To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,75

He smiled down at her, though concern lingered in his gaze and she wished she could tell him what she was about. She had considered it, but there had been so little time, and in truth, it suited her for him to appear on edge, for it added verisimilitude to the picture of innocence she wished to present to Lord Alvanly. That edgy anxiety rolled off poor Max in waves as Phoebe lost the next three hands, and her debt to Alvanly racked up to two hundred pounds.

“Dearest Phoebe, do you think you are perhaps in over your head?” Alvanly taunted as he poured himself another glass of wine.

“Oh, no, my luck is sure to turn,” she said brightly, shuffling the card so ineptly that two fell free of the deck. “Oopsie.”

Alvanly rolled his eyes as Phoebe reached for the fallen cards, unaware of the fact she had just palmed the king of hearts. She dealt the cards in batches of two and three, five each, and then turned the next one up to reveal the trump, the king of hearts.

“Oh, I get a point for that, don’t I?” she said disingenuously.

Alvanly scowled. “I propose.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Phoebe said, batting her eyelashes at him, well aware that meant he wished for another card. “I refuse.”

Alvanly’s scowl deepened. But it was the dealer’s right to accept or refuse, and Phoebe wanted to play immediately, having arranged a perfect array of cards through some judicious sleight of hand.

“That’s two extra points to me if I win,” Alvanly muttered.

“But you aren’t going to win,” Phoebe said, smiling sweetly, and proceeded to take the trick, and the next, and the one after. “Oh!” she crowed, having won back fifty pounds. “I told you my luck would turn.”

Naturally, she then lost disastrously, losing three hundred pounds, much to her opponent’s amusement, but it was all a part of the deeper game she played, reeling him in.

“I think we should make things more interesting,” she said, having dealt the next hand and made out as if she were trying to hide the fact she had excellent cards. “A thousand pounds,” she declared.

Max jolted beside her and she looked up at him. There was a pleading expression in his eyes, and she reached out and took his hand, pressing a kiss to his gloved fingers as she held his gaze. He let out a ragged breath and smiled, saying nothing, though she knew he must be biting his tongue. He squeezed her fingers in a silent show of support, and Phoebe turned back to Alvanly to see avarice and excitement glittering in his eyes.

“But I don’t have a thousand pounds, as you well know.”

“But you do have the painting,” Phoebe pointed out.

Alvanly laughed and wagged a finger at her. “Oh ho. No, my dear. That painting is worth far more than a thousand pounds. Ten thousand, at least.”

“I’m not playing you for ten thousand pounds,” Phoebe said in disgust, though her heart was hammering with excitement.

“Then I shall not play.” Alvanly sat back and folded his arms.

Phoebe bit her lip, as if considering his proposal.

“Two thousand.”

Alvanly snorted.

Phoebe looked up as a dark figure drifted towards the table and Monsieur Demarteau appeared. He stood watching, his sloe black gaze drifting to Phoebe, and she smothered a curse. Even Jack could not tell when she was cheating. Her fingers were so nimble, too quick for most eyes, even if they knew what to look for, but a man like that…. His dark eyes focused on her, making her heart thud and her stomach churn so hard she felt sick. She felt as if he could see everything. The last thing she needed was to be caught cheating. Well, there was no help for it. She was committed to this course; she had to take the chance.

“Five thousand pounds,” she said, putting her chin up and ignoring Max, whose fists were clenched now. He put them behind his back and paced away from her for a moment before returning to stand at her side, his jaw rigid with tension.

“That’s half its value. Less, even,” Alvanly said in disgust.

“Yes, but it’s cash, and it’s yours if you win, and you keep the painting. All that money without the bother of finding a buyer. Heaven knows how long that would take. And then there is that little matter of provenance,” she added, lifting one eyebrow.

The baron’s gaze drifted to Demarteau and back to Phoebe, his lips compressing into a thin line of