Jack had to send for a servant to locate cards. He dimly remembered card tables being set up in the library when his mother hosted parties here, but that had been years ago. He’d never had guests at Alwyn House since his father’s death.

He watched Mrs. Campbell make herself at home on the same sofa where she’d tormented him the previous evening with her bare toes. Today she wore a discarded housemaid’s dress, a garment devoid of any seductive traits, and yet he felt more fascinated than ever. Who was this woman and why was he apparently helpless to stop her from driving him mad? Michaels returned with a deck of cards, and she thanked him with a glowing smile that made Jack’s stomach tighten. He wanted her to smile at him that way.

“You’re very adept at this,” he remarked as she shuffled the deck with the ease of a croupier. Instead of focusing his mind on how she had learned such scandalous skills, it only made him wonder what her nimble fingers would feel like on his skin.

She smiled modestly, the cards flying as she dealt. “Every woman has a deep well of hidden talents, Your Grace.”

A riot of dangerous thoughts sprang up in Jack’s brain. What sort of talents did she have hidden, he wanted to ask. He shifted in his seat. “And secrets?”

“As many as men do, I suppose.” She set down the deck and motioned to the cards in front of him. “Have you played loo?”

“Yes.”

“Unlimited loo?” she asked with a sparkling smile.

Unlimited loo could ruin a man in a night’s time. “Already looking for a new victim to beggar?”

She batted her lashes at him as she swept up her cards. By now he recognized it as a warning instead of an invitation. “You know me too well, sir.”

He didn’t know her, not at all, he was realizing—­but his curiosity was growing by leaps and bounds. “We haven’t got enough players for loo.”

She sent him a stern look over her cards. She was holding them in front of her face on purpose, he thought. “We haven’t got money, either. It’s a lesson, Your Grace, to preserve you from any further significant losses.”

He smiled and finally picked up his cards. “Pass.”

“What?” She lowered her cards and blinked at him. Passing ended his role in the game. “No, you may not pass. That ruins the game.”

“That also preserves my fortune.” He grinned at her expression, so beautifully nonplussed. “See how easily it happened? I’ve lost nothing.”

“And also won nothing!”

Jack put the cards back on the table. “I don’t need to win anything. Why do you?”

“It’s quite a thrill,” she said after a barely perceptible hesitation. “I understand the concept might be very strange to you, but I recommend it.”

“Winning?” He leaned back in his chair. “I won last night.”

Pink colored her cheeks. “An occasion I’m sure you regret deeply.”

He studied her for a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so.”

She glanced up at him, wary and watchful. “I have failed dreadfully if your victory last night has given you the slightest satisfaction.”

It had been far more than slightly satisfying. “It achieved my immediate objective.”

Her eyes flashed, and she threw her cards down. “Philip! I vow, one might think he’s your son, from the desperate lengths you’ll go to for his sake.”

Jack thought of what his father might have done, in his place. The late duke had been decent through and through. If he were still alive, Philip would no doubt be sitting here now, penitent and chastened, willingly submitting to whatever the duke decreed his punishment would be. Jack imagined his brother mucking out stalls in the stable, or helping plow a field on one of Kirkwood’s tenant farms.

Of course, if their father were still alive, Philip probably wouldn’t have fallen into such rakish behavior. The duke had been a patient man, tolerating a fair amount of youthful hell-­raising, but only to a point. He wanted his sons to be strong, honorable men, and he would have put a stop to Philip’s gambling before it became ruinous—­something Jack had failed to do. “Philip hardly views me with such respect.”

She met his gaze head-­on for a moment, then gathered up the cards. “Perhaps we should start with something simpler.” She dealt again, tossing a pair of cards in front of him. “Vingt-­un.”

“What will I win?” he asked softly.

“Not me,” was her swift retort.

Jack grinned again. “How about . . .” He paused, thinking. “Music.”

She jerked. “What?”

“A song on the pianoforte.”

“It’s horribly out of tune,” she protested.

He made a dismissive gesture. He’d seen the way her eyes devoured the instrument. Music meant something to her. Even her protest hummed with longing. He said nothing, just waited.

Her gaze dropped to her cards. She reordered them in her hand. “Your ears will regret it,” she warned at last, “but if you insist, so be it.”

“I accept the risk.”

“Then you’d better pay attention and win,” she said tartly.

They played for an hour. Jack had agreed to the game only as a means to learn more about her, but he found himself drawn in. He already knew vingt-­un, of course; he’d played it years ago, whiling away time when forced to attend balls at his mother’s instigation. Back then he’d been relatively adept at it, and even years out of practice, he fell back into a reasonable rhythm with the game. Within minutes, though, he realized Mrs. Campbell was far, far better at it than he’d ever dreamed of being. She smiled and spoke as easily, even as pertly, as ever, but her eyes noted every play. The way her fingers touched the cards was sensual. The way she tilted her head and smiled when asking if he wanted another card was distracting—­purposely so, he was sure. And her knack with the game was uncanny. After a time he realized she had to be keeping a tally in her head of all the cards played, increasing her chances of winning.

In short, she played like a professional.

Could that be? Jack tried to keep his attention on the game enough to avoid humiliation even as questions about the woman opposite him sprouted by the dozens in his mind. It would explain how she trounced Philip, who was—­as she had said—­utterly reckless when gaming. Jack had believed his brother was mostly distracted by her splendid bosom, but now thought there might be more to it than that.

Of course, if she really were as skilled as the men who supported themselves at the tables, why hadn’t she beggared Philip yet? She certainly could have. Perhaps it was out of some regard for his brother, but after some thought, Jack got the idea that she wanted to win, but never too large an amount. That would explain her horror at his actions and her angry charge that he was making a spectacle of her. She was a regular at Vega’s, everyone knew her and gambled with her, but she did not crave attention. Winning huge sums night after night would make her infamous.

That still didn’t explain everything. Jack hadn’t kept close track of how much he lost to her at Vega’s, but it had been a substantial sum, more than enough to keep a widowed lady in comfort for a year. She said she lost on occasion, but Jack was willing to bet she won significantly more often. Even now, with no money at stake, an intent focus had come over her face. She wanted to win, always.

Debts? Perhaps her husband had left her badly off. Who had her husband been, anyway? Why hadn’t he left her better provided for? She must have married as a girl to be widowed so young. Perhaps she frittered money away and had no sense for keeping it. He frowned slightly at that thought; it didn’t fit, somehow. She was too aware of everything. What would she be like, he wondered, if she ever let down her guard completely?

It was his distraction that saved him. Too busy thinking of why she needed money, and how he might get around her defenses to learn the reason, he declined another card when he meant to accept it. Smiling slightly, she flipped it over into her own hand—­only to blink at it in patent surprise. The six of clubs had put her over twenty-­one, ruining her hand.

Jack looked at his own hand, a fourteen, and let out a shout of triumph.

“How—­” She turned over the last few cards in the deck. Every one was a four or smaller, and all would have beaten his hand if she’d drawn them. She mustered a smile. She had made a mistake. “Well played, sir.”

“It should have been your hand,” he said, feeling magnanimous in his unexpected victory.

She smiled as she gathered the cards. “No, no! Absent cheating, any win is fair.”

He believed that. This woman played to win, but she lost with dignity and grace.

“I suppose I shall have to take credit for being an excellent teacher, to have been bested within an hour. Shall I play for you now, or later?” She set the cards aside and faced him, smiling as easily as if they were old friends.

Jack had the most terrible desire to kiss her. In a housemaid’s dress, dealing cards like a seasoned gambler, she still managed to sparkle. He hadn’t had such a pleasurable morning in years, even with the questions battering at the back of his brain. She was a riddle, a delicious, beautiful mystery, and he was shocked by how mesmerizing he found her. He could easily spend the rest of the day—­the rest of the week—­trying to puzzle out her secrets, especially the secret of how to make her smile at him in truth.

He doubted kissing her now would help him in that pursuit.

“I would like my song now,” he said. “Please.”

They went back through the house to the music room. Mrs. Campbell slowed in the doorway. “Oh my.”

Jack continued walking. The servants had been in while they played cards in the library, uncovering furniture and dusting. They would be swarming over the house all day, bringing every room to perfect readiness. Normally it was done before he arrived, but this time they’d had no chance. He opened the lid of the pianoforte and waited.

She recovered her aplomb, taking the seat. “Have they tuned it, as well?” she asked pertly.

“I doubt it.”

She ran her fingers over the keys familiarly. “Then this may be a dreadful assault on your ears.”

Jack grinned. “My ears are not so attuned as yours, so I doubt I’ll notice the difference.”

She muttered something like, “Be careful what you ask for,” and began to play. At first her fingers stumbled a few times, and there were a few notes that twanged, but gradually her confidence took over. He took a seat where he could watch her face, which lost some of its guardedness as she got into the piece.

Jack had learned years ago that it was best to own up to his weakness honestly, at least to himself. Mrs. Campbell was rapidly becoming a significant weakness of his—­no, strike that. He was thoroughly bewitched by her. He wanted to know more about her, from what made her laugh to what she looked like without any clothes on. He knew either of those desires, let alone both of them, could only lead to trouble.

But by God, right now he didn’t care.

She played the first piece, something he vaguely guessed was Mozart. Absorbed in watching her, Jack said nothing when she finished. Instead of rising from the seat, though, she stayed where she was. Her expression changed, becoming almost wistful. A slight smile curved her lips as she played a few trills, and then she began to play again.

He could tell this music meant something to her. The first piece she had played with more spirit than technical skill, but this one moved her. She swayed with the music, and at times her head dipped slightly, and the notes would pause. He could swear she was listening to some accompaniment only she could hear.

“I don’t know that piece,” he said when the last note had faded into a suddenly melancholy silence.

“It was my mother’s favorite,” she said softly, her eyes shadowed and focused somewhere far away.

“Did you learn to play it for her?”

She didn’t answer. Reverently she ran her fingertips across the keys, so lightly they made no sound. “It’s a beautiful instrument, Your Grace,” she said at last. “You should have it tuned properly.” A fine shudder went through her, and he realized with a small shock that she was on the brink of tears.

Damn. Of course—­she’d referred to her mother in the past tense. Jack knew what it was like to lose a beloved parent, and she was even younger than he’d been when his father died.

“I’m very sorry,” he said quietly. “That you’ve lost her.”

Without looking at him she gently closed the lid on the keys and rose from the bench. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I feel in need of some rest.” She swept that ridiculously ornate but graceful curtsy again and then walked from the room.

Jack followed her, driven by a nebulous desire to comfort her but held back by the fact that he’d been the one to make her sad. She never looked back, and when she reached the stairs she broke into a run. Jack stopped dead and listened to her footsteps echo in the hall above him, feeling like an utter cretin.