Page 5

Of course, Jack was; God save her. It was Emmet’s birthday celebration.

Mama had better not seat the scoundrel at the same end of the table as Aubriella, or any wine she spilled would be on purpose.

Straight into his virile lap.

“Indeed. I hope we are seated near each other.” Jack lifted the brim of his hat and gave a brief bow. “I’m most curious to learn why you think me flirting with you is drivel.”

Refusing to respond to his intentional goading, Aubriella slipped inside, shutting the door a mite firmer than necessary.

“I apologize for my tardiness.” Untying her bonnet ribbons, she offered the other women on the club’s board a contrite smile. “I do try to be on time.”

Waving her apology away, Georgine Thackerly grinned. “We saw who detained you, Elli. Jack’s such a handsome devil. Too bad he’s a rake.”

Of course, they had seen, but Aubriella wouldn’t discuss the pest next door.

“Come, have a cup of fresh tea and warm yourself,” Roxina invited as she poured the brew into a cup with a dab of milk before adding a lump of sugar. “Claire has a wager for us to consider.”

Though they guarded the club’s existence with extreme care, women covertly spread the word to others who needed to supplement their income and were interested in placing a wager. Truth be told, that criteria meant most females qualified.

The Ladies of Opportunity kept a percentage of each bet and, like the women they assisted, could put money aside, keeping them from relying solely on men for financial support. Each potential wager must be unanimously agreed upon and couldn’t be cruel or dishonorable in intent, or it wasn’t accepted.

Settling onto the outdated beige and black brocade settee, Aubriella nudged aside an equally bedraggled tasseled tapestry pillow before accepting the teacup from Roxina and raising an inquisitive eyebrow toward Claire.

Widowed at eight and twenty, Claire Granlund held the dubious honor of being the eldest of their little troupe of spinsters and misfits.

Claire tilted her golden blonde head, mischief fairly dancing in her whisky brown eyes. “Lady Lovegrove approached me last evening and asked if the society would consider accepting a wager for two hundred pounds.”

Georgine gasped, her sapphire blue eyes widening with excitement.

“Two hundred?” Her voice pitching high on the last syllable, she glanced in astonishment between Aubriella and Roxina. “Isn’t that the largest yet?”

“It is.” Expression contemplative, Roxina nodded. “I would guess her ladyship has access to information that makes her certain she shall win. I’ll wager that is every cent she has to her name.”

“What is the wager, Claire?” Aubriella took a sip of tea, savoring the flavor and warmth. Roxina never skimped on tea, though her circumstances required economizing.

“First,” Claire selected a ginger biscuit, holding it midway to her mouth, “she insists on anonymity for the bet.”

Aubriella and the others nodded an affirmation. Many women made such requests.

“However, Lady Lovegrove vows Francine Willoughby shall announce her betrothal within a month. She’s very likely enceinte.” Claire whispered the last word as if the walls might overhear the scandalous tidbit, and the wind would carry the tattle throughout London.

Aubriella choked on her tea. “Francine? Pregnant?”

As Francine’s paternal aunt, Lady Lovegrove had little liking for the conceited, unkind girl who poked fun at the dowdy, plump widow at every opportunity. One couldn’t blame Lady Lovegrove for jumping at the opportunity to profit from her niece’s misfortune.

For three Seasons, the promiscuous chit had held out for an earl or duke while entertaining a long list of handsome rogues. What man would marry her when he could get her favors for free?

“I wonder who the father is?” Georgine mused, her forefinger on her chin as she squinted at the ceiling in need of fresh paint.

Aubriella suddenly felt quite ill, her stomach toppling over like it had the one time she’d boarded a ship.

Jack? Could he have fathered the child?

“It could be any of a dozen chaps.” Claire rolled a delicate shoulder. “We all know Francine hasn’t exactly been, er, discriminating. ’Tis a wonder she hasn’t been caught before now.”

That was true.

Nevertheless, Aubriella felt a pang of compassion for the foolish girl and much more for the unfortunate child.

“The wager must be about Francine’s expedited wedding, not her delicate condition.” Aubriella set her cup down, far more composed outwardly than inwardly.

Jack would be miserable with Francine. Perhaps it was what he deserved for dallying with the tart, but a lifetime of unhappiness seemed a cruel fate.

“We are not in the business of ruining lives,” Aubriella reiterated.

Sometimes it could not be helped that someone’s poor choices led to their destruction, while providing a few coins in the Ladies of Opportunity’s’ purses.

“I pity the unfortunate chap forced to wed that harpy.” Unlike Aubriella, Roxina typically had little compassion for anyone who made stupid decisions. “It won’t likely be the real father, but a man Willoughby thinks he can blackmail, buy, or manipulate into yielding.”

Jack wouldn’t easily acquiesce, but then again, he might not be the babe’s father.

But if he was, Aubriella had no doubt he would do the honorable thing.

And why that made her want to cry defied explanation.