From Duke till Dawn: 2018’s most scandalous Regency read. Eva Leigh

would simply tell them what she’d said to Alex. None of them would pursue her with the same single-minded purpose, however. They were feckless men in search of the next amusement. So unlike Alex.

      “A word, Mrs. Blair?”

      Startled, Cassandra whirled to face Martin, standing behind her.

      “Apologies, Mr. Hamish,” she murmured. “I didn’t see you there.”

      Martin gazed at her sadly. “Unlike you.” He placed a hand on her back and gestured toward an alcove off the nearby hallway. “A word?”

      Dread pooled in her stomach. Whatever it was he had to say, she was in no humor to hear it.

      “Of course,” she said brightly.

      She permitted him to guide her toward the alcove, making certain that her face didn’t betray her edgy wariness.

      Once they were safely hidden in the nook, Martin faced her, his back to the room. He was a somewhat tall man, with a broad torso and she couldn’t see past him, which made her slightly anxious. A full view of any room was good. She craved the sight of windows. Damn those early years with her father in the Marshalsea. It didn’t take much for her to feel choked and uneasy.

      Martin’s eyes were concerned but alert. Despite their privacy, he didn’t drop his Scottish accent. “I worry for you, my dear.”

      “There’s no need for concern,” she answered.

      “You say that too quickly,” he noted. Always a keen observer, that Martin. “Didn’t even ask me what made me worried about you.”

      She shrugged warily.

      “You’re drifting through the place like a low-lying mist,” Martin said.

      “I’ve brought dozens of people to the tables tonight alone,” she replied defensively.

      Martin held up his hands. “Never suggested you weren’t doing your job. But I’m a bloke whose known you since you were a Southwark urchin, picking pockets for coin and handkerchiefs. That smile of yours looks as counterfeit as Dusty John’s forgeries, and your eyes just as dull as the coins he makes in his basement.”

      A wash of heat flooded Cassandra’s cheeks. She should be more difficult to read, but then, as Martin had pointed out, they knew each other well. Too well, perhaps.

      “Maybe it’s regret that makes you so distant tonight,” Martin speculated gently.

      “I’ve got nothing to regret,” she replied automatically. Only when the words left her mouth did she realize that wasn’t entirely true. She wished she’d never selected Alex as a mark, and she wished she’d never come to London.

      What was up and what was down? Left and right?

      She’d find her bearings again, once she had her share of the profits from the hell. When she left London, she’d never look back. And let heartbreak be her constant companion.

      Alex had no idea how easy his life was, or the comfort and security of his existence. A peculiar resentment bubbled up at the thought, but she forced it down. She’d never see him again, and he could go back to his sheltered life, leaving her to the peril of her own.

      “No?” Martin pressed. “Not even a grain of remorse for letting the Duke of Greyland slip through your fingers?”

      Her breath deserted her and an ache settled between her ribs.