la coupe. She’d mastered them all…
And then, suddenly, she realised what she had to do next. It was so blindingly obvious that she almost laughed aloud. Her green eyes gleaming, she gestured Lemuel to the battered chair at the foot of the bed. ‘Sit down, Lemuel,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘To me?’ His freckled face lit up.
‘Yes, Lemuel.’ She perched on the edge of her bed again and gazed at him thoughtfully as he lowered his gangly frame into the chair facing her. ‘Last night,’ she went on, ‘I heard you talking with the others about a private gaming parlour that’s just opened up in town. You were saying that everyone of fashion—all the swells—are crowding into it. And I heard Georgie Jay tell how someone lost five hundred guineas at basset there—in just one evening.’
Lemuel’s perplexed brow cleared a little. ‘Oh, the Angel, you mean? Aye, Georgie Jay was talking of us dressin’ in our smart togs and goin’ along there some time. Though it’s a bit risky, ‘cos the place hasn’t got a full gaming licence, you see. That means it could be raided by the Horneys, any time.’
Tassie nodded, her chin resting in her hand. Mmm. So it was an illegal gaming den, patronised by the fashionable and the rich…Already her pulse was speeding up in anticipation. ‘I see. And what else do they play there, Lemuel, beside basset?’
‘Oh, the usual. Faro, vingt-et-un, piquet—you know, Tass, all those fancy French games! Apparently it’s full to busting every evening. Attracts everyone, from the highest blue-bloods to—well, to—’
‘People like us?’ slid in Tassie gently.
‘Aye! Though I told Georgie Jay I thought we’d be a bit out of our depth, seein’ as how the stakes are so high. And, like I said, it could be raided any time.’
‘So all the more reason,’ said Tassie thoughtfully, ‘to go as soon as possible.’ She smiled at him. ‘Like—tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Lemuel shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Georgie Jay’s far too busy. He’s promised Moll he’ll move her some barrels of ale up from the cellar.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Georgie Jay,’ whispered Tassie sweetly, leaning forwards from her perch at the edge of the bed. ‘I was thinking about you and me, Lem dear.’
He gaped. ‘We can’t, Tassie! We’d never get in! And we’ve not the stakes—’
‘I have,’ she responded calmly. She patted the little money box at her side. ‘And of course we’ll get in. Ladies are admitted, aren’t they?’
‘Why, yes,’ stuttered Lemuel. ‘They say the ladies of quality think it fine sport to go along without their husbands knowin’, and play in secret. But you’re—’
‘But I’m what, Lem?’ Tassie stood up and gracefully pirouetted around his chair. ‘I shall dress up like a fine lady, and you can be my escort. And I shall win more money than you’ve ever seen before, and I’ll pay you your share, if you do exactly as I say!’
Lemuel was still open-mouthed. ‘But, Tassie, we can’t just walk into a place like that and start fleecing them high-up swells.’
She broke off her pirouetting to declare, ‘You’re just scared, Lemuel, that’s your trouble.’
He jumped to his feet at that, burning with hurt pride. ‘I ain’t scared of nothing! But it’s too risky for you, girl! There’ll be all sorts lurking there amongst the gentry—cheats, rakes, whoremongers—bad company, Tass!’
She gazed at him, her hands on her slender hips, her green eyes gleaming. Then come with me to protect me. If you won’t come—why, then, I’ll just have to go on my own. Won’t I?’
‘Very well, then! I’ll go with you! But if Georgie Jay finds out…’
‘And why should he find out, unless you tell him?’
Lemuel let out a low moan of defeat.
Already Tassie had worked out that all she needed to do was ‘borrow’ one of Moll’s gowns, and pile up her hair in the foolish way all the ladies of fashion did. ‘Dear Lemuel,’ she grinned, ‘I knew you’d agree. Give me twenty minutes to prepare myself, would you? And you must put on your best brown suit, and polish your shoes. Not a word of this to anyone else, mind!’ She held the door open for Lemuel and he stumbled out, looking rather stunned. She started humming ‘The Bold Ploughboy’, then broke off to call after him, ‘No ale, now, to fuddle your wits. We’re in for a lively night, you and I!’
It was an hour later. The Angel was crowded; and Marcus was uneasy, because it was becoming apparent to him that his good friend Hal was being systematically cheated. How, exactly, he could not say. Hal, playing piquet, had easily won the first game, and the second also. His female opponent appeared almost hesitant, pausing over her discards and frowning like a Johnny Raw.
But the third game she won in six quick hands, a look of unwavering concentration on her face.
From then on, the usually unflappable Hal began to look flustered. Marcus knew that his friend was no mean player, but his female opponent never seemed to put a foot wrong. Marcus himself had stopped playing at the faro table some while ago, because he was unwilling to risk any more of the stake that Hal had lent him; and now he drew closer to study the girl’s face, because there was something about her that puzzled him. Of course there were plenty of women amongst the men up here in the candlelit, luxuriously furnished back room of the Angel. Some of them were ladies of high rank out for a secret adventure without their husbands, though others were scarcely better than women of the streets. Was this one a Cyprian?
Whatever part she was playing, she certainly played it demurely, keeping her head lowered and speaking at all times in a cool and alluring voice. When she looked up to smile at Hal, Marcus saw that her face was sweetly heart-shaped, and dominated by huge green eyes that drew his gaze time and time again. And her hair was glorious: a rich cluster of golden curls piled in artful disarray, with just a few stray locks trailing down around the slender column of her neck in a way guaranteed to make most men dream of kissing her there…
But she wore far too much rouge and lip paint, and as for her gown…Her gown was a hideous contraption, made of some reddish-brown fabric in the style of years ago; it was too large for her slender figure, and the shabby lace ruffles at her wrists were yellow with age. Who was she? Who had brought her here?
At that very moment, she looked up at Hal and said, in her gentle voice, “Tis my game, sir, I believe. But no credit to me; I rather think fortune smiled on me.’
The somewhat bemused Hal put a brave face on it. ‘Nonsense. You were by far the better player, ma’am!’ Gallantly he pushed his guinea rouleaux across the table to her. ‘Will you honour me with another game?’
The young woman hesitated before saying, ‘Very well, then. Just one more.’
‘One more is probably all I can afford,’ said Hal ruefully, and his opponent laughed, a pleasing, merry sound that to Marcus was strangely familiar, though he was damned if he could place it. Surely he would remember a girl like that if he’d met her before! Her face was almost—beautiful, and yet her clothes, and her lip paint, were ridiculous…Marcus looked round. All in all there must be fifty or sixty people crowded in here, and every table had its punters and watchers,
