“Then why are you here?” he pursued
“I am here—because … I have not the choice,” she answered honestly.
Filey and Hill were vying for her attention at that moment, and she smiled at them and told them in French to behave themselves and place their bets, and then repeated the command in English.
“You do it all so well …” Ryker whispered as he bent in to her ear.
“I do it well?”
“The French—the style … the handling of the puppies flocking around you …” Ryker said softly. “One might assume you are used to managing a younger brother?”
She turned a sharp eye up to his handsome face and saw his twinkling gray eyes. She took an involuntary breath. “La, m’sieur, it is a thing of nonsense you speak …”
His words seemed calculated. He appeared as though he wanted something, but she wasn’t sure what. “Nonsense, is it? You know better, don’t you, Babette?”
There was something in the way he said the name. There was something in his eyes that challenged her. Had he guessed? Did he know … faith … could he know, she asked herself. She looked long into his wonderful, speaking eyes, and her heart reached out for him, but just past him she saw the devil himself looking her way, and all thought was stalled save one: she had crossed over the line!
Why had she not realized that this was so much more than a ‘lark’ to make money? Why had she not seen that so many besides herself would be hurt if someone like Omsbury were to become curious about Babette?
Lord Omsbury had walked towards her faro table, and she found she couldn’t breathe. Being with Ryker that day had very thoroughly launched a desire to win his heart. She wanted him, and she wanted him to love her. However, to do so, she would have to confess all to him.
Now she was in the path of a cannon, a
nd that cannon was Omsbury! What should she do? What could she do?
This was a danger … had always been a danger—why had she not seen it? Why hadn’t she realized she couldn’t maintain this charade without putting her family in the direct line of social ruin?
When he stopped and chatted with a few gentlemen, the light from the wall sconces gave him an eerie glow—and for a moment, she thought she might faint. How could she pull this off? Would he know her?
If he discovered her disguise this evening, he would threaten to destroy her family if she didn’t do what he wanted—and what he wanted would totally ruin her life.
Panic made her ill, for he seemed once again to look her way with intent. She was suddenly struck with the enormity of her crime. She was a gently bred daughter of the aristocracy playing at being a dealing house wench!
However, as it turned out, the cannon wasn’t aimed at her. She was wrong—he wasn’t looking at her but at someone past her. She turned and saw Ben. He was walking towards Ben, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Ben would know how to deal with Omsbury!
*
As it happened Omsbury was too self-absorbed to notice anything other than that when he approached Ben Clay the man appeared a bit nervous; however, he thought nothing of that. He smiled smugly, certain it was due to the notes he held over the fellow’s head. He meant him no ill, but he wanted Jewelene and was ruthless enough to stop at nothing to get what he wanted. At Ben’s table, he placed his bet, stacking his rouleaux neatly on the board and saying, without meeting Ben’s eyes, “A new faro dealer, I see.”
Ben called in all bets before glancing sideways at him. “Babette?” he responded casually. “Yes, and quite an addition to my modest establishment.”
“Well, I have no notion of playing at her table … too crowded …” Omsbury’s his smile was full with meaning. “At my stage of life, I intend to take on a new role in life, with a beauty of a far different stamp from that raven-haired creature flaunting herself about.”
Ben dropped the little white ball into the spin of the wheel, and both men watched as it took its time, clanking and teasing the eyes of those who had placed bets on its fall.
“You … I believe, have chosen unwisely …” Ben cautioned. The ball landed on number seven. He called it out and motioned for Silas to collect for the house, looking meaningfully at Omsbury as Silas’s hooked stick made them aware of Omsbury’s loss.
Omsbury frowned darkly. He did not like to lose at anything. “This is paltry … and, I assure you, means nothing. I shall not lose my main goal.”
“And … why bring this up to me?”
“Because you and the object of my goal are close … and …”
“Damn you to hell! Are you suggesting that I help you?”
“I can make things difficult for you … or I can forgive the notes—just like that, the moment she says yes to me …”
“What you are suggesting would bring down a dark cloud over my house, and I will not do that,” he said, his meaning clear.