LITMIR.BIZ

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even though he knew that going over exposed him more than he should to the urge to gamble. Better not to even go near.

      But go he did.

      Faro. Sinclair Manchester was the bank and Richard Green was the lamb.

      Memories flooded back. Five years ago he could have been Green.

      Charles kept his face void of the anger and pain building in him. How dare Manchester fleece such a young boy?

      Manchester was a tall, thin, effete man who dressed impeccably and seemed to mince when he walked. His silver-tipped ebony cane, which leaned against the wall behind him, was an affectation as effective as the quizzing glass hanging from his waistcoat. His sandy brown hair was cut in a perfect Brutus, the wisps dressed to frame his narrow and angular face. He was a dandy.

      Charles considered himself a Corinthian. The two of them could not be a greater contrast. Particularly in the present situation. He turned to Green.

      The boy’s blue eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. His blond hair was cut short like Charles’s, and his lapels were reasonable. He could turn his head. Perspiration dotted his brow. His smile was forced.

      ‘Charles,’ Manchester’s light tenor voice said, ‘come to pay us a visit? Join in. I am very lucky at the moment.’

      Charles flicked him a glance. ‘Perhaps, later, Manchester.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Good evening, Green. I see you play deep.’ Charles watched the young man, wondering how he was going to get him out of this and deciding the sooner the better.

      ‘Y-yes.’ His stiff smile widened into a rictus.

      ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t.’ Charles turned back to Manchester. ‘If you will excuse us, Green and I have things to discuss.’

      ‘Really, Hawthorne, don’t be a wet blanket.’ Manchester raked in the chips piled before him.

      ‘Ah, but I must,’ Charles drawled, placing his hand on Green’s shoulder and squeezing as he shifted the boy away from the table.

      ‘Ah, ex-excuse me.’ Richard Green went where Charles steered him, but said over his shoulder, ‘I will make my vouchers good tomorrow, Manchester.’

      A twinge of pain caught Charles unawares. Seeing this youth, not yet a man and no longer a boy, in such a pass brought back unpleasant memories of where his reckless disregard for money had eventually landed him. Gambling deeply was only for those who had been left a fortune, not a younger son. The discomfort was enough to make him thrust Green roughly toward the door so the boy stumbled before gaining his footing.

      ‘Keep moving,’ Charles said through clenched teeth. ‘You are not staying here.’

      Green’s eyes widened until they seemed to be two blue china saucers. ‘But, the night has just started.’

      ‘Be quiet.’ Charles scowled at the young man. ‘You are foolish beyond bearing.’

      ‘I-I s-say, you c-can’t order me about.’

      Charles’s brows rose. ‘Can’t I? I am doing so and you will thank me for it.’

      The boy’s red face blanched. ‘You are Charles Hawthorne?’

      ‘Yes, and you are on your way out.’

      He realised Green had been so deep in the fever some people experienced while gambling that the boy hadn’t heard Manchester’s greeting. The realisation increased Charles’s anger. He propelled the youth toward the front door and through to the street.

      ‘I hope your carriage or horse is nearby because you are leaving.’

      ‘I—’

      ‘Yes?’ Charles held him. ‘You what?’

      ‘You go too far. You have no right to do this.’

      The young man’s words finally penetrated the red haze that seemed to surround Charles. He unclenched his fingers that gripped the boy’s arm like a vise and let his hand fall away. Seeing this child in straits he had been in and paid dearly for had made him forget the circumstances. All he could do was throw the fool out.

      ‘You are going home, Green. You play deeper than your pockets. This is a gambling den, not a shearing house.’

      The youth drew himself up straight, coming just short of Charles’s six-foot height. ‘I will do as I please.’

      ‘Not if I have any say.’ His flat voice brooked no argument. ‘And a word of warning. You may think you are immune to the repercussions of your behaviour, but you are not. No one is.’

      Seeing a hackney coach coming around the corner, Charles motioned for it to stop. The driver pulled up and Charles yanked open the door and pushed Green inside.

      ‘Go home.’

      He slammed the door shut and turned away, ignoring the boy’s sputtering anger. If only someone had done as much for him.

       Chapter Four

       A my tweaked Emma’s paisley shawl. ‘When are you going to get new gowns? These are so old-fashioned.’

      Emma pulled the shawl over her shoulders and kept moving toward an open settee in Princess Lieven’s ballroom. She was not about to give Amy the satisfaction of seeing that her comment had hurt. Amy knew why Emma had no new gowns.

      Amy was peeved because Emma had refused Charles Hawthorne’s offer to escort them here. The man was too brazen. He wasn’t family, and his bringing them would have set tongues wagging. Especially after the ride in Hyde Park yesterday.

      She reached the seat and sank down with a thump. Graceless, but she didn’t care.

      Amy sat beside her, careful to spread the skirt of her pink muslin gown so it wouldn’t wrinkle. ‘You ignored me.’ Her tone and posture were a challenging pout.

      Emma swallowed a sharp retort. Her voice was still more acerbic than she intended. ‘You know why, Amy. So don’t vent your displeasure over something we both know can’t be helped.’

      ‘Humph!’

      Amy angled away, her back an unyielding wall between them. For an instant, Emma raised her hand to touch her sister’s shoulder. All they had was each other. Then she let her arm fall. For once she wasn’t willing to be conciliatory. She was tired and worried and wanted to be done with all this. She didn’t want to apologise for something that wasn’t her fault.

      Amy stood abruptly. ‘I am going to find Julia Thornton.’

      For a second Emma considered telling Amy to remain. Then she shrugged. Denying Amy would only make her more rebellious. At least Julia would have her mother with her or be surrounded by a bevy of young men and women closer to Amy’s age.

      As Amy flounced away, Emma turned her attention to the other guests just as Charles Hawthorne made his bow to their hostess. Sensation chased down Emma’s spine. She told herself there was a draft. The man had offered to escort them here. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see him, and there was no other reason for the funny feeling that engulfed her.

      Nor should it be a surprise to see him make his way toward her. He likely thought Amy would be back immediately.

      Emma watched him in spite of all her good sense. He was the most sensual man she had ever seen. Everything about him indicated that he was a rake. His black hair with the lock that insisted on falling over his forehead made him look like a pirate—or what she imagined a pirate would look like. His broad shoulders swung loosely in a well-fitted evening jacket. His muscular legs with their long length and strong shape showed to perfection in tight-fitting breeches. He was perfect.

      ‘Enjoying something?’ He stood before her with a sly smile on his sharply handsome face.

      She jolted and blinked and wondered where her common sense had gone as she gave him a curt nod. ‘Mr Hawthorne.’

      He

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