Three minutes later, a footman hauled open the door of Mellors, peered out, then whistled and beckoned; a small black carriage that had been waiting down the street rumbled forward. Martin inwardly nodded in approval. Mellors appeared, escorting Amanda Cynster and Reggie Carmarthen to the carriage. They entered, the door was shut, then the driver shook his reins and the carriage lumbered off.

A statue in the dark, Martin watched it roll past-caught a fleeting glimpse of honey gold hair, saw Carmarthen leaning forward, lecturing determinedly. Martin grinned; quitting the shadows, he continued on his way.

The night enveloped him. He felt completely at home walking the London streets in the small hours, completely at peace. Why that should be so was a mystery, but he'd long ago learned the futility of questioning fate. Peculiar indeed that here, surrounded by the society into which he'd been born, the society he now eschewed, was one of the few places on earth he felt at one with all about him, even though all those who would rush to recognize him were snoring in their beds, oblivious as he walked past their doors.

Turning into Piccadilly, he lengthened his stride, his mind sliding back to the fascinating question of what game had been played out that night.

His initial interpretation had been that Connor, the lecherous old toad, had set his sights on Amanda Cynster, but as the challenge had played out, he'd grown increasingly unsure. Connor's wording of the wager had left her, win or lose, in no danger, but playing a rubber with Connor had prevented her from interacting with Mellors' other patrons. What Connor hadn't foreseen was that Carmarthen wouldn't-presumably couldn't-partner her, landing her in an invidious position that Connor hadn't, he felt sure, intended at all.

He'd watched her, those huge blue eyes scanning the room, looking for a savior…