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Bint stiffened, and his hands flew up to smooth the lapels of his coat once more. Rowden stifled a growl, the reflex of a predator sensing another male coveted his mate. Rowden was not the sort to harbor flashes of intuition, nor did he consider himself uncommonly perceptive about people, but it occurred to him that Bint’s sudden aspirations at an expensive home and carriage, fine dress, and gentleman’s status were not entirely made at Sophronia’s expense. Bint coveted everything Henry Hinton had possessed, up to and including his wife.

Bint might not have considered it stealing if he were using Sophronia’s own funds to impress her. Or to impoverish her and then persuade her to become dependent on him.

The hot urge rose to throttle both of these men who had, in their different ways, brought Sophronia torment. And for no other reason than that they wished to acquire her property along with her person. For these two, they likely couldn’t distinguish which held the greater attraction.

Whereas Rowden wanted her strictly for her person. That lush, feminine form, that sensuous woman with her husky voice and flashing eyes. That quick mind and tender, generous heart, and that stubborn, sensible nature that would pursue practicality at the expense of her softer feelings. Hell’s knees, how he wanted to kiss her until she forgot how to be practical. He wished he could seduce her good sense straight out of her.

Feltham looked as if he were having equally lascivious thoughts, and Rowden was glad he’d set his walking stick aside so he wasn’t tempted to swing it at the other man. He would vent his spleen at the faro table. That was the entire reason they were here.

“Lily wanted to come, but I discouraged it,” Sophronia said to Rowden as she approached. “I could not chaperone and keep my head for play at the same time, I know. Fortunate I am a derelict widow who does not require a chaperone.”

But she certainly required protection from ravening males, Rowden thought. Not least of all him.

“Mrs. Hinton. Very good to see you, mum.” Will bustled up with the casekeep and the device that would deal the cards, delivering both to the baize table. Rowden checked surreptitiously to ensure Will had brought the trick shoe, the one with the mirror. While Will fussed with the placement of these devices, adjusting the casekeep with its rows of beads, Rowden ensured that his strings were in place.

The table was set. The players were here.

He had run this faro table a hundred times, and cheated a score or more of those evenings, but never had the stakes been so high.

“Foster,” Rowden said in surprise as his friend approached. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Wondered if you’d heard the news.” Foster nodded at the other men, then took a seat at the table. “Uprising in the Helvetic Republic.”

“Not going to bore us with talk of politics, are you?” Humphrey selected his seat. “Don’t see how doings among the Swiss should touch us.”

“I imagine Lord Grenville, the Foreign Secretary, is concerned.” Sophronia took a seat near Rowden and close to Will, who grinned at her from his perch on his own stool. Will had clearly taken a liking to her, and Rowden told himself to give the boy extra coin later to reward him for his sharp wits.

“The Swiss are clever bankers.” Bint was determined not to be left out of the conversation. “Their secrecy laws mean the monarch can hide his debts.”

“I’ll wager King George wishes for a veil of secrecy.” Humphrey chuckled.

“And Prinny all the more so. But it would be impossible to hide one’s debts when you must petition Parliament to raise your allowance.” Lady Amalie appeared, resplendent in a gown of yellow figured silk, with her guinea-gold curls caught up in a bandeau that trailed its ends over one slim shoulder. She beamed at Sophronia. “I saw you enter and followed you. May I join in your entertainment, even if I do not wish to play?”

“Of course you might.” Sophronia beamed back at her, moving her chair to make room for her friend.

Rowden gritted his teeth to keep in a curse. Foster was bad enough, adding a distraction to the game that Rowden didn’t need and making the play more complex, but he could count on Foster not to raise suspicions if he guessed what Rowden was about. He could not say the same of Lady Amalie.

As a spectator able to focus on more than just her own bets, she might watch the board, or the shoe, all too closely. Wretched woman, inserting herself where she was not wanted, but Rowden could not very well tell an earl’s sister she was unwelcome. Atwood and Pearse would flay him alive for alienating a lady and the sister of a respected lord.

“Oh, thank you. I could not find any companions to amuse me in the dining parlor, which is thin of company tonight, but I dare not enter the women’s gaming parlor. My brother says I must not put any more of his money into the pockets of Mr. Rowden.”

Lady Amalie winked at Rowden as she sat between Sophronia and Will. She lay her enormous muff on the table beside her, interfering with the players’ sight of the abacus-looking casekeep and, behind it, the shoe.

Brilliant, clever woman.

“Checks cost one hundred pounds.” Rowden took his place in the dealer’s position and shuffled the deck. The players collected their tokens while he loaded cards into the shoe, and the collection process meant no one watched Rowden manage to make several pairs as the cards went in. No one but Will, that was.

Bint tugged at his neckcloth and shifted on his chair, watching the others. Humphrey confidently placed his check, betting high. Sophronia tapped her check against her cheek, then placed the token in the space between several cards, hedging her bet. Bint squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then pushed his check onto a card of middle rank.

Rowden drew the first card and set it aside. Bint hastily coppered his bet, placing the small copper token atop his check. Rowden drew the banker’s card and the player’s card. Humphrey scowled. Bint looked relieved. Sophronia looked surprised.

“Payout to Mrs. Hinton,” Rowden said. “Place your new bets.”

“Beginner’s luck, I should imagine.” Sophronia raised her eyebrows at her new friend.

Amalie chuckled. “You will become known as one of those fast faro ladies, like the Countess of Buckinghamshire.”

“I do not plan to run a faro bank from my house as she does,” Sophronia returned. “I wish to set up a respectable girls’ school, as you know. I must only procure the funds.”