A woman, even more scantily dressed, wearing fabric so sheer her form showed through it, came to Charlotte with a tray of drinks. Charlotte accepted one, took a large sip, and had to swallow her cough, the taste of spirits making her eyes water.
A hand at her chest as the liquid burned her throat, she studied the surrounding tables. There were small ones by the window where couples played whist, but she had no partner to play with. The only other game that looked familiar was a game of chance that William had taught her years ago. She had never actually won a hand of that, though. All she could do was hope that she had better luck tonight.
Curse John for not coming with her.
Chapter 16
John’s heart did not stop its frenetic racing until he’d crossed the threshold of the gaming hell and saw Charlotte, laughing as though nothing were amiss, at a table with a drink in hand, safe.Safe-ish.
He took the first full breath he’d managed since he’d arrived home from walking Newton to see her note sitting in the salver on the hall table. In barely legible hand, clearly written in a hurry, it said:The Lucky Honeypot tonight.
The bloody menace. Yet here she was. A mask covered half her face, but the rest of it was all smiles. Her midnight hair cascaded over one shoulder—a looser style than he’d seen on her before. Her dress started his heartbeat racing once more. The neckline was cut low, and the edging of lace made no genuine attempt to hide the swell of her breasts or the deep valley between them. His cock stiffened. This image would plague him for the rest of his days.
She leaned forward, giving the man across the table her full attention—and more. John saw the man’s momentary distraction, the way he shook his head before dragging his eyes to Charlotte’s face to answer whatever question she’d asked.
John’s gut roiled—anger, fear, and jealousy all forming a wicked compound. Still, he had to give her credit. She was playing the game hard with whatever advantages she had.
He gave the footman his coat and stalked over to the card table where a sizable pot sat in front of her.
She glanced up at him briefly, but there was not a trace of recognition in her eyes. She gave him a polite nod and turned her attention back to the chips in front of her. After a thoughtful pause, she pushed a recklessly large pile forward.
The gentleman on her left looked at her bet, sighed, and pushed his own stack toward the dealer. As each man took his turn, a fortune was put on the line.
The dealer cut the deck and flipped the top card over. A ten of hearts. Charlotte flipped her own card over, revealing a jack of spades, and clapped her hands together. Around her, two men chuckled and took their winnings. A larger number grumbled as the dealer raked in their losing chips. Why they’d gambled so heavily on such average hands, John couldn’t comprehend.
Finally, after accepting her winnings, Charlotte turned her attention back to John. “Are you going to play, sir, or are you just here for the entertainment?” She gestured toward the dancing women at the front of the room.
The Bostonian affect she gave to her voice was deplorable. No one who’d spent any time in America would believe it. Thankfully, no one around the table showed any kind of suspicion.
“I’m here to play,” he said.
Her smiled widened further. “Well then, you must sit by me. I know not the reason, but Lady Luck has blessed me tonight. I’ve yet to lose. Perhaps some of that fortune will rub off on you.”
Her words made his hackles rise. No one was that lucky. A footman hurried over with a chair and the men on Charlotte’s right muttered as they shifted to the side so that John could sit.
“Do you have a name, sir?” Charlotte drawled.
“Lord Harrow at your service. But you may call me John.”
“Mrs. Brown.” She proffered up her hand for him to kiss.
“Mrs. Brown, truly?” he asked before putting her fingers to his lips, luxuriating in the warmth of her skin beneath the silk of her gloves, keeping them there for longer than would have been proper in any other environment.
Her cheeks reddened, but she made no move to pull away. From this close distance, he could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, and he fought the urge to press his lips there too.
Eventually, a loud cough from beside him broke the moment. He turned and raised an eyebrow at the interfering young man.
“Lord Harrow, may I present Lord Brockford?” She gestured to the whippersnapper at his side. “And these are Lords Hailson, Berridge, and Colton, and Mr. Drevelin.”
Each of them nodded in John’s direction, but none looked pleased to see him.
“Harrow,” Lord Berridge said. “I knew your brother. A fine chap and a good friend. He always knew how to show people a good time. My condolences for your loss.”
John forced a smile to his face. Accepting sympathy for a loss he barely felt was discomfiting. When condolences were served with such heaping praise for his brother, they sat sour in his gut.
The dealer shuffled the cards, his fingers deft. He cut and cut again, so quickly his hands were a blur. It was too quick for John to see proof of shenanigans, but Charlotte could hardly win every hand in a game of chance designed to favor the house without something underhanded at its root.
Cards slid in everyone’s direction. John tilted the corner of his just far enough to see what it was: the ace of spades. John’s suspicions grew. It was a common strategy, fixing the cards so that a person new to the game won early. It encouraged more reckless wagering and deeper losses later in the night.
