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“You bring him here?” Humphrey threw his checks onto the layout, continuing their play. His face was turning purple, a sickly contrast to the bright blue of his suit. “You…you parade him before me on purpose!”

“On the contrary, Ned and I are simply enjoying an evening out,” Fanny said. “Before we adjourn to…other pursuits.”

Amalie glanced back and forth between the gentleman and his companion, her expression one of amusement. Fanny was armed to the teeth with silks, ruffles, jewels, and makeup, the rouge standing out in dark triangles on her cheeks.

“Really, Ned?” she drawled, gentle disdain standing out in her voice.

“Lady Amalie.” Delaval gave her a quirk of a smile. He was featured in the cartoons almost as often as Rowden, and the artists frequently captured that scoffing, devil-may-care smile. “Does your brother know you are here? Or his wife?”

“Harriette comes with me now and again, when she has the time,” Amalie answered. “But I have never seen you at the Albion.”

“I venture in occasionally, though tonight it was Fanny’s idea,” Delaval said. He acknowledged Rowden with a brief nod. “Always enjoy the Albion, I must say.”

“You are here because I am,” Humphrey said in a tight, high voice. “You are only here to taunt me.”

Amalie moved her muff across the table so it rested on Humphrey’s outstretched hand, which trembled in a fist on the green baize. Humiliation scorched his cheeks.

“My dear Mr. Feltham,” Amalie said sweetly. “Surely you have never paid the least attention to a Fanny Glass? When you could have any woman of your choice?”

Humphrey turned his eyes to her like a drowning man searching for succor. His throat worked without words. Sophronia leaned backward on her chair, shifting her weight. She drew a breath, then, as if she heard Rowden willing her to be quiet, she pursed her lips shut.

“Mr. Feltham.” Fanny looked smug and very pleased with herself. Her breasts swelled out of her low bodice, accentuated by her clutching Delaval’s arm to her middle. “I hope I have not wounded your heart past recovery.”

“I do not think you’ve devastated Feltham in the least,” Rowden said in a cool, bored drawl. “He’s got much better prospects. This means you withdraw your challenge to Delaval, don’t you, Feltham?”

Ned touched the brim of his hat. He looked unruffled at being challenged to a duel. Rowden imagined it happened to him fairly frequently. The man was an infamous rake, completely charming, notoriously devastating to women, and he was a fortune hunter to boot, despite the allowance Hunsdon gave him. Rowden couldn’t imagine he had anything to offer Fanny other than letting her be seen in the company of the illegitimate half-brother to a highly respected, powerful duke.

Ned’s gaze wandered over Sophronia with slow appreciation, and Rowden stiffened. He had been spending the last few mornings sacrificing his rides with Sophronia trying to keep Feltham from calling Delaval out for stealing Fanny from him. He ought to simply let Ned run Feltham through with a sword, but Rowden feared that Sophronia would be upset if Rowden, as his second, didn’t perform his obligation to try to settle the injury to Feltham’s honor without bloodshed.

“Humphrey?” Sophronia turned to her cousin, hemmed in slightly by Lady Amalie’s enormous muff. “You challenged Mr. Delaval to a duel? Over Fanny Glass?”

“I beg your pardon,” Fanny huffed. “Many men have dueled over me. Scores of them.”

“Mr. Delaval.” Sophronia turned to the rake. “Please do not kill my cousin.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Delaval said agreeably, giving her his roguish grin. “But Rowden’s already talked him down from the boughs, I think. That’s the way of it, isn’t it, Feltham?”

“Indeed it is,” Lady Amalie said. “Mr. Feltham has already moved on to…” She looked Fanny up and down. “Fresher pastures.”

“Fresher— You dare!” Fanny’s bosom heaved in indignation. “Ned, do something!”

“I’d say it’s time we moved on also.” Delaval touched the brim of his hat to Amalie, then Sophronia. “Hoy, look to your man there. He’s about to flash the hash, or slide under the table.”

The pair departed. Amalie withdrew her muff. No one cared that she had disarranged the checks on the table. Bint sagged on his stool, his face nearly as green as his coat, held up only by the strong grip of Foster, who raised his eyebrows in Rowden’s direction.

“Duels,” Bint was saying faintly in a litany of repetition. “Courtesans. Gambling. Thousands of pounds…thousands…” His voice grew ever fainter. He swiped a handkerchief across his brow. “Thousands. Dear God.”

“That amusing conversation has brought us to the turn,” Rowden announced. “Players, your bets. Take heart, Bint. Nothing is lost until the last card is played.”

“I’m going all in.” Feltham was cheerful now that his life was no longer in danger of being ended in a duel at dawn. “Advise you to do the same, Bint.”

Rowden didn’t look at Sophronia, but he saw Will give her the same signal as before. Will chose the order of the remaining cards, and Rowden, with the aid of his trick mirror and nimble fingers, would ensure his prediction came true.

Sophronia, her hands trembling slightly, arranged her checks. She might have kept the household accounts for Hinton and noted the monies going in and out, but she wouldn’t have held thousands in her hand at any given time, nor squandered thousands of pounds on the turn of the card. Such risks went against her careful, practical nature.

Rowden drew the cards and turned up the hock last. “Look at this, Foster. It appears you’ve won back your debt to the Albion. I believe your ledger is clear at last.”

“That’s a relief. Can’t afford your games on my salary, Rowden,” Foster said. “Don’t know why I let you lure me in.”