The Trouble with Honour. Julia London
He gestured for the lovely Miss Cabot to sit. “You scarcely seem old enough to understand the nuances of a game such as Commerce.”
“No?” she asked, one brow arching above the other as she gracefully took a seat in the chair that a man held out for her. “At what age is one considered old enough to engage in a game of chance?”
Behind her, the birds whispered fiercely, but Miss Cabot calmly regarded George, waiting for his answer. She was not, he realized, even remotely intimidated by him, by the establishment or by anything else.
“I would not presume to put an age on it,” he said cavalierly. “A child, for all I care.”
“Easton,” Rutherford said, his voice full of warning, but George Easton did not play by the same rules as the titled men here, and Rutherford knew it. This would be diverting; George had no objection to passing an hour or so with a woman—anyone in London would attest to that—particularly one as comely as this one. “Are you prepared to lose all the coins you’ve brought?”
She laughed, the sound of it sparkling. “I don’t intend to lose them at all.”
The gentlemen in the room laughed again, and one or two of them stood, moving closer to watch.
“One must always be prepared to lose, Miss Cabot,” George warned her.
She carefully opened her reticule, produced a few coins and smiled proudly at him. George made a mental note not to be swept up by that smile...at least not while at the gaming table.
Rutherford, meanwhile, stared with shock at both Miss Cabot and George, then slowly, reluctantly, took his seat.
“Shall I deal?” George asked, holding up the deck of cards.
“Please,” Miss Cabot said, and put her gloves aside, neatly stacked, just beside her few coins. She glanced around the room as George shuffled the deck of cards. “Do you know that I have never been south of the Thames? Can you imagine, my whole life spent in and around London, and I’ve never come south of the Thames?”
“Imagine,” he drawled, and dealt the cards. “Your bet to begin, Miss Cabot.”
She glanced at her cards that were lying faceup, and put a shilling in the middle of the table.
“A bob will not take you far in this game,” George said.
“Is it allowed?”
He shrugged. “It is.”
She merely smiled.
Rutherford followed suit, and the woman who had occupied his lap for most of the evening resumed her seat, sliding onto his knee, her gaze challenging Miss Cabot.
“Oh,” Miss Cabot murmured, apparently as she realized what sort of woman would sit on Rutherford’s lap, and glanced away.
“Are you shocked?” George whispered, amused.
“A bit,” Miss Cabot responded, stealing a look at the young whore again. “I rather thought she’d be...homelier. But she’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”
George glanced at the woman on Rutherford’s lap. He would call her alluring. But not pretty. Miss Cabot was pretty.
He glanced at his hand—he held a pair of kings. This would be an easy victory, he thought, and made his bet.
A servant walked by with a platter of food for a table that had resumed its play. Miss Cabot’s gaze followed it.
“Miss Cabot,” George said.
She looked at him.
“Your play.”
“Oh!” She studied the cards and picked up another shilling and placed it in the middle.
“Gentlemen, we’ve had two bobs bet this evening. At this rate, we might hope to conclude the game at dawn.”
Miss Cabot smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
George reminded himself that he was not to be drawn in by pretty eyes, either.
They went round again, during which Rutherford apparently forgot his reluctance to play with the debutante. On the next round, Miss Cabot put in two shillings.
“Miss Cabot, have a care. You don’t want to lose all you have in the first game,” one of the young bucks said with a nervous laugh.
“I hardly think it will hurt any less to lose all that I have in one game or six, Mr. Eckersly,” she said jovially.
George won the hand as he knew he would, but Miss Cabot didn’t seem the least bit put off by it. “I think there should be more games of chance at the assembly halls, don’t you?” she asked of the growing crowd around them. “It makes for a better diversion than whist.”
“Only if one is winning,” a man in the back of the crowd said.
“And with her father’s money,” Miss Cabot quipped, delighting the small but growing crowd around them, as well as the birds who had accompanied her, as they now had the attention of several gentlemen around them.
They continued on that way, with Miss Cabot betting a shilling here or there, bantering with the crowd. It was not the sort of high-stakes game George enjoyed, but he did enjoy Miss Cabot, very much. She was not like what he would have supposed for a debutante. She was witty and playful, delighting in her small victories, debating the play of her cards with whomever happened to be standing behind her.
After an hour had passed, Miss Cabot’s purse was reduced to twenty pounds. She began to deal the cards. “Shall we raise the stakes?” she asked cheerfully.
“If you think you can afford my stakes, you have my undivided attention,” George said.
She gave him a pert look. “Twenty pounds to play,” she said, and began to deal.
George couldn’t help but laugh at her naïveté. “But that’s all you have,” he pointed out.
“Then perhaps you will take my marker?” she asked, and lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes, he couldn’t help noticing, were still sparkling. But in a slightly different way. She was challenging him. Heaven help him, the girl was up to something, and George could not have been more delighted. He grinned.
“Miss Cabot, I must advise you against it,” one of the bucks said, the same one who had grown more nervous as the game had progressed. “It’s time we returned to Mayfair.”
“Your caution and timekeeping are duly noted and appreciated, sir,” she said sweetly, her gaze still on George. “You’ll humor me, won’t you, Mr. Easton?” she asked. “You’ll take my marker?”
George had never been one to refuse a lady, particularly one he found so intriguing. “Consider yourself humored,” he said with a gracious bow of his head. “I shall take your marker.”
Word that he had taken a marker from Miss Cabot spread quickly through the gaming hell, and in a matter of minutes, more had gathered around to watch the debutante lose presumably something of value to George Easton, the notorious and self-proclaimed bastard son of the late Duke of Gloucester.
The betting went higher among the three of them until Rutherford, who was undone by the prospect of having a debutante owe him money, withdrew from the game. That left George and Miss Cabot. She remained remarkably unruffled. It was just like the Mayfair set, George thought. She had no regard for the amount of her father’s money she was losing—it was all magic for her, markers and coins appearing from thin air.
The bet had reached one hundred pounds, and George paused. While he appreciated her spirit, he was not in the habit of taking such a sum from debutantes. “The bet is now one hundred pounds, Miss Cabot. Will your papa put that amount in your reticule?” he asked, and the men around him laughed appreciatively.
“My goodness, Mr. Easton, that’s a personal question, isn’t it? Perhaps