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and realized that beneath the table, Enders’s hand was already easing up and down the fall of his trousers.
    Good God.
    â€œLook here, Valigny,” said Rothewell, violently stabbing out his cheroot, “I came to get drunk and play cards, not to—”
    â€œWhat’s she worth?” Enders abruptly interjected. “And I’ll brook none of her insolence, Valigny, so she can put that shrew business aside right now. Just tell me how much this leg-shackle will bring me if I win her.”
    Win her . The words sounded ugly, even to Rothewell’s ear.
    â€œAs I say, the girl is well dowered,” the comte reassured him. “Her worth will more than meet anything we’ve put upon that table tonight.”
    â€œDo you think us complete fools?” said Enders. “Halburne divorced his wife. She didn’t have a pot to piss in by the time he was finished—and you had to put her up in some drafy old chateau in godforsaken Limousin—so we know her straits were desperate.”
    Valigny opened his hands expressively. “ Oui , ’tis true,” he acknowledged. “But one must ask, my dear Lord Enders—why did Halburne marry her in the first place, hein ? It was because she was an heiress! Cotton mills! Coal mines! Mon Dieu, none knows this better than I.”
    â€œI’m not sure we care, Valigny,” said Rothewell.
    â€œYou might soon come to care, mon ami, ” the comte suggested lightly. “Because, you see, a bit of it has been left to the girl. She is the last blood of her mother’s family. But first she must find a husband—an English husband, and a man of the—how do you say it?— le sang bleu ?”
    â€œA blueblood,” muttered Rothewell. “Christ Jesus, Valigny. She is your child.”
    â€œ Oui, and do not the English always barter their daughters to be bred like mares?” The comte laughed, drew out his chair, and sat. “I am just doing it openly.”
    â€œYou are a pig, Valigny,” said his daughter matter-of-factly from the sideboard. “Skinny, oui, but still the pig.”
    â€œAnd that would make you what, mon chou ?” he snapped. “A piglet, n’est-ce pas ?”
    Calvert, who had until now remained silent, cleared his throat harshly. “Now see here, Valigny,” he said. “If I am to be banker, I cannot proceed without Mademoiselle Marchand’s agreement.”
    Again, the comte laughed. “Oh, she will agree—won’t you, mon chou ?”
    At that, the girl hastened from the sideboard, and leaned across the table, eyes blazing. “ Mon Dieu, I will agree!” she said, pounding her fist upon the table so hard the glasses jumped. “One of you haggard old roués marry me— immédiatement! —before I kill him. Neither of you could be worse.”
    Enders began to laugh, a nasal, braying sound, like an ass with a head cold. “A saucy piece, isn’t she, Valigny? Yes, amusing indeed.”
    The girl moved as if to rise, but suddenly, she caught Rothewell’s gaze, and their eyes locked. He waited for her to pull away, but she stared boldly. Her eyes were wide, limpid pools of black-brown rage, and some other inscrutable emotion. Just what was it that lurked hidden there? A challenge? Pure hatred? Whatever it was, it at least served one purpose. It kept Rothewell from looking directly down at the creamy swell of cleavage, which seemed destined to spill from her bodice.
    â€œCome, mon chou !” cajoled the comte. “Stand up straight and mind your tone, eh? You may soon be a baroness if I play my cards poorly.”
    â€œBah!” she spit, abruptly straightening up from the table. “Play your cards badly, then. I wish to have done with this business.”
    â€œVery well.” Calvert still looked uneasy. “I suppose we may proceed.”
    Rothewell shoved his cards away. “No,” he snapped.