Chapter Eight

H arry bit his cigar hard. "Are you even listening to me? I'm not granting you all this free knowledge for my health!"

Ruthie jumped next to him, and Harry darted at just the right second to stop her elbow from banging into his bad side. Crisis narrowly averted.

"I am. I am," she rushed out, running her fingers along her forehead. "It's just…"

Sweat .

Harry abhorred it on everyone. It quite literally turned his stomach, which was why he so rarely could be found on the main floor of the club in the final hours of the night. By that time, men were usually broken, and their sweat-soaked collars stunk worse than a packed ferry crossing a choppy channel during a storm.

Though as much as Harry couldn't abide the grease that leached out of men's pores, sweat was a practical ally. During his gambling days, it used to tell him so many things. Even if the men he'd played cards with did a halfway decent job of controlling the emotions on their faces, most couldn't curtail the nervous sweat that seeped through their jackets and clothes, crowding their upper lids and hairlines, mocking their austere acting. It made for easy pickings. Harry almost missed it. Almost .

But why was Ruthie sweating? And why wasn't he shuddering away from the sheen above her plump pink lip? It wasn't like the woman had anything to be nervous about. She was with him. No one would dare take advantage of her while she swanned in the sun of his company. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut and listen to his pearls of wisdom. Harry could never understand why people always had such a difficult time doing that.

"Do you need to get some air?" he asked.

She shook her head, her brow furrowing. "No. No, thank you. I don't mean to be ungrateful. I'm just nervous. You're giving me so much information. It's difficult to take in all at one time. I had no idea this game was so complicated."

Harry's expression must have been more incredulous than he'd thought, because Ruthie squirmed a step away from him. But it couldn't be helped. Vingt-en-un? Complicated? It being so not complicated was the reason why he'd chosen to start there in the first place. Vingt-en-un was a counting game, pure and simple. All one needed to do was concentrate.

"Let's go over it again," Harry said, secretly proud that he sounded so magnanimous. "You have to keep your eyes on the cards—all of them, not just the ones dealt to you. Only fools play that way."

"Yes, yes, I understand that," Ruthie said, her voice taking on an edge Harry didn't understand. Why was she irritated with him? Didn't she see how kind and patient he was being? "It's the counting that I can't grasp."

"Clearly," he said, lightening his tone at her glower. "It's simply a matter of probability of high and low cards. If more high and valuable cards are on the table, then it's more likely that low cards will be dealt soon, and vice versa. Now, remember, the dealer is only playing with one deck, and he won't reshuffle the entire deck after every game. So if you're counting the cards properly, accurately, you should have a greater chance of winning as the games go on. It's obvious."

When Ruthie's lips twisted, Harry almost admitted defeat. Was she a bad student or was he a terrible teacher? Harry knew what his answer would be, but his answers so rarely coincided with other people's. "Here, look there," he ordered her. He grabbed Ruthie's upper arm and dragged her closer. Her citrusy perfume tickled his nostrils. Holly should have noticed the smell and wiped it clean. Gentlemen did not dab rosemary concoctions onto their necks. Still…the light smell didn't stop him from plastering her even more against his good side. On second thought, it wasn't that offensive, even when it mixed with her sweat. Actually, the marriage was quite…alluring.

"What am I looking at?" Ruthie whispered. Her words tickled his ear. So much tickling was happening! And for a man that hated to be touched by any and all, tickling was decidedly beyond the pale.

"Um…" Harry blinked past his cigar smoke. He twirled the cigar around in his mouth five times until his brain finally remembered its duty. His voice was oddly high-pitched when he continued. "Lord Harley." He cleared his throat. "Right in front of us. You can see his cards, yes?"

Ruthie nodded.

"He's holding a king and five, and he's asking for another card. He's asking for a blasted hit. The stupid man has even bet more money when he has no chance of winning."

"Don't you mean he has little chance of winning?"

Harry scowled. "I mean no such thing. He has no chance. He's going to get a ten, just watch."

Sure enough, the dealer dealt Lord Harley a card, and it was exactly as Harry said.

Ruthie gasped. Slowly, she tilted her head up to him. Her blue eyes reminded him of the little five-petaled flowers that grew outside his grandparents' cottage in Ireland. The memory was thin, and yet it stayed with him all these years later. He'd only visited the elderly couple once and been forced to wait outside while his mother pleaded with them for money. Luckily, he hadn't had to wait long. It had been raining. And cold. But the flowers had comforted him. He'd picked enough of them to make a necklace for her, but she'd brushed it from his hands the moment she emerged, tear-stained and despondent. Most of Harry's memories were shit.

"Are you…touched?" Ruthie asked, licking her bottom lip, making it wet and glossy. Christ, as if sweat wasn't enough, now Harry had to witness saliva? But, once more, he didn't shrink in disgust.

"Touched?" he repeated, staring at that ripe cherry of a lip, wondering what it would taste like if he nibbled on it.

"You know…by God."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Harry sneered, now having no problem jerking away from the silly woman. "Do you actually believe that rot?"

"Not usually," Ruthie said, frowning, doing her part to create even more room between them. "But how else do you explain it? That couldn't have been a lucky guess. How could you possibly know the ten of hearts was going to land in front of Lord Harley?"

Her expression was doing everything her sweat and her saliva couldn't. It was forcing him away. Because she was finally looking at him the way so many others did when he tried to explain the silly game. And the worst part was that he couldn't blame her. Harry had never met another person like himself. He'd met his fair share of lucky men and more than his fair share of crazy ones; however, Harry wasn't either of those things—despite what his mother and her church believed. It wasn't luck that had helped him win so easily all those years. It was something more. For better or worse, Harry was something more. And being himself was usually worse when it came to being with women or trusting friends—but never when it came to making money. When money was on the line, Harry was always grateful to be Harry.

"I didn't mean to make you upset," Ruthie said.

"Don't," Harry rasped when she tried to put her hand on his arm.

She yanked her arm back as if he were a cobra primed to strike. Harry rubbed a hand over his face. This was why he should have gone with his instinct and not invited her to the hall tonight. He simply couldn't control himself when she was around. He reverted to the child that couldn't help himself. The child that his mother couldn't understand and wouldn't love.

"Please don't be angry with me," Ruthie said. She was batting her lashes uncontrollably and looked on the verge of tears.

Christ, Harry, get control of the situation.

"You didn't upset me," he lied, softening his tone. He could feel half the eyes of the room on him. Everyone was always sneaking looks at him. He pulled the mask back over his face, exhibiting his customary bored, unbothered expression. "I just don't like to be touched." Was he apologizing? "And I was embarrassed."

Ruthie blanched. "Embarrassed? You have an incredible skill, the kind of skill that people would die to have. Why would you be embarrassed over it?"

"Not that," he replied gruffly. He tugged the handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped his hands. He would have done it all night—wiping again and again—if he hadn't willed himself to shove it back in the pocket. "By the way you looked at me."

"How did I look at you?"

"Like I was an abomination from hell," he remarked flippantly.

"And I thought you said you knew me." Ruthie laughed. "Do you want to really know what I was thinking?"

Harry nodded. When her eyes sparkled like that, he was pretty sure he'd lost the capacity to speak.

She arched an eyebrow impishly. "I was thinking I've never been lucky in my life…until I met you."

*

Two hours later, Harry was convinced of two important things: one, that Miss Ruthie Waitrose would never make a proper gambler, and two, that he was hopelessly in love with the woman. Fortunately, Harry was confident enough in his own abilities that he could change the first. Unfortunately, he was familiar enough with himself that he had no chance in hell to change the second. Once his mind latched on to something, it would take no less than ten Hercules to wrestle it from him.

But wasn't this a matter of the heart and not the mind? Surely that was a fickle, malleable beast, Harry thought as he sat next to Ruthie at the vingt-en-un table, watching as she asked for yet another hit that sent her over the eponymous number. This sudden, earth-shattering realization made him want to crawl under the table and hide. Only he wouldn't dare do that, because he might choose to peel off those ridiculously tight trousers she wore, and he had no bloody clue what he would do then—something not like himself, Harry was sure of that.

"Why do I keep losing?" Ruthie whined, tossing her cards down on the table. Harry hid a smile as a chorus of noncommittal grunts from the other players answered her. He continued to be amazed. How could they not know she was a woman? It was so strikingly obvious to him. The dullards weren't completely thick in the head; they'd picked up on her numerous tells, which was why they were beating her so soundly. Harry had tried to help her past them, but every time he'd pointed one out, it just made her angry. Then, as she attempted to bury one tell, another crept up to take its place. She went from bobbing her leg back and forth under the table to hiding her smile with her cards to licking her lips (Harry's personal favorite) to tugging on her right earlobe. The woman had absolutely no chance.

And neither did Harry.

Still, Ruthie wasn't completely hopeless. The girl merely lacked confidence. It was initially evident in her body language. She had a bizarre habit of shrinking when the attention was on her. Her shoulders would round forward; her neck would hang limp; her arms would draw close together, as if she were a note folding itself to be sent away. She made herself small, and it hurt Harry's heart to watch every time she did it. Nevertheless, that action didn't necessarily affect her card playing. Her indecisiveness did that in spades. Ruthie couldn't make a decision without immediately regretting it. Harry considered it his job to remember everything, and even he forgot how many times she'd told the dealer to hit her with a card before immediately apologizing and asking him not to.

What made the action more infuriating was that Harry knew she'd understood his little lesson. Before he'd allowed her to play with her own money, he'd tested her on his counting method, acting like a dog with a bone until her answers pleased him. Her mind wasn't the problem, and nor was her body.

Ruthie simply didn't have the audacity to believe in herself.

Harry hovered over her shoulder. "I think that should be all for the night," he said, sotto voce.

Ruthie eyed the coins left in her hands. She would come away with a few pounds, despite her limited gambling abilities. Leaving with more than one came with was always a decent night, in Harry's mind.

"Are you sure?" she drawled, raising her lovely brows in question. "It can't be that late."

The Lucky Fish lived in perpetual darkness. Heavy curtains covered all the windows and the lanterns on the wall were kept to a dim light, yet Harry sensed the sun ready to break over the city. His body could sense its rise. And the sweat permeating the room was starting to become unbearable. "You mean early," he said. "And yes, it is. You need to get home."

"Oh, let the lad play on," Jeremy Baker cried from across the table. By Harry's estimation, the moderately wealthy textile manufacturer was not having a decent night. He'd started with close to ten thousand and would probably only leave with a quarter of that—if he stopped now. And from the desperate look in Baker's eye, Harry was certain he wouldn't.

"Ya!" chimed in Simon Tolworthy, a prominent banker in the city with whom Harry was always glad he did not invest his money. "Let the boy play if he wants. Ah, excuse me, Mr. Waitrose. I meant no offense. I meant man, not boy."

"No offense taken," Ruthie replied easily.

"Waitrose?" Baker repeated, sliding his hand against his shiny chin. Sweat . Harry shuddered. So much sweat. Strike the previous guess. The man wasn't leaving with an eighth of his money. "Is that your cousin?" he asked, pointing over her shoulder.

Ruthie and Harry twirled around in their chairs at the same time, and he felt her entire being tighten in surprise.

"Uh, no," she replied stiffly, turning back to the group. "No, I've never met him before in my life. Must be a coincidence. Surely you're not related to all the Bakers in the kingdom?"

Fuck . Harry had allowed himself to get distracted. Usually, he knew every single person in his hall. How could he not have noticed that Ruthie's fucking degenerate brother had weaseled his way inside? Especially since said weasel was impossibly drunk and getting into a heated exchange with one of his insipid wastrel friends.

As customary, the louder their argument became, the quieter the room, so all could hear it better.

"I am not being ridiculous!" Lord Mason shouted with laughter. "Come now, Mike. We've bet on sillier things. Besides, you're the one who said it could be done. I'm just asking you to prove it!"

Mason's accomplice, Lord Michael, laughed awkwardly, squinting across the room.

"Anybody can knock the candle out of that sconce!" he replied. "I just don't want to take your money. I'm tired of taking it, friend. It's too bloody easy!"

Mason Waitrose's face went red, though he managed a guffaw to counter the sting. "You're just a coward, Mike. I may lose from time to time, but at least I'm a man who takes risks."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ruthie's jaw harden as she played with her coins on the table, picking them up and letting them trickle back down. She tsked loudly. "Ridiculous," she hissed a little too loudly, shaking her head. "Such a child."

Mason's glassy eyes fell on Ruthie's back. The room went silent, the air humid with expectation. "Excuse me, sir. Were you speaking of me?"

Harry's chair skidded sharply on the wood floor as he stood. "I'm surprised to see you here, Lord Mason. Last time I checked, you still held no membership here."

Mason hit Michael in the chest. "I came with Mike. I'm sure you know his father, the Earl of Waverly. Spector was at the door—he said it was all right."

Harry's eyes narrowed. His lips barely moved as he spoke. "It seems I will have to speak to Spector and Lord Michael."

"You do that, Holmes," Mason said, chuckling. "In the meantime, I would like to speak to that friend of yours, the one with the big mouth."

"I don't think that's a good idea—"

Ruthie swiftly came to her feet and went toward her brother. "Go ahead, sir. I am all ears."

Mason stumbled a step before catching himself. Christ . Harry eyed him closely. Did he recognize his sister? The disguise was decent enough, but surely a brother could see through it.

But Harry had misjudged Mason Waitrose. Or he'd misjudged how sotted the man was, because even though he blinked wildly, he showed no signs of recognizing Ruthie. His own bruised ego was the only thing he noticed.

"New to town, sir? I don't think that we've met, Mr.…?" Mason sneered. He latched on to the top of the seat next to him, holding himself upright.

"Charles."

"Charles? Charles what?"

Ruthie hesitated, swallowing slowly. Harry hoped to God that no one else noticed the lack of Adam's apple in the act.

Her smile was withering. "You can just call me Charles."

Mason snorted. "Well, Charles with no last name from who knows where, I am not ridiculous. I am attempting to place a wager in a gambling hall. What could possibly be childish about that?"

"I meant no offense," Ruthie replied evenly, starting to sit back in her seat, but Mason's words stopped her.

"But you have," her brother cried dramatically. "You have offended me! So now you must right this wrong and be Mike's champion."

"His what?" Ruthie squawked, losing the gruffness in her voice. It didn't matter. The room was too fixated on Mason's drunken theatrics to care.

The man smiled, and Harry had to hold himself back from punching him in the face. The baron's son was quintessentially handsome, with his thick, light brown hair and arresting, soulful eyes. His body was broad and athletic, clearly from years in the saddle. Indulged and catered to, and ultimately lazy, Mason was everything Harry despised about the aristocracy. How could he and Ruthie have come from the same parents?

Mason pointed to the far wall. "Mike said that any man here could knock the candle from that sconce, and I said they are all much too tired, drunk, or dead. So"—he showed his teeth—"prove me wrong."

Ruthie shook her head. "I don't think I'm the man for you—"

Mason addressed the crowded room. "One hundred pounds on Mr.—uh—Charles missing. Who wants to take the bet?"

"One hundred pounds!" Ruthie gaped. "You don't have one hundred pounds!"

Mason rounded on her, his eyes like fire. "Of course I do!" he spat. "Who are you to tell me what I have and don't have? Are you one of the freaks at the circus, Charles? Can you see inside my pockets?"

The room erupted into laughter while Mason called out for someone to find him a ball. Harry flexed his hands into fists as Ruthie sank into herself. Her spine was like a tall building with floors falling into each other one by one. Furtively, he skimmed her elbow. "You don't have to do this," he whispered. "He won't even remember in the morning."

Ruthie refused to look at him. Her jaw was clenched in anger. "He doesn't have one hundred pounds," she spat. Harry watched a transformation take place. Gone was the scared little girl. Ruthie filled out her suit jacket, pulling her shoulders back and her chin up. "I'm tired of Mason always thinking he's right, always getting what he wants."

Harry tried to touch her elbow again—talk some sense into the woman—but she was already gone.

"Fine, Lord Mason," she announced, striding to her brother's side. "But I have to warn you. I'm a champion cricket player. You might want to think twice about betting against me."

Mason let out a loud laugh. "I try never to think twice about anything." A tall, red-faced man ran to Mason's side, handing him a shiny billiards ball. Mason tossed it in his hand before handing it over to Ruthie.

Harry tried to read her expression, wondering if she'd ever played billiards before. The balls were heavy. Would she even have the strength to get it across the room?

If Ruthie was nervous, she didn't let on. She lined up where Mason and Lord Michael insisted, a good ten feet from her target. The brass sconce was a decent size and to the right of the door leading out into the corridor. Everyone sitting at the tables in her path quickly moved, getting out of harm's way.

Ruthie scowled at the blatant cowardice. "Oh, ye of little faith," she said, rolling the ball around in her hand. Again and again, she massaged her palm with the ivory orb while she settled her aim on the sconce. Every conversation and breath felt suspended as the crowd waited for her move.

"Nervous?" Mason mocked her, standing at Ruthie's left side. Harry would have shoved the bastard out of the way, but she ignored his shameless interference.

"Not at all," she replied blithely. "Are you nervous that your pockets are light?"

Ruthie's eye came off the target and fixed on her brother. When he didn't respond to her jab, they stared at one another for a long few seconds. A sigh of impatience from an onlooker yanked her attention back to the sconce.

But something had changed. Harry was sure of it. Ruthie's demeanor was different; her focus had wavered, her anger abated. This time when she sized up the sconce, she didn't have murder and revenge in her eyes, only regret.

When she pulled her arm back and launched the ball forward, Harry didn't bother staring at the candle. He knew she missed the moment the ball left her hand.

Just as she'd planned to.