And though she’d been whirling across the ballroom floor in a waltz, she’d managed to keep an eye on him until he disappeared into a room that she’d known was the card room.
She’d given it a few more dances. A bit of time to talk herself out of what she knew she would do, anyway.
But it wasn’t long before the little devil perched on her shoulder won, and she’d wandered into the card room, where she found Sir Felix playing Loo—a card game he’d taught her.
He’d taught her all his tricks, too.
She’d sat at the table, bold as she pleased, and all but dared him to recognize her.
He hadn’t.
And there was that irresistible urge, spurring her on, tempting her to beat him at his own game. After all, she had a few guineas. Hard-earned guineas, lest she forget the realities. But they were guineas she could lose and only be set back by a few months toward her dream. What was fifteen years plus six months, anyway?
So, she’d cobbled a hasty plan together. If she lost at the start, she would chalk it up to an experience and walk away.
But she hadn’t lost.
She’d won—and kept winning.
Until she’d won one hundred and thirty-four guineas—one hundred and thirty-four guineas!—and a £100 vowel off some flush lord and a large gold ring with a big oval-cut, cabochon emerald in the center. The vowel was nothing to her. She wouldn’t be able to redeem it, as she wasn’t about to waste time haggling with an aristocrat. But that ring… It was a lord’s ring.
Would fetch a pretty penny, that ring.
By her rough estimation, this night had brought her years closer to opening her shop.
Years.
Her feet hadn’t touched earth these last ten minutes.
She came to a stop at the edge of the dancing floor. She wanted to dance—and she wouldn’t have to wait long to be asked.
There was just something about her.
She knew—and had accepted—this about herself. Men could never resist trying it on with her, as if their noses were specially attuned to her scent. In her former line of work, it had made her quite a few guineas. Guineas she’d had no choice but to earn.
Not if she’d wanted a roof over her head and food in her belly.
Not if she’d wanted to stay out of the workhouse.
Maybe if, when she’d been given the choice between Pizzy’s Pleasure Palace and St. Mary Magdalen Workhouse, she’d known what-all earning a guinea at Pizzy’s, then Number 9, would’ve been all about, she would’ve chosen the workhouse. But she’d been all of fourteen years old, and it had been in Pizzy’s interests to let her discover those details for herself.
And by then, it was too late, wasn’t it?
She was a strumpet.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled it all out, like she’d taught herself to do when those thoughts and memories came at her. And these last nine years that she’d been out of that life, it helped when she wanted to be in the here and now.
Her eyes opened—to find a crescent of men assembled before her, waiting for her to choose which would lead her onto the dancing floor.
The who didn’t matter much.
She simply wanted to dance until her feet could fall off.
Or, more like, until the clock struck eleven fifty-nine and she would scud it out of here before the grand unmasking.
She reckoned she had a quarter of an hour until then.
She reached out to accept a hand. Only, just before it clasped around hers, a large male form stepped into that sliver of empty space and took her hand, instead. Her head had to tip back to get a good look at the fellow. He was tall and broad-shouldered…dark hair that shone black…and though he was wearing a mask, with his strong jaw, straight nose, and lips on the lush side, she could tell he was handsome and used to command…a lord.
