Page 13 of A Suitable Countess (To All the Earls I’ve Loved Before #3)

In Which our Heroine Returns to Elverson’s Hell.

The wig made Viola’s head itch, her father’s coat needed the attention of a valet, and her stomach was turning somersaults as she walked through the gaming rooms on her way to the one where she had played poker with George and his godson.

Would George be there tonight?

Bile rose in her throat at the mere thought of encountering him. He had told her in no uncertain terms not to disguise herself as Victor again and not to set foot in the gambling den.

But if she was breaking their understanding, so was he, and he’d done it first.

The childishness of that thought did nothing to make her feel better about her decision, and she glanced around, fearful of seeing him.

Last time, he’d given her the impression he seldom played in such establishments, and she prayed tonight would not be one of those instances.

Once through the door of the third room, she paused, assessing the players at each of the four tables.

No George. She puffed out a relieved breath as her name was called.

“Victor, over here.”

Seated at the farthest table, Philip and two other men were part way through a hand. Judging by the pile in front of one of them, Philip was not having a good night.

Viola raised a hand in greeting and stepped between the tables. Once there, she rested her hands on the back of an empty chair and nodded at each player in turn. “Gentlemen, Philip, are you looking for a fourth?”

Philip, being the only player she knew, replied, “Join us, Victor. Maybe you’ll change my luck.”

Viola smiled and sat.

Philip gestured at the player next to Viola. “That’s Terence, and this one with a pile of my money in front of him is Roger. This is Victor.”

“Gentlemen.” Viola reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew her precious hoard of notes, half of the sum she had previously won, and almost all of what was left after paying the most pressing bills.

Unsure how the Almighty would regard tonight’s endeavour, nevertheless, she sent up a short prayer.

If she won tonight, Marie would never know she’d taken so much of their money.

Without knowing what had befallen her parents or if they were still alive, and without George’s proposal and the security that would bring, tonight was for her family’s survival.

Her hand hovered over her small pile of banknotes.

Against the winnings of the man opposite her, it looked pitiful.

Indeed, a flicker of scorn crossed his face, so brief, she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him already, looking for hints as to what his style of play would be.

The pile of money in front of him suggested he would not be as easy to read as Philip.

She waited patiently while the interrupted hand was played, keenly observing both of the newcomers’ games. Roger was cool, appearing relaxed and outwardly convivial, but by his play, she was certain he had picked up Philip’s tells.

Terence seemed resigned to losing. His play lacked any pleasure or engagement; in fact, it was absent-minded at best. He appeared to dislike the activity, and Viola wondered why he bothered playing.

As Roger collected his winnings, candlelight glinted off a very fine signet ring.

Philip ran both hands through his hair. “You have the Devil’s own luck, Roger.” He signalled a waiter to bring more drinks.

Viola noted Roger barely touched his while encouraging the rest of them to “Drink up”. She made a show of drinking, but barely a drop passed her almost-closed lips.

The same sting as before reminded her to be very careful not to drink much, especially when she sensed Roger watching her with interest.

There was something about the man she did not like, which was odd in someone she’d only just met. Then the cards were shuffled and Roger dealt around the table, and the game began.

Viola played conservatively at first, seeking to understand each player.

Terence made odd raises that Philip always met, and she tried to work out why he did that when she was fairly sure from his body language that he had nothing of note in his hand.

Perhaps he was simply a poor player, but she began to combine his tell with Philip’s and found her reading of play was accurate.

But she still had to work out Roger’s.

She thought perhaps the two strangers knew each other. Was Roger feeding off Terence’s odd bidding?

Viola’s small pile of money grew very little for several rounds and then, unexpectedly, she won a hand she shouldn’t have—not if she was on the right track reading Roger’s tell.

Feigning surprise as Philip congratulated her, her gaze skimmed the other men, and there it was in Roger’s eyes—triumph.

He thought he had her worked out. Her winnings were confirmation of his mastery of the group and the game. Viola needed to build on that belief and play up her role as Philip’s inexperienced friend.

She slapped the table and laughed as she scooped the small pot towards her pitiful pile of notes. “I’ve got you all on the run now. Watch out, gentlemen!”

“We shall see, Victor,” Philip said. “I told you last time that I’d beat you, and I will, you’ll see.”

“Yes, we shall see,” said Roger.

Viola sensed an underlying threat behind his words. Whether he believed her to be a simpleton or merely inexperienced, he thought she, too, was ripe for plucking, though her funds were barely enough to be worth his while.

Picking up her glass of brandy, she made a show of raising it to Philip and then to Roger.

“Your good fortune, gentlemen,” she said and tipped the glass so it appeared she swallowed a larger mouthful than she did.

Hopeful Roger and his partner-in-crime believed she was becoming inebriated, she set the glass down hard enough to slosh much of the remaining liquid onto the table.

Peering up from under her fringe, Viola caught a brief, shared look between Roger and Terence, and set to work to beat them at their own game.

Play proceeded, but now Viola understood that Terence and Roger were working together.

Perhaps they had marked Philip as the wealthy son of a nobleman ripe for fleecing, but she had no way of proving it or warning him.

The game would have to play out, and she had to play the best games of her life if she were to beat them.

They must be cheating by signalling each other, but she needed to work out how.

All she could do was stay sharp, watch them closely, and focus on her goal: to win their and Philip’s money before Roger realised he had been rumbled. Was that the term she had read in that novel?

Two more rounds fell Viola’s way, both with smaller pots. Philip folded, clearly dejected that the cards weren’t falling his way, when Viola sensed the lightest of tremors in the table.

Ah, that was why she’d seen nothing. They were signalling below the table, out of sight, and one of them had clipped the table leg.

Casually, she took out her handkerchief and wiped her brow, letting the white square fall as though by accident. As she bent to retrieve it, she edged her chair to the side, and when she sat up, her knee was in contact with a table leg.

Play continued, but now, Viola was privy to the crooks’ signals, and began to establish their system.

An hour later, Viola’s sliver of banknotes had turned into a brick. A thin brick, to be sure, but there had to be enough to pay the bank what they demanded, with a little left over for food and bills.

She leaned back in her chair and gazed blearily at the others.

“Terence, time to go.” Roger was furious, his anger barely contained. Terence appeared less drunk than Philip, but that wasn’t saying much. He required the assistance of his friend to stagger out of the room.

Viola attempted to assist Philip to stand, but he was heavier than he looked, and fell back onto his chair when she tried to sling his arm over her shoulder.

Shaking her head, she looked around for help, catching the eye of one of the footmen who came to assist. Fortunately, the lad was burly, and he hoisted Philip to his feet with ease.

Viola collected her winnings and shoved them into the inner pocket of her jacket, and then grabbed what was left of Philip’s stake.

Not much, she thought as she tucked his money into his jacket pocket, unwilling to risk accidentally touching him by searching for his pocketbook.

While they waited for their capes to be brought and Philip’s carriage to be called, Viola mulled over the wisdom of accepting a ride with him.

If she asked to be dropped off near her home, the coachman would remember the area in which she lived, and she would still have to walk some distance, risking robbery when she had what felt like a king’s ransom in her pocket.

She couldn’t risk Philip learning where she lived, but nor could she risk losing her winnings. Either she paid off Philip’s coachman or took a hackney cab. Both choices carried negative consequences if she chose wrongly.

“Sir, his lordship’s carriage is here.” The same young footman who had assisted her earlier hoisted Philip to his feet and half-carried him to the carriage. With a deal of heaving and grunting on the part of his coachman and the footman, Philip climbed in and promptly fell asleep.

“Thank you—” She paused.

“Edward,” replied the footman. “Happy to help, sir.”

“Where to, sir,” asked the coachman. “I’m guessing his lordship offered you a ride?”

Viola gave the name of the park not far from her home and settled into the seat opposite Philip. Noisy snoring filled the carriage, and she allowed herself to relax just a little.

As the carriage bounced along, Viola looked through the window as the darkness of night gave way to dawn.

They had played through the night, and already, the day’s activity was beginning on the streets.

They passed farm produce on wagons, and flowers destined for Covent Garden markets that perfumed the air sweetly.

Servants from fine homes accepted bread, meat, and flowers for their masters at their doors. It was all so busy.

Exhausted after the long night and feeling oddly confined by her father’s clothing, Viola removed her top hat and pulled out the wad of notes from her jacket.

Removing that weight felt better, and she dumped the bundle into the hat and pushed it beneath the seat before stretching out along its length.

If only she could snatch a few minutes of sleep. Her head fell back against the window, and her eyes closed.

##

Shouting woke Viola with a start. The carriage jerked to a stop, and Philip toppled from his seat across her legs. He opened bleary, bloodshot eyes and muttered an apology.

“Get your hands up!” a rough voice shouted from outside.

Viola peeked through the window. Bare branches and a shadowed path running off between thickly planted bushes were visible in the grey light. They must be on the carriage drive through Hyde Park, usually quiet and empty so early in the morning.

Suddenly, the carriage door was pulled open and the muzzle of a gun appeared, followed by a masked man’s face. “Get down and give me your valuables.”

Although rough and disguised by the thick mask, there was something about the robber’s voice that seemed familiar, but Viola had no time to think as she watched Philip stagger from the carriage. He fumbled as he divested himself of his fob watch and signet ring.

“And you.” The masked man gestured at Viola with his gun.

Hands shaking, Viola pulled back the sides of her jacket to show her vest. “I have nothing.”

“Pocketbooks.”

Was it her imagination, or was the robber staring at the place where her inner pocket was? Where her wad of money had been.

Philip was clearly the wealthy one of the two of them, but she was the one they were interested in? It made no sense unless—

As the masked man turned, the carriage lamp glinted off a ring on his left hand.

A very fine signet ring she had noted earlier that evening.

“I have none.”

“Give me your jacket.”

That confirmed it for Viola. The masked man was Roger, and he was intent on taking the money Viola had won from him at the table.

She slipped off the too-big jacket, in the process managing to pull her shirt loose from her trousers and hunch her shoulders. Without the concealment of the jacket, it was all she could do to disguise her feminine curves.

Roger turned back and waved his gun at Philip again. “And the cravat pin. That’s a pretty emerald I’ll not be leaving behind.”

Philip slumped against the coach, his hands loose at his side.

“Give it to me or I’ll—”

Viola moved protectively in front of Philip. “Can’t you see he’s too drunk to do more? I’ll get it for you.” She turned her back and removed the pin from Philip’s cravat

It was a beautiful piece with a long shaft and a solid head surrounding and supporting the precious gem. It sat in her palm, catching the first rays of sunlight, too beautiful to be stolen by rogues.

Without conscious thought, Viola took hold of the head, spun quickly, and lunged at Roger in one swift movement.

The sharp end bit into his neck, and blood ran over her fingers before he lifted his gun and hit her on the head.