“So how did you?” She folded her arms against the cold and in case her wayward bosoms decided to proclaim exactly how attracted they were to his devastating smile. “Because we both know thatwasan unbeatable hand.”
“Few hands are entirely unbeatable—but I’ll concede yours came pretty close. I’ll also concede that you’re good, Miss Venus. Good enough that I had to throw three tricks in a row in that first hand before I could read you, like you read one of your precious books.” He tappedMuch Ado, chuckling, before he slipped it into his greatcoat pocket. “But I’m better.”
“How does that cryptic response answer the question?Yourquestion.” She rolled her eyes. “You just taught me a lesson, I’ll concede that, albeit begrudgingly. But I like to learn, Galahad, and improve, and cannot bear a conundrum that I cannot understand. So be aqualitygentleman for once. Or take pity on me—I do not care which—and put me out of my misery, as I shall only tie myself in knotsnotknowing and won’t sleep for a week trying to work it out.”
He gave some serious thought to that request. “If you want myprofessionaladvice, I’m going to need your word that whatever I confide in you remains between us.”
“Well, of course it will! If I tell them how you beat me, they will also know how I beat them, so that isn’t going to happen.”
“I’m going to need your word, Miss Venus. A solemn pledge to go alongside our truce.”
She raised her right palm, glaring. “Isolemnlypledge never to tell a soul what you are about to divulge.” Then she held it out. “I am even prepared to shake on it like a gentleman.”
He stared at her outstretched hand for a moment before he took it and shook it, and for some inexplicable reason the contact made every nerve ending she possessed fizz before he released it and shrugged.
“You hold your cards closer when you know that they are good, you act too nonchalant when things get sticky, and when they get really sticky you fiddle with your locket. In that final handyouallowed me to distract you. With something I knew you couldn’t resist, allowingmeto steal enough of the space in that big ol’ brain of yours that you missed the real significance of that queen I played.”
Her eyes narrowed as everything slotted into place quickly. “The orphanage.”
“When I laid the queen, you assumed that because I had laid it it was the only trump card I had left, and because you were desperate to win every trick from me to teachmea lesson, you used your ace too early. Thus unwittingly leaving me still holding the six and you without a trump card high enough to beat it in the final trick.”
He shrugged as he chuckled. “Don’t feel bad, Miss Venus, because we all have an Achilles’ heel. All I needed to do was work out where to aim my arrow to take you down. Which meant that while I was oh-so-casually distracting you with conversation, clumsily playing with that ol’ quarter you couldn’t keep your eyes off, you committed the cardinal sin, as would anydrawing room amateurwho doesn’t know the first golden rule of gambling: You underestimated your opponent. You allowed all those latent prejudices you’ve always held about me to taint your thinking and you allowed your ego to sabotage yourself.”
“You were acting! All the way through!”
He smiled in confirmation. It made his dratted, disarming eyes twinkle in the most alluring fashion. “You’ve got to admit I’m damn good at it. Good enough to convince both you and Minerva that I was going to lose that final trick to one of you.” Out of nowhere his silver coin appeared in his hand and danced between his fingers before he tossed it to her. “Keep it. It might help you to keep beating Jeremiah in case he ever cools his temper long enough to get wise to your methods.”
Vee caught it. The worn metal was warm from his touch, and that heat alone apparently had the power to make her stupid nerves fizz even more. “But it’s your lucky quarter…”
“It’s just a quarter, Miss Venus. I make my own luck. Always have. Always will. Luck has nothing to do with your talent for winning, either, does it?”
She shook her head, impressed at his perceptiveness and intelligence now that she was suddenly forced to view him in an entirely new light. And perhaps would have sooner if she hadn’t harbored so many incorrect prejudices about him. Reminding herself that four years ago, this same man had hoodwinked both her family and his own father for weeks, perhaps months, to ensure that Giles hadn’t been stripped of his dukedom. Galahad Sinclair had always possessed a remarkable talent for acting. Why had she allowed herself to forget that?
Because he vexed her.
Because he had always vexed her.
“Apparently I’m not the only one here with a big ol’ brain.” She mimicked his accent with a begrudging smile. “Bravo, Galahad. Well played. EnjoyMuch Adoagain.”
“I will.”
He turned to go but hesitated. “Seeing as we are being frank with each other, much as I enjoy how the Bard handled Beatrice and Benedick’s scathing but evenly matched banter, I’ve always preferredTaming of the Shrewmyself because, exactly as it happened in our game, the heroine eventually had no choice but to surrender to the cleverer hero.”
She had seriously underestimated him. “I’ll begrudgingly grantyou clever—on this one occasion—but certainly never cleverer. I’ll beat you next time, Galahad. On that you can be certain.” She had to beat him. He’d unsettled her enough tonight to last a lifetime and she had no idea how to feel about it.
Galahad answered that challenge with a shrug. “I’ve no doubt you’ll win this book back from me someday soon, so I’ll take good care of it until the rematch.” He tipped his hat, looking somehow more handsome than she had ever seen him. “Good night, Miss Venus. It was a pleasure reading you.”
Chapter Seven
My world has ended. All my dreams are shattered. Apparently too much reading by one candle in the small hoursdoesruin your eyesight! No decent man is going to want to marry me now that I have to wear spectacles…
—from the diary of Miss Venus Merriwell, aged 16
“Clothes always maketh the man, Mr. Sinclair, and trust me, check is the patterndu jourthis winter.”
While he was ambivalent regarding the checks, and his fancy Mayfair tailor had never steered him wrong in the three years that he had been dressing him, Gal was still unconvinced by the loud purple fabric he had unrolled on the counter. However, he did not doubt that clothes did indeed maketh the man in the aristocratic circles he was working his hardest to impress. He used a less flamboyant and more reasonably priced tailor on Cheapside for his more no-nonsense attire for The Den, while Bardwell & Bardwell dressed him—alongside several dukes—for Mayfair. This was Giles’s favorite tailor shop, and, like his cousin, Bardwell’s specialized in sartorial panache. The sort that made a man stand out rather than blend in, which was exactly what his new business demanded, even if standing out jarred with his natural preference for blending.
“I don’t think I’m a French lavender sort of fella, Mr. Bardwell.”The proprietor never called any color by its proper name. In honor of the exclusive clientele he served, common words likeblueandredwere frowned upon in favor of their more elaborate relations. “But I’ll take those checks in the brown.”
