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not going to assist you with cheating anyone. Best shoot me now if that is your—”
    “There will be no cheating of anyone. You will teach them how to take advantage. How to know when to encourage a wager from a gentleman, or when to send him away from the table so that he will return with more money later. Everything you know.”
    Oliver considered her demands. In truth she could have required the five thousand as payment for her silence rather than as a loan; he wagered heavily and with influential men, and any document proving that he’d cheated would see him ruined and reviled. No matter that he’d done it once and out of desperation. A scandal was a scandal, and this would be a delicious one. The ton would feast on it for months. Years.
    “What is the name of this club of yours?” he finally asked.
    “I’ve decided to call it The Tantalus Club.”
    He snorted. “Really? You’ve had two years to contemplate every aspect of this little plot of yours and the best you can come up with is The Tantalus Club?” Oliver reached into his coat pocket for a cheroot, which he lit on the lamp set at one corner of the desk. “An unrealized temptation? Rather … literal of you, isn’t it? Why not The Tangled Web, then? Or the Toss Your Blunt down the Well Club?”
    Diane gazed at him levelly. “Firstly, ‘The Tangled Web’ implies deception or dishonesty. My club will be neither of those, and I certainly will not put that thought into any potential member’s head.”
    Hm. She had been considering things. But then, he’d never thought she was dull-witted. “And secondly?” he prompted, taking a long, herb-scented draw on the cheroot and breathing it out again.
    “‘Tantalus’ is a very honest name. They come through my doors tempted by fortune or fame or beauty. And realistically, they won’t acquire any of the three. Not here. Not at any wagering club, really. Therefore, they’ve been warned.” She leaned forward on her elbows, her right-hand fingers still curled around the butt of the pistol. “And thirdly, y—”
    “A thirdly, even. No wonder you point pistols at everyone you invite in for a chat, with the amount of criticizing and insulting and exposition you do.”
    “And thirdly,” she repeated, more forcefully, “you are providing funds and training and your presence. Not your ideas, opinions, or your thoughts. We are not partners.”
    “If I’m to invest my money and my presence and my expertise, I believe we are partners.”
    Her lips tightened. “You are a lender. A bank with, unfortunately, a mouth. I’ve had the papers drawn up. Sign them, and then have your man transfer the funds to my use.”
    If this had been a game of cards, Oliver reflected, he likely would have raised the stakes and dared the opposing player to show his—her—hand. In this instance, however, the surest way to learn what his opponent was thinking—and what she might ultimately be pursuing—would seem to be to surrender. For a long moment he studied her expression, but she’d learned a thing or two over the past two years about hiding her thoughts and emotions. Cool emerald eyes gazed back at him, revealing … nothing, which in itself meant something.
    Two years ago he had fled Vienna, very like the scalded dog she accused him of being. And so, he supposed, there existed no better way for him to prove to himself that he was beyond such nonsense, beyond being seduced by wit and a pair of pretty eyes, than by agreeing to work with her.
    “This project of yours is nonsense,” he said, sitting forward and motioning for the contract papers, “but very well.”
    “Excellent.” Swift relief crossed her face, then was gone again.
    “I will sign over the blunt, but I’m not putting my signature on any further agreement.”
    “That is not accept—”
    “I’ll take a room at your club, and I’ll instruct your so-called employees and lend you my expertise. The specific terms of that, however, will remain solely