To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,34

hope. The only woman he’d ever seriously considered might well be a criminal mastermind.

His stomach rumbled—he’d skipped dinner, chasing after little Miss Miscreant. He should have accepted her grandmother’s offer of food. That would have annoyed her.

Unlike White’s or Brooks’, the Tricorn provided its members with a decent supper in addition to high-stakes games of chance. Benedict had convinced Alex and Seb to hire an outrageously expensive French chef, Rene Lagrasse, to run the kitchens. Given the fact that they’d done nothing but try to kill Frenchmen for the previous three years, the two of them had needed some convincing, but once they’d tasted Lagrasse’s mouthwatering fare, they’d been in full agreement.

Now, almost a year since the Tricorn had opened its doors, there was a waiting list of two hundred gentlemen clamoring for membership, both aristocrats and wealthy cits. The three of them were well on the way to making their fortunes.

Alex smiled thinly. The Tricorn was an equal-opportunity club. Everyone, whether banker, mill owner, tradesman, or duke, was equally welcome to throw their money his way.

As a second son, he would inherit no title or property from his father’s estate. That would all go to his older brother, James. And yet Alex had never resented his brother’s position. James had no ability to choose the course of his own life. There had never been any question that he would attempt to join the army and fight against Napoleon. Their distant, unloving father would never allow his heir to endanger himself in such a manner.

Alex, however, had always been the “spare,” an insurance policy against the extinction of the illustrious Harland name. Ironically, that made him free.

Did his brother resent the cage of his seniority? Did he feel emasculated by his lack of choices? Alex had, after all, been able to prove his mettle in the army, both to himself and to his disapproving father. He’d made his fortune on his own.

The earldom that had recently been bestowed upon him by the Prince Regent had been the icing on the cake. Alex was justifiably proud of it; he’d earned that title, not simply been handed it for being born first.

Perhaps that was why the thought of the Nightjar getting away with it annoyed him so much. Stealing jewels wasn’t the same as earning them.

Alex shook his head and checked the various employees down on the floor. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Each gaming table had an operator to deal the cards and two croupiers, who watched the play and ensured the players didn’t cheat the operator. Mickey, the ex-boxer, doubled up as both doorman and, on occasion, dunner, to collect any debts owed to the bank. A couple of waiters hovered between the tables to offer the players plenty of drink from the Tricorn’s excellent wine cellar.

It was crowded tonight. A couple of tables hosted noisy hands of whist and loo, while others dealt macao. Fortunes changed hands with alarming speed.

Most of the women on the floor were courtesans in the company of male members. Their brightly colored silks and satins glowed like so many precious jewels amongst the dark evening attire of the men. Fans fluttered and feathers bobbed from outrageously elaborate hairstyles. A couple of the women wore masks to add to the air of mystery. Or perhaps to hide less-than-perfect complexions, Alex mused cynically.

He took an appreciative sip of his brandy, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat, and felt the tension begin to leech out of him.

It had been a mistake, opening that bottle of perfume again in his room. The tantalizing scent had filled his nose, filled his lungs, invaded his private domain. It had been far too easy to imagine her lying naked on his sheets, that sweet mouth curved in welcome. Alex growled as the blood pooled in his groin, a heavy ache of frustration. He turned to go back downstairs, but a flash of navy blue caught his eye.

It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t dare!

It was.

He drained the rest of his brandy in one gulp.

She was threading through the crowd in the wake of a man who, from his silver-topped cane and slightly uneven gait, could only be her brother. Danvers wasn’t a member. How the hell had they gained entry?

Emmeline Danvers was wearing the same dress she’d had on earlier, at dinner. It left her shoulders deliciously bare and provided a tantalizing glimpse of the pale mounds of her breasts, especially from Alex’s lofty vantage point. Her waist was