Numbers had always stuck in her head and stayed there. They made sense to her.
She could remember all the cards that had been played in hand and the hand before it and the hand before that. Her skill made her deadly difficult to beat.
Which caused her sisters no amount of fits as children.
Until they’d been desperate for money. And now, now it appeared to be one of their greatest assets.
The problem was that her father had left two years prior to shore up a trade deal in the orient. His business finances had diminished greatly over the past several years though the family had struggled to discover why. In an attempt to restore their finances as his daughters came of age, he’d left to secure a new trade deal in far off lands.
Her mother had an inheritance, of course. A large one. The rest was plenty for them to live on. Except their mother had unexpectedly died last winter. All the money their mother had set aside for her daughters was still in their father’s care.
And several letters to their father to tell him so had gone unanswered. Which was odd. He travelled on known routes, with regular ships passing to and from India and the Orient. He should have replied. Or written.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he replied to their missives and returned home? They were running out of time. Because if their father was declared dead…
Her pulse stuttered in her veins. Well, that was a state of affairs they’d decided they couldn’t tolerate.
“Isabella, are you listening?” Abigail asked, taping her shoulder.
She blinked back to reality, looking at her sister through the speckled glass. “Yes. Of course.”
Eliza waved her hands. “You know she wasn’t. She’d only pay attention if we were doing math.”
“That’s not fair.” Emily stepped in, patting Isabella’s other shoulder. Emily was the kindest person Isabella knew. She reached for Em’s hand giving it a squeeze.
“It’s totally fair. Do you know she was doing some theoretical math problems the other day? What does that even mean? How can numbers be a theory?” Eliza crossed over to the fire. “Anyway, as I was saying. I talked with Lord Bastingcook. He said there are two types of games at this place, the Den of Sins. The ones in the front room are for lower stakes. But then there are more intimate games held in private rooms where far more money passes hands.”
“But you’d need money to enter those higher stakes games. That’s my guess.” Isabella pointed out as she lifted her chin to allow Abigail to dab dark powder on her chin.
Eliza let out a short exasperated huff. “Of course you do. Tonight we’ll play the main room tables. Make as much as we can and save the profits for tomorrow night and a high stakes game.”
Isabella gasped this time, which caused Abigail to jam the brush she’d been dusting Isabella’s face with into her chin, leaving a dark black smear of soot.
Isabella ignored the dark mark and the pulse of pain. “Tomorrow? This was supposed to be a one-time deception. I might be tall, but these men aren’t going to be fooled for long. I’m not very masculine.”
Eliza shrugged. “You’d be surprised. We’ll go late when they’ll be good and drunk. And I’m going as your paramour remember. I’ll be sure to hang off you like a harlot. They’ll never guess.”
Isabella’s mouth pinched. She hated this part of the plan.
Eliza would play the role flawlessly of course.
But if numbers made sense, people often didn’t.
Men, especially drunk ones, were…unpredictable. “You’re pushing our luck, Eliza.” She stood, going to stand next to her sister. “What if some man decides you should be draped across him and not me? What if someone accuses me of cheating? What if—”
“Isabella,” Eliza’s voice lost its sharp tone. She knew Isabella well enough to know when she was getting overwhelmed with people. “I’ve got a Derringer in my garter. Let me worry about keeping us safe. You just pay attention to the game. And don’t look at anyone. Understood?”
Isabella gave her chin a quick jerk.
“Now,” Abigail called from next to the mirror. “Come back over here. I need to fix your scruff. It looks like you wiped your face in ash, currently.”
“I did wipe my face in ash,” she replied as she dutifully turned back to her younger sister.
Emily wrung her hands. “You’ll be careful tonight, right? We’ve lost mother and father. If anything happens to the two of you, we’ll have to live with Uncle Malcolm for certain.”
“Emily,” Eliza said, her voice turning to silk for their second youngest sister. “Don’t worry. We’ll be just fine.”
Isabella dutifully sat down in the chair. She had doubts. Serious doubts. But they needed to eat and time to find out what had happened to their father. And so, she’d go tonight. They’d come too far to turn back now.