“How does that work?” demanded Sheffield. He was now on the edge of his seat.
“Ye gods, Kit. I’ve told you about numbers and probability any number of times,” muttered the earl.
“Yes, but you’ve never explained what you meant,” shot back his friend. “I know you think me a brainless fribble, but I would like to make an attempt to understand the concept.”
Cordelia looked about to make a tart reply, but then seemed to change her mind and fixed him with an unblinking stare. Her expression was impossible to read. “If you’re serious, you’re welcome to pay a call here some afternoon. We’ll take a deck of cards and I’ll show you exactly what I mean.” Her chin rose a notch. “That is, if the idea that a lady might actually possess a brain doesn’t curdle your innards.”
“On the contrary,” replied Sheffield without hesitation. “I would welcome an intelligent conversation with a lady, rather than the endless silly simperings on the weather, or whether I prefer to tie my cravat in an Oriental or atrone d’amourknot.”
Wrexford caught the momentary flicker of surprise in her eyes.
“Mr. Sheffield,” said Woodbridge in a tight voice. “Allow meto warn you that my sister isn’t an heiress, so any flirtations you have in mind will be wasted efforts.”
To the earl’s surprise, Sheffield’s face suddenly mottled with anger. “My faults are many, Woodbridge. But chasing after a lady simply to snatch her fortune for my own isnotone of them.”
“Can we put aside such distractions for now, Kit?” suggested Wrexford. “I’m sure Lady Cordelia and her brother would prefer not to draw out this conversation any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“Correct,” muttered Woodbridge. “Come, Cordelia, explain to them what you saw, so we may be done with this unpleasantness.”
“Very well.” His sister shifted her gaze from Sheffield and folded her hands in her lap. “I sat down at one of the tables to play vingt-et-un—I have ways of dealing with my feminine hands and voice, but they aren’t relevant. Suffice it to say, I began to win. In short order, I had garnered the amount I needed, and a bit more. But it’s not considered good form to immediately rise and leave when one has been on a winning streak. So I remained for a bit, intending to lose a modest amount, before quitting the establishment.”
“Westmorly then took a seat at the table when one of the other players ran out of blunt,” said Woodbridge.
“He drew my attention because he counts well, too,” explained Cordelia. “However, in watching him when it came his turn to deal the cards, I observed that he was also giving himself an unfair advantage.” A pause. “He’s very clever at palming cards.”
“I assume you are sure of this,” murmured the earl.
Her reply was a withering look.
“So what did you do?” asked Sheffield.
“I lost a few more hands, which suited me fine, and then quit the game. Jamie, who had been standing behind my chairobserving the play, followed me to one of the alcoves and I told him what I had seen.”
“Couldn’t very well let Westmorly get away with fleecing my friends,” muttered Woodbridge. “So during a reshuffling of the deck, I told him I needed to speak to him on an urgent matter.”
“As they moved off, I retreated deeper into the shadows, intent on going unnoticed,” said Cordelia. “I dress in black, and keep my hat drawn low—”
“Most gentlemen don’t wear hats in a gaming hell,” pointed out Sheffield.
“Jamie always announces that his young cousin has odd superstitions, including wearing a hat for good luck,” she replied.
“Clever,” conceded the earl. He was about to press Woodbridge on the details of his talk with Westmorly, but Cordelia’s next words caused the questions to die in his throat.
“Given your interest in Lord Chittenden’s murder, perhaps my hat did bring a stroke of unexpected luck. You see, as I wedged myself into a dark nook, two gamesters stepped into the alcove with their drinks.” She shook her head. “Really, you gentlemen are as fond of gossiping as the tabbies of theton.”
The earl didn’t disagree.
“One of them immediately began to gabble on about having overheard a nasty exchange between Chittenden and Westmorly,” continued Cordelia. “He said Westmorly threatened to expose Chittenden’s secret if the baron didn’t keep quiet about Westmorly’s own peccadillo.” Her skirts rustled as she shifted. “Then they moved off in search of a fresh bottle of brandy.”
“The fellow didn’t elaborate on what those secrets might have been?”
She shook her head. “No, and it didn’t occur to me as to mention it to Jamie. It could mean nothing—the two gentlemen were quite cup-shot. But given your concerns, I thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” replied the earl.
“As for my conversation with Westmorly,” said Woodbridge, “I told you earlier exactly what I said.”
Wrexford fingered his chin in thought. “Has he been seen gambling since then?”
