Her third and final almost engagement, though it could hardly even be called that, had caused her to flee London on her brother’s ship. Ever since her come-out, the Marquess of Dalwood had been persistent in a way that had made her skin crawl. She’d barely escaped his slimy clutches.
“Are you going to play, lad?” The low, lazy drawl drizzled through her chaotic thoughts like thick, smoky honey.
She peeked up at Mr. Chase through her lashes and grunted a noncommittal response. Drat, he really was stunning…stunning in the way she imagined a fallen angel would be. A sultry, terrible, beautiful angel meant to lure poor innocent souls into doing depraved things. Her skin heated with what could only be a surge of primitive lust. Ravenna opened her mouth, not even sure what was going to come out—a breathy Take me now or a much smarter I withdraw.
“What’s it to be then?” Mr. Chase asked, idly tapping his long, elegant, tanned fingers against his cards in a repeated sequence that made her stare. His little finger tapped followed by the ring finger, then the middle, ending with his index finger. Those hands looked familiar and strange at the same time. Ravenna felt she might be hallucinating. His voice recalled her with a snap. “I haven’t got all night.”
“A man has to think.”
“I could have sailed to England in the time it takes you to think.”
The other gentlemen at the table had long since backed out, and now it was down to the two of them. He reminded her of a proud, terrifying dragon sitting atop his treasure, daring anyone to come take it. And here she was…attempting to do just that. “You can forfeit if you’re in a hurry,” she grumbled.
“Why would I when I have the winning hand?”
“I’m sure you think you do, especially as quite a bit of money is at stake,” Ravenna remarked, keeping her naturally husky tones low. A man like him missed nothing, and while her disguise of a young, rich, well-born chap had served to fool many, she had the feeling it would not trick him so easily. She had the advantage as dealer, but if she took one more card, she could easily overdraw and lose. Twenty was solid and she doubted he had a natural. Those two cards under his drumming fingertips taunted her.
Mr. Chase peered at her. “What are you called?”
Hiding her sudden dread, Ravenna sketched a cheerful bow from her seated position, hand tipping the brim of her hat. “Mr. Raven Hunt, at your service. Seventh son to a seventh son seeking his fortune, friendship, and a fine adventure.” She cringed. It was a smidge too dramatic, but she held on to her charming grin as though it were a shield.
Eventually, one side of his full lips curled up at the corner into a half smirk. “You’re barely wet behind the ears. What’s a whelp like you doing here?”
“I’m old enough to seek my own way.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” She was still contemplating how to respond when he leaned back in his chair. “I make it my business to know everyone who comes onto my island.”
“Is that a fact, Your High-Handedness?” she shot back.
“Careful, puppy.” His lips tugged into a full smile, though it didn’t make her feel any better. This one was a downright threat. Ravenna bristled. No one, not even Rhystan, had ever spoken to her with such condescension. Who did he think he was?
A duke’s heir, her brain interjected. If local gossip was to be believed anyhow. But the rumor mill on the island was unreliable at best. He had money, certainly—the cut of his clothing revealed that—but Mr. Chase didn’t carry himself like elitist British nobility. Notwithstanding the delicious layer of scruff covering that hard jaw, his attitude was relaxed and unconcerned as though he didn’t need an English title to flaunt his power. No, that came from within…from someone who had earned his place in the world and reveled in it.
Even now, a muscle in his jaw flexed with impatience, a slight tell that there was a good chance he was bluffing and held nothing. Besides, she had three of the aces and the last had already passed. Hadn’t it? Angry at herself for losing the count in the first place, she considered the odds. There was no way he had a natural. Even if he had twenty, she would still win as ties paid the dealer.
With a grand flourish, Ravenna set down her cards. She shot him a wink. “What do you know, old man, you just got trounced by a pup.”
* * *
Courtland Chase sat back in his chair.
Old man? The lad had balls, he’d give him that. Word of the boy’s winning streak had filtered up to him, mostly from grumbling members. This was his hotel and his club, and he made it his business to know what went on. At first, he thought the boy a cheat, but his skill with the cards was extraordinary. Closer scrutiny revealed that the lad didn’t need to cheat to win; he simply kept track of the cards that had been dealt. It was bloody genius.
A fascinated Courtland had kept a watchful eye on the young man from afar for a few weeks, the boy’s natural baby-faced charm making him a popular addition to aristocratic circles. There was something uncannily familiar about that stubborn jaw—the arrogant tilt of that head—but Courtland couldn’t figure out what it was.
The lad was so young he barely had any hair on his pallid chin, but aside from his skill, something about him had rubbed at Courtland. It wasn’t anything more than a feeling that something was out of place, but his instincts had never served him wrong. The boy was hiding something. Not that many of the gents here didn’t—half of them had run from responsibility or duty in England.
Technically, Courtland himself had been run off, but what was in the past was in the past. This was his life now and this was his domain.
Which brought him back to his current predicament.
Disappointment warred with admiration. Skill didn’t mean the boy hadn’t practiced some clever sleight of hand. Nine cards adding up to twenty was incredibly lucky. Or extremely resourceful. Courtland didn’t know how, but the more he thought about it, the more it was likely that the boy had probably cheated. He had to set an example or thieves would run roughshod all over him. No one had that kind of luck.
Courtland set his cards down—without disclosing them—and steepled his fingers over his chest. “We don’t abide cheaters at the Starlight.”
“I’m not a cheater.”
Courtland’s brows rose in challenge. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Nine cards and not overdrawing is more than sheer skill.”
“Sore loser?” a confident Hunt shot back. “I wouldn’t have countenanced it.”
Courtland blinked. What an odd choice of phrase. It tickled at his memory. Not that the local toffs didn’t speak the Queen’s English, but it wasn’t as common a saying on the island. It was a pretentious expression, typically wielded by some censorious tongue in a London drawing room. His own stepmother had been fond of it.