Page 9 of Rogue Lyon

The casino was busy now. Jules was aware of people around him, moving about, trays of food and drink being delivered. The pianist played a faster tune and a dancer with feathers in her hair took to the stage.

Lysander cupped his hand, leaned in, and spoke quietly to the dealer.

She nodded and didn’t pause shuffling the cards.

For a moment, Jules was mesmerized by her graceful movements. Her nails were perfectly buffed and her fingers long and elegant. He’d wager she could play a piano beautifully. And she held herself tall, shoulders back, almost as if she were apart from the room, looking into it rather than being part of it.

Curious.

Very curious.

Chapter Three

Lysander had asked Meredith twice how she was holding up. That was sweet of him and she appreciated it. He might have been a giant, but he was soft beneath that muscle.

And the truth was she was enjoying herself. She’d been working the table for nearly two hours. Only brag so far, but it was a fast game and the stakes went from low to high in a heartbeat.

And right now, they were high. The four gentlemen at the table—Mr. Jules Habsburg, Mr. Brocklehurst, and two others whose names she’d forgotten—were hashing it out.

Only, in the last game, she’d spotted something. No, not something … someone.

In her peripheral vision was a tall, lean man, dark skin, wearing a red neckcloth. Occasionally, he’d walked behind her players, and once he’d stopped to speak to a waiter and his eyeline had slipped to Mr. Habsburg’s hand of cards.

She’d dismissed it, but only for a moment because then she’d noticed Mr. Brocklehurst making eye contact with him.

Something passed between them.

Mr. Habsburg lost that game, putting him two crowns down.

He frowned, his smooth brow furrowing in frustration, and slapped more money on the table. “Again.”

She dealt as instructed and looked about for Lysander.

He was nowhere to be seen, though there were several wolves around.

She dealt all the hands and once more, the man with the neckcloth made his way behind the players. But he passed right by, coughing.

Meredith’s hackles rose.

Something wasn’t right.

And it wasn’t just the fifth man in the game drawing her suspicion—it was the darting eyes of the three players who were beginning to win big and stake big. Beard Man had a sheen of sweat on his brow. The other two men were fiddling, one tapping his fingers on the table the other constantly adjusting his collar.

They were up to something.

And it wasn’t good.

Mr. Habsburg picked up, held his cards to his chest, and pressed his lips together into a tight line.

Beard Man picked up, but not the next man.

Neckcloth walked past again. This time, it was obvious he was trying to see Mr. Habsburg’s cards. Indeed, he waited until they’d been pulled from his chest, practically straining over his shoulder to get a glimpse.

Meredith’s heart was thumping. What was happening was very un-gentlemanly and quite honestly, preposterous at such a fine establishment.

From the corner of her eye, she saw some kind of secret, non-verbal message pass to the last player on her table.

He didn’t switch a card, which, moments later, meant he’d won.