truth is,” she said in a confidential timbre, “I’ve a fancy for cards. ’Eard there are places in Town where the sky’s the limit when it comes to the stakes. Say, you fellows wouldn’t know of any such fine establishments, would you?”
“You don’t need no gaming ’ell,” O’Toole declared. “We’ll ’ave us a game right ’ere.”
Tessa made an apologetic face. “Kind o’ you to offer. I was looking for, er, a larger game.”
“Think I don’t got the stakes, that it?”
“Oh no, sir, I’d ne’er—”
“’Ere’s a ’undred quid.” O’Toole flung his coin bag onto the table. It skidded into hers, the pair of purses nestling like twin piglets. “And plenty more where that came from.”
A hundred pounds is twice what you stole from Belinda, you blackguard. Thus, you’ll be paying her back—with interest.
Hemming and hawing, Tessa scratched her ear. “I ain’t certain this is a good idea.”
“We’re playing.” O’Toole snapped his fingers at Smithers. “Fetch some cards, you stupid git.”
“I’ve a deck,” she said quickly.
Tread carefully. Don’t rouse suspicion.
Reaching into the outer pocket of her jacket, she pulled the deck out halfway then shoved it back, mumbling, “Ne’er mind. It ain’t decent.”
“Not decent? What the bloody ’ell does that mean?” O’Toole demanded.
As if embarrassed, she averted her gaze. “Fellow who sold ’em to me pulled a fast one. ’E claimed they were all the rage in the fine gent’s clubs. Now ’ad I known they were indecent—”
“Give ’em to me.”
With sham reluctance, she placed the deck in O’Toole’s outstretched hand. He spread the cards out on the table, forming a rainbow of debauchery. Each card depicted a naked couple in some variation of sexual congress. Their expressions were lascivious, body parts improbably magnified.
“God’s bollocks, they’re all doing the buttock jig,” O’Toole chortled.
Peering over, Barton sniggered. “That one’s giving ’er a green gown, ’e is!”
“Oh ho, look atthisone.” Chin jiggling with delight, O’Toole pointed at the three of spades. The illustration featured a woman sitting astride a man, her back to his chest, her eyes heavy-lidded as she impaled herself on his engorged sex. “St. George is riding the dragon, eh!”
Smithers scurried over from the other side of the table. “I want to see, too!”
Men were sopredictable. A bit of obscenity reduced cutthroats to giggling schoolboys. Borrowing this deck from her chum Alfred had been a stroke of inspiration. Distraction was the key to successful sharping, after all. The trio was so diverted by the fornicating figures that they failed to notice a critical fact: the cards were marked.
“Let’s play,” O’Toole said between snorts of laughter.
She nudged them into a game ofvingt-et-un, with O’Toole starting as the dealer. To build his confidence, she let him win a few rounds and take fifty pounds from her. Then it came her turn to deal, and, being cautious, she gave him another round, totaling her losses to a hundred pounds. By this time, onlookers had gathered around the table, eager to watch the high-stakes play and placing their own side bets on the outcome of each round.
As the game paused for O’Toole to toast himself, a scent cut through theeau de tavernof greasy meat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies. The clean smell—soap, leather, and male—tickled her nostrils, released a rush of awareness. Without looking, she knew that the stranger was standing behind her. Unable to resist, she turned slightly in her chair and looked up.
And had to tilt her head to look farther up.
The eyes that met hers were a deep elemental brown, the color of rich earth and polished wood. The intelligence gleaming behind the wire-rimmed spectacles made her shiver. His gaze shifted to the game, and she saw where it landed: on the Knight of Spades, a rather hirsute fellow who was inserting his lance into a lady on all fours.
The stranger’s eyebrow, the one with the scar, winged upward.
