Rake's Wager. Miranda Jarrett

that money to me?”

      “Because it was yours, Mr. Blackley.” The smile remained, but the last trace of her earlier laughter had vanished. “You won it fairly, and it was yours to keep.”

      “But I meant it as a gift,” he said. “For that infernal charity of yours, the paupers, or widows, or stray dogs from the riverbed.”

      He’d hoped she’d laugh again, this time for him, but she didn’t. “You are perfectly free to give away every last farthing to whatever charity you please, Mr. Blackley, but you cannot do it through the Penny House bank. Unless, of course, you lose properly.”

      “That doesn’t make a bit of sense,” he said. “And I still don’t see what in blazes—”

      “Because your generosity appeared to expect in return a favor from my sister, Mr. Blackley.” Cassia’s older sister—Anne? Alice? Annabelle?—said, the other one nodding in agreement beside her. “Because you put her in an untenable situation for a lady.”

      “A favor?” How the devil had he overlooked the other two sisters there in the same carriage, sitting on the seat across from Cassia? “I did it because you’d made it clear as day that I wouldn’t be let in again if I didn’t make a profit for your blasted charity scheme. I can’t help it if I won. If I wanted to see your sister again, I’d have to pay up.”

      “That’s not what Amariah intended, as I tried to explain to you last night,” Cassia said, leaning forward on the seat. “She wished to remind you that we are a gentleman’s club, and nothing more. She meant that it’s not proper for you to be so—so familiar with me there among so many gentlemen.”

      “That’s ridiculous,” Richard said. He hadn’t done anything worthy of this damned lecture. And he didn’t see Cassia herself complaining. “I didn’t—”

      “None of us wish to be compromised, Mr. Blackley,” Amariah said. “As the owners of Penny House, we must be most careful of that, or risk ruining the club’s reputation before we’ve really begun.”

      “Well, we’re not at Penny House now, are we?” Richard swung down from his horse, holding the reins as he walked beside the carriage. He lifted his hat to Cassia. “Come stroll with me, lass, and we’ll talk alone.”

      Her eyes widened as she looked down at him. “Here? Along this path?”

      “It’s easier than climbing up the elm trees, but I’ll do that instead if you wish,” he said. “Your sisters can follow in the carriage, ready to drive over me if I become too familiar.”

      “You won’t,” Cassia said, sliding her parasol shut and gathering her skirts to one side before she climbed out. “I won’t allow it.”

      He liked watching her move, purposeful and direct and without any fussiness. The soft muslin was blowing close against her body and legs, not nearly as demure as he’d first thought.

      “Cassia, I’m not sure this is wise.” Bethany’s face was tight with worry as she laid a gloved hand on Cassia’s knee to stop her. “To be seen with this gentleman so soon after last night might be—”

      “How am I supposed to apologize if I can’t speak to her?” He didn’t really believe he owed Cassia an apology, at least not for anything that had happened last night, but if an apology would coax her away from the others, he’d offer her a dozen. He held his hand out to help her down from the carriage. “Isn’t that true, lass?”

      “I don’t think it’s true at all, Mr. Blackley,” she said without hesitation. “But I shall let you try regardless. Driver, stop here.”

      “Only for a few minutes, Cassia,” Amariah cautioned. “Only for him to apologize. And mind, we’ll be directly behind you.”

      Ignoring Richard’s offered hand, Cassia hopped down from the carriage and once again opened her parasol, tipping it back against her shoulder. Without looking at him, she began walking briskly away, ahead of the carriage’s horses. Her light cotton skirts swung back and forth with each quick step of her low-heeled shoes, accentuating her hips and bottom in a way that made him almost sorry to catch up with her.

      “You didn’t come find me to apologize, Mr. Blackley, did you?” she asked without turning.

      He figured he’d probably do better telling the truth, especially since she’d already figured it out for herself. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

      Her mouth twitched at the corners, though he couldn’t tell whether it was with satisfaction that she’d guessed correctly, or from some private amusement. The afternoon sun was filtering through the openwork in the brim of her straw hat, casting tiny pinpricks of light across her nose and cheeks.

      “Is that because you’d hoped I wouldn’t expect an apology?” she asked. “Or because you felt you didn’t owe me one?”

      He sighed mightily, and decided to stick with the truth. “I didn’t believe I owed you anything. I didn’t think I’d done anything.”

      “No?” At last she turned toward him, her expression incredulous. “Most gentlemen would regard placing a gaming marker where and how you did as having done quite a bit.”

      Richard drew himself up straighter, unconsciously squaring his shoulders as if preparing for an actual blow. London was different. None of the women he’d known on Barbados would have been shocked. They would have found such a gesture flirtatious, yes, and suggestive, but they also would have regarded it as a sign of admiration. They would have been flattered. It wasn’t as if he’d pushed her against the wall and shoved up her skirts. He did have sense a of right and wrong, after all.