She tried to keep the panic from her face, tried to appear as unflappable as John did, but she could feel the beads of perspiration forming across her brow. When she reached for her fan, it wasn’t to flirt or to send John a hint as to the quality of her hand. It was because it was hot, too hot, in here.
The more dire her predicament, the more smarmy Berridge’s expression became. He and his partner took another trick. There were still a few hands left, but the job was done. She would see the game out—a Wildeforde didn’t quit—but in her head she was tallying up all the ways she had lost.
“I say,” came a voice from the crowd. “I saw that.”
She looked up to where the Earl of Grantham was scowling.
“As did I.” A plainly dressed man at her shoulder had both arms crossed.
“I don’t understand,” she said, only remembering her accent at the last second. “You saw what?”
To her left, Berridge stiffened.
“The bounder is floating the cards,” Grantham said.
The bastard.It was only the shock of it that kept her from shrieking like a fisherwoman.
The viscount stood, finger pointed in Grantham’s direction. “Sir, I should call you out. This is a preposterous allegation.”
Two guards—the giant man who’d visited William’s apartment and another of equal size—stepped forward. They both looked at the plainly dressed man at Charlotte’s shoulder who had spoken. He gave them a sharp nod, and they took Berridge by each arm.
“Do you know who I am?” He tried to shake free of their grasp. The men’s grips tightened, and the viscount winced. “Unhand me at once.”
The guards ignored him, and he was dragged, unceremoniously, from the room. Charlotte watched after him with her jaw open, not quite believing what had just happened. The crowd around them buzzed, with much of the audience shaking its head in condemnation.
Charlotte looked at John, who was doing his best to look unaffected, though she could see the tension in him. She turned to the man next to her. “So…what happens to the pot?” There were five thousand pounds in there, along with the viscount’s letters.
“It gets split between you and your partner,” the man said to her.
She would have sagged with relief if she weren’t strung so tight. “Well,” she said. “I’m feeling generous tonight, Lord Harrow. You may take the money.” She grabbed the letters from the table and stuffed them into her reticule. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. The mood has been tarnished. I’m going to call it a night. Good night, Lord Harrow. It was good to see you again.”
Completely muddled, she accepted the arm of the nearest gentleman and allowed him to escort her outside, only then to remember that she and John had a plan for their exit and she had just ruined it.
“Around the block, if you will,” she said to the hackney driver. Thankfully, by the time they were once again in front of The Lucky Honeypot, she could see John walking up the street, his eyes peeled on the road. As the carriage pulled up beside him, she rapped on the ceiling and it came to a stop.
John peered inside the window, sighed, and climbed in, taking the seat next to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward him. “I was all befuddled and took the cab without thinking.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Are you well? As long as you’re well, then it is of no consequence.”
He wrapped his arm around her, and she sank into him, taking comfort from his warmth and the scent of bergamot that enveloped her. “What a night,” she said. “I would prefer not to run that close to losing again.”
His cheek rested against her hair and his arm tightened around her, pulling her close to him so they were shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, with nothing between them. “I should have seen his deceit earlier. Thank God Grantham spotted it. Now we have the money and the letters, though I don’t know what we’ll do with them.”
Now that the threat had gone, her heart was slowing, and feeling was returning, her curiosity abounded. She straightened and dug her hand into her reticule to retrieve the packet. She tugged open the string that bound them and took the first letter.
The handwriting was perfectly formed, small and even with the occasional flourish. Charlotte turned straight to the farewell and her stomach dropped.
My love always,
Lady Luella Tarlington
Chapter 19
Charlotte, you can’t.” John’s tone was stern, but she waved him away. Deep down, she knew she should put the letters back immediately and never open them again, but she simply wasn’t that good a person.
The first letter was sweet. It was a letter she might have written to John, were they not in such constant contact.
