Chapter 5

Tessa emerged from the King's Head to make her way to Epsom's betting post, the morning yet a soft gray with the final vestiges of night.

The clock hadn't yet struck six, so she should've been one of the rare few prowling about. But this was Derby Day, and Epsom was already abuzz.

Still abuzz, to put it to the nail.

Yesterday, along with about half of London clogging the roads, she'd made the hours-long journey in a cramped coach with two burly men and three ladies who likely wouldn't have been described as ladies in the strictest sense—or the loosest, either. Though she could have hired a private carriage, she'd wanted to be in the company of Derby spectators to gain a feel for the mood of the coming day—and to see where their bets were being placed. A horse named Little Wicked had been the overwhelming favorite.

By the time she'd arrived, all she'd hoped for was a restful night's sleep, so her mind would be sharp for Derby Day in all its various insanities.

A hope that, alas, wouldn't come to fruition.

Though she'd arrived late, the carousing had only gotten started. To make matters worse, when she'd passed through the taproom to make her way up the stairs to her room, she'd been recognized by more than a few of The Archangel's patrons. Some had even tried to pull her into their games—and several drunken winky smiles had flown her way, as if to entice her into their beds.

She'd firmly declined all advances. It never did a woman a bit of good to be too polite to a man. A woman's politeness only ever gave a man the wrong idea.

Of course, some men didn't need a woman to be polite to get a wrong idea in their heads.

Ormonde.

He, for example, had gotten exactly the wrong idea—despite her impoliteness.

Days later, the question kept circling her mind. What in the blazes had happened in her kitchen?

He'd knocked on her door.

She'd invited him in.

He'd sat his imposing self at her kitchen table.

She'd made him tea.

He'd insisted on a wager that his horse would win the Derby.

She'd refused, again and again.

Then…

It all went fuzzy from there.

Tricked.

That was how she felt.

Somehow, she'd been tricked into the wager.

Even so, she could all but start counting her twenty thousand pounds. She felt almost certain of it—almost.

Oh, a sticky, little word, that one—almost.

Ormonde's horse hadn't lost yet.

And until he did, the chance remained that she would have to spend a night in the marquess's bed.

And yet…had there been a flicker of something in his eyes when they'd shaken on the wager?

Surprise.

Had he surprised himself as much as he'd surprised her?

Or…perhaps the man was a rogue in marquess's clothing.

Late-night, drunken carousing wasn't the only reason for her lack of sleep last night.

Today, she needed Ormonde's blasted horse to lose.

Perhaps she should've slipped a blackleg a few quid to ensure Filthy Habit couldn't run.

Except she couldn't take such action for two very sound, if annoyingly inconvenient, reasons.

First, she couldn't have a horse harmed.

Second, she couldn't win a bet in such a dastardly way.

Neither was in her nature.

She would have to accept the consequences of what she'd set in motion.

And what might those consequences be?

A night with the marquess.

That was known.

But what would occur during such a night?

And why did the very thought send light and variable flutters of sensation racing through her? Flutters that tended to pool in her stomach and…lower.

She gave her head a clearing shake and continued her odd journey to the betting post, unable to walk in a straight line for the foxed carousers yet staggering about. She lifted her skirts high enough to step over one passed-out lordling to avoid tripping over him.

Though the night hadn't entirely loosened its grip on the sky, much industry hustled and bustled about in the efficient forms of those who made the day possible—stable lads and grooms rushing to and fro; trainers walking the Thoroughbreds; jockeys discussing race plans with owners.

Tessa tugged her wide-brimmed straw hat low and located a spot twenty or so yards from the betting post, a place where she could observe and avoid the same treatment from others.

Those whose business centered around the betting post were already getting on with the day. The blacklegs setting the touters out to establish up-to-the-minute information on the Thoroughbreds. The touters prowling the grounds, sly and quick, picking up every morsel of tattle to report back to the blacklegs, who then lengthened or shortened the odds. And, of course, there was the thickening crowd of bettors, waving their coin about, determined to get the best odds on their favored horse. Though reeking of desperation from the outside, the routine held a fluid order.

All the while, Tessa watched, the only still figure as controlled chaos whirled about her.

It wasn't long, however, before she noticed it—a sensation on the side of her face…The sensation of eyes upon her.

She wasn't the only one doing a bit of watching.

Shewas being watched.

Unable to ignore the feeling, she canted her head subtly to the side and met the unflinching gaze of a man.

A man she didn't know.

A young man—around her age in his middle twenties, to be fair—his long, rangy form dressed as finely as any gentleman at the Downs for Derby Day.

The word dashing might cross the mind of more than one young lady.

Yet he obviously was not a gentleman.

The garish gold and blue of his waistcoat…The jaunty angle of his hat…The diamond stud in his left ear…The boldness of his stare, for he didn't flinch or blush or smile when she caught him out.

Instead, he winged his eyebrows at a saucy angle and continued to hold her gaze, bold as brass.

The man's identity struck her with the force of a whirlwind.

Blaze Jagger.

He could be none other.

A young lion—rangy…intense…fearless—that was this man with his intent gaze that could easily bend others to his will.

And when he began walking toward her, Tessa understood she had no choice but to meet him.

More than that, she had no choice but to hold her ground. For if she fled, the chase would be on and that would be her and Gabriel's goose cooked. No. She needed to meet Jagger and gain a sense of the man. Only then could she devise a plan for how to deal with him. He wouldn't be easy to best—that truth was plain in the glint of gray eyes fringed by black lashes—but then, neither was she.

A smile formed about his mouth. In the general sense, smiles conveyed joy or delight.

Jagger's didn't.

Feral, that was the word for his smile. The sort of smile a cat gave a mouse as he held the creature trapped beneath his paw—in the moment before his teeth sank into tender flesh.

Tessa could see how such a smile could and would inflict a dual sense of dread and fear in its intended recipient.

Neither struck through her.

To her mind, the man was simply a complex equation that required time, determination, and patience.

Eventually, she would arrive at the solution.

"Imagine this," he said in an accent that spoke of East End origins. "A duke's sister at the Derby Day betting post." His predatory smile didn't slip.

So, this was his first angle of attack. A small skirmish to set her on the back foot and gain a feel for her balance.

"I can't be the first," she said without an ounce of heat. "And I certainly won't be the last."

His smile transformed the slightest increment, shifting from the feral into the assessing. "You're not the usual sort of nob, now are you?"

Another attempt to ruffle her feathers. Blaze Jagger was a man accustomed to getting a reaction from people.

Well, if he wished to get a rise out of her, he would have to do better than that.

She shrugged. "I wasn't a nob at all until a few weeks ago."

He gave a broad glance around them. "This your first time at a betting post?"

"Aye." She saw no reason to lie.

"You have a favorite pony?"

An image of Ormonde's Filthy Habit trotted across her mind…"No," she said with more force than necessary.

"Ah, now," he said, the hard glint in his eyes sharpening into a straightedge. "You have to be in the game to win it."

He'd come directly to the point: The Race of the Century…

He wasn't being let in.

Tessa met candor with candor. "The Race of the Century is a single, one-off race. You could leave it be."

"Ah," he tutted with an apologetic shake of the head, "but there you're wrong, pet. If the race was up in Yorkshire, aye, I might concede the post to you. But this is Epsom. It's my home turf, ye ken?"

Tessa suppressed an annoyed sigh. "Aye."

He jutted his chin toward the building beside them. A rather rickety-looking structure, in truth, that proclaimed itself The Royal Reform Club. Tessa could only assume the name ironic. "You a member?" he asked.

Tessa shook her head. "You are?"

He released a bitter snort. "Turns out, if you have enough blunt they'll let you in just about anywhere."

By they, he meant the haut ton, of course.

That, too, had been her experience with society…

Until she'd been informed she was one of them.

And as much as she tried to resist the fact that it had changed her life, she understood it was irrevocably true.

But that didn't mean she felt like a lady—and it certainly wouldn't do to approach Jagger like she was one, either.

Still, he would have to be dealt with.

That was what the set of his mouth told her.

"Lead the way," she said.

He didn't really want to show her the delights of the Royal Reform Club—not as a gracious host, anyway—but rather wanted to throw his weight around. To have a capital "L" lady in his company only amplified his presence and lent him a bit of panache.

But more than any of that, he wanted to speak with her further.

Which happened to suit her purposes.

Like the rest of Epsom Downs, there wasn't much reforming happening in The Royal Reform Club, with its gaming tables of all varieties strewn about, populated by groupings of lords raucously throwing dice or slamming useless hands of cards onto tables…ladies looking either artfully delighted or artfully bored…more than a few members of the demimonde doing the same. Like Jagger said, anyone with enough blunt to secure admittance to its tawdry, sweat-and-whiskey-soaked environs was welcome.

Though unable to hear a single word spoken over the cacophonous din, Tessa nodded when Jagger tossed a question her way. She immediately regretted her acquiescence when he led her to an especially rowdy Hazard table.

Of course, all Hazard tables were rowdy.

Rowdywas the very nature of the game.

"I don't gamble," she shouted.

"Sure you do," he shouted back, shouldering open a space at the table wide enough for the both of them.

Now that they were closer, he said, "That's what you do every day when you step outside your front door—gamble. It's your choice how you play. Small and safe—or big and bold." He eyed her up and down, not lascivious, but assessing. "And you, Lady Tessa, are not the small and safe sort."

"You do like your word play, don't you?"

Jagger snorted and turned to watch the dice. Somehow, Tessa found a cup of arrack in her hand. She took a testing sip and frowned. Too sweet for her taste. How she longed for a proper cup of tea.

She took in Jagger's profile as he exchanged greetings and light jibes. Most of the men arrayed around the table knew him—lord and codger, alike. Though they stood at a Hazard table, Tessa saw the game Jagger was playing. He was showing her who she was up against.

Except it made no difference to her who came out of their dealings on top. She only wanted him to leave her and, more importantly, her family be.

The time had arrived for them to get to it…"The Race of the Century will have no bearing on your business interests."

Jagger tore his gaze away from the action to cut her a sharp glance. "Do I need to be speaking with the duke?"

"I'm the one you deal with." The words emerged hard and implacable, leaving no doubt. "The Race of the Century is for nobs, you know that."

That angle might work.

Jagger shook his head. "If only that were true." He rested his forearms on the table. "All those flyers and booths set up across London selling tickets, they put the lie to what you're telling me."

Tessa didn't like feeling caught out, but she couldn't deny the truth of his words.

"That's not about your sort, now is it?" he pressed. "It's about my sort. My turf. And you think you can cut me out?"

He had a point. Still…"It's not our intention?—"

He cut her off with an impatient wave. "Intentions mean naught to me. Intentions put into actions have consequences. Some toff said as much."

Tessa felt her brow crease. "Sir Isaac Newton?"

"That's the one."

The crinkle in her brow deepened. "Sir Isaac Newton was talking about apples."

Jagger shrugged. "The sentiment applies here."

Ah…"Every action has an equal and opposite reaction."

"That's the one."

A bad feeling stirred in Tessa's gut.

She saw her mistake. Though she'd known Blaze Jagger to be a dangerous adversary, she'd been underestimating him. He wasn't a feral animal. He was an intelligent man, even if he was a criminal, and a foe different from the one she'd assumed him to be—a more dangerous foe. He was a London ruffian, but not simply a London ruffian.

An important distinction.

Oh, what had Gabriel started?

And what did she have to finish?

For of that she had little doubt: She would have to finish this. Gabriel had become so caught up in the numbers and the business side—not to mention his recent inheritance of a dukedom—he hadn't comprehensively accounted for the human side.

He hadn't comprehensively accounted for Blaze Jagger.

The dice cup found its way into Jagger's hand. When he rolled and didn't throw out on the first toss, Tessa released the breath she'd been unwittingly holding, grateful for breathing room so she could think.

Movement caught the edge of her eye.

It shouldn't have. Dozens of bodies milled about The Royal Reform Club in various states of inebriation, casting greetings this way and that, using any excuse to toast one another and find the bottom of their cups. One more such body shouldn't have made any difference.

Except this body wasn't simply one more body.

Tessa knew it before she discreetly angled her head and caught a glimpse.

Ormonde.

At her side, Jagger became distracted by a small man murmuring in his ear. His tout relating betting post business, no doubt. Then he gave the dice another jaunty toss when the table began hurrying him along.

Leaving Tessa an opportunity—to fully take in the Marquess of Ormonde.

He stood half a head taller than most. More handsome than most, too. But Tessa already knew all that from their interactions.

Interactions?

A rather tame word for what had transpired between them.

And she knew something true about this golden lord whom all the room seemed to admire.

He wasn't simply a golden lord.

Lucifer had been the most beautiful of all God's creations, but beneath the blindingly gorgeous exterior hid a deep well of darkness.

Blindingly.

That was the key. The marquess had learned somewhere along the way how to use his golden exterior to obscure the true him.

And Tessa understood she was the only person in this room who had ever caught a glimpse of the true Marquess of Ormonde—the golden lord who would wager a woman for one night in his bed.

As ever, the thought sent a strange ripple of tension purling up her spine, the fine hairs of her arms and neck lifting, the beat of her heart half a step faster, the need to inhale deeply pulling at her lungs.

No one in this room saw that Ormonde.

As if her thoughts held a gravitational pull, his gaze cut over and met hers. The lopsided smile that lent a boyish air to his Viking features froze in place.

Somehow, after a pair of meetings, they'd become two instruments tuned to one another.

The angle of his gaze shifted an increment, enough for him to register the man at her side.

She couldn't imagine the Marquess of Ormonde knew Blaze Jagger from the next London rough. What he saw was that she was standing at a Hazard table in the company of a man.

That was what the shadow that passed behind his eyes told Tessa.

And the marquess was possibly bothered by the idea.

Tessa felt something being shoved into her hand—a dice cup. She tore her gaze from Ormonde. It was with greater difficulty than made her comfortable, for a stray thought had wandered into her mind…

What would it be like to spend one night in such a man's bed?

She shook the question away and focused on Jagger, who waited with a shadow of amusement in his eyes. "Your toss."

"Truly, I don't?—"

"You're at the table." His eyebrows lifted with challenge. "Your toss. I'll stand you."

Jagger placed their bets, and Tessa called out a five as she let the dice fly. The next instant, a cheer flew to the rafters. She'd rolled a seven and hadn't nicked or thrown out. Again, the dice found their way to her cup. She cast again—and again.

"The dice agree with you," shouted Jagger over the cheers.

A few tosses later, predictably, the dice turned on her and rolled the main. She passed the cup, her heart a hammer in her chest. She wasn't sure if this high-flying feeling originated from the dice play—which was incredibly invigorating, truth told—or if it originated from the sighting of Ormonde. She couldn't say she liked either possibility.

One—if not both—had to be true.

It was how logic worked.

"An unusual sort of lady, aren't you?" asked Jagger, his head cocked contemplatively.

"I think it's been established that I'm not the usual sort of lady." She spread her hands wide. "I do run a gaming hell."

He swept an up-and-down glance over her. "Is that why you wear that getup?"

Ah.He was attempting to backfoot her, again. "Getup?"

"Wearing men's clothing."

Tessa considered the man before her. She didn't owe him the truth—or anything, for that matter, contrary to his belief.

Except…

The truth would be good for him.

"I wear this getup because I prefer it. I like it. And it's my prerogative to do as I prefer and like."

He snorted and smirked. "Not a different sort of lady, but a different sort of woman, too, eh?"

Tessa had long grown accustomed to men's comfort in throwing such words her way. "I'm a person, Mr. Jagger, who will do as she likes. And here's what you need to know." She leaned forward. "I don't allow anyone to stand between me and how I wish to live my life."

Understanding flickered within Jagger's hazel eyes. She'd informed him that she had lines and, if he chose to cross hers, she would stand her ground.

Amazing how direct a person could be in a roundabout way.

Jagger's tout again flitted to his side and murmured in his ear. Reflexively, Tessa's gaze flicked toward where it had left Ormonde. He was no longer there. However, a wider scan of the increasingly close room found him. That towering height of his certainly helped.

Of course, all one needed to do was locate the biggest crowd. He would be at its center, the other aristocrats mere moths, helpless against his light. With what ease he conversed with those lords and ladies, whose smiles and fans were out in full force, competing for a sliver of his attention. How they threw themselves into his path.

Subtly, his gaze shifted and met Tessa's. Not a flicker of surprise.

He'd known she'd been staring.

This man knew his power over others—and used it.

And she saw something else, too.

He'd moved nearer.

The heavy beat of her heart made itself known and her lungs were suddenly all out of air and a fluttery tension entered her body—a new tension. A tension specific to the Marquess of Ormonde.

This man affected her, physically, just by sharing a room with her.

Disconcerting…unsettling…troubling…

And yet more, too. For this tension in her body had an additional cause—anticipation.

What would it be like to spend one night in such a man's bed?

For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if, perhaps, she wanted to find out.