For the next twenty minutes, as the play seemed to grow ever faster, it was as if she couldn’t lose. Luck was with her. She glancedheavenward, thanking her father, because only he could have helped her with these hands. She needed three hundred pounds. Maybe more. She prayed Elise’s pockets were strong enough to hold the money. Her confidence soared. She no longer doubted herself.
Mr. Steele didn’t play. He watched. Everything.
But especially her.
Gwendolyn sensed he evaluated her every movement, and not for her card skills. Evading him would be difficult.
A group of drunkenly giddy young men in brightly striped coats and starched collars so high they could not turn their necks joined the game. Their attention immediately went to Gwendolyn’s black-shrouded figure at the table, and they began giggling and making randy comments that she didn’t bother to overhear. She knew by their tones that she would not like what they were saying. She saved her concentration for the cards—
But then, Mr. Steele leaned forward, his shoulders lifting like a bulldog going on guard.
The group reacted to his implied threat by trying to correct itself, but drunk men always had difficulty reining themselves in, and this lot was looking for trouble. When one of them started whispering what sounded like Shakespeare under his breath, it sent his companions into fits of laughter.
Gwendolyn didn’t hear what was said. But Mr. Steele stood, his hands curling into fists. Others around the table joined him. The play stopped as the Weasel raised his hands as if warding off trouble.
He was too late. The dandies looked around in surprised delight, and then one of them threw his drink in the face of a burly gambler to his right.
And Gwendolyn knew that here was her opportunity to escape. There was going to be a fight. She scooped her winnings into her lap as the offended gentleman jumped up, almost upsetting the table. The other men came to their feet, including Mr. Steele. She shoved coins into her pockets as the fops howled with laughter over their own antics. An angry Weasel started shouting at them for interrupting his game. A fist was thrown, and the fight was on. Men jumped on the table and onto each other.
Mr. Steele pulled Gwendolyn out of her chair and placed her behind him. One of the dandies attempted to grab her, but found his skinny puce-striped arms wrapped around Mr. Steele instead. The two began tussling and Gwendolyn found the opening she had needed to leave.
She ducked her head and made a straight brisk line for the door, her skirt heavy with coins. She did not look back. She trusted her luck would hold, and it did. Behind her, the table crackedand crashed. The language grew fouler and the shouting louder. She kept moving.
The street outside was quiet at this late hour. It had to be close to midnight or past. Her new challenge was to see herself back to the inn with her winnings.
Again, her black would help, although Gwendolyn wished she could remove the veil. Not yet, she warned herself. She was too close to the Devil’s Hand. She didn’t want anyone to have the chance to recognize her in the future.
She took the nearest alley, hurrying as fast as her weighted skirts let her. She stayed in the shadows as she rounded a corner onto a deserted street—
A gloved hand caught her elbow and whirled her around. She hadn’t heard a step behind her or even sensed Mr. Steele’s presence. He didn’t say a word but placed his arm around her and marched them even further away from the Devil’s Hand. There was shouting behind them now as if the fight had ended up in the street. Mr. Steele didn’t break his stride and, although Gwendolyn was tall for a woman and enjoyed vigorous country walks, she was having a hard time keeping up with his pace, especially when fear had lodged her heart in her throat.
He had her. There was no escaping him.
They turned a corner. He seemed to know where he was going. She grew confused, wondering if she would ever find her way back to the inn.
“Would you please slow down?” she whispered to him, genuinely trying to catch her breath.
He ignored her. He knew she wasn’t going to honor their bargain. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t—and yet her defiant “I paid you back your money” didn’t sound reasonable and authoritative. She sounded frightened, and she was. Why, he could stuff her into a barrel and no one would ever find her body.
Of course, this very situation had been why Dara had wanted to accompany her, to provide protection. But her sisters would have been no match for Mr. Steele, and Gwendolyn was relieved they were safe.
They came to a street lined with dim, filmy lamps. Fog drifted along the street, a sign they were close to water.
The night watch holding a lantern and a cudgel seemed to materialize out of the mist. His presence caught her off guard. She opened her mouth to plead for help—
Mr. Steele spoke before she could, yelling to the watch, “Devil’s Hand. There’s a fight, and they are going tokillthe man who started it.”
The watchman frowned. “Fight?”
Then, from a distance, they could hear shouting and running feet. “They may have already succeeded inmurder,” Mr. Steele declared.
“Murder?” The watch’s chest puffed up manfully.
“You need to restore order,” Mr. Steele instructed him, letting go of Gwendolyn so that he could turn the watch in the direction of the Devil’s Hand. “Do you have a whistle?”
“Whistle?” the man repeated blankly.
“Yes, whistle,” Mr. Steele affirmed. “I would start tweeting it. Let them know they can’t behave that way. Send them running.”
