But the third game she won in six quick hands, a look of unwavering concentration on her face.
From then on, the usually unflappable Hal began to look flustered. Marcus knew that his friend was no mean player, but his female opponent never seemed to put a foot wrong. Marcus himself had stopped playing at the faro table some while ago, because he was unwilling to risk any more of the stake that Hal had lent him; and now he drew closer to study the girl’s face, because there was something about her that puzzled him. Of course there were plenty of women amongst the men up here in the candlelit, luxuriously furnished back room of the Angel. Some of them were ladies of high rank out for a secret adventure without their husbands, though others were scarcely better than women of the streets. Was this one a Cyprian?
Whatever part she was playing, she certainly played it demurely, keeping her head lowered and speaking at all times in a cool and alluring voice. When she looked up to smile at Hal, Marcus saw that her face was sweetly heart-shaped, and dominated by huge green eyes that drew his gaze time and time again. And her hair was glorious: a rich cluster of golden curls piled in artful disarray, with just a few stray locks trailing down around the slender column of her neck in a way guaranteed to make most men dream of kissing her there…
But she wore far too much rouge and lip paint, and as for her gown…Her gown was a hideous contraption, made of some reddish-brown fabric in the style of years ago; it was too large for her slender figure, and the shabby lace ruffles at her wrists were yellow with age. Who was she? Who had brought her here?
At that very moment, she looked up at Hal and said, in her gentle voice, “Tis my game, sir, I believe. But no credit to me; I rather think fortune smiled on me.’
The somewhat bemused Hal put a brave face on it. ‘Nonsense. You were by far the better player, ma’am!’ Gallantly he pushed his guinea rouleaux across the table to her. ‘Will you honour me with another game?’
The young woman hesitated before saying, ‘Very well, then. Just one more.’
‘One more is probably all I can afford,’ said Hal ruefully, and his opponent laughed, a pleasing, merry sound that to Marcus was strangely familiar, though he was damned if he could place it. Surely he would remember a girl like that if he’d met her before! Her face was almost—beautiful, and yet her clothes, and her lip paint, were ridiculous…Marcus looked round. All in all there must be fifty or sixty people crowded in here, and every table had its punters and watchers, all eyeing every turn of the cards, every cut and deal. Hal’s table was in a corner of the room, and quite a few of the usual gamesters had gathered round, their greedy eyes devouring the golden-haired girl as she began to deal.
Then Marcus saw that somebody else a few yards away was also watching her closely; a nervous long-limbed young fellow in a homespun suit too tight for him, with shockingly cut red hair. Here was her accomplice, thought Marcus scornfully, ready to safeguard the girl’s winnings and perhaps sell her on for the night! He frowned. Yet her clothes, her entire manner, were just not right for a whore, though God knew she’d tried her best, with that face paint.
Marcus again found his memory stirring tantalisingly. Then he saw something. She was spreading her cards in her hand in an attempt to study them, her green eyes wide and her brows drawn together in apparent puzzlement. Her fingernails looked as if she made a habit of chewing them; her painted lips were moving in what appeared to be a naïve endeavour to calculate the value of her cards.
But there was nothing naïve about the way she reached to flick a loose fold of the tawdry lace at her wrist, while at the same time making another very quick, almost imperceptible movement. She’s drawn a card from her sleeve and interchanged it with one from her hand. Marcus swore softly under his breath. Of course it was over in an instant, and Hal hadn’t noticed a thing, because he was too busy frowning over his own cards. And now, Marcus saw, those thick eyelashes of hers were fluttering demurely as she displayed her cards to Hal and said, in her sweet voice, ‘I think you will find that I’ve spoiled your repique, sir. The game is surely mine.’
Hal was soundly routed. His pleasant face twisted ruefully in acknowledgement of his fate as he pushed the last of his guinea rouleaux across the table. ‘How clever of you to have kept the guard! Well done, ma’am, well done indeed; I wish I had half your skill at the game.’
The girl, smiling, was already gathering her winnings together. ‘You must take consolation, sir, in the fact that most certainly I had the luck of the cards tonight.’
Luck? questioned Marcus grimly. Luck? He could see that her edgy red-haired companion was already sidling through the crowd towards her. No doubt they’d swiftly exchange for golden guineas the rouleaux she’d won and move on to some other backstreet gambling haunt, ready to fleece some other innocent—if he, Marcus, were to let them…
No time to explain to Hal. As Hal rose, Marcus was there in his place, saying quickly to the girl, ‘Your pardon, ma’am, but I could not help noticing that you play an intriguing game. Would you care to indulge me before you go?’
She looked up swiftly, and just for a moment Marcus could have sworn that there was a flash of something—was it fear?—in her eyes. But then she said, with only a trace of hesitation, ‘Why, with pleasure, sir.’
Hal, surprised, muttered to him, ‘You’ll find your match there, Marcus. She’s good.’
‘Perhaps that’s the attraction,’ said Marcus, gazing coldly at the girl, whose heart-shaped face still looked somewhat pale beneath her rouge. ‘Shall we say ten shillings the point?’
The girl seemed to catch her breath, and then nodded. Marcus beckoned a groom-porter for a fresh pack, and put some card money on the tray. Looking up, he was in time to catch a scarcely perceptible glance between the girl and her red-headed companion, who had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Marcus smiled grimly to himself and handed the pack to the girl. She won the cut, and opted to discard five of her twelve cards. Once more her pretty face with its delicate tip-tilted nose was a mask of concentration.
For a while the play was even. Marcus went down on the first rubber, though not by much. But then, gradually, the girl began pulling away. He watched her fingers, so quick, so agile as they drew his tokens relentlessly towards her. His keen grey eyes, that on active service had been able to see the gleam of gunmetal in woodland over a mile away, strained to see more. This time she made no move towards her wrist-lace; in fact, she’d—deliberately?—pushed back her cuff to her elbow. He frowned as he noticed a faint ring of fresh finger-shaped bruises around her slender wrist; someone had been rough with her recently. But then he saw what he had been waiting for. Yes. She was marking the cards, indenting certain corners very, very lightly with the sharp little fingernail of her right hand, in a gesture as swift as the blinking of an eye! Marcus carried on playing and was aware of Hal’s increasingly puzzled frown as his pile of rouleaux continued their journey to the girl’s side of the table. The girl’s companion was watching, too, his unease scarcely hidden.
There it was again. A tiny squeeze of his opponent’s fingernail as she delicately indented yet another glossy card. Moments later she carefully spread out her winning hand, and her cheeks dimpled in a sweet smile. ‘Four aces and three kings, sir! I think I have you, if you please!’
Marcus was very still for a moment. Then he deliberately leaned forwards, and picked up the girl’s cards at one stroke, breaking all the rules of play. Hal, at his shoulder, gasped aloud. The girl’s painted smile flickered, but her big green eyes were still wide and innocent. ‘Is aught amiss, sir?’
‘Indeed, there is a slight problem—ma’am,’ Marcus replied, equally calmly. ‘You see, I discover in myself an aversion to playing with out-and-out cheats.’
He was aware of Hal drawing closer, standing tensely at his side. Of the thin, anxious fellow in brown also edging nearer to the girl, his face tight with strain. The girl was better. In fact,