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Urs’ voice, not a note above or below center, almost blank, brought him from his thoughts. “No, I shall see the bet.”
She didn’t move either. She’d gotten good at hiding her tells. Even he’d have been scratching the back of his neck, tapping his cards or some such nonsense.
“With what?” Morris, the clear, self-appointed leader, asked the question. Just like a Philadelphian, though to be frank, the question was fair, whether or not he dreaded the answer.
“Five percent of Nunes’ holdings. As you might have read in the papers, I own almost sixty-seven percent. Five percent certainly covers my share, and who wouldn’t want a portion of a European bank these days?”
No, no, no, she couldn’t be doing this. They were predators of the highest order—conspiring against her—all three—as a pack. Fighting them alone was insanity. He had to put a stop to it. Isn’t that what a second did anyway? Halt the violence before it began?
Jay opened his mouth. “Urs. You need to stop this madness. Walk away. Come into the ballroom, dance with me. This isn’t, shouldn’t be your responsibility.”
She didn’t even lift her head. Instead, she waved a hand at him, her cards still on the table.
Blast.
He should’ve found a way to look. Not knowing what she had was torture.
“Jay, this isn’t your concern. We’re playing a hand. The bets have been made.” She giggled, but a quaver echoed behind the sound.
She’d be the death of him. Why would she not permit him to assist her? Well, he knew why. Double blast.
He tugged at his cravat before leaning over the side of her chair, crowding her with his height, his finest weapon. “You’re playing for Hugo’s hand, but I want yours, so it’s very much my concern.”
She snorted, her eyes on the other players, not him. “You didn’t when you left my uncle’s.”
Dullard, complete dullard, biggest mistake he’d made in his life, bigger than trying the opium that first time, bigger than the mess he made with Sophie, bigger than each failure.
If he could only sock himself. How could he fix this? Grovel? Urs’d probably enjoy him on his knees—no, stop, none of those images and that sort of groveling—regular groveling and apologizing and explaining. Honesty. She’d prize that.
“That’s not true. I wanted it then, and the day before that and the day before that, I just—” Jay swallowed. All eyes were on him. His father, Judah, Bernard Levy, they all glared from the sideline. “I just lost faith. I lost faith in myself and in your judgment, something I will never do again, the latter, not the former because the former I’m not sure I can promise...”
He was rambling—poorly—and yet. Urs stared ahead but, the corner of her lip, the left side, ticked just a smidge.
Blood shot through his gut, warming him back to life. A tell, a real tell. She was listening. She hadn’t shut him out. There was hope, small hope, but still hope.
Talk, keep talking.
“Urs, you’re everything to me. When I look at you I want to be better than I am. I know—” The three men at the table had placed their hands flat, their attention rapt. Silence hung in the air. None of the onlookers even moved. “I’ve made a mess, Urs.”
He ran his fingers through his hair.
Everyone was witness—everyone knew. Yes. Neither he nor Urs had the benefit or burden of secrecy. That was almost freeing. He cleared his throat.
“I’m an opium fiend. I can’t be trusted around the stuff. My father essentially gave away almost a third of our fortune to protect me from myself. I’m not the man I was before I used it nor am I the man I was before I impregnated Sophie, made her miserable and watched her and my child die. I’ll never be that man again.”
She tilted her head towards him—her chin lifted and raised an eyebrow.
“You deserve so much better. And I recognize even asking you to be with me is selfish, but I would do anything. I don’t care where you were born or who your parents are and if you want to make me go to a synagogue or not eat pork or anything else, it doesn’t matter. I know I don’t deserve a chance or even another word from you.” He gulped more air. “But you can’t marry Hugo Middleton. You can’t throw your life away on someone you don’t love and could never love you as you should be loved. He doesn’t understand you. He’s a lovely man, but you need someone—”
She quirked her lips. “Who exactly do I need, Jay?”
He paused. How did he explain? How did he dare tell Urs, without—it wasn’t his place. He didn’t have the right. He’d forfeited the right.
“Son.”
He glanced to the side. Reed had straightened his shoulders. “I believe we’re in the middle of a hand. If you’d like to speak with Miss Nunes, you may wait until we’re through.”
They were all busy staring each other down, not actively bidding. Could they not give him a moment? Urs was more important than a judgeship, foolish Hugo’s worthless hand in marriage, and all the money in the world. Jay pursed his lips. “Deal me in then.”
