He followed Hartley around the circle of men, catching glimpses of the fighters over the heads of the ever-shifting mass of bodies. The larger man pounded the smaller one to the delight of the spectators whose bloodthirsty cheers grew louder, eager for the larger man to deliver the coup de gr^ace and put his poor contender out of his misery.

‘Whatever happened to the delightful little widow I used to see you with in Paris?’ Hartley asked.

The larger boxer slammed his fist into the smaller man’s face, sending him spinning to the ground in a puff of blood and dust. ‘She married the Comte de Vane.’

Hartley’s eyebrows shot up before scrunching down in disbelief. ‘The relic from the Ancien Regime who used to haunt Madame Boucher’s card parties?’

‘The very one.’ The old codger used to enjoy playing Cornelia at the tables, his rheumy eyes raking her body as he tried to capture her interest. Rafe once admired the artful way she’d kept him at bay, flirting with him just enough to encourage more wagers. Never in all the games had Rafe guessed she was scheming to win more than the Comte’s counters.

‘Well, I suppose it’s a more practical way for a woman to earn her wealth.’ Hartley shrugged, more amused than disgusted by the pairing. Unlike Rafe.

‘Apparently.’

Rafe picked at a small chip on a waistcoat button, recalling her saucy smile their first night at Madame Boucher’s when she’d laid down her cards to win a tidy sum and the notice of all Paris society. He’d proudly watched her from across the room as she’d risen from the table and tucked the bills into the small pocket sewn into the front of her stays. She’d been so beautiful, the cunning fox. Her yellow dress hugging her full breasts and emphasising her willowy height had made her a rare daisy among roses. As she’d crossed the gilded and mirrored ballroom, she’d collected every man’s gaze. Then, when her vivid blue eyes and radiant smile had fixed on him, he’d almost forgotten the terms of their arrangement and dropped to his knees to propose.

Almost.

If he had, he certainly wouldn’t be in his current predicament. Though she wouldn’t have accepted him, not with men like the Comte sniffing about her skirts, but he hadn’t known that back then.

His big toe rubbed at the ragged edge of the hole in his stocking. If the soft weight of her cheek on his chest and the delicate tears moistening her lashes during their last night together in Paris hadn’t muddled his thoughts, he might have caught her ruse. Instead he’d strode out to the card rooms like some besotted fool, thinking himself the hero for finding the money to get them home before the impending blockade could trap them in France.

It’d been a nasty awakening when he’d returned to see her driving away in the Comte’s carriage. She hadn’t even possessed the decency to write him a note. Instead, she’d left the empty wardrobe and missing portmanteaus to explain everything, the finishing stanza of her message delivered when he’d overheard Lord Rollingham in a card room discussing her marriage to the Comte.

Never once in all their time together had he thought her so manipulative, so hard hearted and cunning. How wrong he’d been.

The sneaky wench.

The crowd shoved past Rafe, knocking against his shoulders as it surged forward to congratulate the winner. The boxer raised his hands in triumph, flashing a near-toothless smile through a cut lip and one swelling eye.

Rafe ground his jaw at having been so easily duped, but as much as he cursed the Comte for winning Cornelia, he should’ve thanked the decrepit crook for forcing their separation. Marriage was never meant to be part of their partnership. He hadn’t saved her from one disgrace only to pull her into a poverty he couldn’t even describe as genteel, living with his mother in the few habitable rooms of Wealthstone Manor or huddled in his draughty lodgings in Drury Lane.

Two men dragged the unconscious boxer from the ring and into one of the brick buildings flanking the yard. The crowd moved away from the centre, breaking into small groups to commiserate over their losses and plan their next wager.

‘Last chance to bet, Densmore.’ Hartley moved forward in line, eager to part himself from his blunt.

‘No, thank you.’ Rafe stepped to one side to make room for others.

Movement in a small window overlooking the square caught Rafe’s attention. He looked up at the sagging building to meet the hard eyes of a dark-haired woman watching the gathering. The image of Cornelia in the hackney rushed back to him and he swallowed down the foul taste in his mouth.

He could imagine a number of reasons why she might want the register, none of them good. It certainly wasn’t to protect her father’s name. The soused country Baronet couldn’t have known anything of value to sell to the French. There was something more nefarious behind her acquisition. If there wasn’t, she wouldn’t have skulked past him this morning like some sharper creeping off to plan her next swindle.

Worry crept over him like the small hand sliding into his pocket.

Rafe snatched the arm of the ragamuffin standing next to him. ‘Nothing for you there.’