In an attempt to make his presence as unobtrusive as possible—a challenge given his height of six feet and two inches in his bare feet—Rhys moved along the wall until he stood only a few yards from Sir Felix’s table. He saw with no small amount of mean satisfaction that this last year hadn’t treated Sir Felix well. Sure, he was still in possession of that specific public-school handsomeness that had been bred into him by noble forebears. But Sir Felix had picked up some premature lines on his forehead…a subtle note of strain about his mouth and the corners of his eyes.
One thing was the same, however.
Sir Felix remained the smug, smarmy cheat Rhys remembered from a year ago.
And there came another pulse of that fury that had his hands curling into fists.
He experienced a moment’s pause. What was his plan, anyway? To watch and catch Sir Felix out for a card cheat for all to hear and witness?
For here was the thing: as far as Rhys had been able to see over the last few tricks, Sir Felix had betrayed not a single tell.
Which allowed for a possibility Rhys didn’t much like.
Could it have been that Sir Felix had beaten him fair and square when he’d taken Papa’s signet ring off him a year ago?
The hand now over, and having passed the deck of cards to the player on his left to deal, Sir Felix’s gaze lifted and met Rhys’s. Those slitted blue depths held not the faintest whisper of surprise. This last year, he’d been expecting Rhys.
He lifted his hand and scratched his cheek with his pinky, the cabochon emerald flashing brilliant green in the chandelier light.
The rotter smirked—and Rhys knew.
A year ago, Sir Felix Mortimer had cheated.
And tonight Rhys would prove it—and get his father’s signet ring back.
“If it isn’t Lord Rhys Osborne behind that mask, I’ll eat my hat,” said Sir Felix to a few chuckles around the table. “It’s been—what?—a year since we last met?”
Rhys’s teeth wanted to grind together. He didn’t let them, as all eyes appeared riveted by the long-coming confrontation.
“I seem to remember you enjoy a bit of Loo,” continued the rotter to yet more chuckling. “Care to join us for a few hands?”
Rhys couldn’t say no.
And there were a few reasons why.
First, there was his reputation as a known wastrel and rake.
A wastrel and rake wouldn’t say no to a few hands of cards.
And second, if he said no, he would have to take himself elsewhere.
He wasn’t doing that.
Not without the ring.
So, he curved his mouth into the semblance of a rakish angle—an angle that felt creaky and decidedly out of practice—and took the empty seat to the right of Sir Felix. But as he lowered into the chair, something unexpected happened.
A few seats to the other side of Sir Felix, the vibrant blonde he’d noticed in the ballroom joined the table, her markers already out. She was the sort of woman one’s eyes had difficulty deciding where to look. A veritable buffet of a woman, the brighter light of the card room confirmed.
Rhys exhaled a rough breath and fixed his gaze directly in front of him.
He couldn’t allow himself to become distracted.
Sir Felix held no such reservations as he allowed his gaze to indulge in a thorough sweep of the blonde.
Rhys cleared his throat.
Sir Felix’s gaze shifted to meet Rhys’s without the faintest hint of abashment. He slid the deck of cards over. “Why don’t you deal first?”
