From Chapter Two…

She was no better than a common trollop, Broadmoor decided, trading her favors for money. He felt his blood race to think that the fate of his family rested in the hands of such a hussy. He could tell from the swiftness with which she shuffled, cut, and then dealt the cards that she spent many hours at the tables. Her hands plied the cards like those of an expert pianist over the ivories. He was surprised that her hands could retain such deftness after watching her consume two glasses of wine within the hour and welcome a third. He shook his head.

Shameless.

Broadmoor felt as if he had seen enough of her unrefined behavior, but something about her compelled him to stay. Miss Sherwood, who had begun slurring her words and laughing at unwarranted moments as the night wore on, seemed to enjoy the attentions, but despite her obvious inebriation, her laughter sounded forced. There were instances when he thought he saw sadness in her eyes, but they were fleeting, like illusions taunting the fevered brain.

It was foolhardy for a woman to let down her guard in such company. She would require more than the assistance of the aging butler and scrawny page he had noticed earlier to keep these hounds at bay. Could it possibly be a sense of chivalry that obliged him to stay even as he believed that a woman of her sort deserved the fate that she was recklessly enticing? His family and friends would have been astounded to think it possible.

“My word, but Lady Luck has favored you tonight!” Rutgers exclaimed to Miss Sherwood, who had won her fourth hand in a row.

“Miss Sherwood has been in Her Company the whole week,” remarked Mr. Wempole, a local banker, “since winning the deed to Brayten. I daresay you may soon pay off your debts to me.”

Broadmoor ground his teeth at the mention of his late uncle’s estate and barely noticed the flush that had crept up Miss Sherwood’s face.

“It was quite unexpected,” Miss Sherwood responded. “I rather think that I might—”

“That were no luck but pure skill!” declared Viscount Wyndham, the future Earl of Brent.

“Alas, I have lost my final pound tonight and have no hope of winning a song from Miss Sherwood,” lamented Rutgers.

“I would play one final round,” said Miss Sherwood as she shuffled the deck, the cards falling from her slender fingers with a contented sigh, “but brag is best played with at least a fourth.”

“Permit me,” said Broadmoor, emerging from the shadows. He rationalized to himself that he very much desired to put the chit in her place, but that could only partly explain why he was drawn to her table.

She raised an eyebrow before appraising him with a gaze that swept from the top of his head to the bottom of his gleaming Hessians. “We welcome all manner of strangers – especially those with ample purses.”

Brazen jade, Broadmoor thought to himself as he took a seat opposite her and pulled out his money.

“Buggers,” the schoolboy groused immediately after the cards were dealt and reached for a bottle of burgundy to refill his glass.

Glancing up from the three cards he held, Broadmoor found Miss Sherwood staring at him with an intensity that pinned him to his chair. The corners of her mouth turned upward as her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Looking at her sensuously full lips, Broadmoor could easily see how she had all the men here in the palm of her hand. He wondered, briefly, how those lips would feel under his.

“Our cards are known to be friendly to newcomers,” she informed him. “I hope they do not fail to disappoint.”

He gave only a small smile. She thought him a naïve novice if she expected him to reveal anything of the hand that he held.

Darcy turned her watchful eye to Newcastle, whose brow was knitted in deep concentration. She leaned towards him – her breasts nearly grazing the top of the table – and playfully tapped him on the forearm. “Lady Luck can pass you by no longer for surely your patience will warrant her good graces.”

Radcliff tried not to notice the two orbs pertly pushed and separated above her bodice. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat for despite his inclination to find himself at odds with anything Katherine said, he was beginning to believe his aunt. Miss Sherwood possessed a beauty and aura that was like the call of Sirens, luring men to their doom. His own cock, with what seemed a mind of its own, stirred.

His slight movement seemed to catch her eye instantly, but she responded only by reaching for her glass of wine. After taking a long drink, she slammed the glass down upon the table. “Shall we make our last round for the evening the most dramatic, my dears? I shall offer a song – and a kiss…”

A murmur of excitement mixed with hooting and hollering waved over the room.

“…worth a hundred quid,” she finished.

“Buggers,” the schoolboy grumbled again after opening his purse to find he did not have the requisite amount. He threw his cards onto the table with disgust and grabbed the burgundy for consolation.

Newcastle pulled at his cravat, looked at his cards several times, before finally shaking his head sadly. Miss Sherwood fixed her gaze upon Radcliff next. He returned her stare and fancied that she actually seemed unsettled for the briefest of moments.

Almond brown. Her eyes were almond brown. And despite their piercing gaze, they seemed to be filled with warmth – like the comforting flame of a hearth in winter. Broadmoor decided it must be the wine that leant such an effect to her eyes. How like the Ironies in Life that she should possess such loveliness to cover a black soul.

“Shall we put an end to the game?” Miss Sherwood asked.

“As you please,” Broadmoor replied without emotion. Her Siren’s call would not work on him. “I will see your cards.”

He pulled out two additional hundreds, placing the money on the table with a solemn deliberation that belied his eagerness.

Smiling triumphantly, Miss Sherwood displayed an ace of hearts, a king of diamonds, and a queen of diamonds.

“Though I would have welcomed a win, the joy was in the game,” Newcastle said. “I could not derive more pleasure than in losing to you, Miss Sherwood.”

Miss Sherwood smiled. “Nor could I ask for a more gallant opponent.”

She reached for the money in the middle of the table, but Broadmoor caught her hand.

“It is as you say, Miss Sherwood,” he said and revealed a running flush of spades. “Your cards are indeed friendly to newcomers.”

For the first time that evening, Broadmoor saw her frown, but she recovered quickly. “Then I presume you will hence no longer be a stranger to our tables?”

Broadmoor was quiet as he collected the money.

“Beginner’s luck,” the schoolboy muttered.

Newcastle turned his attention to Broadmoor for the first time. “Good sir, I congratulate you on a most remarkable win. I am James Newcastle of Newcastle and Holmes Trading. Our offices are in Liverpool, but you may have heard of the company nonetheless. I should very much like to increase your winnings for the evening by offering you fifty pounds in exchange for Miss Sherwood’s song and, er, kiss.”

“I believe the song went for fifty and the kiss a hundred,” Broadmoor responded.

“Er – yes. A hundred. That would make it a, er, hundred and fifty.”

“I am quite content with what I have won. Indeed, I should like to delay no longer my claim to the first of my winnings.”

“Very well,” said Miss Sherwood cheerfully as she rose. “I but hope you will not regret that you declined the generous offer by Mr. Newcastle.”

She headed towards the pianoforte in the corner of the room, but Broadmoor stopped her with his words.

“In private, Miss Sherwood.”

In contrast to her confident manners all evening, Miss Sherwood seemed to hesitate before flashing him one of her most brilliant smiles. “Of course. But would you not care for a supper first? Or a glass of port in our dining room?”

“No.”

“Very well then. Jeremy will escort you to our humble parlor, and I shall be in attendance shortly.”

Broadmoor rose from his chair to follow the page. From the corner of his eye, he saw Newcastle looking after them with both longing and consternation. As he passed out of the gaming room, he heard Rutgers mutter, “Lucky fucking bastard.”

For a moment Broadmoor felt pleased with having won the game and imagined his mouth claiming hers. What would her body feel like pressed to his? Those hips and breasts of hers were made to be grabbed…

But hers was a well traversed territory, he reminded himself. Based on his inquiries into Miss Sherwood, the woman changed lovers as frequently as if they were French fashion, and her skills at the card table were matched only by her skills in the bedchamber. The men spoke in almost wistful, tortured tones regarding the latter and often with an odd flush in the cheeks that Broadmoor found strange – and curious. It was evident tonight that her spell continued to work its charms.

But he, the fourth Baron Broadmoor, had a single objective in seeking out Miss Darcy Sherwood: to wrest from the wicked harlot what rightfully belonged to his family. And he meant to do so at any cost.