Luck Be A Lady by Meredith Duran

Author:Meredith Duran
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

A full set, you say?” Batten lifted the teacup to the light.

“Yes,” said Catherine. The cup was petite and elegant, scrolled porcelain decorated in cobalt blue. Dr. Wall square-marked Worcester, very rare. She had stolen it from her sitting room in the House of Diamonds. “The entire set is in mint condition. I don’t think anybody ever used it.”

He set down the cup and looked over the rest of her spread—today, a Sèvres figurine and an Elizabethan chalice wrought in silver. Every morning for ten days she had brought him items purloined from the House of Diamonds. Each evening, escorted by Mr. Johnson, she returned to Diamonds and replaced the items before anybody could remark their absence.

“All of these come from the same collection?” Batten asked.

She nodded.

“I know you cannot tell me his name,” he said in a leading tone. “But surely, just a hint . . .”

“I’ve given my word to stay mum.” She could hardly tell him the truth: that she was living in a gaming club, and enjoying it far more than she ought.

It was wondrous to live independently. For the first time in her life, she could come and go as she pleased. No butler to harass her about dinner menus, or pout at her indifference to domestic chores. No lady’s maid to spy on her for Peter. She would never keep a maid again, in fact; she was no grand lady, with complicated corsetry and gowns that required assistance to remove. In the evenings, she took her meals in her sitting room, free to work, with no concern of Peter ambushing her with impromptu guests like Pilcher. And on those rare occasions when tedium struck, she need only walk out to the balcony, and spy on the bizarre antics of the players below.

Even the staff at Diamonds suited her. The footmen took no interest in her, for unlike the players, she gave them no tips. The kitchens, trained in producing feasts for the discerning palates of wealthy gamblers, routinely delivered miracles of French high cuisine. Two maids saw to her baths and laundry—cheerful, plainspoken creatures, without airs or pretensions.

And then there was Mr. O’Shea . . .

Had the room grown hotter suddenly? She blotted her brow with her handkerchief. She had not taken him up on his invitation to play cards again. In fact, she had kept to her rooms for three nights running, to avoid him.

For three nights running, she had dreamed of what would happen should she lose again.

“How mysterious!” Batten exclaimed. He was stroking the rim of the silver chalice, humming his appreciation as he traced the engraving. “One rarely sees such an eclectic collection, so expertly curated. He must have an unusually broad education.”

“Unusual, yes,” she said faintly. No gentleman had ever managed to tempt her. But she found herself tormented by thoughts of a cardsharp, a criminal, a ruffian . . . A curious, unexpectedly kind, alarmingly fascinating, beautiful man.

She resolved to lock herself in her rooms again tonight.

“Do you think he might be interested in selling his estate?” Batten asked.

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