At the conclusion of their game, Blackhouse smiled again.
“That’s the fourth game straight you’ve won today.” He studied Cade from over the tops of his losing cards. “You know what this means, don’t you? Your unlucky streak has ended.”
Cade wasn’t so sure. “If I were playing a skilled gambler—”
“You’d still win,” Blackhouse told him, ignoring his genial gibe. “You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known.” With his shirt half buttoned and his suit coat askew, Blackhouse seemed the very picture of privileged, happy-go-lucky young bachelorhood. “Aside from myself, of course. I’m damnably lucky, too.” Appearing characteristically pleased by that, he lit a cheroot. He gazed at Cade through its upward-curling smoke. “What happened? Did you bed a Gypsy who broke the curse?”
“I wish it had been that simple. I would have done that months ago.” It had been almost that long since he’d had a break in his search for Percy Whittier. Last night hadn’t changed much in that regard. Cade had lost sight of Whittier while dancing with Violet Benson. Although he’d tried not to be, he’d been distracted by her—especially by her too-astute claim that he’d appeared desperate. Desperate! “I’m afraid the only woman I’ve been with lately was a naive reformer. She threatened to ‘save’ me.” Cade shuddered at the remembrance. “I can’t stand do-gooders. They remind me of orphan trains and foundling homes.”
“So?” Blackhouse arched his brow. With nimble fingers, he scooped up the playing cards. “I’ve established a few foundling homes myself. They’re not all bad.” As though considering those altruistic efforts—along with the prestigious family name and attendant family fortune that had facilitated them—Blackhouse paused. He shook his head, then shuffled expertly. “A Rom woman would have been wilder,” he alleged, grinning again.
Disturbed by the return of that grin, Cade frowned, uncomfortably reminded that he didn’t truly know Blackhouse well enough to discern his intentions but had to trust him anyway.
Although charming, wealthy and advantageously footloose—with a private luxury train car and a loyal valet to prove it—Blackhouse was nonetheless a mysterious figure to Cade. They had met at a poker table in San Francisco and had become friends (of a kind) while outlasting every other player at the table. When Blackhouse had unexpectedly offered to finance Cade’s search for Percy Whittier, Cade had cautiously agreed. He hadn’t had the stakes to continue alone. Likely, Blackhouse had known that and had decided to exploit it…for whatever reasons.
He still didn’t know what Blackhouse’s interest in Whittier was. Knowing Blackhouse, it was something frivolous. All Cade knew was that Blackhouse had the money, Cade had the tenacity, and between them they could bring Whittier to heel.
“I don’t have time for any women,” Cade said. “Rom or not.” He told Blackhouse about spotting Whittier at the Grand Fair and about losing him during the dance. “He must still be in town.”
“Yes. Faro is his game. He’d be unlikely to miss the tournament.” Agreeably, Blackhouse cut the cards. He arranged them on the table between them, then nodded cannily at Cade. “Go ahead. Choose four. If you pick out all the aces, I’ll lay out an extra thousand for tonight’s gaming. And maybe lend you my overcoat, too.” An amused look. “You seem to have lost yours.”
Cade didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want to discuss giving his warm overcoat to the grimy-faced child sharper in the Morrow Creek alleyway. “I don’t need any more of your money.” Not yet. “Besides, the odds of choosing all four aces in a row are—”
“Inordinate. I know. That’s the point.” With a leisurely gesture, Blackhouse summoned Adams, his valet. “Do it.”
“Fine.” Exasperated, Cade flipped up four cards.
In short order, a queen and three aces stared up at him.
“See? Just as I thought.” Blackhouse pointed. “Not all four aces, that’s true, but still a good enough draw to prove I’m right. You should be delighted.” Yawning, Blackhouse selected a postmarked envelope from the silver tray that Adams offered him. He tossed it in front of Cade. “By the way, this letter from your brother arrived this morning. I hope Judah is well?”
Cade nodded, still boggling at his chosen cards. Turning up three aces was unbelievable. “His leg should be almost healed by now.” Distractedly, Cade frowned. “You must be double dealing.”
Blackhouse scoffed. “I’m not double dealing. I’m not trimming cards. I’m not even wearing a holdout, despite my enthusiasm for collecting such things.” He spread his arms, showing he was free of mechanical cheating devices. “It’s you, Foster. Just you. Your usual good luck has clearly returned.”
Dubiously, Cade regarded the cards. Like most sporting men, he believed in superstition. It was foolhardy and unreasonable not to. A man needed all the breaks he could get. But this…
“I think it must be your reformer who did it,” Blackhouse opined. “She’s your lucky charm. That’s the only explanation.”
Lucky charm. Cade could use one of those, especially now.
Still filled with disbelief, he scowled at the cards. He didn’t want to agree with Blackhouse. He didn’t want to believe in luck alone. But with no other leads readily available….
“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Cade asked. “That’s to find my ‘lucky charm’ and see what happens.”
Then he threw on a necktie, grabbed his suit coat and hat, and went in search of his very own private do-gooder and (potential) good-luck charm.
God help him, he seemed to need her.
When Violet glimpsed the town newcomer, Cade Foster, from across the room at the charity kitchen she’d organized with the help of Grace Murphy and her ladies’ auxiliary club, she knew she had to be imagining things…which wasn’t altogether surprising, given how preoccupied she’d been since yesterday.
All afternoon long, even while ladling up soup and passing out bread donated by Molly Copeland’s popular bakery, Violet had relived last night’s dance at the Grand Fair. She’d recalled Cade Foster’s smile. She’d remembered his features. She’d contemplated his intriguingly muscular personhood and sighed over his eyes. She’d even envisioned herself seeing him again.
So a part of her wasn’t at all surprised to catch sight of him there. The rest of her knew that she should pinch herself—especially when Cade Foster spied her, raised his hand in a masculine greeting, then determinedly headed in her direction.
“Yes!” someone whispered nearby. “It’s definitely him!”
“Did you see them dancing together?” someone else added.
“I saw her leave him standing heartbroken on the dance floor!” a third gossip added in breathless tones. “Imagine that! Plain Violet Benson, the minister’s daughter, having the cheek to turn her back on a man who’s willing to dance with her!”
Well. Being the subject of such vaguely uncharitable gossip took some of the fun out of things, Violet thought. That was a new and unwelcome experience for her—one she’d helped Adeline through a time or two, though. Besides, she retorted to herself silently, she hadn’t left Cade on the dance floor. She’d gone to fetch her father—it was an entirely different thing. Tightening her hold on her soup ladle, she went on watching Cade approach.
Plainly, he was close enough to hear everything her fellow helpers were saying, Violet realized. Because almost imperceptibly, he angled his head toward that chatty clump of gossips, flashed them a brief but brilliant grin, then kept right on going.
Collectively, the three women swooned. For herself, Violet only stood there with her ladle at the ready. This, she realized with another flutter of excitement, might be her chance to fly!