Chapter Six #2
in the head. “Winning money is the point of five-card loo. It’s why it’s worth playing at all.
It’s what we pay the exorbitant membership fees at Lucifer’s Fall in order to do.
I spent a good deal of money playing in order to make a good deal of money.
Your brother seemed to really be enjoying himself, and I could not deny him the chance to play against me for old time’s sake. ”
I’ll just bet you couldn’t, Ginny thought.
“But you see, Hogarth did not mean to get so carried away.” She tried to keep her tone bright, even though there was a peculiar
ringing in her ears.
“Oh, certainly, certainly. I understand. But that’s the thrill of it, ain’t it? Letting it sweep you up.” The earl made an
expansive sweeping gesture. “He was entering into the spirit of the thing, as it was his first night there. It was stirring
to see him in action.”
She wondered if the earl was one of those who saw Hogarth dancing on a billiard table.
“I know it’s a bit alarming to lose the first time you do it, Miss Woodville, but your brother, now that he’s an earl, can
always win more!” the countess soothed. “You can buy so much on credit and no one ever asks you to pay for it, when you’re
an earl. And one can’t always lose, just like you don’t always win, isn’t that right, dear?” she said to her husband.
Ginny understood two things simultaneously: These people were daft. Mad. As. Hatters.
But then, so was she.
Because here she was, trying to talk them into giving back fifteen thousand pounds.
They were also, she suspected, considerably craftier than she was.
“It’s just that the particular sum you won was very much spoken for.” Her lips fought her mightily when she tried to turn
them up into a smile. It was an attempt to make her words sound something other than desperate.
The countess laughed merrily. “Oh, all money is always spoken for, my dear. We’ve been thinking about ordering a new barouche with the winnings. We’ve only got
the one, and it’s nigh on two years old now. We’ll name one of the horses on the team after your brother.”
The earl and countess laughed at this together.
Ginny heard noises resembling a laugh emerging from her own stiff lips. Imagine having more than one barouche.
She took a breath. “It’s just that both of my sisters are engaged to be married, you see. We’re due to enter negotiations
for the marriage settlements within a fortnight. And surely you understand about dowries . . .”
“Oh, how lovely! Our congratulations to little Francesca, wasn’t it? And . . .”
“It’s Fiona and Felicity.”
“We’ll send over a little gift. Perhaps a silver creamer?”
I have a suggestion for a gift, Ginny was awfully tempted to say.
“They looked so much like your mother,” the earl suddenly recalled. “The twins.” His tone was wistful.
“They do.” Her heart began pounding. “They’ve grown up to look just like her.”
Perhaps this was it. Perhaps sentiment would be the thing that brought him around.
She prayed again to the same legion of gods. She reminded herself that she’d found a stone heart, and surely it must mean
something.
“Miss Woodville, did your brother tell you that he lost to me?” the earl asked suddenly.
Bloody hell.
Her gut immediately turned to ice.
She thought she’d gotten lucky, but the earl was unfortunately finally realizing a few things.
Another torturous little silence sifted down.
“No, sir. He refused to tell me. Hogarth has a very strong sense of honor. He said he would rather die than tell me.” There was no harm in exaggerating just a little. And in truth, Ginny did want to kill Hogarth, a little bit.
She didn’t expound, because she needed to buy a few more moments to think.
Something she ought to have done more of before she arrived.
The earl’s brow creased. “Then how—”
Suddenly Farnham the footman appeared again in the doorway. “Forgive my intrusion, Lord Sydenham, but you’ve another caller.”
He delivered this news on a peculiarly nervous hush as he proffered a silver tray, upon which rested a single card.
The earl frowned. “Who could it be at this—” He snatched the card up and read it.
He shot to his feet.
Then he sat down hard again.
Then he stood up again and sat down again, and smoothed his hair.
The countess leaned toward him. “Dear, why the agitation?”
He showed the card to his wife.
“Oh!” She excitedly patted her own hair. “Good heavens. How unusual. But should we? With Miss Woodville here? I don’t know,
dear. It’s not quite proper, is it? It’s not the done thing. He’s—but—”
Ginny found herself smoothing her own hair, reflexively. Who on earth could cause such a stir? The king?
The earl hesitated.
“Bring him in, if you would, Farnham.”
The footman disappeared.
And returned with Mr. Marchand.
Mr. Marchand brought the woodsmoke scent of the night in with him on his coat, as though he’d materialized out of fire and
brimstone. His cheeks were ruddy from the chill. He’d pushed back his hair. He looked excruciatingly dashing.
He was a fresh shock every time she saw him, Ginny realized then. Every time she needed to reacclimate to the fact of his
shoulders and cheekbones and the whole fact of him.
His eyes found her the way an arrow finds a bull’s-eye, and they flared in triumph—clearly, he’d somehow known she’d be here,
and felt vindicated—and burned with a distinct warning.
She glared back at him.
For a mad moment she considered bellowing the epithet that immediately sprang to mind. How liberating it would be to incinerate
what was left of her reputation. To burn it all down completely in front of an audience who would probably waste no time making
sure all of the ton knew. It was so exhausting clutching at the shreds of her dignity.
The earl and countess didn’t notice, as they were busy gazing admiringly at Mr. Marchand.
“To what do we owe this rare honor, Mr. Marchand?” said Lord Sydenham.
“I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d bring the Malbec you enjoyed the other evening. It’s a marvelous vintage. I got
some in especially for you.”
“And how thoughtful of you to remember how much I enjoyed it, Marchand. I know Malbec is not all the rage at the moment.”
“It is among those of us with excellent taste,” Marchand assured him. “My apologies, Lord Sydenham. If I’d known you were
already entertaining a charming guest, I would never have dreamed of intruding.”
Liar, she silently mouthed to Mr. Marchand.
“You’re not intruding at all.” The earl sounded aghast at the very notion. “It seems to be our night for unusual but charming
callers. May I present Miss Guinevere Woodville.”
She sullenly rose to her feet. “How do you do, Mr. Marchand?”
“How do you do, Miss Woodville?” He bowed like a courtier, the fraud.
“This is the Mr. Marchand who owns the gentleman’s club we were discussing, Miss Woodville. Isn’t that a coincidence?” The
countess was thrilled. “It’s as though we conjured him with a magic spell!”
Ginny yearned to point out that anything that conjured Marchand was really more of a curse than a spell.
She dipped a perfunctory curtsy and sat down again.
“Stay and have a bit of that Malbec with us, Mr. Marchand,” the countess coaxed. “Give Farnham your coat and the bottle. He’ll
open it for us.”
“That’s a very kind offer, but I wouldn’t want to interrupt your visit with Miss Woodville.”
Dashing her hopes, he was handing off his coat and the bottle of wine to Farnham before he even finished his sentence. He
clearly intended to stay.
“Miss Woodville won’t mind, would you, Miss Woodville?” the earl insisted.
Marchand arched a brow at her. The glint in his eyes told her he was savoring the internal battle he knew she was waging between what she wanted to say and what she ought to say.
“Why should I mind?” she said pleasantly enough, through a clenched jaw. Everybody sat again.
Marchand took a chair across from her, because heaven forfend she should ever be spared a view of him.
“We were, in fact, just discussing a visit her brother, the Earl of Highgrove, recently paid to Lucifer’s Fall,” Sydenham
said.
“Were you now,” Marchand said flatly.
“Miss Woodville is the daughter of an old friend of mine, rest his soul, the Viscount Woodville. Her brother is now the Earl
of Highgrove. And Miss Woodville just popped in a few minutes ago, out of the blue.”
“How unorthodox of her,” Marchand said lightly.
Ginny scowled in her heart, because she didn’t dare scowl with her face.
“Her family was always a bit free-spirited,” the earl told Marchand, sotto voce.
This sounded as though he was actually apologizing for her family to Marchand, of all people, which made Ginny grind her teeth.
Marchand nodded sagely. “I understand. I’ve known a few libertines in my day, too.”
Now he was deliberately goading her.
“Oh, I’m certain you have,” the countess enthused, almost on a purr.
Ginny felt compelled to protect her family’s honor. “Oh, it’s not quite as exciting as all that, Mr. Marchand. My father liked fast horses,” Ginny said. “Other than that, we’re a bit dull and respectable.”
Mr. Marchand tipped his head skeptically.
“In fact, my brother never seemed interested in gambling until he heard of Lucifer’s Fall. I don’t mean to be unkind, Mr.
Marchand, but I’m rather regretting that he did. Ha.” She tried to say it lightly for the benefit of the earl and countess.
It emerged more tautly than she preferred.
“My dear, if Lucifer’s Fall didn’t exist, all the men would just go someplace else to gamble,” the countess said earnestly.
“We’d go someplace else to gamble,” Lord Sydenham affirmed, as if nothing had ever been more self-evident.
“They’d all go someplace else to gamble,” Marchand echoed grimly, to Ginny.
The Earl of Sydenham accepted a glass of Malbec from Farnham, who had returned with glasses on a tray. “I was explaining to
Miss Woodville, who has quite charmingly and naturally been sheltered from gentlemen’s customs surrounding wagers, that gentlemen