He took her hand and brought it to his lips, bowing as he did so. Under his breath, so that only she could hear, he suddenly spoke.
‘Nothing so easy as that, Felicity. I must speak with you – away from here.’
What could he want of her? How was he offended now? She pulled her hand away.
‘I’m sure you have the address of my lodgings?’
It was a question she already knew the answer to. Edward was not the kind of man who would travel so far if he was not sure of her whereabouts. Someone would have been sent to watch her. How else would he have known where to find her tonight?
‘Of course.’ Edward nodded, confirming all her suspicions.
‘You may call on me tomorrow then, if you like.’
With more poise than she felt, Felicity turned and left the room. Pulling her cloak about her, she took the stairs calmly, though her legs still felt weak. When she reached the cobbled street, a gust of fresh sea air swept over her and she gasped, as though she would never breathe easily again. It took all of her might not to collapse into the gutter.
‘What could he want? What could he want?’ she asked herself frantically, her mind turning over, her chest tight with anxiety.
Felicity forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She had few resources at her fingertips, and could not afford to lose her nerve at a time like this. On unsteady legs, she began the climb to her inn, following the uneven road away from the gaming hell. Nestled into a cliff, the streets of Scarborough were hilly and the night air, so open to the ocean, chilled her to the bone. But she forgot the pain in her feet and the ice of her skin as she walked. All she could think about was Edward, and what she was to do.
Her first impulse was to run. She knew the rules; that when the stakes were too high, when your fingers might get burned, you turned away. If she packed tonight and left before dawn, she might just escape. She could be in Newcastle by lunch, and over the border into Scotland by the evening.
But even as she thought through this plan, she discarded it. If Edward was the man she remembered, he would anticipate her every move, stopping her in her tracks. But more than that, Felicity discovered she had no real desire to run from him. In the five years since their last meeting, she was almost certain she’d done nothing to offend him, nothing that could possibly make him seek her out as he had. Five years ago, his instructions to her had been clear: stay away from London, stay away from him, or be thrown to the magistrates. Felicity, a born survivor, hadn’t thought twice in following such stern orders.
Not that her exile from London wasn’t hard, for she missed the easy winnings of the gaming hells and the deep pockets of their wealthy clientele. But better the north than prison. Better the north than the hangman’s noose. And Scarborough was not so bad, Felicity reminded herself. A seaside town, it attracted a good number of guests eager to take of the waters and the fresh sea air. They brought money and society to the weathered stone town, providing Felicity with an ever-changing roster of men to charm and fleece in equal measure. No, it was not London, or even Bath, and here she was no lioness, feasting at the kill, but Scarborough had given her a decent livelihood, and she was happy to scavenge from the outskirts of good society what she could.
So, if Edward had not come to confront her, to hand her over to the courts, what had he come for? She could only deduce that there was something he wanted of her. But what? What could Edward Addington, the most honourable man she had ever known, want of her, a common criminal? A notorious gambler? The woman he himself had exiled?
Felicity paused at the door of her lodgings, taking a sweeping glance at the streets around her before she put her key in the lock. It was an old habit, born from the days she’d been on the run with her father, always needing to stay one step ahead of the bailiff. Even now, years later, she felt a dart of dread and that old fear of discovery, wondering if tonight was the night they would be found, and her father taken away. But she pushed the feeling down quickly, taking in the reassuring tattiness of her room, just as she had left it, with its worn bed, damp walls, and rotting floorboards. The only difference this evening was the addition of a small hip bath before the fire, battered and rusty, with scrub marks down the side. Though it was old, and most likely used by hundreds before her, the sight of the bath in her room made her smile. She relished the opportunity to wash away the grime of the gaming hell, and the salt and smoke smell of the Scarborough air that clung to her skin and hair.
But the bathwater was icy when she stepped into it; evidently Mrs Smith, her landlady, had drawn it far too early. Still, Felicity eased herself into the water, biting down on her lip at the cold. She’d paid a half shilling for this bath and would not let it go to waste. Shivering, she cleaned herself quickly, only taking care to wash her hair, every drop of the icy water like a pinprick of pain on her skin. It was not vanity – she could not afford such a sentiment as that. Though she hated herself for it, she knew she wanted him to see her at her best.
Him. Edward.
It was decidedly odd to be thinking of Edward once again, Felicity thought, wrapping her arms around her legs in a futile attempt to keep warm. After five years of putting him from her mind, of swearing not to dwell on her memories of his voice, his eyes and his skin, here she was again, thinking only of him.
‘Enough,’ she spoke suddenly to herself, as though to break the spell. ‘Enough of this. You must keep your wits about you. Don’t you remember what happened the last time you met?’
The last time they met. It still made Felicity chill with fear when she thought of the rage in Edward’s eyes. How close, how dangerously close, she had come to burning herself on the metaphorical fires for him.
Her father, long ago, had impressed upon her the three cardinal rules of gaming and swindling: Play small. Don’t get burned. Don’t let emotion get involved. With Edward, Felicity had broken them all.
CHAPTER TWO
The Queen of Diamonds appeared to be losing her touch.
With one hand wrapped around a glass of port Edward sat by the bar in this most depressing of northern gaming hells, reflecting on what he’d seen.
Of course, he’d been watching Felicity all evening. From the moment she’d entered the room to that final, disastrous throw of the dice, the throw that cost her one hundred guineas, he’d stayed hidden in the shadows of the room, watching and waiting.
At first, he’d simmered with anger as he saw her wager and win. The poor devils in this room were clearly completely unaware that they were in the presence of one of the greatest gamers London had ever seen. Felicity’s natural aptitude for cards, combined with an almost unbelievable talent for mathematics, made her practically unbeatable. And, as expected, Felicity flirted and charmed them all to the point where they probably forgot they were losing, and to a woman at that.
She’d made a small but respectable amount of money at the card tables. Why had she then taken to hazard? Edward went from anger to confusion. He knew from her time in London that she generally steered clear of the dice whenever they were brought out.
And she’d lost. Lost everything she’d won that night, and more. It was practically unthinkable; Felicity Fox, infamous gamester and swindler extraordinaire, losing, and in such a dingy and downtrodden establishment as this.
Edward’s eyes flickered over his surroundings with distaste. The walls and furnishings were worn out and the colours faded, whatever design and fashion they once boasted long since gone. It was a gaming hall as tired and shabby as the clientele who patronised it, with an overwhelming smell of salt-sea air, smoke and fish. Edward, who was an infrequent gambler and rare visitor to the more exclusive London clubs, sneered openly. This was exactly the sort of seedy den his father had been fond of, and it did not take much for Edward to picture him at the tables, wagering away his fortune, a painted whore dangling from his arm.