Page 22 of From Duke Till Dawn
“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.
At her silence, Martin continued, “He was a grand pigeon. Didn’t you tell me you got five hundred pounds off him?” He whistled. “A juicy plum to take from a single mark. Don’t you think,” he continued, “you ought to go back to that tree once more? See if you can’t pick some more plums?”
Cassandra forced breath into her lungs. “I’m done with the duke,” she said gruffly. “Got what I wanted and moved on.” She drew herself up. “Now’s the time to think about what we’re doing right now. To think about the future.”
Her mentor looked disappointed. “Is this my bold Cassie? The same gel who swindled twenty pounds from a vicar?”
She didn’t like remembering her early jobs, when she’d been brash and hungry. “I’m thinking about the now, Martin. The gaming hell. Everything else is a needless distraction. Including His Grace.”
“You’re a woman grown, and I have faith in your judgment,” Martin said, “but I’d think again about Lord Greyland. The iron is hot, Cassie.”
“Pigeons, trees, irons,” she muttered. “He’s a man.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is that why you brought me here, to set me to chiseling the duke again?”
“I’d hate for any of us to lose an opportunity,” he answered. “You never know what’s around a corner. It’s called a Wheel of Fortune because it turns.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Something coming up I should know about?”
He smiled at her. “Just life, Cassie. It comes around and rips out our throats if we’re not careful.” Martin gently chucked her under the chin. Then ambled out of the alcove to take up his position as the master of this establishment.
Cassandra leaned back in the alcove, using the wall to support herself.A little longer. Just twelve days before they could shutter the club and divide the profits. Her new life awaited her. One free of burdens, freed from the past. She thanked the heavens now that they’d picked such a short duration for the club’s existence. Six months or a year in London, having Alex close at hand but completely unreachable, was a torture she couldn’t endure.
She had to get through this span of time. If it didn’t go as planned... she’d lose everything.
With a rough exhalation, she straightened, preparing to go back on the floor.
Alex stepped into the alcove. Without touching her, he angled his body to corral her back into the niche.
Her sigh stopped, strangled in her throat.
The look on his face...
She took an instinctive step back, her hand flying up to shield herself. Which was stupid, because he was much stronger and bigger than her, and if he wanted to hurt her, there was very little she could do to stop him.
His jaw was iron hard, his cheeks dark, and his brows had drawn down into a chevron of anger. Pure, unfiltered rage was in his face. He was barely stopping himself from throttling her right there.
