Page 7 of A Game of Scandal

“My money,” I said, turning to the dealer with my hand held out.

The dealer opened his mouth, but the giant spoke first. “Oh, don’t you worry, Spence here will take care of that, won’t you, Spence?”

“Of course,” the dealer said, his eyes darting from the giant to me.

“See that it’s waiting for me when I get back,” I said icily, and he nodded. “Fine.” I turned to the enormous man beside me. “Lead the way.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Never had I been more grateful to be born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I knew I wore my privilege easily, and I channelled the Dowager Countess Wynter at her most chilly as I glided, back rigidly straight, through the gaming hall. Even this hulking fellow was no match for the arrogant self-assurance of an aristocrat used to getting their own way, and his countenance grew less ferocious and more uncomfortable with every step.

I might have felt a twinge of sympathy had I not been busy simmering with frustration. I didn’t care for being ordered around. Particularly when a plan I’d been working on for months was paying off.

We dipped behind one of the green curtains and climbed a set of steep stairs. Upon reaching a door at the top, the behemoth beside me knocked lightly.

“Come in,” a voice called, and even with that single phrase, through the door, I knew it was him. The man from the library. It must have been the way goosebumps erupted across my skin.

My giant turned the door handle and swung it open, and – for the pleasure of it – I treated him to a long, hard stare, extra flinty. I thought I saw a flush of colour stain his cheeks.

“After you, miss,” he grunted, and then looked surprised by his own good manners.

“Thank you,” I replied, sweeping past him, the whisper of my apricot-coloured silk skirts against the floorboards loud in the silence. This room felt far away from the hustle and bustle below.

The light in here was dimmer, and the office was dominated by an enormous desk. There was scant other furniture, only a seat in front of the desk, and one behind it. Sprawled in the chair facing me was a man.

My breath caught.

As a child I’d often demanded Max play a game with me, where I was Anne Bonny – pirate queen – and he my helpless captive forced to walk the plank. He’d rarely obliged – playing games was below his dignity. As far as I could remember, Max was born an old man. Still, I’d dreamed of that life of swashbuckling adventure, had long been fascinated by tales of pirates and their wicked, reckless deeds.

This was precisely the word that flashed through my mind at the sight of this man.

Pirate.

He was older than me, though I reckoned not by much, despite the way he held himself, with the confidence of an experienced man. Tall and lean with hair that fell in dark waves to brush the edge of his collar, he had a sharp face, with a strong jaw, and while he didn’t have a beard, nor was he clean-shaven. He was dressed carelessly – his jacket nowhere in sight, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a dark waistcoat, loose and unbuttoned, thrown on top. There was a glint of gold as he turned his head, and a matching gleam in his dark eyes as he swept his attention over me.

I was pleased that I didn’t falter as I made my way further into the room, sinking with all the grace I possessed (a good deal thanks to my mother’s insistence on endless lessons in deportment – this was the first time I’d felt gratitude for them) into the single vacant chair.

There was a moment of silence. I cleared my throat.

“I understand from this” – I wrinkled my nose, casting a glance at the giant who still stood by the door – “gentleman, that you wished to see me.”

The gleam in the pirate’s eyes seemed to deepen with appreciation.

“I certainly did,” he said, and if I had any doubts at all, they were banished then. I’d know that smoky voice anywhere. This pirate was the man I’d overheard at Iris and Nick’s wedding. Interesting.

“It seems you’ve been having some luck at our tables,” he continued easily, his fingers drumming on the edge of the desk.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I do not believe in luck.”

The drumming stopped. “No?” He raised a brow. “Then what do you call it when you win six hands in a row at vingt-et-un?”

“I call it skill,” I replied, nettled by his indolent tone.

“And I call it cheating.”

At his words, I flew out of my seat.

“How dare—” I began.