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“It’s a senseless policy. I like my hat on my head.” She drank another sip of her whisky.
“Hat off.”
“No.”
“It appears we may have another cheater, Riley,” Simon said in a loud enough voice that most people could hear.
Miss Drake stumbled out of her seat, almost falling to the floor. “I’m no cheater!”
Before she could move, he hefted her over his shoulder, all the while praying Emma would have enough sense to hold her hat on her head. “Cheaters will not be tolerated in Hell.”
“Let me go! I’m not a cheater.”
A small fist hammered at his back. He glanced down and didn’t see the hat or hear anyone gasping at her. Only low chuckles from the customers followed him. He strode down the hall with her until he reached the carriage where he dumped her inside.
She scrambled up to a seat, still clutching her hat to head.
Simon entered the carriage and then took the seat across from her. “I do not tolerate cheats in my gaming hell.”
She laughed and, in her drunken state, forgot to lower her vocal range. “I have never cheated.”
“Of course not, that is what all the cheaters say.”
“Why are you in the carriage with me?”
“I personally take care of all the cheaters who dare enter Hell,” Simon said in what he hoped sounded like an ominous tone.
“Are you going to kill me?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide.
“Perhaps.” He tried not to smile as her face drew grim, and then a slow smile brightened her face.
“You don’t wanna do that,” she mumbled, staring at his lips. “You wanna kiss me.”
Simon stared over at her in disbelief. He knew the alcohol caused her to say such foolishness but still.... “No, I don’t kiss boys.”
“I know you wanna kiss this boy.” She leaned forward, pressing her arms to her sides as if to produce more cleavage. She glanced down as if realizing her clothing did not expose any amount of flesh to him. A frown of confusion lined her face.
“And I don’t kiss innocents either.”
She leaned back with a pout. “No one wants to kiss me,” she said under her breath before leaning back with a pout.
She couldn’t possibly believe that. If she were anyone else, Simon would have laid her back against the velvet squabs and enjoyed every inch of her.
“At least I can scratch off numbers two and three tonight. I think I can. Am I foxed?”
“Oh, you are definitely foxed,” he remarked, wondering what she’d meant by scratching off two and three.
“Good.” She giggled. “I wasn’t certain.”
“What was number two?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “No one can know.”
Damn. So much for the loose-lipped drunk. “Why not?”
“’cause it’s a secret. Only Susan knows.”
Susan must be Miss Lancaster. The same woman Emma had talked to the night of Lady Leicester’s ball.
