The terrible image of her sisters back at the inn waiting, all their hopes on her, glued her feet to the floor.
What was she going to say to them? Whatcouldshe say? That she’d failed? That she’d had a change of heart and couldn’t wait to be Mr. Davies’s wife? That they’d been foolish to let themselves believe Dara’s scheme had a chance? It wasn’t fair to blame Dara—
“You aren’t a bad player,” a deep male voice, anEnglishvoice, said from behind her. “You shouldn’t leave.”
Gwendolyn glanced over her shoulder, and then almost stumbled back in shock.
The man was the size of a barn. Tall, broad-shouldered... and very good-looking under his wide brimmed hat. He wore buff riding breeches, his boots were good but dirty, and any dandy would envy the number of capes to his coat.
How could she not have noticed him earlier? His jaw was lean, although in need of shaving. His nose was straight except for a small bump where it might have been broken. His eyes were like shards of blue glass, and he looked at her as if he noticed every detail.
“If I was a decent player, I would have more money in my hand.”
“Yes, but the Weasel was cheating.”
The blunt statement broke through her stressed senses. “Cheating?”
She whirled to frown at the dealer. Darby glanced up, caught her looking at him and, with a lecherous grin, curled his finger, begging her to return to the table. He disgusted her. When she turned away, he cackled.
“I’d believed this was a good house,” she said, more to herself than the stranger.
He gave a short laugh. “It is a gambling den. Of course they cheat.”
“But that is not fair.”
“That is why it is called cheating,” he replied reasonably.
“I trusted them...” She broke off, amazed at her own culpability. Her games with her fatherhad been innocent and fun, but hadn’t she caught him cheating a time or two?
A new truth was borne home.
Perhaps her father had let her win? And she had no talent at all?
“Oh, God.” Her words were a prayer. What had she and her sisters done?
She needed to leave. Now, while she had enough money to return her little family to Wicklow—
“You could use a benefactor.” The stranger’s words cut into her fears. “And not,” he added quickly, “for a bedding.”
Gwendolyn blinked at the word. Yes, of course, that was what Darby wanted. She was just put off by the stranger’s bluntness. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
His sharp gaze assessed her. And then he held out his hand. He wore black gloves. Riding gloves. Worn ones. “I solve problems.”
She didn’t touch his hand. This was not a drawing room. Dara’s rules held no sway here. “What does that mean?”
“It means nothing. I’m stating a fact. It is what I do.”
“Like some oracle?”
A dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth as if she’d caught him off guard. “I don’t deal in riddles.”
“What problem are you solving this evening?”
“I’m hunting for someone.”
“Hunting?”
He shrugged. “Searching,” he corrected.
