Parading on Reggie's arm, pretending an innocent, wholly spurious interest in the games, she cast her jaded eye over the players, and rejected every one.

Where, she inwardly wailed, was the gentleman for her?

They reached the last table and paused. The room was deep, stretching double the length they'd already traversed. Unrelieved gloom enveloped the area before them, the glow cast by two wall lamps the only illumination. Large armchairs were grouped here and there, their occupants barely discernible. Small tables stood between the armchairs; Amanda saw a long-fingered white hand languidly toss a card onto one polished top. It was patently clear that this end of the room hosted the truly serious play.

The truly dangerous players.

Before she could decide whether she was game to enter what loomed as a lair, one of the groups they'd passed ended their game. Cards slapped the table, jests mingled with curses; chairs scraped.

With Reggie, Amanda turned-and found herself the object of four pairs of male eyes, all hard, overbright. All fixed, intently, on her.

The nearest of the four men rose. To his full height, a head taller than Reggie. One of his companions joined him on his feet. And smiled. Wolfishly.

The first gentleman didn't even smile. He took one insolently swaggering step forward-then his gaze went past them and he hesitated.

"Well, well-if it isn't little Miss Cynster. Come to see how the other half enjoys itself, have you?"

Amanda swiveled regally; despite the fact the speaker was taller than she, she looked down her nose at him. When she saw who it was, she lifted her chin higher. "Lord

Connor." She curtsied-he was an earl, after all-but she made the deference a triviality; her social standing was higher than his.

The earl was a reprobate cut to a pattern for which they'd thankfully lost the card.