A lady should always have a care for her reputation.
The Rules (according to Dara)
Until she marries, and then she can be herself.
Tweedie’s promise
Dublin
Beckett Steele stooped to enter under the door of the Devil’s Hand. He never worried about what he might have to deal with in disreputable establishments such as this. He was big enough and strong enough to solve any situation. Especially unsavory ones.
Unfortunately, he was tired. It had been a long, trying day of travel and walking the streets. He was searching for Bartholomew Tarrant, a wealthy Chester merchant’s son who had stolen from his father and then run for Ireland. Tarrant was a gambler, an unlucky one, and his father wanted him returned before all the money was gone.
Young Tarrant obviously believed Dublin wasfar away from his father’s strict hand. He was wrong. Especially since his father had hired Beck.
Beck always caught his quarry. He took pride in his prowess. No one escaped when he was on the hunt.
The Devil’s Hand was like all the others of its kind. It smelled of men and stale ale. Tallow candles sent black smoke toward the ceiling and gave off a hazy yellow light. There was nothing fancy about the place. Men didn’t need pictures on the walls, decent furnishings or even a clean floor to have their pockets emptied out.
Beck had been told the play was fast and hard at the Hand. A fortune could be made or lost in an hour. If that wasn’t something to attract a foolish merchant’s son, Beck didn’t know what was.
Well, that wasn’t true. There were the brothels. If Beck failed to find the fool here, or the few other gaming hells left, then he’d have to start combing through them. Beck grumbled under his breath. He was becoming too weary for this nonsense, no matter how well it paid.
His plan was to poke his head into the Devil’s Hand, look for Tarrant’s red hair, and move on to the next—until he came upon a sight that upended his plans.
Hazard was Tarrant’s game. But no one gathered around the hazard table. To his surprise, it was empty.
Instead, everyone, including the serving wenches, were crowded at least three deep around another large table on the other side of the room. No one was paying attention to the door or to two drink-bitten men helping themselves to the ale keg. They poured it down their gullets as fast as they could.
Beck frowned, trying to make sense of it all. The crowd around the table shifted, and then thoughts of red-headed Tarrant vanished at the sight of a dark specter of a woman sitting amongst the faro players.
She was dressed all in black from the top of her head to the floor. Even her gloves were black. A mourning veil fell over a velvet hat and to her lap, hiding her face from view... and yet there was no doubt that she was young—and possibly beautiful.
Isn’t that the way men’s imaginations worked? They always assumed beauty. Beck’s mind was no different. He moved toward the table, his earlier fatigue forgotten. Instead, he had a new quarry.Her.
Best of all, she was no common doxy. Her back was straight, her head held high, her movements graceful.
He watched, mesmerized. Everything about her from the trimness of her figure to the way she tilted her head before placing her coin on the cards spoke of Quality.
Quality.
What the devil was she doing here?
The faro dealer had the look of a weasel. He had a sharp nose, flaring nostrils, and narrow eyes trained on her. Did she realize the danger she was in? How any one of these gents would have her skirts over her head in a blink given the opportunity? And the Weasel would happily lead the way.
Beck watched the next play. Faro was a simple, but fast, game. There were thirteen cards on the table, faceup, ace through king. Players placed their bets on which card they believed the dealer would draw from his deck next. The suits did not matter. The game was about the numbers.
The Weasel drew two cards. The first was the losing card or the “banker’s” card. Any wagers placed on that number were immediately claimed by the dealer.
The second card was the winning card. Whoever placed a coin on it had his wager matched by the bank. In this house, there was also a win for the player with a wager on the highest cardabovethe banker’s card. The odds to make money were good.
Except the woman was not winning.
Beck didn’t know how much she had brought to the table, but the stack of coins in front of her was quickly dwindling—especially since the Weasel was cheating. The dealer deck had probably been stacked. The Weasel would let her win one, and then lose the next rounds. Did the other men know what was afoot? Beck pictured them as buzzards, waiting to see what they might pick off in this duel between the Weasel and his unwitting victim. They played but they were waiting for something to happen, and who knew what they might win then? It was obvious they all lusted for the woman in black, their prurient imaginations picturing a host of crude desires.
Beck was not one to ignore an innocent. He knew too well the pain of being deceived. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t one of their ilk, and he could only wonder at what desperate or reckless measures had drawn her to this table.
His quest for the merchant’s son was pushed aside. She was far more interesting.
