Chapter Thirteen

Samuel shouldn’t have enjoyed the way Myfanwy’s eyelashes danced as she twirled to find him standing behind her. It wasn’t like the action was appealing. It looked like the woman had a clump of dirt in her eyes and was desperately trying to get it out. However, it did show that he’d truly caught her unawares, and she was definitively off guard. Good. That was exactly where he wanted her.

“Ah, speak of the devil. It seems Samuel was here all along, miss. I must have forgotten,” Harry Holmes remarked dryly, not looking half as guilty as he should have. The smarmy son of a bitch had the audacity to appear amused. He was lucky Samuel didn’t break his fist over that damn cigar. The problem was that it wouldn’t have done any good. Harry would have only been more entertained by the theatrics. It was always best to keep one’s cool around the gaming hall owner. The man exploited vulnerability, pure and simple.

“Were your ears ringing?” Holmes asked coolly.

Every ounce of Samuel’s blood was ringing, and it was killing him to remain stoic. “Oh, I’m used to being talked about,” he drawled, keeping his gaze lazy and level. “I’ve learned to let go of what I couldn’t control long ago.”

Holmes’s lips trembled in mirth. “Interesting choice of words,” he said, casting a look at Myfanwy.

Oh, Samuel knew exactly what the man was alluding to—the fact that he was having a damned difficult time controlling his sweet aristocratic ward. Ha! If Holmes only knew! However, Samuel had no intention of letting Myfanwy go anytime soon—especially not tonight.

“Time to say goodbye,” he said, taking Myfanwy’s arm. She blanched at his touch, making his temperature rise. Ever he played the gentleman in her presence; however, testing him at this moment was not in her best interest. Samuel would drag her out by her hair if he had to.

Myfanwy’s eyes turned downcast. Usually, Samuel hated when women covered their faces in those ridiculously maudlin veils; they seemed to signify perfidy and subterfuge. And yet the net created sultry patterns across her face, illuminating her large, dark eyes in a positively sinful fashion that made his throat dry.

“I…” She coughed. “I…didn’t come alone. I need to find my friends before we can go.”

Jesus Christ in heaven! She’d brought friends? To the fucking Lucky Fish? The morning ahead was dire indeed. How many fathers were going to knock on his door and beat him to a bloody pulp? Samuel would have to let them. This was all his fault.

“Who?” he seethed under his breath.

Myfanwy’s head dropped even further between her shoulders. “Jennifer.”

Ah. Jennifer. That wasn’t so terrible. Only one. If Samuel moved swiftly, he might be able to deposit her back in her room before her parents even noticed, forcing her to swear to secrecy—

“And Sir Bramble.”

“What!” Samuel roared. Instantly, his knees locked, and he lifted his head above the crowd. “I’m going to kill him. How dare that mangy bastard escort two ladies—”

“Jennifer isn’t a lady.”

Samuel’s jaw flexed as he continued to scan the room. “Two innocent women—”

Myfanwy chuckled. “And we are hardly innocent.”

Samuel rounded on her, pinning her with a death stare. “Do you think this is funny?”

“I’ll admit,” Holmes interjected with laughter. “I’m rather enjoying myself.”

“Fuck off, Holmes,” Samuel growled before turning back to Myfanwy. “You. Go get Jennifer. Now. I’ll deal with Sir Bramble later.”

“Oh wait, you can’t leave yet,” Holmes said, taking hold of Myfanwy’s other arm. Samuel saw red—fiery, lava-like, hell-in-the-middle-of-August crimson. If Holmes didn’t get his dirty fingers off his ward, Samuel was certain everyone would be seeing red next—the bloody kind.

Holmes followed Samuel’s eyes and withdrew his hold from Myfanwy like he’d just learned she was a leper. “Apologies, old friend.”

“We are not old friends,” Samuel replied caustically.

Holmes let out a mirthless snort. “I’m sorry to hear that. And I was just going to wish you luck in the cricket match.”

Myfanwy’s ears perked up, all contrition and embarrassment evaporating from her skin. “You know about that?”

Holmes gave her a quizzical look. “Of course I know about it, dear girl. It’s all anybody is talking about…Cremly versus Everett. Should be one hell of a show. A lot of money is riding on it.”

“It’s also the matrons versus the singles.” Myfanwy sniffed with indignation. “Just in case you forgot that vital piece of information.”

A patronizing smile played on his lips. “I’ve insulted you. I didn’t mean to, truly. Naturally, we are just as excited to watch you paragons of athleticism take the pitch. A lot of money is being placed on you in particular, or so I’m told.”

Samuel should have pushed Myfanwy into moving along. Her ego was getting stroked by the gambler’s attention, and no doubt she would cease regretting her decision to come to the Lucky Fish in the first place. And Samuel needed her to understand his point of view and displeasure. She couldn’t just prance all over London like it was her playground—especially goddamn gaming halls! What would her father think? And what would he think of Samuel? That he was failing in his promise, that was what. That he wasn’t taking adequate care and attention of the viscount’s most valuable possession—his daughter.

“We need to go,” Samuel said, but Myfanwy resisted the pull in her arm. She only had eyes—and ears—for Holmes.

“What kind of money?” she asked quietly, desperately interested.

Holmes could have turned green, for how much he reminded Samuel of the snake in the Garden of Eden. “Quite a fortune,” he replied, milking her interest to the fullest. “It seems you and Samuel here are the odds-on favorites at the present. An upset could put a lot of coin in the hands of someone siding with Cremly.” He laughed. “Not that anyone is doing that. You’re a sure thing, my dear. And if gamblers value anything, it’s a sure thing.”

A sweet, ethereal smile lit up Myfanwy’s face, and Samuel could imagine butterflies and rainbows and unicorns and whatever hell else gently bred ladies fantasized about dancing in her head. He had to shake her from that stupor—but it pained him to do it.

That was the weakness in man—wanting to make his woman happy, wanting to give her everything.

But Samuel was also Myfanwy’s coach. And a coach couldn’t allow his star cricketer’s head to get big with praise from degenerates and things as vaporous as odds. The only number he wanted her to think about was her batting average.

Samuel guided Myfanwy away once more, and again Holmes beat him to it. His voice was heavy and promising, as if it were a basket laden with sweets. “I would love to talk about your match a little more some other time—if you’re interested.”

Samuel dropped Myfanwy’s arm and charged forward, nose to nose with the gambler. Glaring into the depths of Holmes’s black eyes, Samuel felt even more off-kilter. The inky depths were fathomless, no regret to be found. No soul either, for that matter.

“She’s not fucking interested,” Samuel said. A few heads turned his way, but for the most part, the evening was in full effect. Colors were high; inhibitions were low.

“Interested in what?” Myfanwy asked softly behind his back.

Holmes snorted and cocked his head. “Winning.”

Samuel’s hand clenched to a fist. He already had a bad leg, and now his hand would follow suit, because when Samuel Everett swung, he swung for the goddamn boundary every time. “Holmes, I swear to you, if you don’t shut your fucking face…”

But a caress of fabric distracted him. A glove, as fine and translucent as gossamer wings, covered the ball of his fist, working it open. Myfanwy. She took his hand and, judging by her intensity, was not letting go anytime soon. It was a promise, and when he squeezed, Samuel accepted.

“Let’s go, Samuel. Please,” she pleaded gently, her lips close to the crook of his neck. “I shouldn’t have encouraged him. Let’s go home.”

Home. Samuel recovered just in time. He gasped for a breath like he’d just erupted from the surface of the ocean. It was an odd sensation. The word on her tongue made him want to simultaneously shout from a rooftop and also hit his head against the door.

Samuel let her lead. He followed her skirts toward the entrance when Holmes determined that he would not be disregarded that easily. His indulgent chuckles filled the room along with the smoke. “Don’t you want to know how to win?” he called out.

Myfanwy hooked her arm around Samuel’s, locking him at her side. “Don’t even think about it,” she whispered. “If you break your hand, what kind of a coach will you be? How will you help me with my leg-spinners?”

She had a point, but she didn’t listen to her own advice. Myfanwy twisted her head around and affected Holmes’s confident tone. “I thought I was already going to win. You said it yourself.”

Holmes’s laughter took on gargantuan proportions. Like a tsunami, it threatened to chase them down and pull them under unless they got to higher ground. Not wanting to be left out of the joke, their audience chimed in as well, and Myfanwy’s palms sweated through her gloves. “My dear girl, there’s winning and there’s winning. If you don’t believe me, ask your guardian. Only a real professional can tell you the difference.”

*

Jennifer couldn’t befound. It seemed that Sir Bramble had grown some balls when Samuel entered the picture and had flown from the gambling hall with the girl as quickly as his skinny legs could carry them. It was for the best, Samuel decided, as he marched into the street, Myfanwy’s hand still clasped in his. He trusted the baron to get the girl home safely. Besides, he had plenty to speak to his ward about on the way home, and none of it was fit for Jennifer. It was a family matter.

Family. Was that what they were?

Yes.

The night air was thick and foggy with the kind of humidity that made one’s bones sweat, and it was made even worse by the insufferable tension radiating from his ward. Now that Holmes was behind them, it seemed their brief foray of solidarity was also dumped by the roadside.

Myfanwy allowed Samuel to direct her to the carriage, but her motions were stiff and brittle, as if one quick action might make her snap in two. She was just about to step inside the conveyance when a shout came from the place Samuel was trying so desperately to save her from.

“Miss Myfanwy! Miss!” a high-pitched voice rang out as heels pattered swiftly along the lane. Samuel turned and instantly closed his eyes on a groan. For fuck’s sake. Why the hell was a strumpet chasing after them? And how in the bloody hell did she know Myfanwy’s name?

The fallen woman caught up with them in no time, and it was easy to see why. Samuel wasn’t trying to gawk; however, the strumpet’s legs were clearly visible under her diaphanous gown. Nice and long. So were her arms… She’d make one hell of a batsman.

“Miss! You forgot this,” the woman said, her lungs pumping like a bellows. She shoved a small brown sack into Myfanwy’s hands.

Myfanwy’s face erupted with a grateful smile. “Oh, thank you so much, Holly!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you didn’t let me leave without it.”

The strumpet—Holly—lowered her head shyly. It wasn’t every day Samuel encountered a shy prostitute. On closer notice, this one didn’t appear as old and withered as the others inside the Lucky Fish. Her face was heavily painted, and her cheeks sank so deep her cheekbones pierced like ice picks, but all of that could be remedied with a good bath and a steady stream of meals.

Samuel reached into his pocket for some loose coins and handed the younger woman everything he had. “For your trouble,” he said, spinning toward the carriage.

Her eyelashes fanned wildly. “Oh no, I couldn’t, my lord.”

“He’s not a lord,” Myfanwy cut in. For some reason, that irked Samuel. Did she have to sound so jovial about it?

Holly tried again. “Sorry, sir, but I can’t take it.” She handed the coins back to him.

“Nonsense,” Samuel replied, his irritation startling him. “Get something to eat.”

“It’s not that I’m not grateful,” she said quickly. “Only…” She glanced down at her ensemble and raised her arms helplessly to her sides. “I don’t have a place to put it, and my customers—ah, business associates—don’t like to hear a jingle when they’re in the middle of… For some reason, it makes them think badly of themselves.”

Samuel pursed his lips. Bad indeed. Apparently, it was difficult to use a woman while you could hear the payment of her previous men clinking in the background. He dug inside his jacket again. Damn. He didn’t like to travel with a lot of money on him. It was something he’d learned during his playing years. The less you had on you, the less people could steal. There were always sharks in the water.

He winced. “I’m sorry—”

“Let me,” Myfanwy said readily, shuffling in her dainty reticule. She pulled out a five-pound bank note and handed it to Holly, who shoved it inside the top of her garment without hesitation. The fact that Myfanwy didn’t bat an eye at the interaction alarmed Samuel more than the prostitute’s behavior. What else did his ward get up to when he wasn’t around—or, rather, when he wasn’t paying attention? It was safe to admit now that over the past year, he had not been the most observant guardian. He could blame his wrecked eye or his busy schedule, but those were paltry excuses at best. Samuel had avoided Myfanwy for self-preservation reasons, pure and simple. And the effects of all her alone time were…disconcerting.

Myfanwy stuck out her hand, and the young woman shook it. “I know you’ll love it,” Holly said with a pretty smile. “Remember, you have to rub it in long and hard. I find the more you do that, the better it works. Don’t be afraid to really work it in there.”

Myfanwy nodded, and only when Holly believed that the lady was going to truly take her advice did she retire back into the gaming hall.

Myfanwy watched her go for long seconds, her face open and wistful.

Samuel couldn’t help but ask, “What is it?”

“I was just thinking,” she said thoughtfully, “about cricketers.”

Samuel hadn’t been expecting that response. “Cricketers?”

“Yes.” Myfanwy turned to the carriage and offered her hand so he could help her inside. But she hesitated before climbing in, a perturbed expression behind the gauzy veil. “Our clothes aren’t made for our jobs. It seems sportswomen have more in common with ladies of the night than I thought.”