ruffian with a face flattened by more than a few fists.
‘Who is he?’
‘O’Banyon,’ Archie said. ‘And that’s his doxy.’
Logan bristled at the word even as he acknowledged the truth of it. He nudged Sanford in the ribs. ‘If you are looking for high stakes, I would say that’s your man.’
Sanford’s seemingly bleary blue eyes sharpened for a moment, taking in the Irishman and the play. He shook his head. ‘Not me. I’m no green boy, my friend. I have no desire to fatten the pockets of a Captain Sharp.’
‘You know him?’ Logan asked as Archie moved away to serve another customer.
‘Runs Le Chien Rouge in town. Where the play is deep and the women deeper. A place where a man can indulge in every kind of vice imaginable.’ His smile was self-mocking.
‘And the woman?’ Hell, why had he asked?
Sanford raised his quizzing glass and took his time perusing the lass. Logan kept his gaze focused on Sanford, aware he was holding his breath, but unable to do anything about it. ‘Quite the piece, ain’t she. And as hard as nails, I’d wager.’ He dropped the glass and looked at Logan. He raised a brow.
Logan shrugged.
‘Ah,’ Sanford said, amusement pulling at his mouth. ‘I see a couple of gentlemen over there who will give me a chair at their table.’ He nodded to the middle of the room where a dandy was waving. ‘You are welcome to tag along.’
Logan shook his head, astonished at the thunder of his heart in his ears that blocked out the noise around him and the sudden unexpected dryness in his throat. He hadn’t felt like this since the first night he’d taken to the trade. ‘I’ll take my chances, yonder.’
‘You are a fool if you do,’ Sanford said with an indifferent lift of one shoulder.
Aye. Perhaps he was. But his idiocy had nothing to do with the depth of the play and everything to do with the lady in red. But then what could he do?
O’Banyon was the man Ian had sent him to Edinburgh to meet.
Chapter Two
He was coming their way. The golden Adonis from the previous evening. Charity’s heart pounded against her ribs. She wanted to disappear under the table. To flee the room. If she did anything of the sort, if she even flickered an eyelash, Jack would know. He had uncanny instincts that way. And he’d like discovering something had the power to disturb her. That someone did. He would use it to his advantage.
Ignoring disaster’s approach, she picked up her wine and gazed from beneath lowered lashes at the young gentleman sitting on the other side of the table. A young Scot with bulging pockets and the face of a new-born babe. Jack’s pawn. His mark. She curved her lips in a smile. The young man went red to his ears. Vermilion. Or scarlet. Maybe puce. She touched her tongue to her top lip, collecting the ruby drop of wine she had deliberately left there. Definitely puce, poor lad. She drew in a breath, lifting her bosom.
Gasping like a landed fish, he put down a card. Jack trumped it. The boy looked confused. Disoriented as he gazed at the cards he had left. Men and their lust. So stupid. It was the end of him, of course. The rest of the hand went Jack’s way and with a shaking hand the boy wrote his vowel. So damned easy.
At her back, she could feel golden boy, standing there, watching. Waiting his turn to be fleeced. A shudder went through her bones. An urgent need to tell him to leave. She glanced at Jack, wondering if she could excuse herself while he gathered his winnings. Use the moment to warn her green-eyed panther away from danger.
Hers. Hardly. Men, handsome or not, left her cold. Even young handsome ones.
Why would she even consider taking such a risk for a fool of a man who was little more than a boy. What was it to her, if he lost his coin? It would put more money in her pocket. Money she needed. Thank goodness Jack had recognised her worth at his tables after her utter failure in the brothel. While she might look the part, while she could drive a man to losing a fortune for the sake of a smile, men didn’t like a cold woman in their beds.
Which was why she didn’t understand why the man at her back heated her blood with no more than a glance.
The boy pushed his vowel at Jack and stood up, his face ghostly, his hands shaking. ‘I’ll send the money round tomorrow morning.’
Jack smiled coldly, a quick baring of crooked teeth. ‘You will find me at the White Horse Inn. Gold only. No paper.’
The boy swallowed and stumbled away with one last longing glance at her face. She cut him dead. He no longer existed. The next mark was waiting his turn. Him. The handsome rogue. Tonight he would lose his swagger and, like all the others, she’d consign him to the flames of unrequited lust.
It was as inevitable as day following night. It had to be.
Jack handed off the winnings to Growler standing behind him and raised his gaze, looking up at the man standing behind her right shoulder out of her line of vision, though she could see him in her mind’s eye, see the arrogant set of his head, the confident expression on his handsome face.
Damn you! Can’t you see what we are? Go away.
Jack gestured to the empty chair. ‘Faro?’ he asked around his cigar.
The other two men at the table looked up expectantly, saying nothing. They each had some winnings. Money they would return to Jack at the end of the night. His boyos, Jack called them in the private sanctum of his office at the back of Le Chien Rouge. It was the only place he ever acknowledged he knew them. They took their orders from Growler.
Lean and lithe, her panther sat down. He glanced at her face, his eyes blazing heat for a brief betraying moment, a heat that burned in her belly. She swallowed an indrawn gasp and picked up her glass, sipping slowly, retaining her mask of indifference.
Jack didn’t notice anything amiss. He was used to the hot looks young men cast her way. It was what he paid for. He assessed the young man with a knowing eye. He wore clothes quite different from last night. A dark coat of superfine slightly worn at the cuffs, the linen good, but not expensive. A man of few means, but a great deal of pride. And a fool.
She set her glass down with more force than she intended. Jack glanced her way, a quick sideways glance and a faint trace of a frown. A shiver slid down her back. It did not do to make Jack angry. To ruin his play. She touched a finger to her smiling lips. ‘Oops.’
‘A shilling a point to begin,’ Jack said, with his friendliest grin. He looked around the table. ‘All right with you, gentlemen?’
They murmured their assent on cue and Jack raised his brow in the direction of the young man. ‘Jack O’Banyon at your service.’ He nodded at the other two men in turn. ‘Mr Smith and Mr Brown.’
Not their real names of course. Only Growler knew those.
‘Gilvry,’ the young man said, his Scottish burr a startling velvet caress in her ear. ‘You were asking after me.’
Clearly surprised, Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll be excusing me, Mr Gilvry. I was expecting someone older.’ He glanced from him to her
