Page 5 of A Suitable Countess (To All the Earls I’ve Loved Before #3)

In which our Heroine has a Change of Clothes

George entered the discreetly disguised door of Elverson’s hell and handed over his coat and hat.

His godson would have much to answer for when he got hold of him, coming to a hell for a grudge match.

The young scamp thought himself invincible.

While he was a decent poker player, he had little self-control when it came to knowing when to leave the table.

Or when to slow his drinking.

George sighed. Hadn’t they all thought they were invincible at Philip’s age?

But he needed to make sure the boy didn’t lose his entire fortune in deep play, hence this evening’s excursion into the gambling hell of Elverson’s.

Keeping an eye on the boy had become a whole lot more exhausting once he’d attained his majority and access to his inheritance.

Sorrow stabbed through George’s heart at the thought of his lost friend and the heavy charge he’d laid on George with his last breath.

Raising a boy to manhood took constant care, and George had shouldered that responsibility willingly. But now Philip was grown and gained control of his inheritance, he still looked for guidance in how to manage it. Who would look out for Philip when George returned to Africa?

Noise rose, weighty as the fug of cigar smoke, as George wandered through two rooms already heavily populated with men eager to prove their worth at the tables, before he spotted his godson in the third.

A quick glance at the pile of notes in front of him relieved George’s fear he’d arrived too late.

Two of the other three players were known to George; friends of Philip’s, but not the focus of the grudge match he’d anticipated following the Melton ball. His gaze landed on the back of the third fellow, whom he didn’t recognise from his present angle.

Slowly, George circled the table to get a better view. Nothing about the fellow intent on his hand jumped out, although the confident angle of his chin seemed vaguely familiar.

George stopped slightly to the right of the youth’s direct line of sight, for youth he was, if the smooth chin was any indication, and catalogued further details.

His clothes were of good quality but had not been in fashion for over ten years.

They hung off the lad’s frame, so perhaps they’d not been made for him but for an older man.

Dull brown hair in a less-than-neat cut, tallish from the proportion of his body draped in the chair, and soft, white hands. Well-kept fingernails that were at odds with the raggedy haircut.

A tingle of suspicion raced through George, and his attention zeroed in on the lad’s face, noting a feminine fineness and eyebrows of a rich reddish hue barely visible beneath the shaggy fringe. Odd. He seemed familiar, but where—

The youth looked up, his eyes catching George’s and widening in surprise.

Eyes of a rich, gentian blue, in which a man could lose himself.

If not for that moment of instant recognition, George might have imagined the youth to be a very close cousin of Lady Viola, but that flare of surprise gave her away.

He folded his arms over his chest and frowned.

What the hell was Lady Viola doing dressed as a man and playing cards in a gambling den?

Her lips pressed together, and a muscle ticked in her cheek before she was chivvied by the other players to bid or fold. Most vocal was his godson.

George noted a small pile of notes in front of Viola and wondered if she knew his godson held what was probably the winning hand.

With a slow lift of one eyebrow, Viola looked directly at Philip before adding to the pot. “Call.”

“Are you so keen to lose your winnings to me, Victor?” Philip grinned, cast a conspiratorial smile at George, and laid his cards down.

A pair of queens and a pair of twos should have been enough to claim the pot. Indeed, Philip half rose, and his hands reached for his winnings when Viola’s lips twitched.

She leaned forward and tapped the table.

“I think not, Philip.”

George’s godson froze in the act of scooping what he thought were his winnings into his pile as all eyes turned to Victor.

Casually, she set her cards down.

Five black cards in sequence: two clubs and three spades.

A straight.

“I believe the pot is mine.” Viola’s contralto suited a youth’s voice. If George hadn’t known she was a woman, he could as easily have believed her to be Victor as did the others.

Philip’s cheeks pinked as he dropped into his chair. “You have the Devil’s own luck, Victor.”

“I told you I was feeling lucky.”

George leaned in and extended his hand to Viola. “Lord George Amhurst, Philip’s godfather. How do you do?”

Viola shook his hand with studied nonchalance. “Victor Wi—Watling. How do you do, my lord?”

“I’d like a chat with you, if you please.”

Philip offered a half-hearted protest. “But the game—”

“Can continue while I get to know your new friend.”

Viola glanced around the table and sighed before collecting her winnings. Folding the notes, she tucked them into an inside breast pocket in her jacket, rose with a slight bow to the other players, and turned to George. “Your servant, my lord.”

George led the way to a quiet corner and requested two brandies from a passing footman. He caught Viola’s eye, nodded to indicate the second club chair, and spoke at a volume unlikely to be heard by anyone passing by.

“Have a seat, Victor. I must say, you make a most convincing young man.”

Viola tilted her chin up and pinned him with her blue gaze like a bug to a display board. “I’m sure you think the worst of me, my lord. Indeed, I’m surprised you didn’t out me at the table. Why prolong it with this farce of having a drink?”

“I like solving mysteries, and you, my lady, are the most intriguing I’ve encountered.

Besides, were I to out you, your reputation would be gone forever.

Your siblings would suffer by association, and your parents would be scandalised upon their return.

So my first question must be why? Why risk everything on such a hazardous lark? ”

Her chest rose with an audible and long indrawn breath. Until that moment, he hadn’t been fixated on it, but now he struggled to lift his gaze. How had she disguised herself so thoroughly?

“Lark! Only the most dire of circumstances drove me to this deception.” Her voice was a soft hiss of anger, and he leaned forward the better to hear her.

“If Society did not forbid a woman from doing the same things as a man, I would not have had to risk everything to gain breathing space for my family.”

“What are you talking about?”

She held her tongue while the footman placed two glasses of brandy on the table and waited until he left. High colour stained her cheeks, and she glared at him.

“Money, my lord, or the lack thereof. Something you have probably never had to worry about.”

“Your father would not have left you destitute. Didn’t he—”

“He left us with what he believed to be sufficient funds, but then he extended their stay in Egypt when they uncovered the entrance to a nobleman’s tomb. Credit was offered to us by most merchants, of course—”

“But rumours of your parents’ disappearance caused all sources of credit to dry up. I begin to understand.” How irresponsible of her father not to have foreseen that eventuality.

“You are correct, my lord.”

George’s anger and disbelief dissipated, replaced by an odd sort of admiration. He knew of no other woman who would risk everything, including social suicide, to save her family as Viola had.

But she had targeted his godson, and that was not easily forgiven, although . . . she had not thrown everything into the pot on that last hand. Did that indicate a conscience even in her straitened circumstances?

“Dire circumstances demand bold action. I understand that, but answer me this: did you set out to fleece my godson?”

“What? No. I had no idea who he was in relation to you. I observed him in the card room at the Melton ball and realised I could read his tell, as I did with the others. As I was approaching you at the park, I overheard Sir Gregory mention another of the players and this place. Those two things were the genesis of this idea.”

“And your disguise? How was that achieved in so short a time?”

She plucked at the collar of her jacket.

“Father’s clothes from the trunk in the attic.

As for—” She touched the brown wig. “Our cook knew someone who knew someone who makes them for the theatre. Thanks to that connection, the perruquier was willing to lend it to me for the night on the promise of payment upon its return.”

George nodded, sat back in the club chair, and drank his brandy. It wasn’t particularly good, but in his present mood, he needed something to take the edge off the anger that had swirled in his gut.

How strange to be sitting here, sipping brandy with the woman disguised as a man whom he had been considering as an easy answer to his need for a countess.

Was he still considering her?

His gaze ran over their surroundings, and then over Viola.

“How did you know about this place? I can’t imagine it being known, let alone discussed among ladies.”

“I asked our butler. He wasn’t happy telling me about it, but he knows me well. He knew I wouldn’t be asking without good reason.”

“And do you still think your reason for risking everything is justified?”

“I do, my lord.”

“George.”