When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,136
She couldn’t think clearly when he did.
Adeline stepped away from the man at her back and headed out onto the gaming floor, the snap of cards and clatter of dice occasionally audible over the conversations. Her gaze danced over the crowd, seeking the new Baron Marstowe, and she finally found him sitting at a vingt-et-un table. The Duke of Rotham was with him, both looking significantly worse for wear since she had last seen them at Helmsdale. A nearly empty bottle of what looked like brandy sat between them. Perfect. Next to coin, liquor was often Adeline’s greatest ally.
Within minutes she had found a footman and procured a new bottle of French brandy, along with another glass. She approached the table and found King leaning casually on his walking stick with one hand, presumably observing a game of piquet being played nearby. His outwardly laissez-faire deportment would fool most, but it did not fool her for a second. She could almost feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
Rotham and Marstowe had their backs to King and were unaware of his presence, while he’d be able to hear everything being said. Adeline looked away. When King had promised to merely observe, she had assumed that it would be with a larger measure of discretion. Served her right. Assumptions were perilous things, after all.
Adeline slid silently into an empty chair between the baron and the duke. Neither man seemed to notice her, absorbed as they were in their game. She glanced at the dealer, somewhat surprised to discover that it was a woman who sat opposite the players. She was blond, dressed in a gown and mask the color of the Mediterranean shallows, and sharp blue eyes assessed Adeline. Adeline gazed back until the dealer returned her attention to the game that was still in progress.
The duke was rubbing his forehead above reddened eyes as he contemplated the seven of hearts and the ten of spades that lay in front of the dealer. He was, as King had predicted, utterly foxed, his movements clumsy and slow. The baron appeared somewhat less inebriated, or perhaps he was simply concealing it better. He had a look of fierce concentration on his face as he stole another look at the cards trapped beneath his palm on the green felt.
Up close, Adeline studied Marstowe’s soft hands, his manicured nails, his tailored clothing, his carefully trimmed gray hair, and his upright posture. He looked every inch the well-groomed, well-dressed gentleman, as one would expect of a man of his station. He didn’t look like the sort of killer portrayed by caricaturists, with pointy teeth and a forked tail, but then none of them ever did.
Adeline slowly filled her glass as both players asked for another card and both went over twenty-one.
Rotham threw his cards down in disgust. “Goddammit,” he swore. “You better find your pocketbook fast, Marstowe, ’cause mine’s not goin’ to last long at this rate.”
The baron slapped his cards down beside the duke’s. His face was flushed with heat, frustration, or anger—or maybe all three.
“S’posed to distract me from my troubles, no’ remind me,” he groused. “An’ I’m working on it.”
“Work faster.” Rotham drained the last of his brandy and reached for the almost-empty bottle. “Goddammit,” he cursed again. “We’re out.”
“May I?” Adeline pulled her chair closer to the table and set down her glass on the edge, lifting her brandy bottle in invitation.
The duke and baron seemed to notice her for the first time. Rotham leered at her décolletage while Marstowe merely shoved his cards away and slid his glass in her direction.
“God, yes,” the baron slurred.
Adeline poured, aware of the men’s eyes on her.
“I don’t know you,” Rotham said with the slow, exaggerated deliberation with which the very intoxicated spoke. “We’ve no’ met.”
“No.” Without asking, Adeline reached for the duke’s glass and filled it as well.
“I am th’ Duke of Rotham,” he announced with all the pomposity he could muster.
Adeline tried to look duly impressed.
“Marstowe.” The baron downed half his brandy.
“Marstowe,” she murmured as if searching her memory. “Ah. You’re just recently back from the Americas, if I’ve heard correctly.”
The baron grunted.
“That he is.” The duke’s eyes hadn’t made it up past her chin yet. “Mebbe you could welcome ’im back properly. Wha’s your name?”
Adeline suppressed a shudder. “You may call me Adrestia.”
“Greek name,” Marstowe mumbled into his glass.
“It is.” Adeline pretended to be delighted. “Are you familiar with the language?”