“Probably. I haven’t had any luck at the tables for years. When I started gambling I was doing it to spite my father. He hated me and so I gambled to wound him, as he wounded me. Then I started wanting to win, and I did, for a time, until I started drinking and that made me reckless and careless. I lost the last of my conscience, that voice in my head that used to curb my wild and self-destructive impulses.”

“If you could stay sober and if you knew when to quit, you could win again.”

He crossed his arms. “We’re not gambling. We’re leaving.”

“Why can’t I be here? You invited me to The Devil’s Staircase after the ball.”

“My mind was addled by the jilting.”

“First reactions are often very telling.”

“You shouldn’t throw your money away. We’ll find a nice, safe investment for you, perhaps in my friend Banksford’s steam engines.”

“I’m finished with playing it safe. I don’t want to be meek and mild Miss Beaton anymore. I’m through being a supporting character in my own life. This gown makes me feel powerful. And this money, this is mine to do whatever I want with. And I want to chance it at the hazard table. I want to feel the thrill that kept you coming back here, night after night.”

“This is a very bad idea,” he muttered.

“This is an excellent idea. Show me your world, West. We can quit when we’re ahead. I’ll be your conscience, I’ll help you curb your wild and self-destructive impulses.”

“For the love of . . .” He took a shuddering breath. “One hour. You have one hour and then I’m throwing you over my shoulder if I have to.”

She tossed her head and slanted a look at him from under her long dark lashes. “I’ve heard that one before.”

West led her to the hazard table and gave her a quick, whispered lesson. “The man to your left is the caster. He shakes the dice and spills them across the table. There’s the groom porter sitting on his stool, raking the dice after they’re thrown. Hazard is a game of chance, the dice falling where they may, with plenty of opportunity for the house to cheat by distracting the players. You can tell the gaming hell’s employees immediately. That gentleman in the brown beaver hat is a crowpee, hired to watch the play. That one, with the slouched shoulders, a decoy, who’s paid to win big and encourage others to play. I know the owner, Jax Smith, so none of them will bother us.”

“Goodness, I had no idea the house might employ such methods.”

“The house usually wins, Viola. That’s why I lost my fortune. That and the drinking.”