would-be adversary has caught your eye,” said Whitfield.
“She wagers?” Anthony asked in surprise.
“She’d like to,” Leviston answered dryly, “but Bost wouldn’t let her join us.”
Bost drained his brandy and waved his empty glass at a barmaid. “What do women know about cards? Her husband should pay more attention to the purse strings.”
Whitfield’s eyes glittered. “And if she hasn’t got one, she should just say the word and I’ll be happy to step in for the night.”
Anthony’s lips flattened in distaste. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?” Bost crossed his arms. “You have claims on the lady?”
“You never know, do you?” Anthony countered icily. It was a nonsense rejoinder, but at least his tone served to silence the blackguards.
Good. He needed to keep winning. A brawl over Lady Fortune’s honor would have ruined everything.
“Your wine, my lords.” The harried barmaid refilled the other gentlemen’s glasses, then turned toward Anthony. “Anything for you, sir?”
“Not for me.” Anthony placed a gold sovereign he’d set aside onto her tray. “For you. Everyone deserves some good luck once in a while.”
Her eyes glistened. “Thank you, sir. Thank you .”
Anthony inclined his head. Inn staff would not know him this far north, but he always shared a small token from his winnings. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to be employed to scrape out a living—not only because gentlemen of his class did not work. Anthony had never cleaved to anyone else’s schedule or demands in his life. Gaming hells were much more suited to his style of living.
In fact, he won the next three rounds. A thrill shot through him. Lady Fortune’s presence had made him unconquerable indeed.
“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”
“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London had closed their doors to you.”
“London?” Anthony leaned back in his throne with a careless grin. “Try England. Why do you think I came all the way to Scotland to deprive you of your last ha’penny?”
“Scoundrel.” Whitfield shook his head with a chuckle. “Good night, all.”
Bost adjusted his hat. “Next time I see you, Fairfax, I’m winning back my blunt.”
“You can try,” Anthony agreed with good cheer before handing the cards to Leviston. “One last round?”
“I’ll no doubt regret this,” Leviston grumbled as he shuffled the cards.
A movement caught Anthony’s eye. He straightened his spine as Lady Fortune rose from her shadowy corner and made her way toward their table.
“Now is there room for a lady?” she asked in a rich, sultry voice.
“Without question.” Anthony leaped up while she took her seat. She had no chance of winning, but he saw no reason not to welcome her to the table.
“Your funeral,” Leviston said to her under his breath. “Fairfax here is unbeatable.”
Anthony was in full agreement. Leviston could bid his last farthing adieu. Now that Lady Fortune was seated at their table, Anthony’s luck would be boundless. He was on the longest winning streak of his life.
“Fairfax, meet Miss Devon.” Leviston began to deal the cards. “Starting wager is twenty pounds, pet.”
She placed her bet on the table without changing expression.
Anthony couldn’t stop staring at her from the corner of his eye. He was normally quite gifted at sizing someone up in the briefest of moments—it was the key to reading tables, and knowing when to pass or when to triple his wager—but he couldn’t quite get a fix on Miss Devon.
It wasn’t just the high-necked modesty of her thick fichu being paired with extravagant rubies, or her concealed golden tendrils and pristine white gloves. Now that she was close enough for him to
“She wagers?” Anthony asked in surprise.
“She’d like to,” Leviston answered dryly, “but Bost wouldn’t let her join us.”
Bost drained his brandy and waved his empty glass at a barmaid. “What do women know about cards? Her husband should pay more attention to the purse strings.”
Whitfield’s eyes glittered. “And if she hasn’t got one, she should just say the word and I’ll be happy to step in for the night.”
Anthony’s lips flattened in distaste. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?” Bost crossed his arms. “You have claims on the lady?”
“You never know, do you?” Anthony countered icily. It was a nonsense rejoinder, but at least his tone served to silence the blackguards.
Good. He needed to keep winning. A brawl over Lady Fortune’s honor would have ruined everything.
“Your wine, my lords.” The harried barmaid refilled the other gentlemen’s glasses, then turned toward Anthony. “Anything for you, sir?”
“Not for me.” Anthony placed a gold sovereign he’d set aside onto her tray. “For you. Everyone deserves some good luck once in a while.”
Her eyes glistened. “Thank you, sir. Thank you .”
Anthony inclined his head. Inn staff would not know him this far north, but he always shared a small token from his winnings. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to be employed to scrape out a living—not only because gentlemen of his class did not work. Anthony had never cleaved to anyone else’s schedule or demands in his life. Gaming hells were much more suited to his style of living.
In fact, he won the next three rounds. A thrill shot through him. Lady Fortune’s presence had made him unconquerable indeed.
“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”
“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London had closed their doors to you.”
“London?” Anthony leaned back in his throne with a careless grin. “Try England. Why do you think I came all the way to Scotland to deprive you of your last ha’penny?”
“Scoundrel.” Whitfield shook his head with a chuckle. “Good night, all.”
Bost adjusted his hat. “Next time I see you, Fairfax, I’m winning back my blunt.”
“You can try,” Anthony agreed with good cheer before handing the cards to Leviston. “One last round?”
“I’ll no doubt regret this,” Leviston grumbled as he shuffled the cards.
A movement caught Anthony’s eye. He straightened his spine as Lady Fortune rose from her shadowy corner and made her way toward their table.
“Now is there room for a lady?” she asked in a rich, sultry voice.
“Without question.” Anthony leaped up while she took her seat. She had no chance of winning, but he saw no reason not to welcome her to the table.
“Your funeral,” Leviston said to her under his breath. “Fairfax here is unbeatable.”
Anthony was in full agreement. Leviston could bid his last farthing adieu. Now that Lady Fortune was seated at their table, Anthony’s luck would be boundless. He was on the longest winning streak of his life.
“Fairfax, meet Miss Devon.” Leviston began to deal the cards. “Starting wager is twenty pounds, pet.”
She placed her bet on the table without changing expression.
Anthony couldn’t stop staring at her from the corner of his eye. He was normally quite gifted at sizing someone up in the briefest of moments—it was the key to reading tables, and knowing when to pass or when to triple his wager—but he couldn’t quite get a fix on Miss Devon.
It wasn’t just the high-necked modesty of her thick fichu being paired with extravagant rubies, or her concealed golden tendrils and pristine white gloves. Now that she was close enough for him to
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