The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards Page B

“Very well, Ambrose. What do you say that we toss in a night with my mistress against something that I find myself coveting.”
    A pistol might as well have gone off in the room. Witnesses to the delicious outrage would be dining out on the incident for weeks. The beautiful young mistress and Rushford in a scandalous altercation with Lord Galveston.
    Galveston fingered the handkerchief still in his hand. “You’re a greedy man, Rushford. I should think that the winnings on the table would be enough for you.”
    â€œJust as you wished to make the play more interesting by including my companion in the mix, I, too, should like to add a certain edge to the game,” Rushford said, glancing at his opponent’s hands twisting the handkerchief. “It’s only fair. And when you hear my request, you should be quite relieved. After all, it’s only your family’s signet ring that I covet.”
    Galveston turned from gray to ashen, disbelief skittering across his face. Reflexively, he placed his bare fingers beneath the table. “How dare you, Rushford. Beneath contempt . . .” he sputtered.
    â€œAh, I see,” continued Rushford disingenuously, “you are not wearing the ring. Now why might that be?”
    â€œThis is preposterous,” stuttered Galveston, eyes flicking around the room, aware of the astonished audience who was clearly wondering why he was totally apoplectic at the prospect of wagering a gold bauble. “And totally insupportable,” he sputtered. “An insult to my family name.”
    â€œAbsolutely no insult intended,” Rushford said benignly. “I merely covet something that I cannot have, all the more so because there is no evidence of the ring on your person. I wonder why that might be.”
    Galveston took a moment for consideration, squirming in his seat. He mopped his brow. “Very well,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Your doxy is off the table.”
    Rushford inclined his head, as though in thanks. “A wise decision, sir. With your permission, then.”
    The room exhaled in a hiss, watching as the impassive dealer extracted a fresh pack of cards, cutting it cleanly before dealing the initial cards face down. The young and certainly unknown mistress remained standing behind Rushford, relief evident in the set of her shoulders, her heavy lashes obscuring her expression.
    Galveston signaled for his next card, a slow confidence blossoming in the narrowing of his eyes as he tipped the corner of his initial card. A four of spades. Rushford nodded imperceptibly, and the dealer rewarded him with a ten of hearts. Neither man flinched.
    Again the dealer offered and Galveston gestured impatiently and was rewarded by a six of clubs. This time the library was preternaturally still, arching closer toward the mahogany table like a well-choreographed ballet. Rushford’s nod brought him a six of spades. With a smug smile, Galveston flipped his first card, an ace of diamonds. One digit short of the prize.
    The dealer, his long face schooled to passivity after years of watching men win and lose fortunes with the turn of a wrist, waited for instruction. Rushford quickly considered the odds, decidedly not in his favor, and tapped a finger on the table. For the barest of seconds, perceptible only to the hardened habitués of Crockford’s, the dealer hesitated before deftly placing, face side up, a three of hearts. With a fluid motion, Rushford tipped the corner of his initial card, with the three of hearts.
    A two of spades. Vingt-et-un.
    A polite spattering of applause, a collective exhalation of breath, but there hovered in the library a sense of anticlimax, a premonition that the two men at the table had yet another score to settle between them. Galveston jerked to his feet, almost overturning his chair, muttering under his breath. The knot of onlookers parted as he stormed from the library.
    Despite having won a small fortune