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Her opponents gradually folded or called. She eyed the pile of coins and notes in the center of the table. Though the patrons might not be the highest of society here, they were far from poor, with plenty of fortunes to lose. The pockets of her waistcoat were already heavy with winnings but this pot would add oh so nicely to the charity’s funds.
Ever since the fire, The Foundling Home for Deaf Children struggled even with generous donations from the richest members of society. The simple fact was, one-off donations were never enough. Even after giving away most of her allowance from her father, the Home could not make ends meet, most especially after a devastating fire not long ago.
But a few more weeks in London and some hands like this, and she would wager she’d have enough to furnish at least the sick room and hire two more nurses.
Movement caught her eye. Blake eased around the edge of the busy room. A woman of a certain reputation stopped him, allowing her hand to linger upon his chest.
Demeter’s breathing quickened. What would that chest feel like? Hard, no doubt. Thick embroidered waistcoats could not disguise the breadth of his shoulders. Not that he’d want to hide it anyway. Blake knew well his impact upon women and used it to his advantage. Rarely a Season went by without him being involved with some beautiful widow or elegant Contessa, here in England to escape her brute of a husband.
Women utterly unlike her. She had all the elegance of a sturdy broom. Sharp and straight and useful, that was her. She had no wiles or curves or flirtatious manners. Which was fine. She did not want to be noticed after all.
Most especially when disguised as a young man.
He brushed aside the woman’s touch and continued his tour around the edge of the room. Demeter released a breath and caught the redhaired man opposite her smirk. She very much doubted he really knew what the sigh was for. He’d most likely read it as some sign that she was going to lose.
How wrong he was.
Mr. Red would never know it had been a sigh of relief that Blake had not taken up with yet another woman. He would never know it was a sigh borne of utterly painful, agonizing, and foolish thoughts.
A sigh dedicated to the most ridiculous of emotions.
Unrequited love.
She tried for many years to conquer it. To forget he even existed. To remind herself how silly she was to adore a man she barely knew—a man who would hardly remember her name.
Well, she might be able to best most men at cards and keep her secret life, well, secret, but she could not conquer that silly, fluttering emotion that resided in her chest every time she saw or even thought of Blake.
“Well?” prompted the burly man to her right, his hairy fingers clasping so tightly to his cards, they shook like the vigorous waft of a lady’s fan.
She blinked, scanned the table and straightened her shoulders before setting her cards down with a triumphant grin.
Her opponents groaned.
***
Blake caught the scent of lilacs and resisted the desire to chase after the fragrance like a dog on the hunt. He’d come to this gaming hell not to chase after the opposite sex but to hunt down information on his cousin. The dratted bumbling investigator, Mr. Long, moved with all the urgency of an ancient tortoise. Blake supposed it was not the worst way to describe the man. Small, constantly sweating, and rounder than he was tall, it made him wonder why the devil the man came so highly recommended.
At least he had some information, he supposed. His newly discovered cousin Foster spent time with the owners of this overcrowded, tired, poorly ventilated den and if the investigator was correct, one of the ladies here would be able to provide him more information on the connection between his cousin and these people. Whoever they were, they could hardly be the most trustworthy of people.
Blake was not averse to gambling one jot but those who ran such places, particularly in this part of London, tucked away from prying eyes, would hardly be the sort of people who kept their hands clean. He would not wish to be a patron owing them money to be certain.
By the door stood a man whose fists were bigger than a child’s head with shoulders to match. He’d spied several other men up on the balcony that ran all the way around the old assembly room, and tucked into various corners, all trying to blend into the background while offering that menacing air that left one in no doubt one would not be able to run from any debts accrued here.
Blake searched for the source of the comforting lilac fragrance again and eased out a breath. He’d rather be conversing with some charming woman who doused herself in sweet fragrances for only one purpose—to attract a man’s attention—than chasing down information on Foster.
He had not anticipated spending his first week of the Season lingering in the corners of dilapidated buildings while avoiding the gaming tables all together. Not when his other choices had been a dinner invitation at the charming Mrs. Day’s house or drinks with Lord Brooks or even an evening at White’s. Vauxhall would be in full swing too. Anything was preferable to looking for a woman he had no intention of taking home with him.
He stepped back from a scuffle that had broken out at one of the tables. The men clawed at the winnings on the sticky-surfaced table, sending drinks sloshing. One man lunged and chairs thudded to the floor. If this bothered any of the other patrons, none showed it.
Damn his cousin. Damn this situation. This was no place for him, no place at all. He could be enjoying a fine meal and flirting with one of Mrs. Day’s attractive friends or conversing with one of his old Oxford pals. This was the sort of place where one did not gamble for fun and the people here—people who would throw their lives away on mere chance—were fools.
Even the exceedingly young and scrawny chap he’d noticed was a fool though he seemed to be faring well, much to the annoyance of those he played against. If Blake didn’t know better, he’d say the boy was cheating but his rosy-faced, clear complexion and wide, dark eyes offered an air of innocence he imagined his opponents had taken as weakness to be exploited. By the look of his winnings, his opponents had sorely underestimated him.
Not that it mattered. He was here to find a woman. For no other reason than information. He shook his head to himself. What had happened to him? He’d looked forward to the Season for the women, the wit, and the wine. Now he was having to attend secretive meetings and chase up useless private investigators.
If it wasn’t for the fact this was about Aunt Iris’s inheritance, he’d be walking straight out of here and accepting the arrival of this cousin with his usual relaxed attitude. But this whole situation stank worse than a tanners. It seemed Foster was indeed the illegitimate son of his late-aunt and he still could not believe Aunt Iris had never confided such a fact to him.
Even then, though, he would not have questioned the matter if it had not been for the fact he’d been entirely written out of the will whilst Foster inherited it all. There would be those who would think him sore, given he had lost out, but he had wealth enough—even his bastard of a father made sure of that.
