Chapter Two

George Chance, Earl of Lindow, was going to buy the entirety of Bath.

"But why stop at Bath?" he crowed, grinning as his opponent slunk away from the table with a downcast expression. "If I keep on like this, I could buy London!"

It was a heady thought. For a man who rarely managed a winning streak of more than… well, two, this evening was turning out to be one of the greatest of his life.

"I'm going to buy Milsom Street." George chuckled as he leaned back in the rickety chair that was always his whenever he graced McBarland's with his presence. "At the very least."

Not that he could. The gold that had slipped into his pocket, along with the bad-tempered IOU from Mr. Lister, was probably not quite sufficient to buy even one building on Milsom Street. The place was becoming so damned fashionable.

But still—it was far more than he had won in a long time, and almost as much as he had lost that morning at the races.

George's smile faltered. Oh, blast. He had forgotten about that.

It was a crying shame, that was what it was. His horse, Scandal of Lancelot, should have won. Everyone said so. The breeding was impeccable, the feed had been damned expensive, and he'd even paid that jockey, what was his name, a small fortune.

The race should have been easy.

As it was, George had been forced to watch some other brute speed past to take the winnings. Scandal of Lancelot had arrived at a respectable third—respectable, but not profitable.

It simply wasn't fair, that was all there was to it. He'd have to hope Scandal of Lancelot won again in the future. Tomorrow, if at all possible. There was definitely supposed to be more money in his pocketbook than there was. All he had to do was make a winning bet.

"Ah, well," George said aloud, for the benefit of absolutely no one. "I'm winning now."

Which had come as a great surprise, to tell the truth. Oh, McBarland's was a place where one could technically win a great amount of money. The reason he didn't, George kept telling himself, was merely because of bad luck. And bad luck turned.

Perhaps it didn't in a place like this. After all, it was hardly reputable. The paint was peeling off the walls, wallpaper long gone. The few paintings that were still on the walls were only still present because they had been nailed on—a few of them, directly through the canvas. All that glittered here was brass, not gold, and that was with Ivan the barman ensuring he kept the worst of the rascals out of the place.

There were still plenty of blaggards.

Including me , George thought cheerfully as he stretched out and discovered a discomfortingly sticky patch of the carpet. What had once been carpet, and now appeared to be a very light dusting of fabric.

Though he probably couldn't count himself a true fellow of the rascals and ne'er-do-wells that populated McBarland's on a Monday night. He was, after all, an earl. Even if he didn't quite have the manner and bearing of one.

Or the pockets of one.

"Lindow!" came a cheerful voice.

George looked up and saw Walden. Well, he saw his lordship, Albert Halifax, Viscount Walden. But titles were not the sort of thing one bandied about in a place like McBarland's. Not if you wanted to live long enough to come back.

"Walden!" he cried, gesturing that the man should sit beside him. "I did not think you were in Bath."

"Nor I you," returned Walden. His lopsided grin drew attention to his rather prominent ears. "Last I heard, you were in London, marrying off your brothers."

George snorted. "Well, I had to give them something to do."

Two weddings this year—it was almost catching. That was why he had fled—er, had decided to remove himself from London, where this marriage fever seemed to be doing the rounds of the three Chance brothers, and abscond to Bath.

No one got married in Bath.

"You've had a successful night, then?"

George gave his friend a mock grimace. "You can tell?"

"You only have that irritating look on your face when you've had a particularly good run," said Walden dryly. "Poker?"

"Of course poker," said George, waving a hand. "I think I'll have another drink, you know. Now I can actually pay off my tab."

He shot a grin at his companion.

Walden had known him for, what… five years? Perhaps longer, it was hard to say. The man was polite enough, but incredibly, married since last autumn. It had put rather a dampener on their friendship, though George would never be the one to admit to as much.

Not aloud, anyway. Heaven forbid.

"You know," Walden said. "I think you've had enough."

George blinked. "Dear God, you haven't joined a temperance league, have you?"

It would certainly be most unlike his friend, though sometimes the absolute worst did happen to some of the best people…

Walden snorted. "Not likely. And I didn't mean drinks, either. I think you've had enough gambling, at least for this night."

George rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could manage. "You sound like Cothrom."

The oldest Chance brother had a most disobliging habit of wishing his brothers to set aside all worldly and earthly joys. It was something about which George had argued with the man most profusely, but George dared any man to try arguing with the Duke of Cothrom when he had the bit between his teeth and was absolutely certain he was right.

The fact that he was usually right was hardly the point. And it was most irritating of his brother to always pay off his debts, on time, without lectures.

Just looks of disappointment.

George shivered. Yes, he'd been smart to leave that rascal behind in London.

"Your brother is well?"

"My brother is dull," said George with a bark of a laugh. "He wouldn't countenance me playing another hand in all my days, but I never thought you were the sort to take the happiness from a man's life."

A roar rose from a neighboring table—a roar of triumph coupled with a roar of outrage. Then there was the sound of a chair hitting the floor and the pointy end of a knife hitting a table.

Walden shrugged, as though they were taking tea at the Pump Rooms. "You're on a lucky streak, to be sure—but you'll lose it."

George grinned. Something in him knew, just knew, he wasn't going to lose tonight. Not at cards, not in this argument, not in anything. It simply wasn't possible. Luck was on his side, and if there was one thing you could depend on, it was luck.

Sort of.

"I'm confident," he began.

"Famous last words."

"That horse was supposed to win and you know it," George said sharply, pointing a finger at his friend, who was now snorting. "No, it was most unfair. I don't know how they did it, but I was robbed."

"You've got to stop pouring money into those horses," Walden said sternly.

George waved a hand as the fight at the table beside them increased in intensity and noise. A man was pushed to the floor. "It's an investment. It's going to pay off in the hundreds, perhaps the thousands."

"That's as may be," said his friend seriously. "But if you aren't careful, you're going to find yourself…"

Precisely what he was going to find himself, George could not tell. Not because Walden had ceased speaking—quite the opposite. He continued blathering on, something about how no one could win all the time, cut your losses while you're ahead, the usual sort of rubbish.

George could not concentrate. How could he, when the world's most beautiful woman had just stepped into McBarland's?

Beautiful was not even an accurate word. Ethereal. Hair so dark, it was almost black, trimmed with a ribbon of yellow, all lace and delicacy. On another woman, it would have been a trifle, but on her, it appeared to be a coronet of gold.

She was perhaps a princess. No, that was foolish—but she certainly had the bearing of one. A proud mouth, George saw as she turned to look about the room. An elegant figure that was absolutely ruined by being covered by a silk, cream gown that didn't fit well, more's the pity. And a shyness, and a softness, in the eyes that made her the perfect target.

It had to have been a mistake. It just had to have been. Women—particularly not women like that—did not come to places like this.

Not if they wanted to be able to walk out.

Within a heartbeat, she was almost completely surrounded. George wasn't surprised. If he had been closer to the door, he would have leapt up and approached her himself. It would have been impossible not to. There was something… magnetic about her. Something he had never seen in another woman before.

"—obsession—"

He caught the word from Walden and scoffed at it. He wasn't obsessed with the woman he had just spotted. True, he wished to go over to her. Talk to her. Learn her name. Take her hand and—

An unsavory character reached out and attempted to take the woman's hand in his.

George did not even notice himself rise to his feet.

"And where the devil do you think you're going, just as I start to persuade you to stop gambling?" said Walden, his jaw agape. "What are you—my goodness. What is a woman like that doing here?"

It was an excellent question, and one George intended to answer.

Not merely because of her beauty. No, though that was a definite attraction, there was something else his focus had alighted on.

She was wearing a most extravagant sapphire necklace.

It twinkled in the mediocre candlelight of the gaming hell and told him all he needed to know. A woman who could risk walking into a place like this with a sapphire necklace that large and excessive? She had money to burn. Money, more importantly, to lose.

"Where are you going?"

George ignored Walden and stepped forward as she pulled away from the unsavory character, her chin dipping down and her shoulders curling forward. It would only take him a few moments to reach her, then introductions could be made, he'd invite her to the table…

And he'd see how deep that reticule on her wrist truly was.

When he reached her, the woman was attempting to extricate herself. "I do not need a tour of the place, I thank you. I just want to—"

"George Chance, at your service," said George smartly, pushing past two men and speaking over a third as he bowed.

When he raised his head, it was to see the woman flushing. Flushing—and smiling. Smiling at him.

A jolt in his stomach told George that he had been right to stand and approach her. Because he could win coin from her, obviously. There could be no other reason.

"Miss Loughty," she said shyly, dropping into a curtsey.

"But—" began one of the two remaining men circling her like piranhas.

George nudged him firmly out of the way. One lanky man almost tripped over the other, leaving just himself and Miss Loughty. The beautiful Miss Loughty. The beautiful and rich Miss Loughty.

"May I escort you to a table?" he asked smoothly, laying on the Chance charm as thick as he could manage. "Perhaps order you a drink, a glass of sherry, something of that nature?"

For a moment, he thought there was a flicker of mirth in her eyes. It was only there momentarily, and if questioned, George was not sure he could swear to the fact it had been there in the first place.

As he blinked, he saw only a delicate pink flush traveling across Miss Loughty's cheeks and down to her—

He swallowed. Damnit, man, you're here to win money, not stare at breasts!

Even if they were a fine pair of—

"I actually hoped to play cards," said Miss Loughty timidly, her pupils dilated as she eyed both the gambling tables and the exit. "I… I don't suppose you play?"

George was enchanted.

It was hardly difficult. Her voice was sweet, melodious, almost musical. And she wished to play cards. Playing cards meant losing money. Her money, preferably.

He could not have orchestrated this better himself.

Besides, it would not hurt her to be taught a little lesson about the recklessness of entering a place like McBarland's without a proper chaperone. Or at all. Surely, the woman knew just how dangerous it was to be cavorting about a place like this, particularly without a gentleman by her side?

Not that Miss Loughty could be reasonably accused of cavorting. Not yet.

George offered his arm. "Please, Miss Loughty. Allow me to teach you."

She took his arm without another word, and the gentle presence of her hand made George's first step somewhat more of a stumble. He soon recovered himself, however, and by the time he had helped her to the seat formerly occupied by Walden, who had disappeared from his table, he was entirely in control of himself again.

As Miss Loughty sat, he was, however, offered a rather splendid view of her bosom. It was straining against her stays, and a slight twist of her shoulders revealed a hint of dark pink nipple.

It was gone the instant he saw it. Thank God. George wasn't sure if he'd have been able to contain himself after a second glance.

"You said you would teach me?" Miss Loughty repeated as George hastily helped himself to a seat and crossed his legs. For no reason. "Do I look like a woman who needs to be taught?"

The delicate flush on her cheeks became a darker one, but she did not drop her gaze.

Swallowing his groan and grateful beyond measure that he had taken the precaution of crossing his legs the instant he had sat, George forced himself to take a few calming breaths before attempting to speak.

Dear God, did the woman truly have no idea how she was coming across?

It wasn't possible. Yet she was clearly well bred. As the Chance family was more generous with its titles than many of their peers, third-son George had been an earl from birth. He had mixed in the best circles, been introduced to the most refined ladies, and knew one of breeding when he saw one.

It was something about the eyes. Though she was attempting to look calm and collected, there was a nervousness about her she could not hide.

And yet… yet there was a boldness there, too. She had said something that could have been construed as shameful, and yet she had not backed down.

This was a woman, George decided, who perhaps visited gaming hells like this far more regularly than her mama and papa realized. That suggested that she was not adverse to a little romp between the sheets, either. Perhaps that was the reason behind her inexplicable lack of a husband.

Well, he would make it a hattrick. He would charm her, win all her money, then bed her. Everyone would be satisfied.

"Poker," George said aloud. Yes, that was it. Poker. He had to concentrate on the game before them.

Which was poker. Wasn't it?

Miss Loughty watched him start to deal the cards. "That's a card game, isn't it?"

George forced down a smile. Really, this is too easy . "It is indeed, Miss Loughty. I presume you have never played?"

"Playing poker is not the sort of thing that… that polite young ladies do," she said softly, her eyes wide.

And she thought she was being so rebellious , George thought, stifling a laugh. Dear God, the lengths these ladies would do to catch the attention of a gentleman. Well, she'd done it—come here, and caught his eye. All she would have to do was suffer through a few games, hand over her money—the jewels too, if he was lucky—then he could take her to a quiet corner and—

"Mr. Chance?"

George looked down. His shuffling hands had dropped most of the cards, even though his fingers had continued to move.

Mr. Chance. Of course, he hadn't been so foolish as to announce his title in a place like this. Mr. Chance—how odd.

"Right," he said hastily, gathering them up and preparing the table for a game of poker. "It's quite simple, Miss Loughty. The best hand wins. Ace is higher than a king, yes, even though it is sometimes a one. Three of a kind is better than a pair, four of a kind better than that—I'm not going too fast for you, am I?"

It had been half a tease, half a serious question. But as Miss Loughty met his eyes, a smile slipped across her lips. Her perfect lips. "You aren't going too fast for me, sir."

A twisting lurch in his stomach—fine, not his stomach, lower than that—made George almost drop the deck again.

Dear God, he would have to focus.

It took another minute to explain the rest of the rules, then George dealt out the cards. Well, now to see how much the woman was prepared to lose. Wager, that was.

"I've had a pretty good evening so far myself," he said smugly, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "Three whole guineas."

Miss Loughty lifted a hand to her breast. "La, sir!"

George blinked. Dear God, do women really say, "la"?

But he was instantly distracted by a delicate hand reaching into her reticule and taking out—just a shilling?

"I suppose this is too low to start off the game," Miss Loughty said shyly. "But you understand, it would be foolish of a novice to risk too much, right at the beginning of a game."

"Of course. Of course," George said magnanimously.

After all, what did it matter how low they started? He would soon win all the coin off her in that little reticule of hers.

He had not accounted for beginner's luck.

"Oh, my," said Miss Loughty, her cheeks pink. "I suppose my little king here beats your queen, is that right?"

George's expression was as relaxed as he could make it, though it galled him to push the four shillings across the table toward his beautiful opponent. "Yes. Yes, it is. Well done."

"Beginner's luck, I suppose," Miss Loughty said with a shrug that almost appeared apologetic. "I am grateful for winning, at least once."

That thought perked George up. Yes, it was only right that she won once. Once was fine. Once was enough to give her courage to play again. Perhaps bet more this time, when he would surely—

"Look at that, three jacks and an ace high," said Miss Loughty, almost apologetically. "Goodness, the cards just seem to know what I need, don't they?"

George's smile was, he hoped, not as thin as it felt. "They certainly do."

It was after the third hand that Miss Loughty won that he really started to get suspicious. Yes, there was something like beginner's luck. He did not attempt to understand how it happened, but more often than not, the least experienced at a card table was usually able to take a few coins off the regulars at the start.

At the start, mind. It wasn't supposed to continue on for another two hands. Three hands. Four—now it was starting to get ridiculous.

Two of the three guineas he had won earlier that evening had gone from his pocket into that damned reticule, and they hadn't even been playing an hour. How was that possible?

George glanced up at the calm and refined Miss Loughty. Her breaths even, her voice firm with every announcement of her wins, she appeared to be utterly unconcerned—though admittedly, if he had just won another two guineas, he would have been remarkably unconcerned, too.

Still…

"Another hand?" Miss Loughty said lightly, picking up the deck.

She started shuffling the cards. Then a mite faster. Then so fast, the deck was a blur in her hands.

She met George's eye and grinned.

George glared. "You've been having me on."

"You were the one who offered to teach me how to play cards," Miss Loughty reminded him, placing the cards on the table with a flourish. "At no point did I ask for your help."

"But—But you've played before!"

"So have you," she said evenly, ignoring George's growing outrage. "You did not think there was any problem with an imbalance of experience… when you believed it to tilt in your favor."

George could hardly speak, he was so incensed. He'd been had—and worst of all, he'd been had when he had been most certain that he had been the one doing the having. Or whatever.

This woman —and his blood boiled even to think about it— this woman has put me down as a mark. She'd used him. Her feminine wiles, and her beauty, and the way that gown barely covered anything of import—she'd used them to win almost all his money off him.

The money he'd won to balance out his loss earlier at the racetrack.

God damn—

"And now I think I'll take my leave," said Miss Loughty calmly, rising to her feet.

George mirrored her, hardly knowing why. "You can't leave now!"

"Why not?" she asked primly, tucking the last of her winnings into her reticule.

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then spluttered, "B-But my money!"

"I think you will find that it is my money now," Miss Loughty pointed out in a quiet voice, though not entirely meeting his eye. "I think that is why they call it gambling, sir. Good evening."

So stricken with shock was he that George could do nothing but watch her go. The elegant woman carefully wove her way through the crowd in McBarland's, ignoring them all, and slipped out of the door before anyone else could accost her.

Which is to their betterment , George thought darkly. By God, she totally had me!

Well, he may have been stunned now, but he would rally, he told himself decidedly. He would find her again. Bath was not that large—and next time, he would be certain to ensure that Miss Loughty was the one to lose.