To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,76

displeasure.

“Fine.”

Phoebe fought to suppress a grin of triumph as Alvanly reached beneath the table and retrieved a small, paper-wrapped parcel. He tugged at the string holding it closed to reveal the grubby little picture that had caused all this bother.

“I wager the painting.”

“And the three hundred pounds you have there,” Phoebe added with a glittering smile. “And I shall wager five thousand, three hundred. I believe that is fair.”

“As you like,” Alvanly replied sullenly. His gaze flickered back to Demarteau, who lingered in the shadows, silent and still, and a little unnerving.

Phoebe took a breath, and a moment to calm her jittery heart, before she shuffled the cards, expertly this time, allowing Alvanly to see her skill as the cards flew between her hands. His eyes grew wide and he looked sharply at her. Phoebe looked back, unsmiling.

She dealt, her fingers moving quickly, floating the cards she wanted to the top of the deck and once again turning up the king as trumps, spades this time.

“Oh, would you look at that,” she said, badly feigning surprise as Alvanly’s jaw set rigid.

She dared a glance up at Demarteau to find him watching her intently, his dark eyes fierce and considering. He did not know, but he suspected. Phoebe waited, wondering what he would do, if anything. One corner of his mouth kicked up just a little. Phoebe let out a breath of relief.

She could feel Max’s gaze upon her, and sensed his astonishment as she played card after perfect card. Alvanly was sweating now. Not that he had anything of real value to lose. He knew as well as she did that the painting was a fake, but to have had the money so nearly in his hands—as he believed, at least—and to have it snatched away, by her of all people. He was sick with it.

Phoebe held his gaze as she laid the card that sealed his fate and won the game.

“You lose.”

***

Max was coiled so tight he felt ready to burst. His hands were fists behind his back, palms sweaty, his lungs locked down hard, and he could not draw a breath.

When Phoebe finally laid the winning card, it was all he could do not to shout in triumph. The little beauty, she’d done it! Good God. She’d beaten Alvanly to flinders. He did not understand how, could not fathom how she had played so terribly to begin with and then….

Except, of course, she had been playing a deeper game than he had realised. Her eyes had begged him to trust her, and even though he had been desperate to save her from folly, from losing a fortune to this loathsome man, he had allowed her to continue. He had not interfered, not counselled her to stop, not insisted she stop, and thank God for that. She would never have forgiven him for not trusting her. And now he saw… saw the brilliance of it, the sheer daring. He hadn’t the slightest doubt that Jack had taught her such skills, and she had been toying with the baron from the start, utterly in control.

God, she was magnificent.

“You lose.”

Alvanly surged to his feet.

“You cheated!” he raged, pointing a finger at her. “I’m not giving you anything, you tricky little bitch.”

Max erupted in fury, but Demarteau was there before he could lay his hands on the baron for saying such a thing.

“Arrêtez!” he said sharply, holding Max back with surprising force for such a young man. “Stop. Your lady does not need your assistance.”

Max turned his head and froze, seeing the truth of the Frenchman’s words with a gasp of shock. Phoebe was sitting quite calmly in her seat, holding a small pearl-handled gun on the baron.

He had seen that gun before.

“The painting and my three hundred pounds, if you please,” she said, her hand perfectly steady.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Alvanly sneered.

Max choked, torn between shock and laughter. She really would get the bloody painting back at gunpoint.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t bet on that,” he said, meaning it. “You ought never dare, Phoebe. It’s a dreadfully bad idea.”

“Lord Alvanly,” Demarteau said smoothly, as he moved towards the baron. “I watched the game. You lost, the lady won. We ’ave no room for bad losers at Rouge et Noir. I would like you to leave now. I counsel you… do not come back ’ere again. I think you would not like the welcome you receive.”

Alvanly looked at Demarteau, who exuded menace though he did not move so much as an eyelid. He just watched