Chapter 2
"Iam so sorry to do this to you, gentlemen, but it looks like I win." Paisley placed her hand of cards gingerly down on the sticky table and flashed around an apologetic smile.
Unsurprisingly, it was not returned. There was a sizeable pile of money and valuables in the center of the table, and every card player had had their eyes on it. They were all men, of course.
Oddly enough, Paisley found it easier to join card tables of all men, and easier to win. The women were usually cleverer, more suspicious when Paisley downplayed her talent, and more difficult to beat.
There were also fewer of them in places like this, so she usually found herself facing tables of all-male players. Here at The Sinner, the card-tables were set up in a little basement room.
One went through the main floor of the pub to get here, then went down a steep set of stone stairs to a windowless room lit by candles. It wasn't particularly pleasant down here, but at least the noise of the pub above was muffled. That wasn't too reassuring, though.
Paisley could barely hear the chatter and laughter from upstairs, so that meant that they, in turn, could hardly hear anything from down here. And it also meant that a flight of uneven, dangerous stairs stood between her and freedom, should she need to make a run for freedom.
Don't think about that, Paisley, she warned herself. Concentrate on the here and now. They're like dogs, remember? They can sense fear and unease. You have to stay calm. Exude confidence. That was what Papa said, wasn't it? You don't play the cards; you play the people.
And she had to admit that she'd played these people particularly well. Neither of them was a skilled card player, but with the habitual unearned confidence of men, they each believed that they were.
She leaned back in her seat, tugging on the edge of her veil.
She'd initially had a much longer veil, but after a small incident involving a rogue nail, a snag, and a hasty exit, the veil had torn, leaving Paisley with no choice but to trim it.
She felt exposed with such a short veil, but it was certainly better than no veil.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip, and she shifted uncomfortably. It was red-hot in the pub, as expected, and her dress was stiff and heavy. She could feel sweat pooling in the small of her back, under her arms, and across her bosom.
Come on, come on, get on with it, she thought impatiently, watching the men carefully inspect her cards and then their own. This was fairly standard stuff, of course.
The men always allowed Paisley to join almost as a joke. They exchanged grins with each other and flashed lascivious smiles her way. Sometimes they directed a few filthy comments at her, which Paisley always pretended to ignore.
Occasionally, a well-meaning man would painstakingly explain the rules of whatever game they were playing to her.
She would always pretend to listen carefully.
It did no harm, even if the man would always shoot her an aggrieved, betrayed look when it became obvious that Paisley knew perfectly well how to play.
She didn't mind. She didn't mind because she knew their condescending, leering smiles would drop right off their faces once the game began.
There were five men at the table, all leaning over Paisley's cards and whispering amongst themselves. They kept shooting her angry, suspicious glares, and she knew better than to hurry them along.
"How did ye know to play this hand?" one man demanded abruptly.
Paisley gritted her teeth. Would you ask that of a man? She thought angrily.
"It's a high-scoring hand," she replied patiently. "It made perfect sense to play it this way."
The men grumbled, whispering among themselves in quick, accented Gaelic. Paisley had picked up enough of the language to follow along, although she was careful not to give away this advantage.
She's cheating. She has to be.
Aye, she must have done.
How? She played it fair.
It's odd, ain't it? A lassie wanting to play cards. She's up to something.
For sure, for sure.
Wonderful. They were likely going to kick up a fuss and maybe refuse to let her take her earnings. Paisley clenched her hands into fists, hearing the material of her gloves squeak.
Cards wasn't considered a ladylike occupation, and certainly the English ton didn't expect to see ladies playing cards.
It had been Paisley's little secret, playing games with her father with the drawing-room curtains closed.
The games were simple, and they weren't entirely based on chance like some people seemed to think.
Yes, a measure of skill was required – and Paisley had that in abundance – but the key component was numbers.
Paisley understood numbers. They made sense. A column of numbers could be trusted to behave properly and give the right answer. It all made sense to her, in a way that people never quite did.
Unfortunately, cards didn't require only an understanding of numbers and a little moderate skill. There still was an element of chance, and lately, Paisley had not had much luck.
She hadn't lost much money – she was too clever for that, but she certainly hadn't earned any. In the pub she visited the previous night, one man got so angry at being beaten by a woman that she was forced to leave without her earnings.
The landlord at The Crown Inn was getting testy. He wanted his rent, and while there was time yet, Paisley knew she had to come up with the money, and soon. She didn't even have any jewelry left to sell. In desperation, she'd come here again.
The Sinner was not Paisley's hunting ground of choice. For one thing, Ava worked here at times, and she didn't want to run into her. For another, the stakes were never quite high enough for her liking here.
And the third problem was the barkeep. He was said to run a shockingly tight ship, and didn't approve of deep gambling, drunkenness, or lewd behavior.
It makes you wonder why he chose to run a pub, Paisley thought. Is there anything that he does approve of?
The patrons all seemed to have a healthy respect – and a substantial dose of fear – for the barkeep, and from the first time Paisley set eyes on him, she understood why.
He was a tall, powerfully built man, with eyes like gray flint and a face which might have been carved from marble.
She'd never seen him smile, not for an instant.
He'd spotted her, too. He stared openly at her whenever she arrived, his gaze seeming to say I know what you're about, me girl.
She shivered, pushing thoughts of the unfriendly barkeep to the back of her mind. She had more pressing concerns, namely the man who chose to reach over and prod her in the shoulder, hard.
"Ye must be cheatin'," he hissed. "I've never met a woman who plays cards as well as this."
"You must not meet many women, then," Paisley said lightly.
In lieu of anything intelligent to say in response, to man decided to mock her accent.
"Ooh, yoo must not mee-eet many wimmen, then," he echoed, sneering. "English wench."
Paisley had a hatpin in her sleeve, and briefly considered taking it out and jamming it into the man's hand. She could probably get the hatpin to go right into the wood, effectively pinning him in place while she snatched up her earnings and ran.
She immediately discarded the idea. Not because Paisley doubted that she had the stomach to pin a man's hand to the table – she was sure that she did – but because there were another four men to deal with, and she couldn't run particularly fast in the first place.
English ladies were never permitted to run. They had to take little, mincing steps, and their tight, uncomfortable shoes reinforced that. The first thing Paisley had done when she left home was buy herself a pair of comfortable, low-heeled boots.
Not that her boots would make much difference if these men decided to pursue her. And if they caught her...
Paisley cut off that thought right there and then, not wanting to consider what might happen if she was run down by a pack of men in a dark, deserted alleyway.
"I have not cheated," she said, as patiently as possible. "How could I have done so, with all of you watching me so closely?"
"Roll back yer sleeves," another man demanded.
Paisley obliged, stripping off her gloves and unbuttoning her sleeves. She carefully pushed the hatpin further up her forearm so they didn't see it.
The men eyed her white arms with disgust, obviously having expected to see dogeared aces and queens secured up her sleeves.
"Now that we've established that I won fairly," Paisley said, lightly, pulling down her sleeves and reaching for the money, "Perhaps I might take my earnings and leave. You'll have a chance to win it back from me tomorrow, anyway."
Which of course they wouldn't. Paisley didn't particularly want to return to The Sinner again – all of that effort and anxiety, and she'd only managed to secure enough to pay her rent for this month.
She still needed to pay for food and other things.
Even if she did return here, she would not be playing with these men again.
They sat in stony silence while Paisley swept the coins off the table, stuffing them into her pockets. She had a coin purse but had no intention of sitting there at that grimy table and counting out her money.
A few coins landed on the floor and rolled away, but she chose not to go scrabbling after them. They were the only people playing cards in the little basement room, and Paisley was feeling an urgent need to get out of there, as soon as possible.
She rose to her feet, the specially designed pocket sitting heavy against her leg. The coins clinked and rattled together as she moved, backing towards the doorway.
"It's been a pleasure, gentlemen," she said smoothly. "Thank you for an enjoyable game."
Not wanting to turn her back on them too soon, Paisley waited until she could feel a blast of warm air on her back, drifting down from the heated room above.
"Nae so fast."
She froze, her heart plummeting.
I knew this would happen, Paisley thought miserably.
The man who had spoken had remained mostly quiet during the card game. He was a hulking man with a sweaty bald head and gray eyebrows, and he'd looked at Paisley as if she were a meal for most of the game, gaze lingering on her bosom.
This was one of the reasons why Paisley wore a gown which covered up every inch of skin, plus a veil.
"Is there a problem?" Paisley said politely.
"Aye, I'd say so," the man growled. "Cheating English wench. Ye cannae have won fair and square. I cannae tell how ye did it, but I know that ye cheated. Best if ye come clean now."
She lifted her chin. "Why would you say that? Would you have accused one of the other men of cheating if they'd won?"
A brief expression of confusion crossed his face.
Not burdened with an abundance of brains, then, Paisley thought.
"Well, nay," he said. "Of course not."
"Why not?"
More confusion. The man glanced uncertainly at his friends for support.
"Well, because they could've won."
"And why could I not have won?"
Impatience returned to the man's face. He stepped around the table, so that there was nothing between him and Paisley.
She backed away, feeling the first of the cold stone steps hit the back of her leg. She'd need to turn her back to climb the stairs, and then the men would be on her.
Should I call for help? Paisley wondered. Would anyone come? Should I just run for it?
"Because ye're a lassie, and everyone knows women arenae good at cards," the man snapped.
"Their brains arenae big enough," another man chipped in, earning himself a general murmur of agreement.
"So, I'm not clever enough to play cards, but I am clever enough to figure out a way of cheating at a game which is famously difficult to cheat at?" Paisley said slowly. "I just want to be sure that I've got it right."
The man advanced again. He'd obviously had enough of arguing.
"Give us back the money, and we'll call it quits," he growled. "Daennae try me, lassie."
Paisley considered throwing a handful of coins at him as a distraction. But then she wouldn't have enough for rent, and if she didn't have the money soon, she'd be in hot water.
Her nerve broke. Paisley turned tail and fled up the stairs before the man could get any closer.
She didn't get far.
A brawny arm circled around her waist before she was halfway up, hauling her back and throwing her sideways. Paisley hurtled through the air, landing with a thud which knocked her breath out of her and left her gasping.
The bald man loomed over her, face red with anger.
"Cheat! Cheat!" he thundered. "Ye bloody English cheat!"