LITMIR.BIZ

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hadn’t taken a lover in two years. Not since Alex. Maybe that had been foolish. Now there was nothing between her body and the memories of him, his dark hair mussed, the hard square line of his jaw tightening as he thrust into her. She wouldn’t have believed such an honorable, principled man would make love to her like he was born for the task. As though his only desire was to give her unending pleasure.

      No. Those memories served no purpose. They only put her at risk. But heaven and hell, how she ached for him now. Her knight, her lover.

      “The Duke of Greyland?” Martin Hughes, alias Martin Hamish, asked at her shoulder.

      She turned to him, and saw his upraised brow. Martin was curious. Fifteen years of knowing someone allowed you to recognize their every mood like a farmer knew the shifting weather.

      He jerked his head toward the office, and she had no choice but to follow. They entered a darkened corridor off the main gaming hall, where Martin used a key latched to a watch fob to unlock one of the doors, then stepped inside. Part of Cassandra wanted to flee. She dreaded reviewing her history with Alex, but there wasn’t a way around it.

      Seating himself behind a large oak desk, Martin opened a case and pulled out a cheroot. As he lit the end, Cassandra breathed in the familiar scent of his tobacco blend. Instantly, she was back standing in the yard of one of countless coaching inns, with Martin securing passage to their next destination, their next job. Always, always, they kept moving, for staying in one place meant a greater chance of detection and capture.

      Martin took several draws off the cheroot. He studied its smoldering end. Taking his time. Cassandra stood and waited, her hands clasped in front of her. Trying to hurry him would only make him irritated, and there wasn’t anything to be gained by that.

      She glanced at the safe standing behind his desk. It held the entirety of their profits, which would be paid back to their staff, investors, and, ultimately, themselves. The safe held her future, one that would free her from this life of dishonesty.

      “Not a word from your lips about the Duke of Greyland,” Martin said. His Scottish accent vanished the moment he crossed the threshold of his office.

      “It was two years ago,” she noted. “What went on between us didn’t seem important to what you and I are doing now.”

      “And what did transpire between you and His Grace?” he asked pointedly.

      “Nothing strange. It was in Cheltenham.” She needed a distraction, so she ran her hand along the carved edge of the desk, feeling its curves and hollows with fingers that could still pick a pocket without the slightest trouble. “Played the Desperate Widow gambit.”

      “You take him?” Martin asked mildly.

      “For five hundred pounds.”

      Martin grinned. “That’s my lass.”

      She couldn’t curb the bubble of pleasure from his praise. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t worked together in nearly a decade. He would always be the one she wanted to please.

      “I got his blunt and disappeared. Hardly worth discussing.” She wouldn’t tell him about going to bed with the duke, and she surely wouldn’t mention the fact that her body still hungered for Alex’s touch. Or that her heart yearned for his understanding, his compassion. She would have given anything to see one of his rare smiles. That cautious flash of a grin spoke of how uncertain he was in allowing himself a moment’s amusement. She imagined that someone, long ago, had told him that dukes didn’t smile. Or laugh. Or take pleasure in anything.

      He deserved to let himself feel happiness and a respite from the duties pressing in on him from every side. He was worthy of love.

      But she wasn’t the woman to give that to him. She never could be.

      “Looks like he’s still panting for you,” Martin noted. “Especially after losing that gel to the cavalry officer.”

      Naturally, Martin knew everything about everyone. He was a library’s worth of information.

      She shrugged, even as her heart leapt.

      “Why not keep him on the lead for a while?” her mentor suggested. “Get a few hundred pounds more out of him.”

      “He’s just smarting because that girl eloped,” she said flatly.

      “Perfect!” Martin exclaimed. “No better time to gull someone. Isn’t that what I taught you?”

      The rules for running confidence schemes were carved on Cassandra’s heart the way others knew their Bible. But the Bible didn’t put food in her belly or keep her in silk stockings. The Bible didn’t care when she was a child, alone and desperate.

      That desperation never left her. She’d probably go to her grave feeling its claws around her throat.

      “I’ve been at the confidence game for sixteen years,” she said, keeping her voice level. “You’ve taught me everything I know.”

      “Rule Number One?” he pressed. He liked to quiz her sometimes. As if he was still her teacher.

      “Keep yourself clean,” she recited. “No tangles, no mawkishness.”

      Acting very educational, he pressed, “Because why?”

      Cassandra exhaled, slightly annoyed. She wasn’t a fifteen-year-old girl in need of training. At thirty-one, she’d learned everything she needed, and had kept herself out of the law’s hands. Not once had she been brought before a magistrate. That wasn’t about to change as a result of Alex, regardless of how she felt about him.

      “Because,” she said, recalling Martin’s earliest words to her, “the most risky scheme a swindler can do is the one they pull on themselves.”

      “And caring about our marks is the most perilous thing that could happen to us,” he finished, jabbing his cheroot toward her for emphasis. Then he smiled. “But you’re a clever girl, cool and hard as diamonds. Get more blunt out of the duke, why don’t you?”

      “Didn’t you tell me not to run two games at once?” she returned. “I can’t do my job here and string him along at the same time.” Her heart withered and her stomach soured at the thought of taking more money from Alex. She was done with that life. Done with hurting people. Hurting him.

      She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have set up this gaming hell in Edinburgh or Dublin. Safer that way. Less chance of either of us running into prior dupes.”

      “London’s a proper banquet,” Martin explained. “Best action in the world is here.” He ran a hand down the front of his embroidered waistcoat, candlelight catching on the rings adorning his fingers. He could never resist a bit of flash. “And I’m nothing if not generous. I could’ve summoned any of a dozen swindlers to run this place with me. But I chose you.”

      “I’m grateful for it,” she answered sincerely. Even lawful gaming hells made profit hand over fist. “But it’s not like you to run a legitimate business.”

      “This will be my last scheme,” Martin insisted for the hundredth time. “I wanted to end my career on the level. That way, there’s no chance of being hauled in before the law. You’ll see,” he vowed. “Won’t take but a blink and we’ll be swimming in cash.” He eyed the safe meaningfully.

      Cassandra couldn’t contain her restlessness anymore. She paced the room. “Just a month. You promised. We’ll run the hell for a month, and then decamp.”

      “A month is the perfect amount of time,” Martin said smugly. “Keeping something around for a short while ensures the toffs will come running. They’ll throw blunt at us, knowing we won’t be here forever.”

      “All our debts paid,” Cassandra added. “Including George Lacey’s investments.” Lacey was the sort of man wise people avoided, particularly when it came to money. She’d been set against making Lacey

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