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here, Valigny, I cannot take another note from you. Even if you win this bollixed-up hand, it is but a pittance to me.”
    The tension in the room was palpable now. The comte licked his lips. “But I have saved the best wager for last,” he said rapidly. “Something which might be of interest to you—and a benefit, perhaps, to me.”
    Mr. Calvert lifted both hands. “I am but a spectator.”
    â€œIndeed,” said the comte. “I speak to Enders—and to Rothewell, perhaps.”
    â€œThen speak,” said Rothewell quietly. “The game grows cold.”
    Valigny braced both hands on the table and leaned into them. “I propose we replay this last hand now that Sir Ralph is gone,” he said, glancing back and forth between them. “The winner shall take everything on the table tonight. Calvert will take the pack as a neutral dealer. We play only one another.”
    â€œDashed odd way of doing things,” Calvert muttered.
    â€œWhat are you staking?” Enders demanded again.
    The comte held up one finger, and cut a swift glance at the footmen. “Tufton,” he barked, “is Mademoiselle Marchand still in her sitting room?”
    The servant looked startled. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”
    â€œ Mon Dieu, just go find her!” Valigny ordered.
    â€œAre…are you sure, my lord?”
    â€œYes, damn you,” snapped the comte. “What business is it of yours? Dépêchez-vous! ”
    The footman yanked open the door and vanished.
    â€œInsolent bastard,” muttered the comte. He ordered the remaining servant to refresh everyone’s drink, then began to pace the parlor’s carpet. Calvert, too, was looking ill at ease. The hand still lay untouched.
    â€œI don’t know what sort of stunt this is meant to be, Valigny,” Enders complained as his glass was filled. “Rothewell and I are winning, so we actually have something left to lose. Your next wager had best prove undeniably tempting.”
    The comte glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, it will, my lord,” he said silkily. “It will. Do I not understand your tastes and your—shall we say appetites ?”
    â€œJust who the devil is this Marchand person?” asked Rothewell impatiently.
    â€œAh, who is she indeed!” The comte returned to the table and lifted his glass as if to propose a toast. “Why, she is my lovely daughter, Lord Rothewell. My half-English bastard child. Surely the old gossip is not yet forgotten?”
    â€œYour daughter!” Enders interjected. “Good God, man. At a card game?”
    â€œIndeed, you go too far, Valigny,” said Rothewell, studying the depths of his brandy. “A gently bred girl has no business in here.”
    Their host lifted one shoulder again. “Oh, not so gently, mon ami, ” he replied dispassionately. “The girl has spent the whole of her existence in France—with that stupid cow of a mother who bore her. She has seen enough of life to know what it is.”
    Enders’s eyes flared wide. “Do you mean to say this is the child of Lady Halburne?” he demanded. “Are you quite mad?”
    â€œNo, but you may become so when you see her.” Valigny’s face broke into that all-too-familiar grin. “ Vraiment, mes amis, this one is her mother’s child. Her face, her teeth, her breasts— oui, everything is perfection, you will see. All she needs is a man to put her in her place—and keep her there.”
    â€œA beauty, eh?” Enders’s expression had shifted, and when he spoke, his voice was thicker. “How old is she?”
    â€œA bit older than you might prefer,” admitted Valigny. “But she could prove amusing nonetheless.”
    â€œThen perhaps,” said Enders softly, “you had best explain precisely what you are offering us here, Valigny.”
    Just then, the parlor door burst