Mr. Stillman raised his eyebrows, then nodded. “I shall do as you ask, Lady Sabrina.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, keeping his eyes on hers. “And I hope that one day we might meet again under better circumstances.”
Sabrina was appropriately offended by his suggestion—she was a married woman, soon to be a mother—and yet she felt a rush of validation. This man thought she was beautiful. This man was kind, even if he was obviously a rake. This man treated her with gentleness. They held each other’s eyes until she remembered to speak.
“Lady Townsend,” she whispered, needing him to leave, needing to begin the process that would take her safely back to the party.
Mr. Stillman lowered her hand and nodded. “Lady Townsend.”
Six Years Later
Harry Stillman swirled the set of dice within the cup and would have prayed if he were that sort of man. Instead, he rubbed the pad of his left thumb against the tip of his ring finger for luck, held his breath, and flung the dice, tracking them with his eyes as they tumbled across the brown velvet of the gaming table.
The dice settled, both showing five dots—a total of ten.
“Chance!” the men positioned around the table yelled.
Harry sighed in relief as the setter gathered the dice and dropped them back in Harry’s cup.
Harry moved his hand in a circle so the dice swirled and tumbled inside. Eight times counterclockwise, then six times clockwise because six was the number he’d called out for this round—the main. On his first roll, he had wanted to roll the main. Now that he was in the chance round, however, a six would lose everything he’d won back tonight, which was almost enough to hold Malcolm off another week.
He finished his sixth clockwise circle, rubbed his thumb against his ring finger again, held his breath, and threw the dice.
The crowd cheered, Harry could breathe again, and the setter added eighty pounds to the growing pile of winnings—enough for Malcolm’s payment plus nearly enough to catch up rent for Harry’s rooms. His landlord had threatened to lock him out if he did not settle his debt soon.
The thin line of the setter’s mouth added to Harry’s triumph. The unhappier the house, the better things were for Harry.
“Way to show the rest of us up, Stillman,” Ward said as he fell into the seat next to Harry, knocking him with his shoulder.
Harry did not take his eyes off the setter.
Ward placed a glass of warm scotch in front of Harry, who slung it back in one swallow. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
Ten hours of going from one gaming hell to another in search of the right luck had left Harry’s once snowy-white shirt stained with ale down the front and soaked with sweat through the collar and under the arms. He had no idea where his cravat was.
There had been a time when he cared about his presentation, but he could not remember how long ago that was. Probably back when he gambled for the thrill instead of to save his skin and drank for the looseness of it instead of to stave off the shakes or the disgust he felt at what he’d made of himself these last years. Life had become a day-to-day existence with the day’s quality defined by the winning or losing he’d done within that twenty-four-hour period.
“You’re not even going to thank me for the drink?” Ward teased, though there was no mirth in his tone.
“Thank you,” Harry said dryly, his eyes fixed on the dice as the setter picked them up again. It was bad luck to take your eyes off the dice. Harry held out his dice cup as his stomach growled. There was no time for something so irrelevant as food.
He won the next round, and the next. Each win drew more people to the table in the dimly lit corner of the club. Harry never looked up, and his pile of winnings grew. Success should have lessened his anxiety, but it didn’t. Malcolm expected payment by noon tomorrow—or, rather, noon today. If Harry’s luck held and he could pay a double payment, he’d buy himself a full month to sell the western parcel that would pay off the principal of Malcolm’s loan.
Another round started as Ward returned with another drink. Harry ignored this one, his stomach burning and his head pounding. The smoke in the room was thick enough to