The hackney drew to a stop in front of the modest, yet elegant and brightly lit townhouse. Olivia wasn’t the only guest arriving, as she saw other carriages and hackneys depositing their passengers at the front door. She stepped out of the carriage, with Billy close behind her.

“I’ll keep you in my sights, Olivia,” he said. “Should you need anything, I shan’t be far.”

“Thank you, Billy,” she said with a warm smile. “I don’t know whatever I would do without you. Now don’t forget, tonight I am not Lady Olivia Jackson, but Mrs. Penelope Harris, widow of the late Bartholomew Harris, a well-to-do merchant. We lived in Bath and I am just new to London.”

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Penelope and Bartholomew?”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her chin. “You don’t approve?”

“They sound rather stuffy.”

“Well that’s the point. They cannot be nobility or people would ask questions about who they are. I had to come up with an identity that was believable but still respectable.”

He shook his head with mirth, and she didn’t miss the way his lips slightly curled at the corners as he looked down at her and gestured for her to make her way inside. She took a deep breath. Here we go, she thought.

She entered the front door, and was greeted by a woman who had taken a heavy hand to her face paint, perhaps in an attempt to capture some of the lost beauty of her youth.

“Good evening,” the woman said with a wide grin, showing her slightly yellowed teeth. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Madam, for I cannot place your face.”

“Mrs. Harris,” Olivia responded with a smile at the woman, as she provided her assumed name. “And you must be Lady Atwood.”

“I am,” she said with a nod. “Do come inside. What is your game of choice?”

“Whist,” she said affirmatively. It was the game most suited to her, a game of skill, not solely chance, for one who was more of a strategist than a risk taker. It was a game in which counting cards would also come in handy.

A footman appeared to lead her into the appropriate room, what looked to be a former study that had been converted into a gaming room. Its dark green walls with pillar-framed fireplace and mahogany bookshelves lent the room a comforting, masculine feel. Former Lord Atwoods stared down at her, and Olivia assumed Lady Atwood must have been allowed to maintain this residence when her husband passed. Olivia was served a glass of brandy, as requested. She had decided a strong drink would help to calm her nerves and excitement, but that would be it — she couldn’t let herself get soused, as then where would her game be?

Olivia sat in one of the leather chairs as she waited for the betting to begin. The game of whist required four players, and she could only hope she was paired with someone skilled, or all could be lost.

She saw a few gentlemen of her acquaintance within the room, and was careful to keep her eyes down and avoid eye contact with them. Her disguise was fairly clever — she had even added a beauty mark above her lip and had slightly painted her face, but if someone took a close look at her, chances were still high she would be recognized.

Truth be told, though, she was more interested in the ladies of the room. She had heard of women who gambled, but had never truly seen the serious players, only women at the odd social engagement. The women here were certainly more carefree, most of them easy flirts with the men in the room. Olivia suspected that most of it was a play in order to put their opponents at ease.

The gathered men and women — certainly more men than women — began to take their places at the tables, and Olivia greeted two other gentlemen she fortunately did not recognize with an easy smile. The men — a baron and a merchant — introduced themselves, seemingly thrilled to have joined her. Good. She hoped they would think she was an easy mark.

“Now we await our fourth,” said the dealer, as Olivia looked down at the coin in her reticule, hoping that at the very least she had enough to cover the buy-in.

Olivia sensed a new presence at the table. “I’d better have more luck tonight,” the man said, his voice a rich baritone, though tinged with slightly masked resentment. The silky voice had Olivia freeze in her chair. She knew that voice. She knew it all too well. It had flirted with her for a week-long house party, and remained in her thoughts, despite her efforts to push it away. She swallowed as she looked about her, her thoughts racing frantically as she kept from raising her face to the man, allowing him only the view of her dark wig and the turban she despised.

“Well, either way, you are in for a treat, Kenley,” said the baron, “as the lovely Mrs. Harris has joined us this evening!”

“It’s not Kenley anymore,” he said, seemingly not affected at all by the woman sitting at the table. “It’s Breckenridge. The Duke of Breckenridge.”

Olivia couldn’t help herself at that, her eyes snapping up as they rose to his face. She had nearly forgotten his father had passed. Her friend Isabella had mentioned it in passing some time ago, and she supposed the Duke had been in mourning since. Her crystal blue eyes met his of soft green, which flared in recognition as he took her in. He said nothing, but let his gaze wander from the tip of the turban-topped dark wig, down her body to the slippers on her toes, letting his eyes rest for a moment on the bosom that spilled out of her tight red dress.

She realized she had been lying to herself over these past months. She couldn’t deny the effect he had on her, from his golden blond curls, well-chiseled cheekbones and the depths of his eyes, to the deep dimple she remembered imprinting his face when he smiled his mischievous grin. The smile was far from his face at the moment, however. His usual look of fun and humor had been replaced by lips set in a grim line, as dark shadows hung under his eyes. Her heart tugged as she longed to ask more about what had transpired since she had last seen him. Now, however, was not the time.

He cleared his throat, a sense of amusement washing over the face that moments ago had been drawn and closed off. “Mrs. — what did you say your name was?”

“Mrs. Harris,” she said, her nose in the air, as if tempting him to call her bluff.

“Mrs. Harris,” he said, taking her hand and raising her fingers to his lips, never once removing his eyes from her. “Charmed, I am sure. I’m not certain, however, that I recognize your face or your name. What is your first name — and your husband’s?”

She cleared her throat. “Penelope,” she said. “My husband was Bartholomew.” She saw levity cross his face, but he simply raised an eyebrow at her and nodded. She smiled an icy grin in return and they both resumed their seats. The dealer set the bets, and Olivia breathed a sigh of relief as she realized she had brought more than enough. That had been her one concern — well, her most pressing concern — was what to do if the stakes were set too high.

“Now then,” said the dealer, an aging gentleman with a heavy mustache and somber countenance. While the game had a much more serious tone than the usual card games she took part in, Olivia was pleased to have the chance to put her skills to use, not wasting them on the usual partners of young ladies of the ton. She would never be able to go back to playing with Hester and her tittering friends. As much as she enjoyed winning against them, it was no challenge at all.

“Shall we determine partners?” the dealer asked.

He held out the French deck of cards to the four of them, and they each chose a card. The two with the lowest cards would pair against the two with the highest. “The four of diamonds,” said the first man, a Mr. Ambrose. The Baron, Lord Branson, chose the seven of clubs. “King of diamonds,” said the Duke. Olivia chose last. “The queen of Hearts,” she said with a smile, looking over the card at her new partner, who now exchanged seats with Lord Branson to sit across from her. He winked at her, and she felt warmth flood her from head to toes.

“Right then,” said the dealer. “We shall begin. The game is rubber of whist. Winners will be determined by the best of three games.”

He dealt them each 13 cards, face down. Olivia raised hers in a fan in front of her face, arranging them as she preferred, her eyes flicking over the cards to the Duke sitting across from her.

The dealer placed the last card remaining on the table in front of them, face up to show the trump suit — hearts.

“Mrs. Harris,” he said a couple of times until Olivia finally jumped, realizing he was speaking to her, and she inwardly cursed — she must pay closer attention to the game and not focus on the Duke. “You play first.”

In all of her preparations, there was one thing Olivia hadn’t counted on, and that was the presence of Lord Kenley — or the Duke of Breckenridge, she remembered. She would have to become familiar to referring to him as such. He had more than caught her attention at the house party her friend Isabella held over a year ago. He was a well-known rogue, however, and she had vowed that their flirtations would remain just that — simply a way to have fun and pass the time. She would not let anything come of it. She had done all she could to dismiss him from her mind following the party. He was too charming, too good-looking, with a lock curling down over his forehead in the most captivating way, his green eyes boring into her, and his perfectly tailored and selected clothes. And yet, he seemed to have lost the easy, carefree attitude that had followed him in all of their previous meetings.

She withdrew herself from her musings to throw down the four of clubs. Pay attention now, Olivia, she told herself sternly, as she watched the seven, eight, and Jack of clubs being thrown down, the trick being won by the Duke, who had played the highest card in the leading suit. The next round finished with a win by Olivia, who played a card from the trump suit, which always won out. Play continued on, and when they came to the twelfth trick, few cards remained as the game was tied. Olivia saw the concentration on the faces of all the men as they struggled to remember which cards had previously been played. For Olivia, however, it was an easy feat, as the suits and numbers of cards were clear in her mind.

Knowing which cards remained in the hands of the players, she easily won the twelfth hand, followed by the thirteenth.

With the final score tallied, she and the Duke were ahead, though primarily due to her winnings. He had not fared quite as well, and while signs to one another were prohibited, she looked at him with a grin on her face, and he nodded in return.

The betting increased for the second hand, which Olivia and the Duke won handily. She smiled as she collected her winnings and thanked their opponents. They were no longer as cheerful, and looked at her warily before Lord Branson left the table abruptly.

Olivia rose from the table, eager to find another game to join, when a hand wrapped around her elbow, leading her away from the games and out of the room.

“A word?” came the familiar voice.

“No,” she hissed back at the Duke. “I see an empty space at a table over there and I wish to play again.”

“Another game will await you in due course,” he insisted, and led her out to the hall, opening the nearby closed doors until he seemed satisfied with a room.

“In,” he said, pointing inside.

“No,” she responded, crossing her arms. “Duke you may be, you have no right to order me about.”

“In, Mrs. Harris,” he ground out, and with a huff she finally acquiesced, flouncing into the room in front of him, taking in the cheery parlor, warmed by the fire crackling in the hearth, and the comfortable sofas before them. She looked around in appreciation before turning to look at him. “Well, then, Your Grace,” she said. “What would you like to speak about?”