She was relieved, though, when John strolled over just as the last trick was played.
“Mrs. Brown, how lovely to see you again.”
She arched a brow. “If it was truly that lovely to see me again, you would have come over earlier rather than cooling your heels at another table for two hours.”
John put a hand to his heart in mock chagrin. “Had I realized my presence had been missed, I would have attended to you earlier.”
Charlotte sniffed. “I’m not at all sure that I accept your apology.” Her accent wavered on that last word, but the men she was seated with didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy grinning at her censure.
“Then play with me and let me make it up to you.”
The earl was no longer grinning. “I say, Harrow. Wait your turn. Mrs. Brown and I are playing at the moment.”
Charlottetsk tsked. “Come now, my lord. I can’t let you monopolize me all night. But do promise we’ll play again tomorrow.”
Withington scowled as he stood. “As you wish.” He took her hand and kissed it for far longer than he would have had they been in a ballroom and had she been Lady Charlotte rather than Mrs. Brown. She felt nothing. The earl was an objectively attractive man but the touch of his lips to her fingers barely registered on her senses.
They registered with John, though. Beside her, he stiffened. Good. She liked a touch of jealousy, even though it was terribly misplaced.
He took the seat Lord Withington had just vacated and sent her a smoldering look. “So, who’s dealing?”
***
John and Charlotte were crushing their opponents. Every time they played the last trick, and she was sure that Lord Berridge was going to cut his losses and leave, he doubled down, insisting on another game. The thrill of winning subsided, and she began to feel nauseated at his desperation. Was this how William had gotten so far into debt? Could he not tell when it was time to walk away?
“I think you’re done,” John said to Berridge after Charlotte played the final card and raked in their winnings. Thank goodness. She wasn’t sure she could bear too much more.
“No.” Berridge shook his head and reached into his breast pocket to withdraw a packet of papers. “This is worth more than enough to keep the game going.” He threw it into the middle of the table.
“What is it?” she asked. She and John needed ready money, not a promissory note.
Berridge smirked. “Love letters from an earl’s daughter.”
“Oh.” That knocked her backward in her chair, her hands gripping its arms to steady her against the shock. Across from her, John’s hands flinched, as though he intended to reach for her and thought better of it.
Berridge was a right cad. The wagering of intimate letters was not something that had even crossed her mind. Did men truly do that? Any sympathy she may have been feeling for the viscount dissipated.
John shook his head. “I don’t trade in gossip. We play for real blunt or not at all.” He picked up the papers from the middle of the table and tossed them into Berridge’s lap.
The viscount’s face twisted in desperation. He untied the string that held the letters together and unfolded the top one, waving it in John’s direction. “She admits to giving me her virginity, in writing.”
The shock of his words felt like a slap to the face. Instinctively, she recoiled. Thecur. It was dishonorable enough to take a girl’s innocence and then not marry her. But to take her letters and share them was more than dishonorable. It was vile. It made her want to reach across the table and scratch out the viscount’s eyes. It made her want to destroy him the way that poor girl must have been destroyed by his actions.
“It’s a deal,” she said firmly. “State their worth.”
John whipped his head toward her, eyes wide in surprise. Berridge relaxed. “Five thousand pounds. Her father has already paid that twice over to keep them from the newspapers.”
She swallowed. A game with stakes that high would risk everything she and John had won that night, and essentially for nothing. The letters were worthless to her. She surely wouldn’t sell them—not even to save her brother.
It was a foolish, foolish risk.
“Accepted,” she said, with less confidence, before signaling to a nearby footman. Lord, she needed a drink to settle her nerves.
The game was played with more intensity than it had been previously. Word spread throughout the gaming hell and they quickly developed an audience, a ring forming around the table and chairs.
The scrutiny caused her to buckle under pressure. At first they were minor mistakes—missing John’s unspoken signals, putting down the wrong card—but they quickly accumulated. Add to that Berridge’s unbelievable good luck, and it became apparent that everything she and John had worked for that night would be for naught.
They were losing. Hell, the writing was on the wall. They’d already lost.
