The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(4)

Of late, however, Grandpapa had had too much to contend with: an assassination attempt, the death of one of his most loyal dukes, and a deadly explosion at a brothel. For the first time, Tessa could see his many burdens wearing upon him, and it filled her with worry. She wanted desperately to help, yet he refused her. Refused to see that she had the ability to serve him, to help him make the underworld a better place.

Instead, he wanted to marry her off to some overbred blue-blood. She scowled. As much as she loved her grandfather, she wasn’t going to let him barter her off like chattel at Smithfield Market. She might be a female, but she was of the House of Black. Protecting the underworld and its denizens was in her blood.

If Grandpapa didn’t let her stand by his side, then she would have to serve him on her own.

And she would begin by delivering justice to Dewey O’Toole.

Going to his table, she doffed her cap. “Tom Brown, at your service, sir.”

“O’Toole.” He waved carelessly at the brutes across the table. “Barton and Smithers.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintances,” she said as she took a seat.

She knew O’Toole’s cronies by reputation. Barton was a swarthy hulk capable of beating a man to a fare-thee-well, but it was Smithers who made her wary. Narrow-faced and twitchy, Smithers was known to be a weasel—an insult, Tessa thought indignantly, to weasels everywhere. Nonetheless, he was the brains of the trio, and her breath caught as his beady gaze roved over her. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, his attention returning to his leader.

“O’erheard ’bout your windfall.” Greed glinted in O’Toole’s eyes, which resembled currants pushed into puffy dough. “Four ’undred quid, is it?”

“Five,” Smithers said, then cowered at O’Toole’s glare.

“Five—that’s wot I said.” O’Toole’s fist slammed against the table, setting plates and cups a-clatter. “Wot are ye, deaf?”

“Beg pardon,” Smithers sniveled. “My fault for mishearing you.”

“Ye got bacon for brains,” O’Toole snarled.

“Bacon for brains.” Barton slapped his tree-trunk-sized thigh. “Good one, O’Toole.”

O’Toole scowled. “Now where was I afore I was interrupted?”

Seeing as how she didn’t have all night, Tessa slung her leather coin bag onto the table, where it lay like a fatted calf. “You wanted to know about my inheritance. It’s in this purse.”

“You can’t fool me,” Barton scoffed. “Five ’undred guineas wouldn’t fit in that purse.”

Lord above, what kind of morons am I dealing with?

She resisted the upward pull of her eyeballs. “The clerk at the bank said this paper,”—untying the purse strings, she took out a fifty-pound note—“is as good as gold.”

O’Toole snatched the banknote, squinting at it. With a grunt, he shoved it across the table.

Smithers held up the banknote and perused it expertly. “It’s the genuine article.”

Crafty looks were exchanged amongst the three bounders.

“What are you planning to do with all that blunt?” O’Toole said.

Finally.

“The truth is,” she said in a confidential timbre, “I’ve a fancy for cards. ’Eard there are places in Town where the sky’s the limit when it comes to the stakes. Say, you fellows wouldn’t know of any such fine establishments, would you?”

“You don’t need no gaming ’ell,” O’Toole declared. “We’ll ’ave us a game right ’ere.”

Tessa made an apologetic face. “Kind o’ you to offer. I was looking for, er, a larger game.”

“Think I don’t got the stakes, that it?”

“Oh no, sir, I’d ne’er—”

“’Ere’s a ’undred quid.” O’Toole flung his coin bag onto the table. It skidded into hers, the pair of purses nestling like twin piglets. “And plenty more where that came from.”

A hundred pounds is twice what you stole from Belinda, you blackguard. Thus, you’ll be paying her back—with interest.

Hemming and hawing, Tessa scratched her ear. “I ain’t certain this is a good idea.”

“We’re playing.” O’Toole snapped his fingers at Smithers. “Fetch some cards, you stupid git.”

“I’ve a deck,” she said quickly.

Tread carefully. Don’t rouse suspicion.

Reaching into the outer pocket of her jacket, she pulled the deck out halfway then shoved it back, mumbling, “Ne’er mind. It ain’t decent.”

“Not decent? What the bloody ’ell does that mean?” O’Toole demanded.

As if embarrassed, she averted her gaze. “Fellow who sold ’em to me pulled a fast one. ’E claimed they were all the rage in the fine gent’s clubs. Now ’ad I known they were indecent—”

“Give ’em to me.”

With sham reluctance, she placed the deck in O’Toole’s outstretched hand. He spread the cards out on the table, forming a rainbow of debauchery. Each card depicted a naked couple in some variation of sexual congress. Their expressions were lascivious, body parts improbably magnified.