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Which begged him to repeat the question as he closed his eyes against the pain of his head. What the devil was going on?
“Why are you really here?”
Her footsteps moved away and a swish sound bought an unwelcome stab of light through his closed eyelids. He flung an arm over his eyes.
“As I said, to look after you.” Slender fingers touched his cheek. “I knew you would overindulge last night. You always do on your first day in London.”
“What would you know about what I do?” he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.
His mother had been involved in very few of his thirty years on this planet until recently. He could not fathom why she kept trying to take an interest in it all of a sudden.
“I am not ignorant to your life, Blakey.”
“I am not called Blakey.”
He removed his arm from his eyes and braved a look at her. She leaned over him. Her glossy coal black hair tinged with only the faintest strands of white was piled high under a silk turban and feathers. Concern creased the corners of her eyes.
Blake narrowed his gaze. Perhaps she had reached the age that all mothers seemed to reach where they wanted their sons settled and siring heirs. It was the only explanation.
“I worry about you,” she said softly.
He blinked. The words almost rang true. But that could not be possible. Were it not for the fact she was his mother, one would never know they were related. Yes, they arrived at the odd social function together and put on a polite display but that was about all the relationship amounted to.
Until recently.
What this new, caring, mothering behavior was about, he did not know. However, he wasn’t going to be fool enough to just accept it.
Even if it did feel at least a little bit pleasant. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had actually worried about him.
“Well, I am just fine, Mother. Or at least I will be once you have left me in peace and I have rid myself of this hangover.”
“Oh, I am not leaving you, Blakey. I am nursing you through this.” She shook her head and strode across the Persian rug to pull the long cream rope to alert the servants again. “Together, we shall see you fit and healthy once more.”
He flopped back against the chaise and sighed. Today was going to be a long day.
Chapter Two
Oh no. Of all the people to walk into this little-known club, did it have to be him?
Demeter drew in a deep breath, resisted the desire to tug at her stiff collar, and forced her attention on the cards in hand. She’d discovered Pidgeon’s during one of the investigations she partook in with her sisters several years ago. Tucked away in the dark recesses of London, she’d considered the gaming hell to be the perfect place to start when she’d come up with her plan.
She kept her expression neutral, her mind as blank as she could. Only the cards mattered. Not the four men playing against her, not the clink of glasses behind her, not the gentleman knocking into her chair while he pressed through the narrow gap between tables.
Most definitely not Blake.
Mr. Jacob Blake—heir to a sizable shipbuilding fortune, owner of a ridiculously charming smile, and a consummate rake.
She stole a glance at him while he lingered in the doorway. Things might have changed for her over the last year—two of her sisters were married, one with a child on the way—but Blake had not. A year away from London had simply left him more handsome and far more distracting.
Even from his position in her periphery vision, she had noticed him enter. She could blame the fact few men of thetonfrequented this gaming hell—her very reason for coming here—but that would be a big, fat, ridiculous lie. The simple fact was, Blake drew female attention wherever he went, and at present he drew hers.
Who could blame her? His clothes were cut perfectly, designed to highlight his naturally muscular build. Wavy hair that reminded her of hot chocolate glinted with gold strands in certain lights. Like right at this moment. His jawline was sharp—some might think too sharp—but those who did had not yet noticed the boyish dimple in one cheek that emerged whenever amused.
At present, he did not appear amused one jot. More like distracted. He scanned the crowds and she ducked her head. The chances of him identifying her were slim. For one, she doubted he had ever studied her as closely as she had studied him and for two, her disguise would hinder any recognition.
Anyway, it was all beside the point. The hour grew late, she had an excellent hand, a pocketful of coin, and a house she needed to slip back into undetected. She had a reason for coming here, and it was certainly not to gawp at Blake. No doubt he’d be used to women gawping at him but she could not afford to draw attention to herself.
She flicked a look at her cards, an eye on the tattered creases cutting across the faded decks of the playing cards, then cast a glance at each of her opponents. The man to her right kept flicking the corner of one card. The man to her left mouthed the number of his card every time he retrieved a new one. She did not think the two men opposite, who were the better players, had noticed and even if they had, they did not have the ability to read the subtle movement of his lips as she did. There were some benefits to having been deaf as a child at least.
