“Why?”
“I’ve a bet with myself. To see if I can make you turn ten shades of pink.”
Well, in that moment he must have counted off yet another. Some muted crimson hue, most likely.
“A man needs a hobby, too.” With a sudden, lethal flash of charm, he pushed back in his chair and stood. “I’ll settle our bill.”
Phoebe leaned toward the neighboring table, where the men were playing cards. “Don’t wait on the king,” she told the man nearest to her, peering over his shoulder at the cards in his hand.
“Phoebe,” Clio whispered sharply. “Don’t. It’s rude to interrupt.”
“But he needs to know.” She tapped the man on the shoulder. “Don’t wait on the king of diamonds. It’s not in the deck.”
“What?” The man looked over his shoulder at her.
“I’ve been watching for fourteen hands now. Every other card in the deck has appeared at least once. With an average of twenty-one cards revealed per hand, the chances of the king of diamonds remaining unplayed would be less than one in . . .” She paused. “One million, three hundred thousand.”
The man brayed with laughter. “There’s no numbers that big.”
“What the devil’s wrong with her?” a man across the table said. “She some kind of half-wit?”
“She’s got more wits than you.” The dealer turned over the remainder of the deck and riffled through it. “She’s right. No king of diamonds. If it isn’t in the deck, where is it?”
Phoebe shrugged. “I’d ask your quiet friend.”
Across the table, a burly, ginger-haired man scowled. “Keep your nose out of men’s business, girl.”
Clio tried to distract her sister, to no avail. When Phoebe latched on to a fact, she could be like a dog with a bone.
“There.” She nodded toward the man with ginger hair. “It’s in his left sleeve. I see the edge of it.”
Now the man rose from the table, looming over them all. “Are you calling me a cheat, you little wench? Because if you are, I won’t stand for it.”
He grabbed the tabletop’s edge with both hands and flipped the entire table, cards and beers and all.
Clio gathered her sister into her arms. Phoebe stiffened at the contact, but it couldn’t be helped. She would not let this man hurt her sister.
“Lying, unnatural witch,” he snarled. “I tell you, I’ll—”
Rafe stepped in, confronting the man chest to chest. His voice was a low, controlled threat. “You’ll stop. That’s what you’ll do. Because if you touch or threaten either one of these ladies again, I swear on everything holy, I will kill you.”
Chapter Eleven
Oh, yes. Rafe could kill him. He could demolish this vile, reeking piece of scum. Easily. With one hand.
Which meant he had to be very careful now.
“Do you know who these ladies are?” he said, both to inform the scum and to remind himself to keep some hold on civility. “They’re both nieces of the Earl of Lynforth. Miss Whitmore is the local landowner and soon to be married to my brother, Lord Granville.”
Rafe still held his tankard of beer in his right hand. With his left forearm, he nudged the man in the chest. Repeatedly.
“You don’t touch them.” He strode forward, backing the man toward the edge of the room. “You don’t speak to them. You don’t look at them.” He pushed the man against the timber-and-plaster wall. “You don’t breathe in their general vicinity, ever again. And in exchange, I let you leave this pub with the same number of teeth you brought in. Miss Whitmore’s intended groom might be a diplomat, but he’s not here right now. I am. And I don’t do anything the nice way.”
In his youth, he’d lived with anger at a constant simmer. Smaller insults than these had sent him boiling over with violence. Ten years ago, he would have punched first and thought later, leaving blood on the walls and no apologies.
He was older now. Wiser, he hoped. But when it came to scum like this? No less angry.
He was closer to losing control than he had been in years.
Easy, Rafe.
The card cheat chuckled. “Oh, I know who you are, Brandon. You had a good run in your day. But that’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“Not for long. I’ll be reclaiming my title soon.”
“That so? Let’s see what you have, then.” The man cracked his neck and shook out his fists. “I’ve been in a brawl or two myself. I’ll take you on.”
Rafe rolled his eyes. Damnation.
This ginger-haired jackass couldn’t be a compliant, fearful, reeking piece of scum. No, the idiot was just drunk enough to make this difficult.
“I don’t spar with amateurs, as a rule.”
“So the gossip’s true,” the drunk taunted. “You’re washed up. Running scared.”
“I said, I don’t spar with amateurs as a rule. But every rule has its exceptions.”
Behind him, someone in the growing throng of onlookers crowed. “It’s a fight, boys!”
“No fighting is necessary,” Clio said, speaking from somewhere behind him.
Rafe heard her.
His eyes never left the card cheat, but he heard her. And though he couldn’t reassure her, she needn’t worry. He knew very well what was at stake in this situation—for her and for him.
“This was all our fault for interrupting the card game,” she said bravely. “Sirs, you have our sincere apologies. Isn’t that right, Phoebe?”