Page 74

And if it worked, he would absolutely murder her.

The second hand was dealt.

“I brag,” the marquis said. Little surprise there.

Clara had a passable hand. She did not brag, but it kept her in the game. Lord Howell folded.

It was down to the marquis and Clara.

The marquis was more interested in the lady leaning on his arm, cleavage on great display. Clara could hardly blame him. The cleavage was impressive.

Selene had insisted on it.

She had dusted herself with a glimmering powder that smelled like sweet pastries, pasting a jewel just between the swells of her breasts. The result was impressive—and helpful. Not strictly cheating, and so not likely to be something Devil bothered with. If the marquis was so easily discombobulated by cleavage, he ought to close his eyes.

“I brag,” he said again, eyes on Selene. She waved her fan, perfume softening the edges of the crowd.

“I brag,” Clara returned, taking him by surprise. She bet her mother’s favorite diamond bracelet.

And now she was officially out of items to bet.

Small problem—the game was not over.

The marquis frowned, annoyed. Before he could add anything to the wager, Clara cleared her throat. It was time to show her cards. Literally and figuratively.

The marquis was sweating, just a little. Selene waved her fan, three short waves, one flutter indicating that he did not have an unbeatable winning hand.

Clara had a chance.

Cheating did not bother her in the least when it came to abducted women. Devil might feel different. He was notoriously scrupulous about it. It was why Devil’s Nights worked. A tiny, helpful nod from Selene was all they could risk.

“Shall we make this interesting, Lord Eastbourne?” Clara asked loudly.

He looked down his patrician nose at her. “We are already interesting, Lady Clara. Perhaps you are so little acquainted with the feeling that you fail to recognize it.”

Where that might have cut her, just a little, some months ago, now it bored her. She yawned delicately beyond her fan. The insult did not go unnoticed. He bristled. “Anyone can wager money or jewels,” she said. “I call a Clever Devil.”

A Clever Devil was in no book on card games that she had ever read. It was only a quirk of Devil’s Night. A trick to play before the last hand was revealed or the dice thrown. A wager on top of the wager, something unexpected. Unusual. Desperate.

“And what could you possibly have that I would want?” The marquis laughed. “You don’t expect me to marry you, do you?”

More than one alliance had been wrought through a Clever Devil. Clara’s answering laugh was unplanned and unstoppable. She would sooner marry a goat.

It was her laugh that did it.

A dowdy spinster disdaining a marquis. The crowd doubled in size. Wagers were placed behind them.

“What, then?” the marquis snapped.

Clara had no great fortune, no great beauty. Nothing to wager.

Except her own secret.

“I wager the identity of the Nightingale.”

Eyes widened, and remarks rose like the tide. Someone scoffed. One of the guards looked up at Devil, who was still on the balcony, now directly overhead. He met Clara’s gaze. She did not look away. Bram made a sound that could only be described as a warning growl.

The other risk to a Clever Devil was that if Devil did not approve it, the person calling for it lost the game immediately.