and be able to neutralize Lord Geoffrey within two weeks?”
“Well, I couldn’t actually guarantee—”
She nodded, suspecting as much. “Then surely you can understand why I am willing to risk everything, even my reputation, Mr. Renquist. Miss Talbot will be quite literally sold into marriage to a man she does not even know if we are unable to acquire evidence of his cheating. I have the resources as well as entrée to the hells Morgan frequents. Meanwhile, I would like you and your men to find other men who have lost heavily to Morgan. I want to know how many of them suspect him of trickery, and if they have any idea how he might have done it. Furthermore, I would like any information you can uncover about the man himself—who his friends are, how he spends his time when he is not gambling, where he goes—”
“It is precisely because of Lord Geoffrey’s reputation that I would urge you to distance yourself,” Renquist interrupted.
“His reputation is not my concern unless it affects Miss Talbot’s case.” She sighed, thinking of the man she had seen last night at the Pigeon Hole. When Constance had kept his company, he’d been well-mannered and polite. Geoffrey Morgan had an air of banked vitality that society women would find vaguely unsettling—the same vitality that lay beneath Adam Hawthorne’s smooth grace. She found that vigor curiously attractive in both men. What might they be like beneath the surface, if they chose to unveil themselves?
She gave herself a mental shake and made another quarter turn on the stool. “I merely mean to observe the man to determine if he is cheating, and then, if he is, to think of the best possible way to expose him, thus rendering the markers he holds null and void. Simplicity itself, Mr. Renquist. Not in the least dangerous or complicated.”
Renquist was watching her with apprehension. “My blood chills when I hear those words from the ladies of the Wednesday League,” he murmured. “Do you promise to come to me if you are in any danger, Mrs. Forbush?”
She laughed at Mr. Renquist’s needless concern and shrugged, drawing an annoyed cluck from Madame Marie. “I am not tracking a murderer, sir, but you have my oath.”
Stealing a few minutes before the dinner bell that evening, Grace slipped into the library and sat at the massive mahogany desk. Withdrawing a sheet of paper and a pen from the center drawer, she began to make a list.
The Pigeon Hole, the Two Sevens, Rupert House, Thackery’s, Belmonde’s, Fabrey’s and the Blue Moon—a new and very popular hell. Those were the establishments she knew Morgan frequented. As for the games he favored—hazard, faro, vingt-et-un, rouge-et-noir, E.O. and picquet. Though she hadn’t chosen the hell for their encounter, she picked the game. It would have to be picquet. It was one of the few games that allowed her to wager Morgan directly without the intervention of a dealer or banker and did not require a partner. The house would be due a percentage of the wager, but that should not present a problem.
She tapped the end of the pen against her cheek as she thought. Morgan was not likely to risk cheating for an inconsequential wager, so she must think of a way to make the wager worth the risk. “How much would be enough?” she mused out loud.
“The eternal question,” a deeply masculine voice answered.
She looked up and found Adam standing in the doorway. He grinned and stepped into the library, closing the door behind him. Impeccably dressed, he exuded an aura of easy self-confidence as he went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry. He was obviously planning to go out for the evening and she was pleased to see that he’d found something to fit him.
With a glance in her direction, he poured a second glass. “You look as if you could use it,” he explained as he brought it to her and sat across the desk from her.
She smiled. “Oh, please won’t you come in and join me, Mr. Hawthorne? Do sit down.”
He laughed at her teasing, and the easy sound made her laugh, too. “Have I been impertinent? I forget to be formal. I practically grew up in this house and I forget that circumstances are different now.”
“You must make yourself at home,” Grace told him truthfully. “I was not aware that you’d spent so much time here. You and Mr. Forbush were close, I gather?”
“Quite. My mother—his sister—died of consumption when I was still at home with a governess. My father was killed riding to the hounds when I was at Eton. From that time forward, Uncle Basil and I were all we had of family. I came here for most holidays, and in summer we would spend a few weeks at the cottage in Devon.”
Grace nodded. Basil had told her as much. It was part of those lands in Devon that Leland had traded her for. “I’ve asked my solicitor to go over Basil’s will and determine what should have been yours. You may well be entitled to this house, and then Dianthe and I would have to prevail upon your hospitality until we could find accommodations elsewhere.”
“Which I would give as gladly as you have,” he said, raising his glass. After drinking, he regarded her through those deep hazel eyes. “Did I interrupt your calculations on ‘how much would be enough’ to settle with me?”
“No, I…” Grace stopped. Had there been a note of suspicion in Adam’s voice? “Do you think I would cheat you, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“I barely know you, Mrs. Forbush. How would I know what you might or might not do?”
She felt his suspicion like an insult. “I suppose you wouldn’t, sir.” He stood and came around the desk to look over her shoulder. She fought the instinct to cover her list, knowing that would only make him more suspicious.
“Hells and games of chance? Is that what you were calculating?”
“I…um, yes. I have not been able to determine if there is a maximum wager at any particular game. I wondered how much would be enough to make the house declare a limit.”
“Are you such a deep player that you want to wager the limit?”
“I merely wish to know what it is.” And how much it would take to tempt Lord Geoffrey into cheating.
“That would depend upon the hell.”
“I see. Well, thank you for the education, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Why hasn’t Barrington undertaken your, er, education, Mrs. Forbush?”
She shrugged. “We are going again tonight, but he does not approve of my new interest. He barely tolerates my attendance at some of the hells. I fear he may refuse to escort me at any moment.”
Adam moved to the fireplace and rested one arm on the mantel. “I believe that may well be the best decision.”
She took a deep sip from her sherry and stood. “Because you disapprove of a woman engaged in a male pastime?”
“Because anything could happen to a lady at a hell. Men are not…at their best in such circumstances.”
“And who knows where it all would end?” she asked archly as she went to the sideboard to refill her glass. “What next, sir? Women’s clubs? Women in taverns? Unescorted to restaurants? Frequenting brothels?”
He laughed. “Aside from the last, those prospects do not alarm me in the least. But how can a man indulge his baser nature with a wife or daughter looking on?”
“Ah, then mankind is safe, since I am neither any man’s wife or daughter.” But she was Leland’s sister, and that could be a problem unless she concluded this matter quickly.
“I daresay you would be shocked at what men do outside of female observation.”
She smiled. After all the cases the Wednesday League had taken, she doubted she was capable of shock but the notion intrigued her. “Would you even have any idea what it would take to shock me, sir?”
Adam left his glass on the mantel and came toward her, an enigmatic expression on his face. “I believe I would, madam.”
Before