She spun back around in her chair, her cheeks pulsing with heat. The cards had never discomfited her before. In truth, she’d found their absurd depravity amusing. Why, then, did they cause her insides to feel as quivery as an aspic when she saw them through the stranger’s eyes?
Shaking off her reaction, she resumed the game, dealing a face-down card for all the players.
Checking his card, O’Toole gleefully said, “I’m in for a ’undred quid.”
Barton and Smithers placed smaller bets.
Tessa passed out the second cards, face up. O’Toole’s was an eight, hers a five—a deliberate move on her part to feed his overconfidence. He went for the bait.
“Let’s make this more interesting and double the stakes, eh? Everything I got in ’ere,”—O’Toole jabbed a finger into his bulging purse—“plus all my winnings.”
“You’re certain, O’Toole?” Wetting his lips, Smithers said, “You’re already ahead—”
“Shut your bloody gob!” O’Toole glared at his crony, who fell silent, cheek twitching. “When Lady Luck spreads ’er legs, a real man don’t walk away. ’E swives ’er, and swives ’ergood.”
“You tell ’im, O’Toole,” Barton crowed.
Still aware of the stranger behind her, Tessa decided it was best to hurry things to their conclusion. “Double it is.”
O’Toole shoved his pile of money forward; she matched with two hundred pounds of her own.
She dealt the third cards. The groans of Barton and Smithers came as no surprise seeing as she’d busted them, giving them both above the value of twenty-one. O’Toole received an ace of clubs; when he saw her third card, another five, his grin widened.
Chortling, O’Toole, flipped over his first card. “Ace o’ diamonds brings it to twenty for me. Pot’s mine, unless you got—”
She flipped over her hidden card.
“Mary’s tits, it’s anace o’ hearts,” an onlooker breathed. “Wiv two fives that makestwenty-one. Tom Brown wins!”
Cheers went up. O’Toole’s face turned a violent shade of red.
Sensing the direction the wind was blowing, Tessa swept her cards and winnings into her satchel and rose. “Much obliged for the game, sirs. Now I fear I must be off—”
“Not so fast, you buggering cheat.” O’Toole surged to his feet, his glare menacing.
Uh oh.She took refuge in righteous anger. “Got no right to besmirch my good name, sir. Won fair and square, I did, and you’ve no proof elsewise.”
Murmurs of assent rose. Even among thieves, beggars, and fences, no one liked a sore loser.
“Don’t need no proof, you wily bastard. Iknowyou fleeced me.” O’Toole jabbed a finger at her. “Barton, Smithers, get ’im!”
She made a run for it. She dodged past Barton, who was big but slow, and almost made it past Smithers. Unfortunately, the latter was quicker than he looked. He caught her arm and wrenched it, causing her to cry out.
“Got you—what the bleeding ’ell is that?” Smithers shrieked.
In a flash of champagne-colored fur, her ferret, Swift Nick, burst free of her inner pocket and dashed up to her shoulder, still imprisoned in Smithers’ grip. The animal rose on its hind legs, hissed, and sank its fangs into her attacker’s hand.
Smithers screeched.
She tore free from his slackened grip. Tucking her furry rescuer safely into her pocket, she dashed toward the back exit. By this time, the entire tavern had erupted into a joyful free-for-all, and she had to dodge brawling bodies left and right. Barton’s heavy footsteps pounded behind her. Just as she felt his hot breath upon her nape, he let out a howl of rage. Pivoting, she saw that the stranger—herstranger—had charged to her rescue.
Mesmerized, she watched him take on her pursuer. Barton threw a punch. The stranger evaded and executed an uppercut, and her blood quickened at the man’s power and precision. The blow connected solidly with Barton’s jaw, the latter’s head snapping back.
Barton groaned, toppling like a felled tree.
“Nowthat’sa facer,” she breathed.
“Don’t countenance troublemakers ’ere,” Stunning Joe’s voice growled from behind her.
