The man plastered on a smile, but a nervous twitch had commenced under his right eye. ‘I think you might recollect you won a time with Miss M once before. I assure you, she remains in good figure and has added to the delights she may offer.’
Devlin remembered her. Indeed, memory of her lovely face, so pale against her dark hair, had often warmed lonely nights as the British waited for Napoleon’s army to attack. Her spirit and sensibility had intrigued him more than young ladies in drawing rooms could do. Not that he had mixed in society to any great degree. Good God, he’d never even set foot in Almack’s.
Devlin smiled at his host. ‘I’m sure I’d be delighted to renew my acquaintance, sir. Perhaps after a hand or two.’
How long ago had he shared that memorable space of time with her? Three years and more? Just after Maguilla. What had her life been like under the thumb of this man?
Farley’s brow broke out in beads of sweat. Devlin suppressed his smile. The man was in trouble. Throwing caution to the wind, Devlin made a hearty bet. The tic in Farley’s eye quickened.
The cards were called, and the man on Devlin’s right let out a whoop. So intent on besting Farley, Devlin had forgotten the other player. As Devlin gave up half his stack of chips, he vowed not to continue such carelessness.
‘Enough for me, gentlemen. I think I shall stop before Barnes here takes my whole stack.’
Barnes bellowed with laughter. ‘I’d be pleased to do that, Steele.’ He gathered his winnings, leaving Farley with a scattering of chips too small to stack.
‘Another time,’ Devlin said, standing.
‘One more hand.’ Farley’s voice was thick and tense. ‘Don’t deny me the chance to recoup, Steele. One more hand is all I ask.’
It would hardly be civil to refuse. Devlin bowed slightly and sat back down. One more hand couldn’t break him, though that last loss had hurt a bit. Farley would have been wiser to quit. The man had lost all card sense. Devlin doubted he could even cheat effectively at this point. Barnes, too, was flush with his winning streak and eager to extend it.
Play was fierce. Devlin bet moderately, intent only on preserving his present winnings, but the cards came like magic. Was Farley setting him up, or had true luck shone upon him?
Caution be damned, he thought. Life’s the real gamble. Devlin bet deep.
And won.
Barnes good-naturedly laughed off his losses, still ahead with his one spectacular hand. Farley slumped back in his chair, his face drained of all colour.
‘You will accept my vowel, sir?’ Farley’s question did not demand an answer.
‘But of course,’ Devlin replied amiably.
As Farley wrote out his vowel, Devlin gazed around the room, into the dark recesses where Farley’s girls, looking like Spanish tarts, ran the tables.
‘Shall I make Miss M available to you?’ Farley asked, his voice flat.
Devlin considered, sweeping his gaze over the too-opulent room. Had this place truly impressed him three years ago with its wainscoting and brocades? Now it appeared as false as glory.
Perhaps it would be preferable to seek the relative silence of the street and preserve The Mysterious Miss M as a memory.
A shout came from outside the parlour. The door opened and a burly man dragged in a girl who was beating at his chest and kicking his legs in protest. She wore a mask.
‘Lord Farley,’ the huge man said, ‘she’s brawling again.’ He dropped the girl at Farley’s feet. Her pale delicate fingers grabbed the edge of the table to pull herself up. She lifted her head regally and smoothed the skirt of her red silk dress. Black sensuous curls tumbled to her shoulders in a tangled mass. The lace mantilla had slipped off and hung on one of her shoulders.
‘I have no patience for this,’ Farley growled. ‘What now?’
‘She refused a patron.’ The man tossed her a scathing look. ‘She bit him in…a most unfortunate place.’
The girl faced Farley with her chin held high, her face half-covered by a red leather mask. ‘I warned you I would do so.’
Farley shot out of his chair and with a loud clap struck his open hand against her cheek.
‘The devil!’ Devlin sprang from his seat to catch her before she hit the floor. Both her hands clutched her head, and Devlin supported her with an arm around her waist.
‘Farley, I must protest. That was most poorly done.’
‘I’ll thank you to stay out of my business, Steele,’ Farley snarled. ‘You have no say in the matter.’
‘If you strike her in front of me, I claim the right.’ Devlin spoke through clenched teeth. ‘You might hear her out.’
Farley rubbed his face. ‘I have treated her with more consideration than she deserves, and she still defies me. I’m done with her. You found her pleasing once. Take her in lieu of my debt.’
Devlin combed her hair away from her mask with his fingers. He would leave no woman to suffer such treatment. He leaned close to her ear. ‘What say you, Miss England?’
She blinked uncomprehendingly, her eyes unfocused. Suddenly her vision seemed to clear and she stared at him, the bright red imprint of Farley’s hand remaining on her cheek. She smiled faintly and flung her arms around his neck.
He gazed over the top of her head to Farley. ‘Your debt is settled, sir.’
A half-hour later Devlin paced the pavement in front of Farley’s establishment, cursing himself. In the space of a moment, he’d tossed his winnings away and incurred further expense. All for a lightskirt with whom he’d once spent a pleasant interval. He could almost hear the Marquess ring a peal over his head. ‘Brother, how many times must I caution you? Think before you act.’
Ah well, he could not very well leave his Miss England with Farley, could he? Perhaps she had some family. His winnings ought to be sufficient to send her wherever she wished to go.
At least the money bought him a little more time. Only two months left before his brother released his quarterly portion.
Two cloaked and hooded figures hurried from the alley. Devlin instinctively kept a watchful eye on them. In this neighbourhood one could easily be set upon and relieved of one’s winnings. Indeed, Farley might attempt to recoup his losses. The two shadowy figures came to a stop in front of him, one carrying a large portmanteau.
‘We are ready, my lord,’ the other one said, breathing hard.
Devlin peered at her. In the lamplight, her face was all but obscured by the hood, and she was wrapped entirely in her cloak, clutching some bundle beneath its folds. Still, he could not mistake his Miss England.
‘We?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching.
‘Sophie accompanies me. I will not leave her.’ The resolute tilt of the young miss’s head was the same defiant
