Beth rapped the table in frustration as the croupier scraped away her counters.
“The same again,” Ian said.
“But I lost.”
“The same again.”
“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ian.” She obediently put her marker in the same place. The wheel spun, the ball dropped. “Rouge vingt et un.” Red twenty-one.
Beth squealed and did a little victory hop. The croupier shoved a pile of counters onto Beth’s number. “I won. Gracious, shall I do it again?”
Ian’s large hand shot out and he scraped Beth’s winnings to her. “Roulette is a fool’s game. Come with me.” Isabella grinned at them, reaching to put her marker where Beth’s had been. “It’s all rather fun, isn’t it? You’re so lucky, darling. I knew you would be.” She laughed and spun back to the table.
Ian kept Beth’s hand in his as they moved to a long table where a portly man shook a cup of dice. Bettors up and down the table shouted encouragement, and the gentleman’s face shone with sweat. The lavishly dressed lady next to him hung on his arm and bounced excitedly. “She’ll ruin his throw,” Beth hissed.
“She might, if she is employed by the house,” Ian murmured back.
“Isn’t that cheating?”
He shrugged. “It’s the risk of coming into such places as this.”
“Isabella seemed so keen.”
“She likes danger.” After all, she’d married Mac.
“Shall I place a bet?” Beth asked.
Hazard had so many odds, so many different combinations that the dice could produce. Predicting which would come up or waiting for a precise throw seemed futile to Ian. People found that risk exciting, which baffled him. Beth’s eyes sparkled as she watched the gentleman nerve himself to throw. “What bet shall I place?” Ian rubbed his thumb over his forehead, numbers flowing through his brain in mathematical precision. “Here, and here,” he said, pointing to squares on the table. The man finally threw the dice, establishing the number he had to match, a ten. Then he threw again. Everyone groaned when the dice read twelve.
“I lost,” Beth said, disappointed.
“You won.” Ian retrieved the counters. “You bet that he would overreach on an early throw.”
“Did I?” Beth looked at the counters, then back at the table. Her cheeks were pink, lips shining red. “I think I shouldn’t wager if I have no idea what I’m betting on.”
“You’re a rich woman.” Ian placed the counters in her hands. “You have the money to lose.”
“I won’t be rich for long if I wager on hazard and roulette. What would have happened if you hadn’t been here?”
“If I’d not been here, you wouldn’t have come.”
“No?”
She raised her brows at him, dove’s wings across her face. Ian wanted to lean down and kiss them, here in the middle of the crowd. Beth, his lover, his mistress. He wanted everyone to know she belonged to him.
“Ian?”
She’d asked him a question. “Mmm?”
“I said, how do you know I wouldn’t have come without you?”
Ian took her elbow and steered her to a less crowded part of the room. “I wouldn’t have let you.”
“Really? Would you follow me about, like Inspector Fellows?”
“This is a dangerous place,” he said grimly. “Isabella understands. You don’t.”
Beth’s bosom rose. “You’re very protective.” She leaned in to whisper to him. “I thought we agreed that our relations were between two people who enjoyed that side of life. Nothing more.”
Ian didn’t remember agreeing to that. She’d said, We like each other well enough, and I don’t foresee that I will marry again.
Ian hadn’t responded, and he didn’t respond now. Having the affair with her would never be enough. He wanted more than playing with her in Mac’s studio, the bliss of having her go down on him in the carriage. He wanted it again and again, the joy of her forever. Not Beth as his courtesan, not a love affair that ended when he left Paris. He wanted Beth for always.
The problem was how to do it. Beth didn’t wish to marry, she said. Her engagement to the snake Mather had left her shy, and she’d already turned Ian down once. He would have to think of a way, but the task didn’t bother him. Ian was good at focusing his attention on a problem until he solved it, to the exclusion of everything else. A slender young man with thick blond hair stepped out in front of him, and Ian’s thoughts fell in shards. “I thought that was you.” The man’s eyes lit up, and he stuck out his hand. “Ian Mackenzie, as I live and breathe. How are you, old man? I haven’t seen you since they sprang you from prison.”
Chapter Eleven
Ian studied the young man with interest. About thirty, well-bred voice, slim hands, manicured nails. The man continued to hold out his hand, his smile wide. “Well met.” Ian hesitated, then took the proffered hand as though reminding himself of the appropriate response.
A darker man loomed behind the first and looked at Ian with dislike. “Who is this, Arden?”
The slender man laughed. “This is Lord Ian Mackenzie. Be nice to him, old chap. He once saved my life.” The other man didn’t look mollified. Arden released Ian’s hand and clapped him on the arm. “You look uncommonly well, Mackenzie. What has it been, seven years?” “Seven years,” Ian agreed. “And two months.”
Arden burst out laughing. “He always has to be precise. So very, very precise. They let me out, too. My father kicked off a few years after you left our happy home, and my foul brother went next. He got drunk as a lord and drowned in his bath, thank God. I wouldn’t blame his wife one whit if she’d held him under.”
Beth hid a gasp, but Ian nodded. “I am pleased.” “Not as pleased as me, I’ll wager. So there I was, sole heir to the bulk of my father’s fortune. Good Dr. Edwards was rubbing his greedy hands, but my sister got my commission of lunacy reversed, bless her down to her rosette-laden slippers. She and I fled the morbid climes of England and now inhabit a rather drafty house in the French countryside. This is Graves. He lives there, too.”
The dark-haired Graves nodded tersely. Arden chuckled. “He’s jealous as a wet hen; don’t mind him. Is this your wife?”
“This is Mrs. Ackerley,” Ian corrected.