The Honour-Bound Gambler

Something, if not desperate, then very, very needful.

“You move very well, Miss Benson.” Cade Foster presented her with his flawless profile. If he noticed the avid stares and gossipy whispers directed their way, he gave no sign of it. “The men in town must be bereft that you threw away your dance card.”

She gawked at him, all thoughts of his potential desperation forgotten. “You saw that? You saw…me?”

“Of course I did.” Mr. Foster glanced sideways. He frowned. “Why did you do it? Why did you throw away your dance card?”

Still enraptured with the notion that she might move well, as he’d said, Violet felt a shiver race through her. He was the one who moved well—the one who danced with effortless poise. Cade Foster’s skill was to make his partner seem equally adept.

Doubtless he possessed several similar talents…all of which would be scintillating and assured and unlikely to be shared with Violet beyond this night and this dance. Maybe that’s why she let herself fling her usual caution to the wind.

“Why did I throw away my dance card? The answer to that question, Mr. Foster, will cost you another dance.”

He smiled, seeming impressed. “You’re bold. I wouldn’t have expected that from a self-confessed do-gooder.”

“I prefer ‘aid worker.’ And a straight answer.”

Mr. Foster laughed. “And bolder still.” He twirled her as the last flourish of music played. He glanced sideways, then muttered a swearword under his breath. “But I have to refuse.”

“Why?” Violet kept her tone light. “Are you afraid I might save you with a dose of well-placed charity work?”

“No.” Inexplicably, he paled. “I’m beyond redemption.”

His voice sounded fraught. Troubled, Violet dared to touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was being flippant. I didn’t mean—”

“Take this.” As the next dance began, Mr. Foster gave her something: a dance card. Her dance card. “You’ll be needing it.”

Violet boggled at it. How had he come to possess her dance card? “I don’t need it. There was a reason it was empty.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Thank you for the dance.”

“We could have another. I still haven’t answered your—”

“Your father is headed to the mescal booth to celebrate his recent win at cards.” Mr. Foster nodded. “I’m guessing you’ll want to intercept him before he gets two fistfuls and a snort.”

Her father? Winning and drinking? But how could Mr. Foster possibly have identified both the Reverend Benson and his worst foibles, all in a single glance? Confused, Violet turned.

It was true, she saw. However unaccountably, Cade Foster had summed up the situation. Papa did appear to have won.

He also appeared to be intent on memorializing his victory at the gambling table by pickling himself in locally brewed liquor. Her father, although devout and bookish by nature, had never refused a whiskey. He considered it a fair restorative.

“Next time I see you, you’ll be overrun with suitors.” With another beguiling smile and a touch of her hand, Cade Foster bowed to Violet. He didn’t seem to realize how preposterous his statement really was. “I’m happy to have danced with you first.”

Violet didn’t have time to elucidate matters to him. Nor did she want to. Cade Foster had enjoyed dancing with her! Why should she spoil that by telling him that she typically spent more time decorating for parties than dancing at them?

“Thank you very much. I’m happy to have danced with you, too!” Eagerly, she nodded. “But now I really must dash!”

Then, with Cade Foster’s enthralling features still dancing in her mind, Violet picked up her skirts and went to do her duty. Her turn at being belle of the ball was over. For her it was back to everyday existence—without the pleasure of a man’s hand in hers to help guide her through…or to share her smiles.

“Papa!” she cried an instant later. “What have you done?”

“Violet, my dear!” Her father embraced her happily. “You’re just who I wanted to see. Look! I won fistfuls of money!”

“Oh, dear.” Nibbling her lip, Violet swept her father’s winnings with a chary look. Probably he would add them to the collection plate on Sunday, but until then there was always the chance he would wager most or all of it. She didn’t approve of gambling, but it seemed to give Papa a happiness he’d lost since the death of her poor mother years ago. “Congratulations!”

“That’s my girl!” He kissed her cheek, then delivered her a quelling frown. “But shouldn’t you be conducting the drawing?”

The drawing. She’d forgotten about the raffle entirely. As organizer of the gala, Violet was responsible for determining the winner and for delivering the money raised to the committee.

“Yes! I was just about to do that.” Reminded of her pressing duties, Violet sighed. Dancing had been so much nicer!

Turning back for one last compelling look, Violet glimpsed Cade Foster striding through the dancers. He was leaving her behind just as abruptly as he’d swept her into the dance.

It was only too bad, Violet thought as she watched him go, that she’d had a taste of flying with him at all. Now she knew, for the first time ever, exactly what she’d been missing in her life.

Strangely enough, it had taken an enigmatic and downright captivating man to show her the truth: she needed to fly. Perhaps recklessly. Perhaps foolishly. But regularly and soon, preferably with a companion by her side. But…how?

Chapter Three

Seated across the table from Cade in his suite at the Lorndorff Hotel, Simon Blackhouse smiled. That’s how Cade knew something significant was afoot. Blackhouse never smiled, not while there were cards in his hand or dice within his reach. Blackhouse took gambling as seriously as he did nothing else.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk?” Cade peered out the hotel suite’s lavishly curtained window. A slice of autumnal blue sky greeted him. “It’s only ten in the morning.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m thinking.”

“Aha. That explains it.” With sham concern, Cade leaned nearer. “You’re new at making an effort with things, so I should probably warn you—thinking, once begun, is hard to stop.”

“Very funny.” Unperturbed, Blackhouse smiled anew at his cards, making Cade feel doubly wary. “I can’t help it if things come easily to me,” his sponsor argued. “It’s in my nature.”

“It’s in your inheritance.” Cade gestured. “New game?”

With a murmur of agreement, Blackhouse rounded up the cards. He dealt. For a while, the only sounds were the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the shuffling of cards.

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.