Regency Reputation

A Reputation for Notoriety

A Marriage of Notoriety

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DIANE GASTON always said that if she were not a mental health social worker she'd want to be a romance novelist, writing the historical romances she loved to read. When this dream came true she discovered a whole new world of friends and happy endings. Diane lives in Virginia, near Washington DC, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. She loves to hear from readers! Contact her at www.dianegaston.com or on Facebook or Twitter.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

A Reputation for Notoriety

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

A Marriage of Notoriety

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Copyright

A Reputation for Notoriety

Diane Gaston

In fond memory of my Aunt Loraine, who taught me to enjoy life, no matter what.

Prologue

London—June 1819

Rhys noticed the woman as soon as she appeared in the game room doorway. Taller than fashionable, she held her head high as she perused the room. Her face was half covered by a black mask reminiscent of those he’d seen in Venice, crowned with feathers and painted with gilt filigree. A large garnet was set between the eyes. Visible still were her full lips, tinted and enticing.

In her deep red gown, matching the reds, greens and golds of the game room, she might have been an item he’d personally selected. He watched as she moved gracefully through the room, stepping carefully as if uncertain the space worthy of her. Did she intend to play hazard? Or one of the other games? He was keen that this woman should admire what he’d done to the gaming hell and enjoy herself.

He wanted her to return.

Rhys intensely wished for this gaming house to be a success. He would settle for nothing less than it becoming London’s most desirable place to gamble, a place both gentlemen and ladies would be eager to attend. Not for the profit it would earn, but to show he could be the best at whatever he tackled.

The challenge exhilarated him, in a way he’d not experienced since the stimulation of battle. Only this time there was no carnage in its wake.

This time there was a beautiful woman here to enjoy herself and it was his job to see that she did.

She paused in the middle of the room and he quickly made his way to her.

‘Good evening, madam.’ He bowed. ‘I am Mr Rhysdale, the proprietor of this establishment. It will be my pleasure to assist you. What game do you wish to play?’

She lifted her eyes to him. Through the black mask he saw they were an intriguing green. Her hair, a walnut-brown laced with gold, was loosely piled on her head.

Who was she?

‘Mr Rhysdale.’ She nodded and her voice was surprisingly soft and reticent. ‘I would like to play whist, but I do not have a partner.’

How he would relish partnering her himself, but he did not play in his own gaming house. He would have to find a gentleman willing to be her partner, but he’d find no enjoyment in the task. His friend Xavier would play cards with her if Rhys asked, but women much too easily succumbed to Xavier’s handsome features. No, Rhys would not pass her on to Xavier.

Rhys wanted her for himself.

Chapter One

London—May 1819, one month earlier

Rhys and his friend Xavier sat at a table in the dining room of Stephen’s Hotel. They had just been served their food when Rhys glanced towards the doorway.

Two men stood there, scanning the dining room.

Rhys knew them. Had known them since childhood. Viscount Neddington, né William Westleigh, and his brother Hugh, the legitimate sons of Earl Westleigh.

His brothers.

Rhys turned back to his food.

Xavier put down his fork with a clatter. ‘What the devil?’ He inclined his head towards the doorway. ‘Look who is here.’

Rhys glanced up. ‘They are looking for someone.’

Stephen’s Hotel catered to military men, or former military men like Rhys and Xavier. Not the usual stamping ground of the Westleighs.

Rhys waited for the inevitable moment one of the Westleighs would notice him and slip his gaze away as if Rhys had never existed. Over the years when their paths had crossed, Neddington and Hugh always tried to act as if he’d never existed. Certainly that was their wish.

Ned, the elder, taller brother, turned his head in Rhys’s direction. Their eyes locked, but this time Ned did not look away. This time he nudged his brother and the two walked straight for Rhys’s table.

‘They are headed here,’ Rhys told Xavier.

His friend blew out a breath. ‘I’ll be damned …’

Rhys continued to hold Ned’s gaze. Rhys always stood his ground with the Westleighs.

They stopped at the table.

‘Rhys.’ Ned inclined his head in an effort, Rhys supposed, to appear cordial.

‘Gentlemen.’ Rhys would be damned if he’d greet them by name and pretend an intimacy that had never existed. He gestured towards Xavier. ‘My friend, Mr Campion.’

‘We are acquainted.’ Ned bowed in acknowledgement.

‘We are indeed.’ Xavier’s tone was sarcastic.

Rhys cut another piece of meat. ‘Are you merely paying your respects, or do you seek me out?’

‘We seek you out,’ Hugh replied, his voice taut and anxious.

Xavier glanced from one man to the other, obviously curious as to the purpose of this unusual visit.

Rhys made his expression neutral. Years of card-playing taught him to conceal his thoughts and emotions. He certainly had no intention of revealing anything to a Westleigh. He lifted a piece of beef into his mouth.

‘Forgive us for interrupting your dinner.’ Ned’s tone was conciliatory, if somewhat stiff. ‘We need a word with you.’

They needed a word with him? Now this was unique.

Rhys deliberately kept his attention to his plate, but he gestured to the empty chairs at the table. ‘Have a seat.’

Hugh, shorter and always more hot-headed, emitted an indignant sound.

‘We would prefer to speak in private.’ Ned seemed anxious to avoid offending Rhys in any way.

Xavier straightened. If his friend were carrying a sword, Rhys suspected he’d have drawn it.

Rhys gazed at the two men, seeing only the boys they once were. The bitter memory of their first encounter, when Rhys was nine, flashed through his mind. He’d confronted them with what he’d just learned—that they shared a father.

That moment, like countless others from their childhoods, had resulted in flying fists and bloody noses.

Rhys stared into eyes identical to his. Dark brown, framed by thick eyebrows. Like his, Ned’s and Hugh’s hair was close-cut and near-black. Rhys might be taller and thicker-muscled, but if he stood side by side with these two men, who could ever deny they were brothers?

He exchanged a glance with Xavier, whose lips thinned in suspicion.

Rhys shrugged. ‘Wait for me in the parlour off the hall. I’ll come to you as soon as I’ve finished eating.’

Ned bowed curtly and Hugh glowered, but both turned and walked away.

Xavier watched their retreat. ‘I do not trust them. Do you wish me to come with you?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘There never was a time I could not take on both Westleighs.’

‘Just the same, I dislike the sound of this,’ Xavier countered. ‘They are up to something.’

Rhys took another bite of his food. ‘Oh, they are up to something. On that we agree. But I will see them alone.’

Xavier shot him a sceptical look.

Rhys took his time finishing his meal, although he possessed no more appetite for it. In all likelihood this would be an unpleasant interview. All encounters with Ned and Hugh were unpleasant.

Xavier clapped him on his shoulder before parting from him in the hall. ‘Take care, Rhys.’

Rhys stepped into the parlour and Ned and Hugh turned to him. They’d remained standing.

He gestured. ‘Follow me to my rooms.’

He led them up the two flights of stairs to his set of rooms. The door opened to a sitting room and as soon as Rhys led the men in, his manservant appeared.

‘Some brandy for us, MacEvoy.’

MacEvoy’s brows rose. MacEvoy, a man with an even rougher history than Rhys, had been his batman during the war. Obviously he recognised Hugh Westleigh from the battlefield.

‘Please sit.’ Rhys extended his arm to a set of chairs. It gave him a perverse pleasure that his furnishings were of fine quality, even if the items had been payment for various gambling debts. Rhys was doing well, which had not always been true.

MacEvoy served the brandy and left the room.

Rhys took a sip. ‘What is this about, that you must speak with me now? You’ve made such a point of avoiding me all these years.’

Ned glanced away as if ashamed. ‘We may not have … spoken to you, but we have kept ourselves informed of your whereabouts and actions.’

Ned was speaking false. Rhys would wager his whole fortune that these two had never bothered to discover what had happened to him after his mother had died and their father had refused any further support. The earl had left him penniless and alone, at a mere fourteen years of age.

No use to contest the lie, however. ‘I’m flattered,’ he said instead.

‘You’ve had a sterling military record,’ Ned added.

Hugh turned away this time.

‘I lived,’ Rhys said.

Hugh had also been in the war. The two former officers had come across each other from time to time in Spain, France and finally at Waterloo, although Hugh had been in a prestigious cavalry regiment, the Royal Dragoons. Rhys ultimately rose to major in the 44th Regiment of Foot. After the disastrous cavalry charge at Waterloo, Rhys had pulled Hugh from the mud and saved him from a French sabre. They said not a word to each other then, and Rhys would not speak of it now. The moment had been fleeting and only one of many that horrendous day.

Ned leaned forwards. ‘You make your living by playing cards now, is that not correct?’

‘Essentially,’ Rhys admitted.

He’d learned to play cards at school, like every proper schoolboy, but he’d become a gambler on the streets of London. Gambling had been how he’d survived. It was still how he survived. He had become skilled at it out of necessity, earning enough to purchase his commission. Now that the war was over his winnings fed the foundation of a respectable fortune. Never again would his pockets be empty and his belly aching with hunger. He would be a success at … something. He did not know yet precisely what. Manufacturing, perhaps. Creating something useful, something more important than a winning hand of cards.

Hugh huffed in annoyance. ‘Get on with it, Ned. Enough of this dancing around.’ Hugh had always been the one to throw the first fist.

Ned looked directly into Rhys’s eyes. ‘We need your help, Rhys. We need your skill.’

‘At playing cards?’ That seemed unlikely.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Ned rubbed his face. ‘We have a proposition for you. A business proposition. One we believe will be to your advantage, as well.’

Did they think him a fool? Eons would pass before he’d engage in business with any Westleigh.

Rhys’s skin heated with anger. ‘I have no need of a business proposition. I’ve done quite well …’ he paused ‘… since I was left on my own.’

‘Enough, Ned.’ Hugh’s face grew red with emotion. He turned to Rhys. ‘Our family is on the brink of disaster—’

Ned broke in, his voice calmer, more measured. ‘Our father has been … reckless … in his wagering, his spending—’

‘He’s been reckless in everything!’ Hugh threw up his hands. ‘We are punting on the River Tick because of him.’

Earl Westleigh in grave debt? Now that was a turn of affairs.

Although aristocrats in severe debt tended to have abundantly more than the poor in the street. Ned and Hugh would never experience what Rhys knew of hunger and loneliness and despair.

He forced away the memory of those days lest he reveal how they nearly killed him.

‘What can this have to do with me?’ he asked in a mild tone.

‘We need money—a great deal of it—and as quickly as possible,’ Hugh said.

Rhys laughed at the irony. ‘Earl Westleigh wishes to borrow money from me?’

‘Not borrow money,’ Ned clarified. ‘Help us make money.’

Hugh made an impatient gesture. ‘We want you to set up a gaming house for us. Run the place. Help us make big profits quickly.’

Ned’s reasonable tone was grating on Rhys’s nerves. On Hugh’s, too, Rhys guessed.

Ned continued. ‘Our reasoning is thus—if our father can lose a fortune in gaming hells, we should be able to recover a fortune by running one.’ He opened his palms. ‘Only we cannot be seen to be running one, even if we knew how. Which we do not. It would throw too much suspicion on our situation, you see, and that would cause our creditors to become impatient.’ He smiled at Rhys. ‘But you could do it. You have the expertise and … and there would not be any negative consequences for you.’

Except risking arrest, Rhys thought.

Although he could charge for membership. Call it a club, then it would be legal—

Rhys stopped himself. He was not going to run a gaming hell for the Westleighs.

‘We need you,’ Hugh insisted.

Were they mad? They’d scorned him his whole life. Now they expected him to help them?

Rhys drained the contents of his glass and looked from one to the other. ‘You need me, but I do not need you.’

Hugh half rose from his chair. ‘Our father supported you and your mother. You owe him. He sent you to school. Think of what would have happened if he had not!’

Rhys glared at him, only a year younger than his own thirty years. ‘Think of what my mother’s life might have been like if the earl had not seduced her.’

She might have married. She might have found respectability and happiness instead of bearing the burden of a child out of wedlock.

She might have lived.

Rhys turned away and pushed down the grief for his mother. It never entirely left him.

Ned persisted. ‘Rhys, I do not blame you for despising our father or us, but our welfare is not the main issue. Countless people, some known to you, depend upon our family for their livelihood. The servants. The tenant farmers. The stable workers. The village and all its people in some fashion depend upon the Westleigh estate to be profitable. Too soon we will not be able to meet the expenses of planting. Like a house of cards, everything is in danger of collapsing and it is the people of Westleigh who will suffer the most dire of consequences.’

Rhys curled his fingers into fists. ‘Do not place upon my shoulders the damage done by the earl. It has nothing to do with me.’

‘You are our last resort,’ Hugh implored. ‘We’ve tried leasing the estate, but in these hard times, no one is forthcoming.’

Farming was going through difficult times, that was true. The war left much financial hardship in its wake. There was plenty of unrest and protest around the country about the Corn Laws keeping grain prices high, but, without the laws, more farms would fold.

All the more reason the earl should have exercised prudence instead of profligacy.

‘Leave me out of it.’

‘We cannot leave you out of it!’ Hugh jumped to his feet and paced the room. ‘We need you. Do you not hear me? You must do this for us!’

‘Hugh, you are not helping.’ Ned also rose.

Rhys stood and faced them both. ‘Words our father once spoke to me, I will repeat to you. I am under no obligation to do anything for you.’ He turned away and walked over to the decanter of brandy, pouring himself another glass. ‘Our conversation is at an end.’

There was no sound of them moving towards the door. Rhys turned and faced them once again. ‘You need to leave me, gentlemen. Go now, or, believe me, I am quite capable of tossing you both out.’

Hugh took a step towards him. ‘I should like to see you try!’

Ned pulled him away. ‘We are leaving. We are leaving. But I do beg you to reconsider. This could bring you a fortune. We have enough to finance the start of it. All we need is—’

Rhys lowered his voice. ‘Go.’

Ned dragged his brother to the door. They gathered their hats and gloves and left the rooms.

Rhys stared at the door long after their footsteps faded in the hallway.

MacEvoy appeared. ‘Do you need anything, sir?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘Nothing, MacEvoy. You do not need to attend me.’

MacEvoy left again and Rhys downed his brandy. He poured himself another glass, breathing as heavy as if he’d run a league.

He almost wished Hugh had swung at him. He’d have relished planting a fist in the man’s face, a face too disturbingly similar to his own.

A knock sounded at the door and Rhys strode over and swung it open. ‘I told you to be gone!’

‘Whoa!’ Xavier raised his hands. ‘They are gone.’

Rhys stepped aside. ‘What were you doing? Lurking in the hallway?’

‘Precisely.’ Xavier entered the room. ‘I could not wait a moment longer to hear what they wanted.’

Rhys poured another glass of brandy and handed it to his friend. ‘Have a seat. You will not believe this, I assure you.’

Sending away the Westleighs ought to have been the end of it. Rhys ought to have concentrated on his cards that night rather than observe the workings of the gaming hell on St James’s Street. He ought to have slept well without his thoughts racing.

Over the next few days, though, he visited as many gambling establishments as he could, still playing cards, but taking in everything from the arrangements of the tables, the quality of the meals, the apparent profitability of the various games.

‘Why this tour of gaming hells?’ Xavier asked him as they walked to yet another establishment off of St James’s. ‘A different one each night? That is not your habit, Rhys. You usually stick to one place long enough for the high-stakes players to ask you to play.’

Rhys lifted his shoulders. ‘No special reason. Call it a whim.’

His friend looked doubtful.

Rhys did not wish to admit to himself that he was considering his half-brothers’ offer, although all the people who had been kind to his mother in the village kept rising to his memory. He could almost envision their suffering eyes if Westleigh Hall was left in ruins. He could almost feel their hunger.

If he pushed the faces away, thoughts of how much money he could make came to the fore. The Westleighs would be taking the risk, not Rhys. For Rhys it was almost a safe bet.

If only it had been anyone but the Westleighs.

Rhys sounded the knocker on the door of an innocuous-appearing town house. A huge bear of a man in colourful livery opened the door. Rhys had not been to this house in perhaps a year, but it appeared unchanged.

‘How do you do, Cummings?’ he said to the liveried servant. ‘I have been gone too long from here.’

‘G’d evening, Mr Rhysdale,’ Cummings responded in his deep monotone. He nodded to Xavier. ‘Mr Campion.’

Cummings might act the doorman, but he’d be better described as the gatekeeper, allowing only certain people in, chucking out any patron who became rowdy or combative.

Cummings took their hats and gloves. ‘Nothing has changed here. Except some of the girls. They come and go. The game room is up the stairs. Same as always.’

Rhys was not interested in the girls, who often sold their favours on the side.

He glanced around the hall. Nothing appeared changed.

Three years ago he’d been a frequent patron of this place. He, like so many gentlemen at that time, had been intrigued by a masked woman who came to play cards and often did quite well. She’d been a mystery and that intensified her appeal. Soon the men were wagering on which of them would bed her first, all properly written down in the betting book. Rhys had not been interested in seducing a woman just to win a bet.

He shook his head. He had not thought of that masked woman in years. Who had won her? he wondered.

He turned back to Cummings. ‘And Madame Bisou. Is she here tonight?’ Madame Bisou owned this establishment.

‘Aye. She should be in the game room.’ Cummings turned away to store their hats.

Rhys and Xavier climbed the stairs and entered the game room, all a-bustle with activity as the time approached midnight. The hazard table was in the centre of the room, encircled by eager players. The familiar sound of dice shaken in a cup and shouts of ‘Seven!’ reached Rhys’s ears, followed by the roll of the dice on the green baize and more shouting. Now and again a patron might win big, but the odds always favoured the bank, as they did in faro and rouge et noir. The two faro tables stood against one wall, nearly obscured by players; the other side held the games of rouge et noir. Rhys avoided all these games, where winning was almost completely dependent on luck. He confined himself to games of skill.

‘I thought you came to play cards.’ Xavier nudged him.

‘I have,’ he responded. ‘But I have not been here in a year. I am taking stock of the room.’

At that moment, a buxom woman with flaming red hair hurried towards them. ‘Monsieur Rhysdale. Monsieur Campion. How good it is to see you. It has been trop longtemps, no?’

Rhys smiled both at the pleasure of seeing her again and at her atrocious French accent. ‘Madame Bisou!’ He leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek and whispered in her ear, ‘How are you, Penny?’

‘Très bien, cher,’ she responded, but her smile looked stressed. She turned to greet Xavier before Rhys could ask more.

In those difficult London days of his youth Madame Bisou had been Penny Jones, a decade older than he and just as determined to free herself from the shackles of poverty. They’d both used what God had provided them: Rhys, his skill at cards—Penny, her body. But she did not spend all the money she earned on gin like so many of the other girls. She’d saved and invested and finally bought this place. She’d been running it for almost ten years.

‘Why has it been so long since you have been here?’ She took Rhys’s hand and squeezed it.

‘I am asking myself that same question.’ Rhys smiled at her, genuinely glad to see an old friend.

Her tone changed to one of business. ‘What is your pleasure today, gentlemen? Do you wish a woman? Or a game of chance?’

Xavier answered her. ‘A game of whist, if we can manage it.’

Rhys would have preferred merely to watch the room for a little while, but Penny found them two willing high-stakes partners.

When the play was over, Rhys and Xavier collected their winnings, more modest than most nights, but Rhys had to admit to being distracted. They moved on to the supper room. One of the girls began a flirtation with Xavier. Rhys spied Penny sitting in a far corner.

He walked over to her. ‘It is not like you to sit alone, Penny. Is something amiss? Might I help?’

She sighed wearily and appeared, for the moment, much older than her forty years. ‘I have lost the heart for this, Rhys. I wish I could just walk away from it all….’

Rhys’s heart beat faster. ‘Are you thinking of selling the business?’

‘How can it be done? I cannot advertise.’ Her gaming hell was illegal. ‘I am too weary to even think how to accomplish it.’

This was unlike her. Penny always found a way to do precisely as she wished.

Rhys’s nostrils filled with the scent of opportunity.

Fate was shoving him in the direction he must go. He was the solution to Penny’s problems. He could save his old village. He could enrich his coffers.

All he must do was sell his soul to the devil.

His father.

The next day Rhys presented himself at the Westleigh town house. He’d not told Xavier his intention. He’d not wanted to be talked out of it.

It was well before the fashionable hour for making calls. Probably well before Ned and Hugh rose. It was half-past nine, a time working men and women were well into their day while the wealthy still slept. But Rhys needed to do this first thing or risk the chance of changing his mind.

The footman who answered the door led him to a drawing room off the hall. Unfortunately, the room was dominated by a huge portrait of the earl. Painted with arms crossed, the image of Earl Westleigh stared down, his expression stern and, Rhys fancied, disapproving.

Let his image disapprove. Rhys knew his own worth. He was determined the world should know it soon enough.

Still the earl’s presence in this house set his nerves on edge. Would he join Ned and Hugh for this interview? Rhys half hoped so. He would relish standing in a superior position to this man who once held power over his life.

But it was far more likely the earl would do anything possible to avoid his bastard son.

Rhys’s brothers, to their credit, did not keep him waiting long. He heard their hurried footsteps and their hushed voices before they entered the room.

Ned walked towards him as if he would offer his hand to shake, but he halted and gestured to a chair instead. ‘Shall we sit?’

Hugh held back and looked solemn.

Rhys calmly looked from one to the other. ‘I believe I’ll stand.’

His response had the desired effect. Both men shifted uncomfortably.

‘Are we to assume your presence here to mean you have reconsidered our offer?’ Ned asked.

Rhys inwardly grimaced. Ned called it an offer? ‘I came to further the discussion of whether I am willing to rescue you and our father from penury.’

‘Why?’ Hugh demanded in a hot voice. ‘What changed your mind?’

Rhys levelled a gaze at him. ‘Call it an attack of family loyalty, if you like. I did not say I’ve changed my mind.’

Ned placed a stilling hand on Hugh’s arm, but spoke to Rhys. ‘What do you wish to discuss?’

Rhys shrugged. ‘Well, for one, it takes a great deal of money to start a gaming establishment. Will I be expected to invest my own money? Because I would not stake my fortune against something so risky.’

‘How is it risky?’ Hugh cried. ‘The house always has the advantage. You know that.’

‘The house can be broken,’ Rhys countered. ‘It is all chance.’ Rhys succeeded at cards by reducing chance.

‘But it is not likely, is it?’ Hugh shot back.

Ned’s eyes flashed a warning to Hugh, before he turned to Rhys again. ‘The monetary investment will be ours.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It is now or never for us, Rhys. We’ve scraped the last of our fortune to bank this enterprise. All we want from you—all we need from you—is to run it.’

They must truly be desperate to devise a plan like this, especially as it involved him. Desperate or mad.

‘A gaming house will not make much money right away unless it can quickly build a reputation. It must distinguish itself from other places. Give gamblers a reason to attend.’ Rhys paused. ‘You want to attract the high-stakes gamblers who have money to throw away.’

‘It must be an honest house,’ Hugh snapped. ‘No rigged dice. No marked cards.’

Rhys gave him a scathing look. ‘Are you attempting to insult me, Hugh? If you do not think me an honest man, why ask me to run it?’

Hugh averted his gaze.

‘No cheating of any kind,’ Rhys reiterated. ‘And no prostitution. I will tolerate neither.’ He’d keep the girls at Madame Bisou’s employed, but he’d have nothing to do with them selling their bodies.

‘We are certainly in agreement with all you say,’ Ned responded.

Rhys went on. ‘Within the parameters of honesty, I must be given free rein in how the house is run.’

‘Of course,’ Ned agreed.

‘Wait a moment.’ Hugh glared. ‘What precisely do you mean by free rein?’

‘I mean I decide how to run it,’ Rhys responded. ‘There will be no countering of what I choose to do.’

‘What do you choose to do?’ Hugh shot back.

Rhys kept his tone even. ‘I will make this house the one every wealthy aristocrat or merchant wants to attend. I want to attract not only wealthy men, but ladies, as well.’

‘Ladies!’ Hugh looked appalled.

‘We all know ladies like to gamble as well as gentlemen, but ladies risk censure for it, so I propose we run the house like a masquerade. Anyone may come in costume or masked. That way they can play without risk to their reputation.’ This had worked for the masked woman who’d come to Madame Bisou’s and caused such a stir those years ago. No one had ever learned who she was.

Rhys had thought this all through. It had been spinning in his mind ever since Ned and Hugh first proposed he run a gambling house. He would call it the Masquerade Club. Members could join for a nominal fee. They could dress in masquerade as long as they purchased their counters with the coin in their pockets. If they sought credit or were forced to sign a promissory note, they must reveal their identity.

He continued explaining to Ned and Hugh. ‘This is my plan thus far. It is not up to negotiation. If I come up with a better idea, I will implement it and I will not confer with you beforehand.’

‘See here—’ Hugh began.

Ned waved a hand. ‘Leave it, Hugh. As long as it is honest and profitable, what do we care how the place is run?’ He turned to Rhys. ‘Anything else?’

‘I want half the profit.’

‘Half?’ Hugh shouted.

Rhys faced him again. ‘You risk money, but it is my reputation that will be at risk. We can charge a nominal subscription and call it a gaming club, but there is still the risk that it will be declared illegal. I must be compensated for that risk.’ Besides, he intended to give Penny a portion of his profits, as part of the sale, and Xavier, too, if he was willing to help.

‘I think your terms are agreeable,’ Ned responded. ‘Shall we discuss how much money you need to get started?’

Rhys nodded, but tapped a finger against his lips. ‘I do have a question.’

Ned looked up suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

‘Does the earl know you wish me to do this?’

The brothers exchanged glances.

‘He knows,’ Ned answered.

And was not happy about it, Rhys guessed. Something Rhys counted upon. Besides earning a profit, Rhys wanted the gaming house to provide him another pay-off. He wanted to rub the earl’s nose in the fact that it was his bastard son who pulled him from the brink of ruin. Rhys wanted revenge against the man who sired him and never, ever, acknowledged that fact, who had instead turned him away without a penny, not caring if he lived or died.

He tapped on the back of a chair with his fingertips. ‘Very well, my brothers—’ he spoke sarcastically ‘—I agree to run your gaming house.’

The two men who so resembled him visibly relaxed.

‘On one more condition,’ Rhys added.

Hugh rolled his eyes. Ned looked nervous.

‘Our father—’ Rhys spoke this word with even greater sarcasm ‘—Earl Westleigh, that is—must publicly acknowledge me as his son. It must seem as if I am accepted into the family as one of you, an equal member. I must be included in family functions and social occasions. I must be treated as one of the family.’ What better revenge than this?

Ned and Hugh gaped back at him with horrified expressions. Apparently the idea of accepting him as a brother was as anathema to them as it would be to the earl.

‘That is my condition,’ Rhys reiterated.

Ned glanced away and silence stretched between them.

Finally he raised his eyes to Rhys. ‘Welcome to the family, brother.’

Chapter Two

Rhys accomplished the sale and reopening of the gaming hell within three weeks of calling upon his half-brothers. He changed the décor and the menu and retrained all the workers. Madame Bisou’s became the Masquerade Club and news of its opening travelled swiftly by word of mouth.

The first days had been stressful, but each night the numbers of patrons had grown, as had the profit, which made the Westleighs less fraught with worry. Rhys could count on one of them—Hugh mostly—to come in the guise of an ordinary patron. Rhys knew they were keeping tabs on what he had created.

He’d been watching for one of them when he spied the beautiful masked woman who had just told him she wished to play whist.

Rhys had experienced his share of affairs with women. He and Xavier had enjoyed some raucous nights in Paris with willing elegantes, but rarely, if ever, had he been so intrigued as with this woman.

Her posture was both proud and wary, and she had come to the gaming house alone, in itself a courageous act for a woman. What’s more, her lips were moist and pink and her voice like music to his ears.

‘How might a lady find a willing partner?’ she asked.

What man could refuse her?

For the first time since opening the gaming house, Rhys regretted that he could not play cards. He would have relished being her partner and showing her his skill.

As it was, he must find her another man—to partner her in whist.

He bowed. ‘Give me a moment to fulfil your desire.’ A serving girl walked by with a tray of port. He took one glass and handed it to her. ‘Refresh yourself in the meantime and take a look at all the house has to offer.’

He quickly scanned the room and spied Sir Reginald, a harmless man who frequented gaming hells and flirted with the ladies, but rarely followed through. His card playing was competent, if not inspired. Sir Reginald would be forgiving if she turned out to be a poor player, but would not disappoint if she was skilled.

Rhys could not imagine her not being skilled at whatever she tried. He wanted her to enjoy herself. He wanted her to like the Masquerade well enough to return.

He brought the unmasked Sir Reginald to her. ‘Madam, may I present Sir Reginald.’

Sir Reginald bowed gallantly. ‘It will be my privilege to partner you.’

She smiled at Sir Reginald, her pink lips parting to reveal pretty white teeth. Handing Rhys her empty glass as if he were a servant, she accepted Sir Reginald’s arm and walked with him to a card table with two other men. After speaking with the men, the lady and Sir Reginald sat. One of the other men dealt the cards.

Rhys had no intention of being so easily dismissed by this mysterious masked woman. He had other duties to occupy him at the moment, but, before she left, he intended to speak with her again.

Celia Gale breathed a sigh of relief to finally be seated at a card table, staring at diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades.

Entering the game room had been like crossing through the gates of hell. It had taken all her courage to do something so potentially damaging to her reputation. A lady, even a baron’s widow, did not go gambling alone in the dead of night.

Even worse, it meant entering a world where other, even greater, risks existed—the lure of cards and dice, the heady thrill of winning, the certainty that losing could be reversed with one more hand, one more roll of the dice.

Cards and gambling once took away everything she held dear. The road to ruin was only one bad hand of cards away.

But what choice did she have? How else was she to procure the money she needed?

She’d heard of this gaming hell at a recent musicale she’d attended and immediately thought it was a godsend. Two men had spoken of it within her earshot.

‘Thing is, the ladies can attend. It is called the Masquerade Club and anyone may come in disguise,’ one had said.

‘They do not have to reveal themselves?’ the other asked.

‘Not at all. Any lady may gamble without fear of ruining her reputation.’

She could gamble for high stakes and no one would know! At last a way to earn the funds she so desperately needed.

‘Your deal, my dear,’ Sir Reginald said, bringing her back to the present.

She’d spied Sir Reginald at a few of the entertainments she’d attended, but they had never been introduced. There was little reason to suppose he would recognise her. The other two gentlemen, also unmasked, were unknown to her before this night.

She dealt the deck slowly and with deliberation.

‘Nicely dealt.’ The man on her left smiled condescendingly.

She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

Her father taught that gambling was part skill at cards and part skill with people. Let these gentlemen condescend. It was to her advantage if they underestimated her. They might become careless in their choice of cards to lay down.

When the serving girl came around offering spirits, the gentlemen accepted, but Celia nursed one glass of port. She needed all her wits about her.

She purposely played as if this were her first time at a green baize table, and, by so doing, the counters grew into a pretty little pile at her right elbow. These gentlemen were betting quite modestly and, she suspected, were sometimes letting her win.

She indulged their mistaken impression. Soon enough this room would know her skill and then the competition—and the risk—would intensify.

She glanced up. The establishment’s proprietor, Mr Rhysdale, was watching her. Too often when she looked up he was watching her. It set her nerves on edge.

Her blood had raced with fear when he’d approached her after she’d entered the room. She’d thought she’d done something wrong, transgressed some secret code of behaviour that was known only to those who frequented gaming hells.

He was a magnificent man, tall and muscled and intense. His eyes assessed everything, but his expression remained inscrutable. What was he thinking as he meandered through the tables, when he turned his gaze towards her?

He raised a glass to her and she quickly looked away.

What earthly reason made him watch her so closely? There were other masked ladies playing cards in the room.

She took the last three tricks of the hand, winning the game.

‘That is it for me,’ one of the gentlemen said.

‘And for me,’ his partner added.

Sir Reginald straightened. ‘Would you like to try your luck at rouge et noir, my dear?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

She wanted to play more cards. Games of skill, not merely of chance. She was at a loss as to how to manage it. Certainly she would not seek out Mr Rhysdale to find her a new partner.

All three gentlemen bowed and excused themselves, leaving her alone. Celia rose. She busied herself with slipping her counters in her reticule. The night had been profitable. Not overwhelmingly so, but it was a good start.

‘Was luck with you, madam?’

She startled and turned, knowing who she would find. ‘Luck?’ She smiled. ‘Yes, luck was with me, Mr Rhysdale.’

‘Do you cash in, then?’ He stood so close it seemed he stole the air she needed to breathe.

She clutched her reticule, but tilted her head so as to look in his face. ‘Frankly, sir, I would like to continue to play. Dare I presume on you to arrange another game for me?’

‘My pleasure, madam.’ His voice turned low.

Within a few minutes he had rounded up two gentlemen and a lady needing a fourth and Celia played several more games. The gentleman who became her partner was more skilled than Sir Reginald and her counters multiplied.

When the players left the table, Mr Rhysdale appeared again. ‘More partners?’

Her heart fluttered. Why was that? ‘I am done for the night.’

He took her arm and leaned close. ‘Then share some refreshment with me.’

She did not know what to say. ‘What time is it?’

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a fine gold watch. ‘A quarter to three.’

Her carriage came at three-thirty.

She glanced around the room. There was not enough time to join another whist game, or even find someone willing to play piquet. ‘Very well.’ She was certain her tone sounded resigned. ‘Some refreshment would be welcome.’

He escorted her out of the game room to the door of the supper room behind. His hand remained firmly on her elbow. Her heart raced. Was he about to tell her why he watched her so intently as she played?

If he discovered she was a card sharp, her plans could be ruined. If he presumed she was cheating, it would be even worse. Was not her father’s fate proof of that?

She wished Mr Rhysdale would simply leave her alone.

When they crossed the threshold of the supper room, Celia gasped.

The room was lovely! It was decorated in the earlier style of Robert Adam. The pale-green ceiling with its white plasterwork mirrored the pattern and colour of the carpet and walls. The white furniture was adorned with delicate gilt. Servants attending the buffet or carrying trays were dressed in livery that belonged to that earlier time, bright brocades and white wigs.

Rather than appear old-fashioned, the room seemed a fantasy of the elegance of bygone days. With all its lightness, Celia felt conspicuous in her dark red gown and black mask. There were four or five tables occupied, some with men entertaining ladies, some with men in deep conversation. Several of them glanced up as she and Rhysdale passed by.

‘Are you hungry?’ Rhysdale asked as he led her to a table away from the other diners. ‘We can select from the buffet or, if you prefer, order a meal.’

Her nerves still jangled alarmingly. ‘The buffet will do nicely.’

‘And some wine?’ His dark brows rose with his question.

She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

At least he displayed some expression. She otherwise could not read his face at all, even though it was the sort of face that set a woman’s heart aflutter. His eyes were dark and unfathomable and his nose, strong. But his lips—oh, his lips! The top lip formed a perfect bow. The bottom was full and resolute, like the firm set of his jaw. In this early pre-dawn hour, the dark shadow of his beard tinged his face, lending him the appearance of a dangerous rogue.

It was his position as the proprietor of the Masquerade Club that posed the most peril to her, though. She did not want the attention of the proprietor. She wanted only to play cards and win as much money as she could.

He pulled out a chair and she lowered herself into it, smoothing her skirt. Her chair faced the curtained window, but she wanted to face the room, so she could see what he was doing behind her back.

When he walked to the buffet, she changed seats.

Even as he made his selections at the buffet, he looked completely in charge. There was no hesitation on his part to pick this or that tidbit. His choices were swiftly accomplished. When a servant came near, Rhysdale signalled the man and spoke briefly to him. A moment later, the servant brought two wine glasses and a bottle to the table. He poured wine in both glasses.

Celia sipped hers gratefully. The night’s play had given her a thirst and the mellowing effect of the wine was a balm to her nerves.

When Rhysdale turned from the buffet, he paused slightly, noticing, she supposed, that she had moved from the seat in which he had placed her.

He walked towards the table and her nerves fired anew.

Setting a plate in front of her, he lowered himself into the chair directly across from her. She would be unable to avoid those dark eyes while they conversed.

‘I hope my selections are to your liking.’ His voice rumbled.

She glanced at her plate. ‘Indeed.’

He’d provided some slices of cold ham and an assortment of cheeses, fruits and confections, all items she enjoyed, but she would have given her approval no matter what he had selected.

She pushed the food around with her fork.

‘I am curious.’ His tone was casual. ‘Why did you come to the Masquerade Club tonight?’

She glanced up, her heart pounding. ‘Why do you ask?’

The corner of his mouth twitched, ever so slightly. ‘I am eager to make this place a success. I want to know what entices a woman to attend.’ He paused. ‘And what would entice you to return.’

Her brows rose. Was this all he wanted from her? She could not believe it.

She chose her words carefully. ‘I heard that a woman might play cards here without revealing her identity.’

He nodded. ‘I had hoped anonymity would be an appeal.’ He took a sip of his wine. ‘And where did you hear this of the place?’

Now it was she who must avoid the truth. To answer truthfully would reveal that she moved in society’s finest circles and that she could not do.

What could she say that would avoid tipping her hand? ‘At the theatre.’

Yes. That ought to suffice. Anyone might attend the theatre.

He stared at her for a moment too long for comfort.

Finally he tasted the food on his plate. ‘And what do you think of my establishment now you have seen it?’

She relaxed a little. Perhaps he was being honest with her. It made sense that a proprietor would want to know if his place appealed or not.

‘It meets my needs very well.’

He glanced up. ‘And your needs are?’

She swallowed a piece of cheese. ‘A place to play cards where a woman might feel secure.’

‘Secure.’ He held her gaze.

She struggled to explain. ‘To feel safe from … the stories one hears about gaming establishments.’

He pinned her with his gaze again. ‘You have felt safe here?’

‘I have,’ she admitted.

What she witnessed from behind her mask was not the worst of what she’d heard of gaming hells, where drinking and debauchery might share the night with charges of cheating and, worst of all, challenges to duels. It almost seemed as civilised as a Mayfair drawing room, except for the wild excitement in the eyes of those on a winning streak and the blanch of despair on the faces of losing players. Those highs and lows were part of gambling. Something she must guard against at all costs.

As well as guarding against this special notice from the proprietor. His watchful dark eyes made her tremble inside.

He turned again to his plate. ‘And what about the gaming here appeals to you? You played whist. Would you also be interested in the hazard table? Faro?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not trust so much in luck.’

Too often in her life luck had totally abandoned her.

His eyes bore into her again. ‘You prefer to rely on skill?’

Her gaze faltered. ‘One must have some control over one’s fate.’

‘I quite agree.’ To her surprise he smiled and his handsome face turned into something wondrous.

She found it momentarily hard to breathe.

His smile turned wry. ‘Although you might say opening a gaming hell cedes too much of one’s fate to luck.’

She forced her voice to work. ‘Chance favours you at the hazard and faro tables, which is why I do not play them. Nor rouge et noir.’

She finished her wine, aware that he continued to stare at her. She fingered her reticule, heavy with counters. ‘May—may I ask the time, please?’

He pulled his watch out again. ‘Three-twenty.’

She stood. ‘I must go. My carriage arrives at three-thirty and I need time to cash out.’

He also rose and walked with her to the ground floor where the cashier sat in a room behind the hall. She felt a thrill watching the coins she’d won stack up in front of her. After scooping them into a leather pouch and placing it in her reticule, she collected her shawl from the dour-faced servant attending the hall.

And Rhysdale remained with her.

He walked her to the door and opened it. ‘I trust you will return to us?’

She suddenly was very eager to return. So eager a part of her wanted to re-enter the game room and deal another hand of whist.

She curbed her excitement. ‘Perhaps.’ Curtsying, she said, ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Rhysdale. And for the refreshment.’

‘You are very welcome.’ His voice turned low and seemed to resonate inside her.

She crossed the threshold, relieved to take her leave of him, but he walked out into the dark night with her.

The rush lamp at the door must have revealed her surprise.

‘I will see you into your carriage,’ he explained.

Her coachman drove up immediately and she was grateful her carriage no longer had a crest on its side.

Rhysdale opened the coach door and pulled down the steps. He held out his hand to assist her. His touch was firm and set her nerves trembling anew.

He closed the door and leaned into the window. ‘Goodnight, madam. It has been my pleasure to assist you.’

His pleasure? She took a breath.

‘Goodnight,’ she managed.

The coach pulled away, and she swivelled around to look out the back window.

He stood in the road, illuminated by the rush light.

Still watching her.

Rhys did not leave the road until her carriage disappeared into the darkness.

Who the devil was she?

He did not need to be captivated by a woman. A woman could become an inconvenient distraction and he needed to keep his wits about him. The gaming house must be his priority.

Rhys had known too many women who made their living by acting pleasing at first, then cutting the man’s purse and dashing away. He expected that sort of woman to show up at the gaming hell—women who played at gambling, but who really merely wished to attach themselves to the evening’s big winners.

This woman was not a cutpurse, however. Neither did she come to the gaming hell on a lark.

She came to win money.

He’d watched her play, had seen the concentration in her posture, the calculation in her selection of cards. She was here for the card play.

She was a kindred spirit, a gambler like himself.

Would she return? She must. He wanted her in every way a man wanted a woman.

He walked back into the house, nodding to Cummings as he passed him. When he reached the door to the game room, Xavier appeared, leaning against the wall in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘What was that all about?’ his friend asked.

Rhys did not know how much he wished to say about the woman, even to Xavier. ‘She intrigues me.’ He gave his friend a warning look. ‘If she returns, do not aspire to make her one of your conquests.’

Xavier, who attracted female company so easily he never needed to make a conquest, replied, ‘I comprehend.’

They walked into the game room together.

‘Do you know who she is?’ Xavier asked.

Rhys grinned. ‘Not yet.’

Chapter Three

Celia sat at the desk in her library in the rooms she’d taken for the Season, rooms she now had more hope she could afford. Her winnings were stacked in piles on the desk, one half set aside to stake her next venture to the Masquerade Club.

What would she have done had she not discovered the new gaming house? Her widow’s portion had been stretched to the breaking point and the bills continued to pour in.

Now she could transfer some of the bills from one stack to another—ones to pay now, ones to pay later.

She rolled some of the coins in her hand, almost giddy at their cool texture and the clink of them rubbing against each other.

She stacked them again and leaned back, appalled at herself. To be giddy at winning was to travel a perilous path. She must never succumb to the mania that was gambling. Not like her father—and, by association, her mother. They both died of it.

If she played with her head and not her emotions, she should be able to resist. She planned to visit the place often enough to learn who the high-stakes players were. Think of the money she could win in games with such gamblers!

Stop! she warned herself. No emotions. Playing cards must merely be what she did to earn money, like any tradesman or skilled workman.

Celia turned her face to the window and gazed out into the small garden at the back of the house. At the moment she must depend on Rhysdale to find her partners, but soon she would become known to the regulars. Then she hoped to be sought after as a partner.

At least Rhysdale had set her up with partners skilled enough to bring her a tidy profit.

She riffled the stack of coins. She needed more. Her stepdaughter’s Season cost money and her mother-in-law refused to stop spending recklessly.

Her late husband had been another whose gambling and debauchery ruled his life. Her husband had been excessive in everything. Gambling. Spending. Drinking. Mistresses.

He’d even been excessive in his disdain for his young wife.

Not that it mattered now. His death had freed her from a marriage she’d never wanted and from a husband she’d abhorred. It had left her with a stepdaughter nearly her own age and a mother-in-law who despised her.

‘Celia!’ Adele, her stepdaughter, called.

Celia’s singular joy, the closest Celia would ever come to a daughter of her own. Adele. Bright and starry-eyed, and full of hope that her first Season in London would bring her the love match she pined for. Celia was determined Adele should achieve her dreams, dreams that might have been Celia’s own.

If gambling had not robbed her of them.

‘I’m in here, Adele,’ she responded.

Dreams aside, it was pragmatic for Adele to make a good match. The girl deserved to be settled and happy with a husband wealthy and generous enough to support Adele’s grandmother, as well. Celia’s modest widow’s portion might be enough for her to live in some measure of comfort if she economised very carefully, but it definitely did not stretch so far as to support her stepdaughter and mother-in-law.

Besides, Celia had no wish to be shackled to her mother-in-law forever.

Adele bounced into the room and gave Celia a buss on the cheek. ‘Grandmama and I went shopping. We went to the new Burlington Arcade. It was a positive delight!’

‘Was it?’ Celia would miss Adele. The girl was the delight of her life.

Adele danced in front of her. ‘There must have been a hundred shops. We did not see half of them.’ She sobered. ‘But, I assure you, I did not purchase a thing.’

Celia smiled. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself, none the less.’

‘I did. I cannot tell you of all the items I saw for sale.’ Adele lowered herself onto a nearby chair. ‘Do not tell me those are bills.’

‘They are bills, but do not fret. I have funds to pay some of them.’ Celia moved the stacks of bills to pay farther away from those that would have to wait. ‘Including the modiste. So you may order a new gown or two.’

Adele shook her head. ‘I do not need them. I can make do with my old ones.’

Celia rose from her chair and went over to the girl. ‘Indeed you may not!’ She took Adele’s hands. ‘It is very important for you to put in a good appearance! Your grandmother and I agree on that score. Besides I’ve—I’ve found some funds I did not know we had. We are not so poverty-stricken after all.’

Adele looked sceptical. ‘I hope you are telling me the truth and not shielding me as if I were a child.’

Celia squeezed her hands and avoided the issue. ‘Of course you are not a child. A child does not have a Season.’ Adele was nineteen years old. Celia herself was only twenty-three, but she felt ancient in comparison.

‘I am sending Tucker out with the payments today.’ Tucker had been one of the footmen who had served the Gales for years. Without overstepping the boundaries between servant and master, he’d been loyal to Celia through her marriage and widowhood. He was now her faithful butler.

‘Where did you find the money?’ Adele asked.

Celia pointed to the coins. ‘The silliest thing. I was looking for something else and I discovered a purse full of coin. Your father must have packed it away and forgotten about it.’

Adele’s expression saddened. ‘That was a fortunate thing. Had he found it he would have lost it gambling.’

What would Adele think if she knew where the money had really come from?

Only three people knew of Celia’s trip to the Masquerade Club—Tucker, her housekeeper, Mrs Bell, and Younie, Celia’s lady’s maid. Younie was lady’s maid to all three women since Lord Gale’s death.

What would Adele think if she knew Celia planned to return to the gaming hell tonight?

An image of Rhysdale flew into her mind. Would he watch her again? Her heartbeat accelerated.

The Dowager Lady Gale, Celia’s mother-in-law, entered the room. ‘There you are, Adele.’ She did not greet Celia. ‘We must decide what you are to wear to the musicale tonight. It cannot be the blue gown again. Everyone has seen that gown twice already. It will be remembered.’ She finally turned to Celia. ‘She absolutely needs new dresses. You are excessively cruel to deny them to her.’

Celia pasted a smile on her face. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Gale.’

Like Celia, Lady Gale wanted Adele to have a successful Season, ending in a betrothal. The difference was, Celia wanted Adele to find someone who could make her happy; Lady Gale cared only that Adele marry a man with a good title and good fortune.

Celia adopted a mollifying tone. ‘You will be pleased to know Adele and I have been talking of dresses. I have payment for the modiste, so Adele may order two new gowns.’

Her mother-in-law, silver-haired and as slim-figured as she’d been in her own Season, narrowed her eyes. ‘Only two? I cannot abide how tight-fisted you are!’

Celia forced herself to hold her tongue. Engaging in a shouting match with the dowager would serve no purpose. ‘Only two for now, but I am confident our finances will soon improve and Adele may order more.’

Her conscience niggled. How many times had her father purchased something, saying he’d win enough to pay for it?

Lady Gale pursed her thin lips. ‘And I am to wear my old rags, I suppose.’

Celia’s smile froze. ‘You may order two gowns for yourself, if you like.’

‘Will you come with us tonight, Celia?’ Adele looked hopeful. She was too kind to say she did not find her grandmother’s company altogether pleasant at such gatherings.

Celia calculated what time the musicale would end. It would still give her time to attend the gaming house for a few hours of play. ‘If you wish.’

‘I do!’ Adele’s countenance brightened.

Her grandmother rolled her eyes. ‘You will dress properly, I hope.’

‘I will, indeed.’ Celia always dressed properly. Her most daring gown was the one she’d worn to the Masquerade Club the night before. Its neckline had always seemed too low. She’d only worn it because she thought no one would recognise her in it, as if anyone at these society events noticed what she wore. None the less, she would change into it to wear to the gaming house tonight, as well.

She turned to Adele. ‘Why don’t you see if Younie has any ideas of how to alter one of your old gowns for tonight? She is very clever at that sort of thing.’

Adele jumped to her feet. ‘An excellent idea! I will do that right away.’ She started for the door. ‘I beg your leave, Grandmama.’

Lady Gale waved her away. ‘Go.’ She called after Adele. ‘Younie is in my room, Adele. She is mending.’

Adele skipped away and Lady Gale turned to Celia. ‘I do not see why my granddaughter and I must share your lady’s maid.’

Celia kept her voice even. ‘Because we do not have the funds to hire more servants.’

‘Money!’ the older woman huffed. ‘That is all you ever talk of.’

Money had consumed her thoughts, Celia would be the first to admit. Except this day thoughts of money were mixed with combinations of hearts, spades, clubs and diamonds.

Would Rhysdale be pleased at her return? Celia wondered.

She gave herself a good shake. Why was she even thinking of the man? It was not a good thing that she had come to his notice, no matter how attractively masculine he was. She planned to win and win often.

What if he accused her of cheating?

Lady Devine’s musicale was a sought-after event and Celia’s mother-in-law said more than once how lucky they were to have received an invitation. Celia, Adele and Lady Gale were announced amidst Lady Gale’s grumbling that they ought to have had a gentleman escorting them.

They strolled through the rooms where the pink of the ton were assembled. Celia recognised some of the men as having been at the gaming house the previous night and she wondered how many more of these people—ladies especially—had been there, as well, but wearing masks as she had done.

Some of the gentlemen’s faces at this entertainment had been quite animated at the gaming house, impassioned by the cards or the dice. Here in this Mayfair town house their expressions were bland. It seemed as if the risks of winning or losing made them come alive.

She did not know their names. The ton were known to her only from newspaper articles or books on the peerage. When her parents had been alive she’d been too young for London society. By the time she was married, her husband chose to keep her in the country so as not to interfere with his other ‘interests.’ The arrangement had suited her well enough. She preferred him to be away.

If she had been with him in London, though, she might have had some warning of his profligacy and the condition of his finances. She would have seen in him the telltale signs of gambling lust. Her childhood had honed her for it.

Her mother-in-law ought to have known how debauched her son had become. Lady Gale had spent most of her time in London as part of the social scene. In fact, it was because of Celia’s mother-in-law that they received as many invitations as they did. But her mother-in-law would never countenance anything negative being said about her only son.

Except his choice of a second wife.

One of the men who had been at the gaming hell passed close by. Celia had an impulse to ask her mother-in-law who the gentleman was, but Lady Gale gestured to her dismissively before she could speak.

‘Get me a glass of wine,’ the older woman ordered. ‘It is so tedious not to have a man about to perform such niceties.’

‘I will get it for you, Grandmama,’ Adele said. ‘Do not trouble Celia.’

Before either lady could protest, Adele disappeared through the crowd.

Lady Gale pursed her lips at Celia, but something quickly caught her eye. ‘Look. There is our cousin Luther.’

Luther was second cousin to Celia’s husband. And he was the new Baron Gale.

Needless to say, Luther was none too pleased at the state of his inheritance, mortgaged to the hilt, all reserves depleted. He had not the least inclination to offer any financial assistance to the former baron’s mother, daughter or wife, as a result.

‘Yoo-hoo! Luther!’ Lady Gale waved.

The man tried to ignore her but, with a resigned look upon his face, walked over to where they stood. ‘Good evening, ladies.’ He bowed. ‘I trust you are well.’

‘We are exceeding well,’ Lady Gale chirped, suddenly as bright and cheerful as she’d previously been sullen. ‘And you, sir?’

‘Tolerable,’ he muttered, his eyes straying to elsewhere in the room.

‘My granddaughter is here, Luther, dear,’ she went on. ‘You will want to greet her, I am sure.’

Luther looked as if he’d desire anything but.

‘It is her Season, do you recall?’ Lady Gale fluttered her lashes as if she were the girl having her Season. ‘We expect many suitors.’

‘Do you?’ Luther appeared to search for a means of escape.

‘Her dowry is respectable, you know.’ That was because her father, Celia’s husband, had been unable to get his hands on it.

Luther’s brows rose in interest. ‘Is that so?’

Celia felt a sudden dread. Surely Lady Gale would not try to make a match between Adele and Luther? Luther had already proved to be excessively unkind. After all, he’d taken over Gale House as soon as Celia’s year of mourning was completed, removing Celia, Adele and Lady Gale without an offer of another residence. Even now he was rattling around in the London town house by himself when he could very easily have hosted the three women for the Season. That simple act would have saved Celia plenty of money and would have given Adele more prestige.

‘Gale!’ some gentleman called. ‘Are you coming?’

Luther did not hesitate. ‘If you will pardon me.’ He bowed again.

‘But,’ Lady Gale spoke to his retreating back, ‘you have not yet greeted Adele!’

‘He can see Adele another time,’ Celia assured her. ‘In fact, he could call upon us, which would be the civil thing for him to do.’

Lady Gale flicked her away as if she were an annoying fly. ‘He is much too busy. He is a peer now, you know.’

A peer who cared nothing for his relations.

Adele returned, carrying two glasses of wine. ‘I brought one for you, too, Celia.’ She handed a glass to her grandmother and one to Celia.

Adele was always so considerate. Sometimes Celia wondered how the girl could share the same blood as her father and grandmother.

Lady Gale snapped, ‘Adele, you missed our cousin, Luther. He was here but a moment ago.’ She made it sound as if Adele should have known to come back earlier.

‘Oh?’ Adele responded brightly. Did Adele simply ignore her grandmother’s chiding or did she not hear it? ‘I have wanted to meet him and ask how all the people are at Gale House. I do miss them!’

One of Lady Gale’s friends found her and the two women were quickly engaged in a lively conversation.

Adele leaned close to Celia. ‘The kindest gentleman assisted me. I—I do not know if I properly thanked him. I must do so if I see him again.’

Celia smiled at her. ‘You will be meeting many gentlemen this Season.’ She so wanted Adele to pick a steady, responsible, generous man.

Luther was certainly not generous.

‘You grandmother will wish to select your suitors, you know,’ Celia added.

Adele frowned. ‘I do want her to be pleased with me.’

Celia sipped her wine. ‘You must please yourself first of all.’

Adele would not be pushed into a marriage she did not want and should not have to endure—as Celia had been. Celia would make certain of it.

The start of the programme was announced and Lady Gale gestured impatiently for Celia and Adele to follow her while she continued in deep conversation with her friend. They took their chairs and soon the music began.

Lady Devine had hired musicians and singers to perform the one-act French opera, Le Calife de Bagdad by Boieldieu. The comic opera was ideal for an audience who were intent on marriage matches. In the opera, the mother of the ingenue Zétulbé, refuses to allow the girl to marry the Caliph of Baghdad, who meets her disguised as an ordinary man. When he tries to impress the family with extravagant gifts, the mother merely thinks he is a brigand.

It should be every family’s fear—that the man marrying their daughter is not what he seems. It certainly was Celia’s fear for Adele. If only Celia’s experience had been more like Zétulbé’s, discovering the generous and loving prince disguised as something less. Celia’s husband had been the opposite. Presented by her guardians as a fine, upstanding man, but truly a cruel and thoughtless one in disguise.

As the music enveloped Celia she wondered if all men hid their true colours.

Of course, she disguised herself, too. She pretended to be a respectable lady, but she visited a gaming hell at night. Once there, she disguised herself again by wearing a mask and pretending to be a gambler, when gambling and gamblers were what she detested most in the world.

The tenor playing the Caliph’s part stepped forwards to sing of his love for Zétulbé. Celia closed her eyes and tried to merely enjoy the music. An image of Rhysdale flashed through her mind. Like the tenor’s, Rhysdale’s voice had teemed with seduction.

Rhys watched the door from the moment he opened the gambling house. He watched for her—the woman in the black-and-gold mask.

‘Who are you expecting?’ Xavier asked him. ‘Someone to make our fortunes or to take it all away?’

He shrugged. ‘The woman I told you about last night.’

Xavier’s brow furrowed. ‘This is not the time for a conquest, Rhys. Your future depends upon making this place a success.’

Xavier was not saying anything Rhys had not said multiple times to himself. Still, he flushed with anger. ‘I will not neglect my responsibilities.’

Xavier did not back down. ‘Women are trouble.’

Rhys laughed. ‘That is the pot calling the kettle black, is it not? You are rarely without a female on your arm.’

‘Women attach themselves to me, that is true.’ Xavier’s blue eyes and poetic good looks drew women like magnets. ‘But I’ve yet to meet one who could distract me from what I’ve set myself to do.’

‘I did not say she was a distraction. Or a conquest.’ Rhys tried to convince himself as well as his friend. ‘I am curious about her. She is a gamester like me and that is what intrigues me.’

Xavier scoffed. ‘Is that why you warned me away last night?’

Rhys frowned. ‘That prohibition still stands. I do not wish to have you distract her.’ He paused, knowing he was not being entirely truthful. ‘I want to see what transpires with this woman gamester.’

Xavier gave him a sceptical look.

Truth was, Rhys did not know what to make of his attraction to the masked lady gamester. Xavier was correct. The woman did tempt him in ways that were more carnal than curious.

But not enough to ignore his commitment to the gaming hell, not when his main objective was to show the Westleighs he could succeed in precisely the same world in which his father failed.

The buzzing of voices hushed momentarily. Rhys glanced to the doorway as she walked in, dressed in the same gown and mask as the night before. Sound muffled and the lamps grew brighter.

His body indeed thought of her in a carnal way. ‘There she is.’

He left Xavier and crossed the room to her. ‘Madam, you have returned. I am flattered.’

She put a hand on her chest. ‘I have indeed returned, Mr Rhysdale. Would you be so kind as to find a whist partner for me once again?’

Xavier appeared at his side. ‘It would be my pleasure to partner you, madam.’

Rhys glared at him before turning back to the masked woman. ‘May I present Mr Campion, madam. He is a friend and an excellent card player.’

She extended her gloved hand. ‘Mr Campion.’

Xavier accepted with a bow. ‘I am charmed.’ He smiled his most seductive smile at her. ‘Do me the honour of calling me Xavier. No one need stand on ceremony in a gaming hell.’

Rhys groaned inwardly.

‘Xavier, then,’ she responded.

He threaded her hand through his arm. ‘Do you wish to play deep, madam?’

She did not answer right away. ‘Not too deep, for the moment. But neither do I wish a tame game.’

Xavier nodded in approval. ‘Excellent. Let us go in search of players.’

He looked back at Rhys and winked.

Rhys knew Xavier well enough to understand his intent was merely to annoy. Xavier would always honour his wishes in matters such as this. Rhys was less certain about the lady. Most women preferred Xavier to Rhys. Most women preferred Xavier to any man.

Rhys went back to patrolling the room, watching the play, speaking to the croupiers running the tables. He kept a keen eye out for cheating in those winning too conveniently and desperation in those losing. Gamblers could easily burst out in sudden violence when the cards or the dice did not go their way. Rhys’s plan was to intervene before tempers grew hot.

His eyes always pulled back to the masked woman. She sat across from Xavier, posture alert, but not tense. Tonight her handling of the cards was smoother than the night before. She arranged her hand swiftly and never belaboured a decision of what card to play. She’d said she preferred games of skill and she was quite skilled at whist.

She was a gamester, for certain. Rhys could wager on that. He’d also bet that she remembered every card played and that she quickly perceived the unique patterns of play in her partners and her opponents.

He strolled over to the table to watch more closely.

‘How is the game?’ He stood behind the masked woman.

Xavier looked at him with amusement. ‘We make good partners.’

Judging from the counters on the table, Xavier and the masked woman made very good partners indeed. Card partners, that was.

Rhys stood where he could see the woman’s cards. If it bothered her, she gave no sign. He watched the play for several hands. She was clever. Deal her four trump and she was certain to win with three of them at least. Give her a hand with no trump and she took tricks with other cards when trump was not played.

She was a gamester all right.

He instantly looked on her with respect.

But, as fascinated as he was watching her play, he needed to move on. No gambler wanted such acute attention to his or her play, especially by the house’s proprietor.

Rhys sauntered away.

An unmasked Ned Westleigh approached him. ‘How are things faring?’ Ned asked in a conspiratorial tone.

Rhys lifted his brows and raised his voice. ‘Why, good evening, Lord Neddington. Good to see you back here.’

‘Well?’ Ned persisted.

‘We are near to recouping the original investment,’ Rhys replied. ‘So all is as it should be.’

‘Excellent.’ Ned rubbed his hands together.

‘There is more to our bargain, do not forget,’ Rhys added.

He expected these Westleighs to try to renege on the earl’s obligation to claim Rhys as a son. More than once Rhys wondered why he’d made that part of the bargain. Another man might wish for the connection to the aristocracy such an acknowledgement might bring, but Rhys cared nothing for that. Neither was the money he’d reap from this enterprise a motivation. He could always make money.

No, all Rhys really wanted was to force his father to do what he ought to have done when Rhys was a child—take responsibility for Rhys’s existence. Once that was accomplished, Rhys was content to spurn him and his sons as they had once spurned him.

‘Hugh and I do not forget,’ Ned said in a low voice. ‘Our father … requires some time.’

Rhys lifted a shoulder. ‘I will not release the money until that part of the promise is assured.’ The Westleighs, in their desperation, had ceded all the power in this matter to him.

Rhys glanced over to the masked woman and caught her looking back. She quickly attended to her cards.

Rhysdale was talking to the gentleman Celia had seen earlier at the musicale, she noticed. It was fortunate she had changed her gown, even though she doubted the gentleman would have noticed her. The widow of a dissolute baron who never brought his wife to town did not capture anyone’s attention.

Rhysdale caught her watching and she quickly turned back to the cards and played her last trump. She guessed Xavier still had two trumps remaining. That should ensure they won this hand.

They’d won most of the games and each time Celia felt a surge of triumph. Their opponents, however, grew ever-deepening frowns. Xavier took the next trick and the next and the game was theirs.

Their opponents grumbled.

Celia shuffled the deck and the man on her right cut the cards. She dealt the hand and the play began, but this time Xavier did not play in the manner to which she’d accustomed herself. The opponents took tricks they ought to have lost. Xavier suddenly was playing very sloppily indeed. He was losing her money. She gave him a stern glance, but he seemed oblivious.

When the hand was done, the opponents won most of the tricks and won the game, to their great delight. Luckily that game’s wagers had been modest, but Celia’s blood boiled at losing so senselessly.

‘That was capital!’ the man on her right said. ‘I’m done for now, however. Excellent play.’ He stood, collected his small pile of counters and bowed to Celia. ‘Well done, madam.’ He turned to Xavier. ‘You chose a capital partner, sir. We must play again.’

‘I’m done, as well,’ the other man said.

Both begged their leave and wandered over to the hazard table.

‘They must wish to lose more,’ Xavier remarked.

Celia gathered her counters. ‘You let them win that last game.’

‘You noticed?’ Xavier laughed. ‘Better they leave happy. Otherwise they might choose other opponents next time.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You made certain they would be willing to play us again.’

He nodded. ‘Precisely.’

He smiled and his incredibly handsome face grew even more handsome. He’d been an excellent partner, she had to admit. She now possessed even more money than she’d won the night before. Still, she sensed he’d had motives of his own for partnering her, something that had nothing to do with trying to win at cards.

Another man hiding something.

She stood and extended her hand to him. ‘It was a pleasure, sir.’

His smile flashed again. ‘The pleasure was mine.’ He held her hand a moment too long for her liking. ‘What’s next for you? The hazard table?’

She shrugged. ‘Vingt-et-un, perhaps.’

‘Ah, there is a vingt-et-un table. Let me take you to it and see if we can get you in that game.’

Vingt-et-un was another game where she could exercise her skill. All she need do was remember the cards played and bet accordingly.

Xavier led her to the large round table with a dealer at one end and players all around. Xavier facilitated her entry into the game and it soon occupied all her concentration.

When the croupier reshuffled the cards, she glanced up.

Mr Rhysdale was again watching her. He nodded, acknowledging that she’d again caught him watching. She nodded in return and refocused on the cards.

Time passed swiftly and Celia’s excitement grew. She was winning even more than the night before. Her reticule was heavy with counters. She fished into it and pulled out her watch.

Quarter after three.

In only a few minutes her coach would arrive and she still must cash out.

Mr Rhysdale appeared at her elbow. ‘Almost time for your coach, madam?’

Her senses flared with his nearness. ‘Yes.’

He touched her elbow. ‘I will escort you.’

‘That is not necessary, sir.’ His attention made it hard for her to think. And to breathe.

He touched her reticule. ‘I cannot allow you to walk into the night alone. Especially with a full purse.’

As he had done the night before, he escorted her to the cashier and waited for her while the hall servant collected her wrap. He again walked her out the door and onto the pavement.

It had apparently rained. The street shone from the wet and reflected the rush lights as if in a mirror. From a distance, the rhythmic clopping of horses’ hooves and the creaking of coach wheels echoed in the damp air. Celia’s coach was not in sight.

Rhysdale stood next to her. ‘How did you find the cards tonight, madam?’

She closed her hand around her reticule. ‘Quite satisfying.’ She glanced down the street again. ‘Although I may not spend much time at vingt-et-un after this.’ She feared he would catch on that she had been counting the cards.

‘You did not lose.’ He spoke this as a fact, not a question.

She smiled. ‘I try not to lose.’

His voice turned low. ‘I noticed.’

Her face warmed.

‘You have an excellent memory for cards, do you not?’ he went on.

Her stomach knotted. He knew. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not for me,’ he responded. ‘Not as yet.’

Her hands trembled. ‘Are you warning me away?’

‘Not at all.’ His tone remained matter of fact. ‘If I saw you make wagers that would jeopardise my establishment, I would certainly warn you away from my tables, but, as long as you play fair, it matters not to me how much you win off of any gentleman brave enough to challenge you.’

‘Do you suspect me of cheating?’ The very idea filled her with dread.

And reminded her of her father.

He shook his head. ‘You are a skilled player.’ He paused. ‘I admire that.’

She relaxed for a moment, then glanced down the street, looking for Jonah, her coachman.

‘Who taught you to play?’ Rhysdale continued conversationally.

She averted her gaze, not willing to reveal the pain she knew would show in her face. ‘My father.’ Her throat grew dry. ‘He once was also a skilled player.’

Before he died.

She faced Rhys again, wanting to take the focus off of her. ‘And who taught you to play, sir?’

He made a disparaging sound. ‘Certainly not my father.’ He looked reluctant to tell her more. ‘I learned in school, but I honed my craft later when it became necessary.’

‘Why necessary?’ she asked.

It was his turn to glance away, but he soon faced her again. ‘I was living on the streets.’

She was shocked. ‘On the streets?’

He shrugged. ‘When I was fourteen, I had no one and nothing. I came to London and learned to support myself by playing cards.’

No one and nothing?

How well she remembered the desolation of no one and nothing.

She opened her mouth to ask why he’d been alone, what had happened to his parents, but her coach turned the corner and entered the street. She was silent as it pulled up to where they stood. As he had done the night before, he put down the steps for her and opened the door.

He took her hand and helped her inside, but did not immediately release it. ‘Will you come play cards again, madam?’ His voice seemed to fill the night.

She wanted to return. She wanted to win more.

And she wanted to see him again.

All seemed equally dangerous.

‘I will return, sir.’

He squeezed her hand.

After he released her and closed the coach door, Celia could still feel the pressure of his fingers.

Chapter Four

Ned waited until almost noon for his father to rise and make his appearance in the breakfast room. He’d tried to confront his father on this issue before and knew he must catch him before he went out or he’d lose another day.

Hugh had waited with Ned most of the morning, but stormed out a few minutes ago, swearing about their father’s decadent habits.

Not more than a minute later Ned heard his father’s distinct footsteps approaching.

Wasn’t it always the way? When Ned needed Hugh, his brother disappeared.

The earl entered the room, but paused for a moment, spying his oldest son there.

He gave Ned an annoyed look. ‘I thought to have breakfast in peace.’

Ned stood. ‘Good morning to you as well, Father.’

His father walked straight to the sideboard and filled his plate with food that had already been replaced three times. The earl detested cold eggs. ‘Do you not have something of use to do? Itemising my bills? Recording my debt in a ledger?’

Ned bristled at his father’s sarcastic tone. ‘You ought to be grateful to me and to Hugh.’

His father sat down at the head of the table. A footman appeared to pour his tea. Ned signalled for the footman to leave.

His father waited until the door closed behind the man. ‘I am anything but grateful that you treat me as a doddering fool. Makes me look bad in front of the servants.’

Ned sat adjacent to his father. ‘You were the one to speak of bills and debts in front of Higgley.’

His father glared at him and stuffed his mouth full of ham.

Ned went on. ‘But I do need to speak to you.’

His father rolled his eyes.

Ned did not waver. ‘It has been a month since Rhysdale opened the gaming house and you have yet to fulfil your part of the bargain.’

‘You truly do not expect me to speak to that fellow, do you?’ He popped a cooked egg into his mouth.

‘Speak to him?’ Ned felt his face grow hot. ‘You gave your word as a gentleman to do more than that. We need to include him socially. You need to acknowledge he is your son.’

His father waved a hand. ‘I already did my part. I sent him to school. What more can he want?’

Ned gritted his teeth. ‘You agreed to this, Father. Rhysdale has already amassed the amount we invested to get the place started. But he will not release the money until you do what you are honour-bound to do.’

‘Honour?’ His father’s voice rose. ‘Do you call it honourable that he is holding my money? It is more like extortion, I’d say.’

‘I’d say it is more like sound business,’ Ned countered. ‘Rhysdale is no fool. The money is his leverage. You must do as he says.’

‘I do not have to do anything I do not wish to do.’

Good God. The man sounded like a petulant schoolboy.

Ned would not put up with it. ‘Father. You must do this. We are running out of time. No one will advance you more credit. The fields need tending. The livestock need feed. Our tenants need to eat—’

At that moment Hugh entered the room. ‘Your voice is carrying, Ned.’

So much for keeping this private from the servants—not that one could keep anything secret from servants for long.

‘Where were you?’ he asked Hugh.

Hugh looked apologetic. ‘I was going mad waiting for Father. I just took a quick walk outside.’

He sat across from Ned and poured a cup of tea.

‘Father is reneging on his word.’ Ned inclined his head towards their father.

Hugh took a sip. ‘I presumed.’ He slid his father a scathing look. ‘Your bastard son has more honour than you, you know. He’s kept his part of the bargain.’

Their father straightened in his seat. ‘I’ll brook no disrespect from you, you ungrateful cub.’

Hugh faced the earl directly, his face red with anger. ‘Then be a man I can respect, sir! Do what you agreed to do. Introduce Rhys to society as your son. You gave your word.’

‘Only to the two of you,’ their father prevaricated. ‘I never gave my word to him.’

Ned lowered his voice. ‘Your word given to your sons means nothing, then?’

Hugh rose from his chair. ‘Let him go, Ned! He is not thinking of us. Nor of the Westleigh estates. Nor the Westleigh people. Let him watch his creditors come ransack the house, carrying away our heritage and that of our own sons. He cares nothing for nobody. Only for himself.’

‘See here, you cur!’ the earl cried, jumping to his feet.

Ned stood and extended his arms, gesturing for them both to sit down. He had one more card to play. ‘Let us bring Mother into this conversation.’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ his father cried.

‘Ned’s right.’ Hugh seized on this idea immediately. ‘Mother needs to know what a sorry excuse for a gentleman you’ve become.’

Ned suspected their mother already knew what a sorry creature her husband was. But she probably did not know the extent of his debt and the dire consequences that were imminent unless they could begin paying the creditors. This information would certainly shock her.

She, of course, knew of Rhys’s existence and Ned did feel sorry that she must endure the humiliation of having him welcomed into the family.

‘Very well,’ the earl snapped. ‘I’ll go the gaming hell and make nice to Rhysdale. I’ll do that much.’

‘You’ll have to do more,’ Ned warned him.

The earl nodded. ‘Yes. Yes.’ His tone turned resigned. ‘But first I want to see this place and ascertain for myself whether he is swindling us or not.’

‘He is not swindling us!’ Hugh said hotly.

Their father ignored him. ‘If all is as it should be, then we may plan how to divulge the rest to your mother.’

Rhys wandered through the tables of the gaming house, watching the gamblers, perusing the croupiers at their work. He wished he had more eyes, more people he could trust to check on the tables. To make certain the croupiers stayed honest and the gamblers refrained from cheating. With so much money changing hands every night, it was a rare man or woman who would not at some time or another become tempted.

Cheating was the great danger of a gaming house. Gentlemen could accept losing huge amounts in honest games, but the whiff of a dishonest house might swiftly destroy everything.

He also had to admit to watching for the masked woman to arrive. She’d been attending almost every night. Whenever she came, Rhys contrived to spend a few minutes alone with her.

The mystery of her sometimes filled his thoughts.

Where had she come from? Who was she? Why had she chosen gambling to make money?

She had a life outside the gaming hell, a life she wished to protect, that much he understood. Was she married and hiding her gambling from her husband? He hoped not. Married women held no appeal for him.

He’d had some opportunity to attend the Royal Opera House and Drury Lane Theatre. He and Xavier had joined Xavier’s parents in their theatre box. But Rhys had seen no one who resembled her. He knew he would recognise her without her mask. He’d memorised her eyes, her mouth, the way she moved.

He glanced up at the doorway, for the hundredth time. But it was not she who appeared.

He stiffened. ‘Well, well,’ he said to himself, looking around to see if Xavier noticed, but his friend was deep in play.

Earl Westleigh sauntered in with one of his cronies.

Rhys had spied the earl from time to time in the two years he’d been back from the war. He and the earl had sometimes gambled at the same establishments. At those times, though, Rhys doubted the earl noticed him. Even if he had, how would he recognise Rhys now from the scrawny fourteen-year-old he’d been when he’d begged the earl for help?

Rhys watched the earl survey the room in his self-important way. He leaned over to say something to his friend and both men laughed.

Rhys flexed his fingers into a fist, feeling as though the men were laughing at his youthful self, near-helpless and so desperately alone. He was not alone here. Not helpless. This was his place. Under his control. His to build into a success beyond any of the earl’s expectations.

He straightened his spine.

‘Where is the owner of this establishment?’ Lord Westleigh asked in a booming voice. ‘I should like to see him.’

Rhys turned to one of the croupiers and asked the man about the play at his faro table. It was the sort of surveillance he might do, but this time, of course, his motive was to avoid responding to the earl’s beck and call.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone point him out to Lord Westleigh. He also saw Xavier looking up from his play, his gaze going from the earl to Rhys. Xavier appeared ready to vault out of his chair, daggers drawn.

Rhys did not need his friend’s aid. He could handle the earl. He knew he was the better man.

He deliberately busied himself with checking the faro deck, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose when Westleigh came near.

‘Rhysdale!’ The earl made his name sound like an order.

Rhys did not respond right away, but finished replacing the faro deck in its apparatus.

Slowly he raised his eyes to the earl. ‘Lord Westleigh,’ he said in a flat voice.

‘I’ve come to see what people are talking about. A gaming hell and a masquerade.’ He made a somewhat disparaging laugh.

‘What do you wish to play?’ Rhys asked, treating him like any other gentleman—but with a bit more coldness.

‘I fancy some faro,’ the earl’s companion said. ‘Haven’t tried my hand at faro in an age.’

It was a game going out of fashion, but still making enough here to satisfy Rhys.

‘I do not know you, sir.’ Rhys extended his hand to the man. ‘I am Mr Rhysdale and, as the earl so loudly announced, I am the owner.’

The man clasped his hand. ‘Sir Godfrey’s the name.’

Rhys made room for Sir Godfrey at the faro table. ‘I hope you enjoy yourself, sir.’

He turned to Lord Westleigh. ‘And you, sir, what is your fancy?’

Lord Westleigh’s attention had turned to the doorway where the masked woman for whom Rhys had been waiting all night entered.

‘I’d fancy that,’ the earl said under his breath.

Rhys’s fingers curled into a fist again.

He stepped in front of the earl, blocking his view of the woman. ‘This is an establishment for gambling and nothing more. Do you comprehend?’ His voice was low and firm. ‘The ladies who play here will be left in peace. Am I speaking clearly enough?’

Lord Westleigh pursed his lips. ‘Meant no harm.’

Rhys narrowed his eyes.

Westleigh glanced away. ‘My sons tell me this establishment is making money. Is that true?’

‘It is true.’ Rhys guessed the earl wanted his share. Not a damned chance until he met his part of the bargain.

‘But you have not paid my sons a farthing.’ Westleigh had the gall to look affronted.

Rhys levelled his gaze at the man. ‘It is you who have held up payment, sir. I await you.’

‘Yes. Well.’ Westleigh looked everywhere but at Rhys. ‘It is complicated.’

Rhys laughed dryly. ‘And distasteful to you, I might imagine.’ He shook his head. ‘Matters not to me whether you do this or not. This place is making me rich.’ He walked away.

Rhys had begged once from his father, but never again. Let his father beg from him this time.

As soon as she walked in the room, Celia’s gaze went directly to Rhysdale. He stood with an older man, a gentleman, to judge by the fit and fabric of his coat. This man had not visited the gaming house before, at least not when she’d been here, and she had not seen him at the few society functions she attended with Adele and Lady Gale.

Whoever this man was, Rhysdale did not seem pleased at his presence. That piqued her curiosity even more.

She detested herself for looking for Rhysdale as soon as she walked through the door, for wondering about who he was with and how he felt about it.

As the days had gone on, she’d come to enjoy his attentions.

It felt almost like having a friend.

She turned away and made her way through the room, returning greetings from players to whom she was now a familiar figure. She no longer needed Rhysdale to find her a game of whist; plenty of men and some ladies were glad to play.

She passed by Xavier Campion. That man’s eyes usually followed her, not with the interest of other gentlemen. She swore he watched her with suspicion. Tonight, however, Xavier watched Rhysdale and his brow was furrowed.

Who was that man?

Rhysdale turned away from the gentleman and walked away, his expression one of distaste and suppressed rage.

She lowered her gaze and set about finding a whist partner.

Not too long after, she was seated at a table and arranging a hand of cards into suits. Still, she was acutely aware of whenever Rhysdale passed near.

She no longer feared he was trying to catch her cheating. She liked his attention. It seemed as if the air crackled with energy when he was near, like it might before a summer storm. She liked him.

Even though he made his living from gambling.

To her distress, the cards did not favour her this night. Even when she had partnered with Xavier, she lost hand after hand. Counting in her head, she knew it was not a trifling amount. She kept playing, thinking the next hand would turn her luck around. When that did not happen, she counted on the hand after that.

As the night advanced, her pile of counters grew lower and lower. She’d lost over half the money she staked. Still, the urge was strong to keep playing, to bet more, to keep going so she could change it all back to the way it had been before.

But still she lost.

Celia stared at her counters and came to her senses. Stop! she told herself. Before you return home with nothing.

She stood up abruptly. ‘I am done.’

Before the others at her table could protest, she hurried away and made her way to the cashier. She wanted the counters changed back to coin so she would not be tempted to return to the games.

It was only two in the morning, too early to wait outside for her coachman. Instead, after cashing in her counters, she walked to the supper room, not hungry, but greatly desiring a glass of wine or two to quiet her nerves.

Several of the tables were occupied, but her gaze went instantly to the table where she’d sat before with Rhysdale.

He was there, staring into nothing, a glass in hand.

She approached him, needing at least the illusion of a friend. ‘Hello, Rhysdale.’

He glanced at her with a look of surprise that turned into a smile. ‘The lady with the mask.’ He stood and pulled out a chair. ‘Would you care to sit with me?’

She sat.

‘What is your pleasure?’ he asked. ‘Shall I fix a plate for you?’

‘Wine.’ She sighed. ‘Just wine.’

He signalled a servant to bring her wine.

Now that she’d so brazenly approached him, she did not know what to say.

‘How was your night?’ he asked finally.

‘Not good,’ she replied.

What more was there to say? Losing called into serious question her whole plan to finance Adele’s come-out with winnings. Worse than that, it showed how easily she could slip into a gambling fever where nothing mattered but trying to win back her money.

The wine arrived and she quickly downed half of it.

His brows rose. ‘Bring the bottle,’ he told the servant and turned back to her. ‘I take it you lost.’

Her fingers drummed the tabletop. ‘I did.’

He reached across the table and quieted her busy hand. ‘Do you need assistance? Are you in distress?’

She glanced into his eyes, which conveyed only concern and earnestness. His hand was warm against hers, even through the thin fabric of her glove.

She slipped her hand away, shaken at how comforting his touch felt and how much she needed comfort.

‘I’ll come to rights,’ she said, although her voice lacked any semblance of confidence.

‘I can lend you money,’ he went on.

She shook her head. ‘I know better than to borrow from moneylenders.’

His eyes flashed. ‘I am not a moneylender. I offer as a friend.’

She took in a breath. ‘But … you do not even know who I am.’

He traced the edge of her mask with a finger. ‘Tell me, then. Who are you?’

She sat very still at his gentle touch while her heart fluttered in her chest.

‘I am nobody,’ she said, speaking with a truth that had been proved over and over. She had not mattered enough for anyone to care what the impact of their actions would be to her.

She raised her eyes to his.

His promise seemed so genuine, as if he was a man she could believe. Would he truly lend her money if she needed it? And then what? Without gambling she could not repay him. What would she do then? Turn to moneylenders?

She shivered as the memory of her father returned. He had to sell her pony, he’d told her. He had to pay the moneylenders. Life after that had been filled with more times of want than times of plenty.

Until the day her mother told her news even more horrible than losing a pony. Her father was dead. He’d been accused of cheating at cards and a man—an earl—had shot him dead in a duel.

‘I do not need a loan,’ she said absently, still caught in the memory of her father’s senseless death.

At every society entertainment she feared she would encounter her father’s killer. What would she do then?

Rhys spoke. ‘But you need money.’

‘I’ll find another way.’ Although she knew there was no other way.

She, Adele and Lady Gale would have to find a set of rooms that Celia’s widow’s pension could afford. She’d have to let the servants go and Adele’s chances of making a good marriage would become extremely slim. At least Celia would not have to encounter the earl who killed her father.

She finished her glass of wine as the servant placed the bottle on the table. Rhysdale poured her another.

‘Thank you.’ She lifted the glass and decided to push the attention off herself. ‘What of you, Rhysdale? When I came in you looked as if you were the one who had lost money.’

A corner of his mouth rose. ‘The house never loses, you know. We are doing well.’

She smiled. ‘I am glad of it. You seem to have more players each time I’ve come.’

‘More women, as well.’ Again he touched her mask. ‘The Masquerade seems to be working.’

She put her fingers where his had touched. ‘It has worked for me.’

He sat back. ‘Until now.’

She shrugged. ‘I shall have to consider whether to come again and try to recoup.’

He leaned forwards again. ‘Do you mean to say you might not return?’

‘I might not.’ She paused. ‘I should not.’

‘Do not say so!’

Her heart started pounding faster again. She took another sip of wine. ‘Does one gambler matter so much?’

His gaze seemed to pierce into her. He did not answer right away. Finally he said, ‘I believe there are men who come merely in hopes of playing with you.’

She scoffed. ‘Surely you are not serious.’ She supposed the men who’d partnered with her and those who played against her recognised her skill. ‘In any event, I doubt any man will want to partner with me after my losing streak tonight.’

She’d not only lost her own money, but her partners’ money, as well.

‘You place so little value on yourself?’ He continued to pin her with his eyes.

No one else had valued her.

She glanced down. ‘Who wants to partner with someone who is losing?’

He drummed on the table like she had done earlier, while his steady gaze began to unnerve her.

‘I have a proposition,’ he said finally. ‘Come work for me.’

Rhys did not know why he had not thought of this before.

Hire her.

‘What do you mean, work for you?’ She looked shocked. ‘Doing what?’

‘Gambling,’ he rushed to assure her. ‘Nothing more.’ The idea grew in his head as he spoke. ‘I would pay you to gamble. And to encourage others to gamble, as well.’

Her eyes through her mask grew wary. ‘Am I to cheat?’

He waved a hand. ‘Never! It is not cheating to pay you to gamble. You will receive no advantage.’

She glanced away, as if deliberating.

It gave him time to think, as well. Would he compromise the gambling house by paying her to gamble? He only knew he wanted her to come back. He needed her to come back.

She turned back to him. ‘How much would you pay?’

He threw out the first number that occurred to him. ‘Two pounds a night?’

‘Two pounds?’ She looked astonished.

Was that not enough? He paid his man only fifty pounds a year. ‘That is more than generous, madam.’

She sat very still, but he fancied her mind was calculating.

Finally she spoke. ‘I need money, sir, but if my task is to gamble, then, as generous as two pounds a night might be, it does not allow me to play for bigger stakes. What is more, I still stand a chance that I will lose as I have lost tonight. That I cannot risk.’

She had a point. In gambling there was always the possibility of losing it all.

He wanted her to agree, though. He wanted to see her again. If he did not offer enough to entice her, she might never return.

He tapped on the table again. ‘Very well. I will stake you.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Say, for one hundred pounds. At the end of the night, you return my stake to me but keep your winnings. If you lose, you make an accounting to me of the loss.’ If she lost too often, he’d reassess this plan, but his gamble was that she would bring in more money than she would lose.

Her eyes showed interest. ‘Do I still receive the two pounds a night?’

He was not that big a fool. ‘One pound. Plus your winnings.’

She calculated again, her eyes on his. What did she look like under her mask? He imagined lifting it off her face, discovering the treasure underneath.

In the back of his mind he could hear Xavier’s voice, questioning his motives, accusing him of succumbing to the first pretty lightskirt who’d caught his eye in a long time.

She was not a lightskirt, but Rhys would wager she belonged on the fringes of society as did he. His money was still on her being an actress.

She opened her lovely mouth and, God help him, all he could think of was tasting her lips. She was about to agree—he could feel it.

Celia was so tempted. He’d handed her a way to gamble without losing her money. What could be better than that? What did it matter, then, if she succumbed to the excitement of the game? Losing would not imperil her.

It was as if he was handing her the future she so desired. To see Adele well settled. To retire to the country and live quietly within her means with no one directing her life but herself.

Rhysdale did not press her. He poured her another glass of wine and waited.

She accepted the glass gratefully and took a long sip, but even the wine did not loosen the knots of panic inside her.

He’d offered her this help as a friend. When had she last had a friend? For that matter, when had she last been able to trust a man? Even her beloved father broke promise after promise.

What if she refused Rhysdale’s offer? Her mind spun with what she would have to do to economise. She’d have to try to pay back most of the creditors. She’d have to give up her coachman, her carriage, her servants. She’d have little left for rooms to let and food to eat. Adele did not deserve such a life. Even her mother-in-law did not deserve such a life.

Rhysdale’s gaze was patient and, she fancied, sympathetic. ‘You are not required to decide this minute. Come to me tomorrow, in the afternoon.’ He glanced about the room. ‘We can discuss it without anyone around.’ His voice deepened. ‘If you refuse employment, my offer of a loan still stands.’

She felt tears prick her eyes. ‘You are kind, Rhysdale.’

A smile grew slowly across his face. ‘Do not say so too loudly or you will ruin my reputation.’

She almost laughed.

Some gentlemen entered the room and she came to her senses. ‘What time is it?’ She fished into her reticule to check her timepiece. ‘I must take my leave.’

He stood and offered his hand to assist her.

As they walked towards the door, they passed the older man she’d seen with Rhysdale when she’d arrived that night.

‘Charming supper room!’ the man remarked to his companion.

When he spied Rhysdale, his eyes hardened to ice. He walked past them without a word.

Even the air seemed chilled as he passed.

Celia inclined her head to Rhysdale. ‘Who is that gentleman?’

Rhysdale’s entire manner changed into something dark and bitter.

‘No one you need know,’ he answered.

It pained her to see him so disturbed. ‘Does he come here often?’

‘Never before.’ Rhysdale’s voice rumbled with suppressed emotion. ‘But I suspect he will come again.’

He led her out into the hallway and down the stairs to collect her cloak. As had become his custom, he escorted her into the street to wait for her coachman.

Clouds hid the stars and made the night even darker than usual. Celia’s own woes receded as she stood waiting with him for her carriage, an overwhelming desire to comfort him taking over.

She touched his arm. ‘Rhysdale, it will not do for the both of us to be glum.’

He covered her hand with his and his typically unreadable face momentarily turned pained and vulnerable. ‘Come this afternoon. Let us talk more about my offer.’ His grip on her hand tightened. ‘Do not leave me entirely.’

She blinked and her throat constricted. ‘Very well. I’ll come.’

He smiled and his gratitude was palpable. He leaned down, his eyes half closing.

Celia’s heart thundered in her chest as the night itself wrapped around them and his head dipped lower and lower. She wrestled with an impulse to push him away and a desire to feel his arms around her.

The clop-clop of a horse team sounded in her ears and he stepped away. Her carriage approached from the end of the street. When the coach pulled up to where they stood, he put the steps down and reached for her hand to help her into the couch.

When she placed her hand in his, she suddenly turned to face him, her words bursting from her mouth. ‘I will do it, Rhysdale. I will come work for you.’

His face broke out in pleasure. ‘Indeed?’

She smiled, as well. ‘Yes.’

For a moment he looked as if he would pull her into his arms and kiss her. Instead, he gently cupped her cheek. ‘We will talk more this afternoon.’

‘Until then,’ she whispered.

She climbed into the coach and he closed the door. As the carriage pulled away, her heart raced. Had she been afraid he would kiss her or had she yearned to feel his lips on hers?

Chapter Five

A gnarl of nerves amidst a flutter of excitement, Celia donned her hat and gloves. It was half-past twelve, barely afternoon, but she wished to be finished with her interview with Rhysdale before two, when no respectable woman dared walk near St James’s Street.

She supposed she was not truly a respectable woman. Not when she spent her nights gambling in a gaming hell. But that did not mean she wished to suffer the taunts and catcalls of dandies who loitered on corners for that very purpose.

Her mother-in-law descended the staircase. ‘And where are you going?’

Celia had hoped to slip out before her mother-in-law knew she was gone. ‘I have an errand. I shall be back shortly.’

‘Do you take Younie with you?’ the older woman snapped. ‘Because I have need of her.’

Celia kept her tone mild. ‘She is at your disposal. My errand is not far. I have no need of company.’

‘Hmmph!’ her mother-in-law sniffed. ‘I expect you will not tell me the nature of this errand of yours.’

‘That is correct.’ Celia smiled.

Lady Gale continued to talk as she descended the stairs. ‘Most likely it is to pay a bill or beg for more credit from shopkeepers who ought to be glad to have our business. Needless to say you are not off to meet a man. My son always said you were frigid as well as barren.’

The barb stung.

The cruelty of this woman was rivalled only by that of her son. Ironic that Lady Gale was blind to her son’s faults, but took great enjoyment in cataloguing Celia’s.

Primary among Celia’s shortcomings, of course, was her inability to conceive a child. Neither Gale nor his mother had forgiven her for not producing sons, but neither had they ever considered how crushing this was for Celia. A baby might have made her marriage bearable.

Knowing she could never have a child hurt more than her mother-in-law would ever know, but today her mother-in-law’s abuse merely made her angry.

After all she’d sacrificed for the woman’s comfort …

Celia faced her. ‘You speak only to wound me, ma’am. It is badly done of you.’

Her mother-in-law stopped on the second stair. She flushed and avoided Celia’s eye.

Celia maintained her composure. ‘Recall, if you please, that your son left you in more precarious financial circumstances than he did me, but I have not abandoned you.’ Much as she would like to. ‘Nor have I abandoned Adele. I am doing the best I can for all of us.’

Lady Gale pursed her lips. ‘You keep us both under your thumb with your tight-fisted ways. You control us with the purse strings.’

Celia tied the ribbons on her hat. ‘Think the worst of me, if you wish, but at least have the good manners to refrain from speaking your thoughts aloud.’ She opened the door. ‘I should return in an hour or so.’

Younie had sewn a swirl of netting to the crown of Celia’s hat. When she stepped onto the pavement, Celia pulled the netting over her face so no one would recognise her if they happened to spy her entering the Masquerade Club.

The afternoon was grey and chilly and Celia walked briskly, needing to work off her anger at the woman.

Lady Gale had well known of her son’s debauchery, but still she preferred to blame all Gale’s ills on Celia. In truth, the man had countless vices, many more than mere gambling. He’d treated Celia like a brood mare and then thrust her out to pasture when she didn’t produce, all the while taunting her with his flagrant infidelities and profligate ways. As if that were not enough, he neglected his daughter.

And his mother.

Celia had known nothing of men when her aunt and uncle arranged her marriage to Gale. She’d still been reeling from her parents’ deaths and barely old enough for a come-out. Her aunt and uncle simply wished to rid themselves of her. She’d never felt comfortable with Gale, but thought she had no choice but to marry him. She never imagined how bad marriage to him would be.

The only thing he’d wanted from Celia was a son and when she could not comply, he disdained her for it. Over and over and over. Life was only tolerable for her when he went off to London or anywhere else. Celia cared nothing about what he did in those places as long as he was gone.

Little did she know he’d squandered his fortune, leaving only what he could not touch: Celia’s widow’s portion and Adele’s dowry.

She’d worn widow’s black after Gale died, but she had never mourned him. His death had set her free.

And she would free herself of his mother, as well, when Adele was settled. As long as her husband would be generous enough to take on the responsibility of the Dowager Lady Gale.

It was not until Celia turned off St James’s on to Park Place that she remembered her destination. She was indeed meeting a man. Would not Lady Gale suffer palpitations if she knew? She was meeting a man who offered her the best chance of escaping life with her mother-in-law. A man who had almost kissed her.

The gaming hell was only a few short streets away from her rooms. In daylight it looked like any other residence.

But it was an entirely different world.

As she reached for the knocker, her hand shook.

For the first time he would see her face. Was she ready for that?

She sounded the knocker and the door opened almost immediately. The burly man who attended the door at night stood in the doorway.

Celia made herself smile. ‘Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mr Rhysdale.’

The taciturn man nodded and stepped aside for her to enter. He lifted a finger. A signal for her to wait, she supposed. He trudged up the stairs.

Celia took a breath and glanced around to try to calm her nerves.

At night this hall looked somewhat exotic with its deep green walls and chairs and gilded tables. At night the light from a branch of candles made the gold gilt glitter and a scent of brandy and men filled the air. To her right was a drawing room, its door ajar. To anyone peeking in a window this house would appear as respectable as any Mayfair town house.

The doorman descended the dark mahogany stairs and nodded again. Celia assumed that meant he’d announced her to Mr Rhysdale. He then disappeared into the recesses of rooms behind the hall.

A moment later Rhysdale appeared on the stairs. ‘Madam?’

She turned towards him and lifted the netting from her face, suddenly fearful he would not approve of her true appearance.

He paused, ever so slightly, but his expression gave away nothing of his thoughts.

He descended to the hall. ‘Come. We will talk upstairs.’

Dismayed by his unreadable reaction, Celia followed him to the second floor where sounds of men hammering nails and sawing wood reached her ears.

‘Forgive the noise,’ he said. ‘I’m having this floor remodelled into rooms for my use.’ He lifted the latch of a door to her right. ‘We can talk in here.’

They entered a small drawing room. Its furnishings appeared fashionable, as well as comfortable. They were stylishly arranged.

He gestured for her to sit on a deep red sofa. He sat on an adjacent chair. ‘I’ve ordered tea.’

She might have been calling upon one of her mother-in-law’s society friends. Escorted into a pleasant drawing room. Served tea. The conventions might be identical, but this was no typical morning call.

In daylight Rhysdale was even more imposing. His dress and grooming were as impeccable as the most well-attired lord, even though he managed to wear the pieces as casually as if he’d just walked in from a morning ride. His eyes, dark as midnight in the game room, were a spellbinding mix of umber and amber when illuminated by the sun from the windows.

His gaze seemed to take in her total appearance, but his expression remained impassive. Did she disappoint? She was too tall to be fashionable. Her figure was unremarkable. Her neck was too long; her face too thin; her lips too full; her hair too plain a brown—she could almost hear her husband’s voice listing her faults.

But what did Rhysdale think?

And why was it she cared so much for his approval?

He blinked, then averted his compelling eyes. ‘I assume you have not changed your mind about my proposition?’ His smooth voice made her quiver inside.

She swallowed. ‘I would not have kept the appointment otherwise.’

A smile grew across his face. ‘Then, perhaps an introduction is in order?’

She was prepared for this, at least. He would be a fool to hire her without knowing her name.

And he was no fool.

She’d already decided to give him her true name. Her maiden name.

She extended her gloved hand. ‘I am Celia Allen, sir.’

It pleased her to be Celia Allen again. The surname was common enough and her father minor enough that no one would connect the name to Lord Gale’s widow.

He took her hand, but held it rather than shake it. ‘Miss Allen or Mrs Allen?’

She pulled her hand away. ‘Miss Allen.’

Rhys felt the loss of her hand as if something valuable had slipped through his fingers. With this first glimpse of her face, he wanted her more than ever.

She reminded him of a deer with her long regal neck and alert-but-wary eyes that were the colour of moss at twilight. She seemed wrong for the city. She was meant for the country, for brisk walks in fresh country air. The bloom in her cheeks, the hue of wild raspberry of her lips looked out of place in London.

But he was becoming distracted.

And much too poetic.

He could almost hear Xavier’s voice in his head, admonishing him to keep his focus on the gaming house. He would tell his friend later about employing her—not of almost kissing her—both had been too impulsive to meet the approval of his friend.

Not that Rhys cared if his zealously protective friend approved of his employing Miss Allen. Or of wanting her in his bed.

He fixed his gaze on her again. To call her Miss Allen seemed wrong to him. He had no wish to be so formal with her.

‘Will you object if I address you as Celia?’ he asked. ‘You may call me Rhys.’

She coloured.

Her discomfort made him wonder. A woman of the theatre would expect the presumption of intimacy of using given names.

She paused before answering. ‘If you wish it.’ She met his eyes. ‘Not in the gaming house, though.’

Clever of her. ‘Of course not. You are exactly right. No one must know you are in my employ. They will suspect us of manipulation.’

‘Manipulation?’ Her lovely brows knit in anxiety.

‘I hire you because your presence in the gaming house encourages patrons—men—to gamble. You are not expected to do anything different from what you were doing before.’

She nodded.

He leaned closer and put his hand on her wrist. ‘That is not my only reason for hiring you, however—’

A knock at the door interrupted. She slipped her hand away and Rhys straightened in his chair.

MacEvoy entered with the tea tray, managing to give her an un-servant-like look-over. Undoubtedly Rhys would hear Mac’s assessment of the lady later.

‘Shall I pour?’ She looked rattled. ‘How do you take your tea?’

‘No milk, no sugar.’ He’d accustomed himself to drinking tea that way from times when he could not afford milk and sugar. It pleased him that he did not need those inconsequential trappings of wealth.

He gestured to MacEvoy to leave.

MacEvoy closed the door behind him and Celia handed Rhys his cup of tea.

He lifted the cup and took a sip.

Perhaps it was for the best that Mac had interrupted him. His desire for her was making him move too quickly. When he got close, he sensed her alarm, another clue that his theory about her identity might be wrong.

He changed the subject. ‘I should explain something else about your employment here.’

She gave him her attention.

‘Some time ago, before I owned this gaming house, a woman came here in disguise to play cards. It is where I got the idea to set up the place as a masquerade.’ He waved that tangent away. ‘But no matter. About this woman. She created a stir. Men were taking wagers on who would be the first to unmask her.’ He paused. ‘And who would be first to seduce her. Men came and gambled merely for the chance to win the wager.’

She paled. ‘You wish me to offer myself as some sort of prize?’

He shook his head. ‘No. No, indeed. I am merely warning you. Some men who come to gamble may ask more of you than merely to partner them in a game of whist.’

Her eyes narrowed in calculation. ‘Like that man who so distressed you last night?’

Westleigh, she meant.

His voice hardened. ‘Yes. Men like him.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘I will be near if any men ill treat you. Do not hesitate to alert me or Xavier. We will protect you.’

She put her hand on her heart and glanced away.

He took another sip of tea. ‘You are a good card player. And that is all that is required of you. None the less, your feminine allure will attract admirers.’

‘Feminine allure?’ She looked surprised.

How puzzling. Did she not know she was alluring?

‘You are a beguiling mystery. A lovely young woman who knows how to play cards. You will—you do—attract men. Men will want to partner you, play against you, sit next to you.’ He gave her another direct look. ‘But they must not cross the line of proper behaviour. If they do, you must let me know.’

She became absorbed in stirring her tea. Finally she answered. ‘If such a thing should happen, I will let you know.’

He became even more convinced he’d been wrong about her being an actress. If not someone connected to the theatre, who was she?

‘May I know more of you, Celia Allen?’

She turned wary again, like a deer about to bound away. ‘There is nothing else I can tell you.’

He must not push her further. He would learn about her in due time, he resolved. Even though he knew solving the mystery of her would not diminish his desire.

She placed her teacup on the table. ‘The terms of payment are what we agreed upon last night?’

He nodded, regretting the conversation turning businesslike. The desire to taste her lovely lips grew more difficult to resist. ‘One pound per night, plus all your winnings. I stake you one hundred pounds, which you will return if you win. I will forfeit if you lose.’

She stood. ‘I will try not to lose.’

‘I know you will try not to lose. You are a true gamester.’ He rose with her. ‘Chance sometimes does not favour us, though, Celia. You will lose. At hazard or faro, at least, but those losses will come directly to me, so I do not credit them. Play all the hazard and faro you like. At whist or vingt-et-un I suspect you are skilled enough to win most of the time.’

‘I hope I do not disappoint.’ Her lips formed a tremulous smile. ‘For both our sakes.’

That was another thing. Why did she need money so urgently?

She pulled on her gloves. ‘I will try to come to the gaming house as many nights as I am able.’

What might keep her away? She was one mystery after another, even without her mask.

‘Good.’ He adopted her businesslike tone. ‘When you arrive, stop at the cashier. He will be instructed to provide you your stake.’

‘Is there anything else?’ she asked. ‘I must leave now.’

‘One thing more.’ He extended his hand. ‘We must shake on our agreement.’

Slowly she placed her hand in his. He liked the feel of her long graceful fingers and strong grasp.

He drew her closer to him, just short of an embrace. ‘I am glad of our partnership, Celia Allen,’ he murmured, his lips inches from hers.

Her eyes widened. The deer wished to bolt, he feared.

He released her and she started towards the door.

‘Will I see you tonight?’ he asked.

She reached the door and turned. ‘If I can manage it.’

He let her walk out on her own, but when he heard the front door close, he stepped to the window and held the curtain aside to watch her.

She paused for a moment on the pavement, as if getting her bearings. Seeming to collect herself suddenly, she walked down the street with purpose.

He watched until he could see her no more.

‘I’ll solve the mystery of you, Miss Celia Allen,’ he said aloud. ‘And I will see you in my bed.’ He dropped the curtain. ‘Soon.’

Celia gulped in air and tried to quiet her jangling nerves. Taking one more quick breath, she hurried away.

God help her, being with Rhysdale excited her even more than the prospect of gambling without losing her own money. What was wrong with her?

She’d had no experience with men—other than Gale, that is. Rhysdale looked as if he wanted to try to kiss her again, but she could not be sure. He’d called her alluring, but had he meant it?

Gale had poured on pretty compliments at first, when he’d been courting her. He’d obviously not meant them. How was she to know if Rhysdale spoke the truth?

She paused.

Why was she even thinking this way?

Her task was not to become enthralled with the handsome owner of the gaming house. He was blowing her off course, robbing her of the power to think straight. She must never allow another man any power over her. Not emotionally. Certainly not legally. Never would she marry again and become the property of a man, legally bound to his every whim.

Once had been enough.

Rhys represented a different sort of bondage, one that captured her thoughts and senses. She had no idea how to cope with the temptation to allow his kiss, to allow what was simmering below the surface to burst forth and consume her.

All Celia needed to do was return to the gaming house and play cards, but that presented another temptation. Rhys’s offer encouraged precisely what she should battle. She should eschew the cards and games, not throw herself into playing them. How did she know she would be able to escape when Rhys’s employment ended? Would she be able to stop gambling then, or would she become like her father, compelled to return to the tables against all good sense? Gambling might not be content to have merely killed her father and mother and ruined her young life; it could destroy her future, as well.

She started walking again, though her vision was blurred by the storm of thoughts inside her.

There would be no future at all for Adele unless Celia accepted this risk.

Adele was everything to her. The daughter she could never have, even though only a few years younger.

Rhysdale had given Celia this chance to secure Adele’s future and Celia must embrace it.

She quickened her pace.

All she needed to do was remain resolute. Resist temptation. Play cards and nothing else. What did she care what Rhys or any man thought?

He’d suggested that men might become attracted to her while she played cards with them. What utter nonsense. If anything, it was the mask and nothing more. The novelty of a disguised woman who liked to play cards.

Rhysdale, though, had seen her face. He’d still thought her alluring.

A frisson of pleasure raced through her. She closed her eyes and again stopped walking.

She was back to Rhysdale. He could so easily invade her thoughts.

How pitiful she was. The first time a man showed her any kindness she turned as giddy as a girl fancying herself in love with Lord Byron after reading Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.

Had Rhysdale been the reason she agreed to his proposition? Was he, not money, the reason she agreed to face the gambling demons again?

Chapter Six

That evening William Westleigh, Viscount Neddington, searched Lady Cowdlin’s ballroom as he had done every other entertainment he’d attended this Season.

He’d thought she was a vision when he first gazed upon her. Pale skin flushed with youth. Hair a shimmer of gold, its curls looking as artless as if she’d just stepped in from a breezy day. Lips moist and pink as a summer blossom.

She’d turned him into a romantic in an instant. He’d felt both exhilarated and weak when she’d allowed him to assist her in selecting wine at the musicale, but he’d lost her in the crowd afterwards.

He needed an introduction to her. If she appeared tonight—if he found her again—he’d beg someone to do the honours. He’d try his damnedest to dance with her and share supper with her.

Thinking of her was a welcome respite from worry over the finances, the estates, the welfare of his sister and mother. Those matters were largely out of his hands and under the control of his father at the moment.

Unless his father fulfilled the bargain they’d made with Rhysdale, they were about two weeks from disaster.

He walked the rooms of this ball three times without finding her, but it was early yet and guests continued to arrive.

‘The Lord Westleigh and Lady Westleigh,’ the butler announced.

Ned twisted away. He was too angry at his father to witness his joviality, as if he had not caused his family the extreme stress that currently plagued them. How his mother could walk at his father’s side foxed Ned.

Of course, she did not yet know how severely her husband had squandered their fortune.

If only the beauty he encountered at the musicale would walk in, Ned could momentarily free himself from thoughts of their troubles. He glanced around the room once again, looking everywhere but in the direction of his father.

The butler’s voice rang out again. ‘Lady Gale, Dowager Lady Gale and Miss Gale.’

Ned turned to the door.

It was she!

She stood a little behind two other ladies, one tall and as young as herself and the other certainly the dowager. This family was unknown to him, but the name Miss Gale now pressed into his mind like a hot iron brand.

She was as lovely as he remembered, this night donned in a pale pink gown that had some sort of sheer skirt over it that floated about her as she moved. Her lovely blonde hair was a mass of curls on top of her head and was crowned with pink roses.

As she and the other two ladies made their way to greet the host and hostess, she paused to scan the ballroom and caught him staring at her. He bowed to her and she smiled, ever so slightly, but enough for his hopes to soar.

Hope that he could find someone to present him to her. Hope that she was unattached. Hope that her smile meant she felt the same strong attraction to him that he felt towards her.

Ned kept her in view and occasionally he caught her eye again. But he’d seen no one of his acquaintance talking or dancing with her. The time neared for the supper dance and he was determined to partner her.

He marched over to the hostess. ‘Lady Cowdlin, may I beg a favour?’

‘A favour?’ She patted his hand. ‘Tell me what I might do for you.’

‘There is a young lady here …’ He paused. ‘I need an introduction.’

‘Who is it, my dear?’ She smiled.

‘I believe she is Miss Gale.’ He inclined his head in her direction.

‘Ah, I knew her mother. A lovely lady.’ Lady Cowdlin gave him a knowing look. ‘I understand, Neddington, that Miss Gale is worth five thousand at least—’

As if he cared a fig about that.

‘But she is not very grand. Her father was only a baron, you know. This is her first time in town and Edna—her grandmother—wants her to marry her cousin who inherited the title.’

That was not welcome news. ‘Who is her cousin? Do I know him?’

‘Luther Parminter. He is the son of her father’s cousin. I am certain you have seen him around London. Of course, now he is the new Baron Gale. He inherited, you see.’

Ned knew who the man was, but could not even count him an acquaintance. Now must he think of him as a rival?

Lady Cowdlin took his arm. ‘Come with me. Let us make this introduction forthwith.’

She brought him directly to where Miss Gale stood next to her grandmother’s chair. Lady Gale stood nearby.

Lady Cowdlin spoke to the dowager. ‘Ma’am, may I present this young man to you and the other ladies.’

The dowager looked up.

‘This is Lord Neddington.’ She turned to the younger Lady Gale, who looked upon him with a quizzical expression. ‘Lady Gale and Miss Gale.’ She nodded towards Ned. ‘Lord Neddington.’

Ned bowed. ‘Madams.’ He looked into the eyes he’d longed to see up close again. ‘Miss Gale.’

She lowered her long thick lashes and curtsied. ‘Lord Neddington.’

‘May I perform any service for you ladies?’ He glanced at Miss Gale. ‘Bring you some wine, perhaps?’

She coloured and looked even more lovely.

‘That is kind of you, young man.’ The Dowager Lady Gale smiled.

‘None for me, thank you,’ the younger Lady Gale said.

‘I will return directly.’ He hated to leave Miss Gale’s presence.

Ned quickly found a servant toting a tray of wine glasses. He took two and returned to the ladies.

When he handed a glass to Miss Gale, their fingers touched and his senses heightened.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she murmured.

He took a breath. ‘Are you engaged for the supper dance, Miss Gale?’

She lowered her lashes. ‘I am not.’

‘Adele,’ the Dowager Lady Gale broke in. ‘I have asked your cousin to claim you for that dance.’

‘But, Grandmama …’ she murmured.

The younger Lady Gale spoke up. ‘He did not ask Adele, though, Lady Gale. Let her decide.’ She turned to Miss Gale. ‘You do not want to sit out at a ball when you could dance, do you?’

Miss Gale smiled. ‘Indeed not.’

Lady Gale faced him. ‘Then it is settled.’

Ned peered at this woman who had just helped him engage the dance. He had the oddest notion that he’d seen her before.

Ned bowed. ‘I will return for the pleasure of dancing with you, Miss Gale.’ He walked away, hoping the supper dance would be announced very soon.

Celia noticed the change in Adele as she danced with Lord Neddington. The girl gave evidence of enjoying every dance and every partner, but never had such a dreamy look crossed her face as when she glanced at this man.

‘He is likely a fortune hunter,’ Celia’s mother-in-law commented.

‘Her dowry is respectable, nothing more,’ Celia responded. ‘Perhaps he just fancies her.’ That he visited gaming hells was Celia’s prime worry. She’d recognised him immediately.

‘Hmmph.’ The dowager frowned. ‘You ought not to have encouraged that young man, in any event. You know I am determined she should marry her cousin.’

Celia probably should not have encouraged Neddington. She’d done so only to oppose her mother-in-law. And because she’d seen the look in Adele’s eye, how much she wanted to dance with the man.

‘Luther shows very little interest in Adele, Lady Gale,’ Celia said.

Luther was the more likely fortune hunter.

Celia would not see Adele forced into a marriage, but could she allow Adele to marry a gambler? She had seen Lord Neddington at the gaming hell more than once. She could never recall seeing him play more than once or twice at hazard. He spoke to Rhysdale on occasion.

Rhysdale.

Rhys, he’d asked her to call him, although could she really think of him in such intimate terms? Her heart skipped at the mere thought of speaking his name aloud. Her name on his lips came back to her, as well as his smile and the way those lips touched the edge of his teacup.

And had almost touched hers.

She placed her hand over her heart.

She would see him tonight after the ball. And once again yield to the temptations of the gambling den, with no need to wager her own money. She felt a dangerous excitement at the prospect of playing cards with a hundred pounds to wager. Think how much she could win!

The Dowager Lady Gale’s voice broke through Celia’s thoughts. ‘You should have refused Neddington the supper dance. Now he will spend supper with her. That is entirely too much time.’

Her mother-in-law had a point.

Celia gazed in Adele’s direction. Adele was glowing with pleasure each time the figures joined her with Neddington. His face was filled with admiration.

Was this how young love appeared?

Celia had been given no chance to experience a youthful romance. She could not bear to take such joy away from Adele.

She turned to her mother-in-law. ‘Do not interfere, Lady Gale. Allow your granddaughter the pleasure of supper with an admirer.’

Lady Gale’s nostrils flared. ‘I’ve half a mind to fetch her to me for supper.’

Celia seized her arm with just enough pressure to make her point. ‘You will do no such thing. Do you hear me clearly?’

Lady Gale shrugged. ‘You are indeed a wretch, are you not?’

‘Interfere with Adele’s life and you will see what a wretch I can be.’

Celia’s conflicting wishes for Adele waged inside her. Let the girl choose her suitors. Let her fall in love with whom she wished. But not a man who would be cruel or thoughtless or more enamoured of gaming than of a wife and children. Celia had endured all of those.

Later that night Celia’s lady’s maid helped her get out of her ballgown and prepare to dress for the Masquerade Club. Celia sat at her dressing table, pulling pins from her hair so that they could fix it to fit under the new turban Younie had fashioned, to go with a new mask of white silk adorned with tiny seed pearls taken from one of her mother-in-law’s discarded gowns.

There was a knock on the door and Adele entered. ‘Celia, I saw the light under your door.’

Celia grabbed the new mask and hid it under her table. ‘I am still awake.’

Younie, new gown in hand, quickly retreated to the dressing room.

Adele flopped onto Celia’s bed. ‘I cannot sleep!’

Celia brushed out her hair. ‘What is the matter?’

Adele stretched and sighed. ‘Nothing is the matter! Everything is wonderful!’

‘What is so wonderful that you cannot sleep?’ Celia asked, although she was certain she knew.

‘I had such a lovely time at the ball. The best ever!’ Adele sat cross-legged. In her nightdress with her hair in a plait, she looked as young as when Celia first met her six years ago.

Celia smiled. ‘And to what do you attribute this pleasure?’

Adele wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I—I think I met someone I really like.’

Celia turned back to the mirror. ‘Lord Neddington?’

Adele’s reflection showed surprise. ‘How did you know?’

Celia kept brushing her hair. ‘A lucky guess, I suppose.’

‘He is so wonderful!’ She flopped back onto the bed. ‘And so handsome.’ She sat up again. ‘Do you not think he is handsome?’

‘I do,’ Celia agreed. ‘Very handsome.’

‘And very gentlemanly,’ Adele continued. ‘It was he who helped me procure the wine for you and Grandmama at the musicale. And tonight he fixed me the nicest plate at supper and gave me the choice of sitting with my friends. He was so agreeable, do you not think?’

‘Indeed.’ Celia had watched Neddington carefully and had seen nothing to object to in his manner towards Adele. It was his activity after the society events that concerned her.

Adele bounded off the bed and paced. ‘I do not know how I can sleep. Do you think he will call? I hope he will call. But I’m afraid Grandmama does not like him. Do you think she will send him away if he calls?’

Celia rose and hugged the girl. ‘She would not be so impolite.’ Celia would see to it.

Adele clung to her. ‘But she wants me to marry Cousin Luther and I do not even know him!’

‘Leave your grandmother to me. She will not interfere in your wishes.’ She loosened her hold on Adele and made the girl look into her eyes. ‘But know that neither your grandmother nor I would let you marry a man who was unsuitable.’

‘Lord Neddington is very suitable!’ Adele cried.

Celia hugged her again. ‘Indeed he seems to be, but you must not put your hopes beyond tomorrow. Merely hope he calls and, if he does, see if you still like him so well.’

‘I will like him tomorrow and the next day and the next,’ Adele cried. ‘But will he like me?’

Celia kissed her on the cheek. ‘Any man would be a fool not to fall heels over ears in love with you. But you should go to sleep now so you will not have dark shadows under your eyes tomorrow.’

Adele’s hands went to her cheeks. ‘Oh, my goodness, yes! I must look my very best.’ She kissed Celia and hugged her tightly. ‘Goodnight, Celia. I hope you sleep well.’

‘Sweet dreams,’ Celia murmured as Adele rushed out of the room.

Celia breathed a relieved sigh and looked towards her dressing room door. ‘It is safe to come out, Younie.’

Her maid appeared in the doorway. ‘That was a near go, wasn’t it?’

‘Indeed.’ Celia retrieved the mask from beneath her dressing table. ‘We’d best wait until we are certain she is sleeping.’

Celia arrived at the Masquerade Club later than she’d ever done before. Would Rhysdale—Rhys—be angry at her for being late?

She rushed inside, undeterred by the doorman, who seemed to recognise her even with the new gown and mask.

Rhys stood in the hall, as if waiting for her. Her breath caught. He wore an impeccably tailored but conservative black coat and trousers. With his dark hair and glowering expression he looked as dangerous as a highwayman.

‘You are late,’ he said.

‘I had difficulty getting away.’ She handed her shawl to the footman and tried not to sound defensive.

Rhys walked her out of the hall and she prepared to hear him ring a peal over her head as soon as they were out of earshot.

But he said nothing. When they stepped up to the cashier’s desk, Rhys withdrew. The cashier was the same man who had served the tea in Rhys’s drawing room and the only other person connected to the gaming house who had seen her face. He obviously knew precisely who she was, even masked, because he counted out the exact number of counters Rhys had promised her.

As she turned to make her way to the game room, she caught Rhys still standing in the doorway. She forced herself to lift her chin and meet his gaze head-on.

His eyes shone with admiration, much like Neddington’s had done when looking upon Adele. ‘The new gown is effective.’

Celia felt an unfamiliar rush of feminine pleasure and immediately forced herself to sober. She would not melt at mere compliments.

Her smile was stiff as she clutched her reticule, the counters safe inside. He stepped back for her to pass, but he followed her into the game room.

The room was crowded and she recognised many gentlemen who a couple of hours before had been dancing in Lady Cowdlin’s ballroom.

Xavier Campion approached her with his disarming smile. She sensed something unpleasant beneath it.

‘Madam.’ He bowed. ‘Do you fancy a game of whist?’

She glanced at Rhys, who frowned.

‘I came to play,’ she answered, unsure if she should accept Xavier’s invitation or not.

‘I will partner you if you wish,’ he said.

She glanced back to Rhys, but his back was to her and he was conversing with a group of gentlemen.

‘Yes, Mr Campion. Do you have some opponents in mind?’

He smiled again as he took her arm. ‘It is Xavier, remember. Let us go in search of some worthy opponents.’ His grip was firmer than was necessary. He leaned towards her and murmured in a tone that seemed falsely convivial. ‘I understand you are in Rhys’s employ. How did you manage that, I wonder?’

She did not miss a beat. ‘He made me the offer and I accepted. How else might it have been accomplished?’

‘He is my friend,’ Xavier said through gritted teeth. ‘I will not have him trifled with.’

Celia lifted her chin. ‘Rhysdale seems capable of selecting his own employees. Ought I to tell him you think otherwise?’ His concern was ridiculous. ‘Or perhaps he has asked you to protect him from me?’

Xavier’s eyes flashed. ‘He does not need to ask. I protect all my friends. Do you tell tales on all of yours?’

‘I do not.’ Celia paused. ‘But, then, you are not my friend, are you?’ She shrugged from his grip. ‘I have changed my mind, Mr Campion. I believe I will try my luck at hazard.’

She left him and did not look back.

It made her feel wonderfully strong. A man had tried to intimidate her and she’d held her own against him.

The hazard table was crowded with mostly men. Celia faltered a bit, then remembered Rhys said she was equally as alluring as his mysterious masked woman who had played here before.

She’d just stood up to a man; perhaps she could also be a little bit alluring.

‘Pardon me.’ She made herself smile in what she hoped was a flirtatious manner. ‘Might a lady play?’

The gentlemen parted. One was the man who had so disturbed Rhys the previous night. Her skin turned to gooseflesh. He, too, had been at Lady Cowdlin’s ball.

What did such a gentlemen say to his wife to explain going out again after a ball? Did the wife pace with worry as Celia’s mother had done?

‘You are welcome to play, my dear.’ The gentleman flicked his eyes quickly over her person. ‘Have you played before?’

Disgust roiled through her. She remembered Rhys’s warning.

She dropped any flirtatious affectations. ‘I am accustomed to card games like whist and piquet and vingt-et-un. I’ve not tried a game of dice before.’ But tonight she had money she could afford to lose.

The croupier at the hazard table was a pretty young woman with curly red hair. ‘Do you play, miss?’

The gentleman rose on his heels in self-importance. ‘I will assist the lady, if she so desires.’ He scooped up the dice. ‘I will stake you for this first round.’ He put a pound counter on the table and placed the dice in her hand. ‘Call a number between five and nine.’

‘Nine,’ she called, the date her father died.

‘Nine,’ he repeated.

Around the table there was a flurry of side-betting accompanying her call.

‘They are betting on your chances to win,’ he explained. ‘If you roll a nine, you will win. If you throw a two or a three, or an eleven or a twelve, you will lose. Now shake the dice in your hand and roll them on the table.’

She shook the dice and threw them down. They landed in the middle of the green baize, one landing on three, the other, on five.’

‘Eight!’ the croupier called.

‘That is a called a chance,’ the gentleman explained. ‘You did not win, but neither did you lose.’ The croupier handed him the dice. ‘Roll again.’

He dropped the dice into her palm.

‘I want a nine, correct?’ She shook the dice in her hand.

‘No, this time you want a two or a three to win. Or anything but the main—your nine—to continue to roll.’

She dropped the dice onto the table, this time rolling one pip on one die and two on the other.

‘Three!’ called the croupier. ‘A winner.’

Westleigh handed the winnings to her.

A man next to her pushed the dice back to Celia. ‘Let the lady keep playing. She has the luck.’

Celia continued to play and to win. The rules of winning and losing changed depending upon what number she chose as chance and she quickly calculated that choosing the numbers five or nine reduced the odds of winning. The crowd around the hazard table grew, most betting with her.

Each time she won she jumped for joy and could not wait to throw the dice again. Her heart was beating fast and her breath as rapid as if she’d run all the way to Oxford Street. Even knowing this gentleman was having a grand time as her host did not dampen her excitement. The impact of his presence faded with each roll of the dice, each possibility that her pile of counters would increase.

As the gentlemen betting with her gathered their winnings, she caught sight of Rhys. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his face a dark cloud.

No wonder he was upset. Every time she—and those who bet with her—won, Rhysdale lost. It woke her from her reverie.

When the dice were again handed to her, she held up her hands. ‘I am done, gentlemen.’ She made herself smile. ‘I wish to keep all these lovely counters.’ She’d won at least forty-five pounds.

She gathered her counters and backed away from the table, shocked at herself. She’d lost all sense of time, all reason.

Rationally she should continue to play until losing again and lead her followers to do the same.

She blinked.

Like a swarm of bees around a hive, the other players filled her space at the table and resumed the play.

To her dismay the gentleman who had assisted her was not among them. Instead he remained at her side.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed. ‘I am Lord Westleigh.’

She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Lord Westleigh.’

Lord Westleigh was the man who’d accused her father of cheating at cards, who’d accepted her father’s challenge of a duel, who’d fired the pistol ball that pierced her father’s heart.

Because he was an earl with friends and influence, he’d walked away from killing her father with impunity, broke her mother’s heart, destroyed her health and, in effect, killed her, as well.

Celia tried to remain upright, even though her legs trembled. She tried to keep her face expressionless.

Westleigh waited, as if expecting she would reveal her name.

He finally smiled. ‘You will not tell me who you are?’

She took a breath. ‘I have chosen to wear a mask. That means I do not wish to reveal myself.’

He laughed. ‘I thought you might make me an exception.’

Never for him.

Undaunted by her obvious reserve, he glanced around the room. ‘Shall we find some partners for whist?’

‘No!’ she snapped.

She scanned the crowd for Rhys, needing him. He’d said she should find him if this man bothered her. He was bothering her greatly. He was making her ill.

She caught herself and moderated her tone of alarm. ‘I—I am looking for someone.’

Rhys stood some distance away and he did not glance her way.

She found another familiar face. Sir Reginald. ‘There he is. I must speak with him.’ She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for teaching me hazard.’

Before he could protest, she started to cross the room to where Sir Reginald stood, but someone stepped in her way.

Rhys.

Tears of relief pricked her eyes.

He touched her arm. ‘I saw you with Westleigh. Was he uncivil to you?’

‘Yes,’ she blurted out. ‘No. Not really. He wanted me to play cards with him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I did not know that man was Westleigh. It—it surprised me.’

His brows lowered. ‘What do you know of Westleigh?’

‘I cannot tell you here.’ Her knees weakened.

He must have noticed because he offered her his arm. ‘Come with me.’

He walked them to a back staircase, one used by the servants, perhaps. They climbed to the second floor. They passed dark rooms that smelled of sawed wood and linseed and entered the drawing room where he had received her earlier.

He led her directly to the sofa. ‘Sit here.’

She removed her mask and rubbed her eyes, trying to calm herself from the shock of learning she’d spent the greater part of her night in the company of her father’s killer.

Rhys handed her a glass. ‘Have some brandy.’

She took the glass gratefully and drank, the liquid warming her chest. She sipped more. And finished it.

Rhys sat in an adjacent chair and poured her some more. He asked nothing. Just sat with her.

She finally calmed enough to look up at him. ‘Thank you, Rhys.’ The brandy was helping. ‘I am afraid it was a shock to learn that gentleman was Westleigh.’

He did not press her to tell him more.

Since her mother’s death she had spoken to no one about Westleigh, but suddenly it seem too great a burden to carry alone. ‘You must wonder why I became so upset.’

He shrugged. ‘With Westleigh, nothing would surprise me.’

She stared into his eyes. ‘Would it surprise you to learn he killed my father?’

His brows rose, but his gaze did not waver.

She glanced away. ‘My father enjoyed gambling … too much. He sometimes played unwisely. He played cards with Lord Westleigh and apparently was winning when Westleigh accused him of cheating.’ She looked back to see his reaction to that information. Would he think her father a cheat? ‘My father would never cheat. He was outraged and challenged Westleigh to a duel.’ She blinked away tears. ‘The duel was fought and Westleigh killed my father.’ She choked on her words and quickly took another sip of brandy. ‘He walked away with impunity.’

The sound of her mother’s voice telling her of her father’s death returned to her and the horror and grief struck her anew. Dear God, she was about to lose control of her emotions.

He moved from the chair to the sofa and took her into his arms.

Celia collapsed against his chest, heaving with sobs, and he held her and murmured to her. She could not even tell what he said, she just felt his voice, low and rumbling.

It had been so long since she’d been held, so long since anyone had comforted her. The years of loneliness and loss overwhelmed her and his arms were so warm and strong.

She had to pull herself together, though. She could not do this.

Rhys held her close, relishing the feel of her in his arms, but, even more, feeling her pain and wanting to do anything he could to ease it.

Damned Westleigh! The man had killed her father? It was more than even Rhys would have suspected. Fighting a duel over a game of cards was foolish beyond belief. Killing a man over cards was a million times worse.

‘There, there,’ he murmured, realising he sounded like his mother. His own throat tightened with the memory of her loss. Another deed he could throw at Westleigh’s feet. His mother might have lived a long happy life if not for that cursed man.

She pulled away, wiping her eyes with her fingers. ‘I am so sorry.’

He handed her his handkerchief. ‘Do not say so.’

‘It is the surprise of seeing him.’ She blew her nose. ‘I wondered how it would be. I did not know I would turn into a watering pot.’

He suspected that weeping was not something she often allowed of herself. ‘What would you like me to do about Westleigh?’

She gaped at him in surprise. ‘Do about him?’

‘It cannot be comfortable for you that he comes here. I can prevent him, if you like.’ Rhys disliked seeing the man here anyway.

She finished her second glass of brandy. ‘I do not know what to say. I do not know what to think. I do not want him to know who I am.’

Rhys did not know who she was.

Her face hardened. ‘I would like to make him pay in some way.’

‘Revenge?’ He well knew the need for revenge.

‘Yes!’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I suppose that is wrong of me.’

A corner of his mouth turned up. ‘Quite natural, I would say. You are probably one of many who would like revenge on Lord Westleigh.’

She peered into his eyes. ‘You detest him, as well.’

He could explain to her that Westleigh was his father, but, at the moment, the idea that the blood of such a man flowed in his veins filled him with disgust. He did not wish to take the chance she would feel the same.

They could each keep their secrets from the other, could they not?

He held her gaze. ‘I detest him. It will give me pleasure to throw him out for you.’

She stared for a moment, as if thinking, then shook her head. ‘It would not do to ban an earl from your gaming house, would it? Especially one who likes to gamble. I would never ask this of you.’

‘Nonetheless,’ he responded. ‘It would be my pleasure to do so, if it will ease your mind.’

She reached over and touched his hand. ‘It is enough to know I have an ally.’ She withdrew her hand almost as quickly and turned away. When she turned back, she smiled the ghost of a smile. ‘Perhaps there is some restitution I can force on him. Engage him in a card game and win all his money …’

As if he had any sum of money to lose, Rhys thought.

She straightened. ‘At least that would be something, would it not?’

He would have preferred an excuse to toss Westleigh out on his ear, although her course was undoubtedly the wiser for both of them. He preferred a more subtle revenge, one that would cause Westleigh even greater pain.

‘It will be as you wish.’

She dabbed at her face again and folded his handkerchief. ‘I will launder and return this.’

He waved that away. ‘It is of no consequence.’

She picked up her mask. ‘I have taken up enough of your time. We should return to the game room, do you not think?’

Leaving her was the last thing on his mind, but she was correct. He should get back. ‘You may stay here, if you wish. Stay until it is time for your coachman.’

She shook her head. ‘I think it is like falling from one’s pony. One must remount immediately.’

She’d ridden a pony? Riding a pony seemed unlikely for an actress.

He’d pursue that thought another time. ‘Then I will go down first. You may follow a moment later. It will not seem as if we have been together.’

She gave him a grateful smile.

They both rose. She lifted the mask to her face and fussed with its ribbons. He stepped behind her and tied the mask in place.

She stood very still as he did so.

When he finished, his hands hovered over her shoulders, wanting to explore more of her.

Instead, he stepped away and walked out of the room.

Down in the game room, he found Westleigh almost immediately, laughing at something his companion had said. Westleigh caught his gaze and froze for a moment, an icy expression on his face. Rhys returned the unfriendly glare and resumed his patrol of the room.

In a few moments Celia appeared, searching the room, her reaction to finding Rhys as warm as Westleigh’s had been cold. She appeared perfectly composed, strolling to where Sir Reginald stood.

Sir Reginald greeted her like a long-lost friend. This man was a member of the aristocracy who Rhys could like. Sir Reginald was kind and friendly to everyone.

Westleigh also noticed Celia’s entrance. Rhys watched him leave his friend and make a beeline to where Celia stood.

Xavier appeared beside Rhys. ‘Would you mind telling me what all this is about?’

‘All what?’ Rhys countered.

Xavier inclined his head towards Celia and Westleigh.

Rhys waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing of consequence, I am certain.’

Xavier frowned. ‘Between Westleigh and the woman who captivates you? Do not take me for a fool.’

Celia watched Westleigh make his way across the room and knew he was coming after her. She cast a glance towards Rhys. He stood close by.

She turned to Sir Reginald. ‘Do you need a whist partner tonight, sir?’

Sir Reginald smiled in a jolly way. ‘Is that an invitation, madam? If so, I would be honoured.’

Westleigh came up to her side. ‘There you are, my dear. I feared I had lost you forever.’

She inclined her head slightly and spoke without expression. ‘Lord Westleigh.’

He bowed. ‘Are you ready for our game of whist?’

He presumed she would play cards with him? ‘I fear you are too late.’ She managed to sound civil. ‘Sir Reginald and I will be playing.’

That did not daunt him. ‘Whist? You will need partners, certainly. Allow me and my companion to challenge you to a game.’

Whist had been the game that Westleigh had played with her father that fateful night.

Her eyes narrowed.

Sir Reginald broke in. ‘Madam, I am completely at your disposal. We do need partners, but I leave it to you to say who that should be.’

She glanced over to Rhys, who had stepped away from his friend, but looked her way.

He was still near.

It emboldened her. ‘Very well. Sir Reginald and I will play whist with you.’

Westleigh fetched his companion. Celia wondered if his companion had been his partner when Westleigh engaged her father in play. If so, why had the man not intervened? Someone should have stopped such folly.

They took their places at a card table and the cards were dealt.

Soon Celia focused on the play instead of the detested player who sat at her right, too often brushing his arm against hers or fussing over her counters as if it were his job to tend to her.

The play was tame. Westleigh and his partner were particularly predictable in which cards they put down and when. Even Sir Reginald’s limited skills more than outmatched them. Westleigh could not have been a challenge to her father, who was very good at whist. Her father would have had no reason to cheat.

That knowledge was like a burden lifted from her shoulders. She now had no doubts that the charge of cheating against her father had been unfounded.

It also made Westleigh’s actions that night all the more reprehensible.

Perhaps the revenge she could enact against him was to play cards with him as often as she could. To take as much of his money as she could. It would probably not put a dent in an earl’s fortune, but it would be some restitution—the sort of restitution her father might admire.

While Sir Reginald shuffled the cards for the next hand, Celia glanced around the room, as she often did, looking for Rhys. Instead, her gaze caught upon Lord Neddington.

It did not please her that this young man was so frequent a visitor to this place. She had no wish for Adele to be enamoured of a gambler.

Celia watched Neddington walk through the room aimlessly. He turned towards her table and she quickly averted her eyes, but Neddington was not concerned with her. He was scowling at Lord Westleigh.

At least that was in the young man’s favour.

Between hands Celia kept tabs on Neddington who walked around, but never seemed to gamble. How odd. It did make her a bit less concerned about his character, though.

After several games Westleigh’s partner threw up his hands. ‘No more!’ He turned to Celia. ‘You have emptied my pockets, madam.’

He was even worse a player than Westleigh.

She smiled good-naturedly. ‘Perhaps you would like a rematch another night, sir.’

He laughed. ‘A night when luck is with me.’ He winked. ‘At least I won when you played hazard. We must coax you back to the hazard table, must we not, Westleigh?’ He turned to the earl.

‘It would be my pleasure to play whatever game the lady wishes.’ Westleigh eyed her in the same manner her husband had done before they were married.

It made her cheeks burn.

Sir Reginald, so harmless and friendly, said, ‘Well, madam, you may count on me to partner you any time.’

‘You are an excellent partner, Sir Reginald.’ She dropped her counters into her reticule and stole a glance at her watch. It was nearly time for her coach to arrive.

She stood.

Westleigh took her elbow. ‘Shall we play more hazard, my dear?’

‘Thank you, no.’ She drew her arm away. ‘I bid you gentlemen goodnight.’

She looked for Rhys, but he was not in the game room, so she made her way to the cashier and repaid the hundred pounds she’d not touched in her play. At the end, she carried away over seventy pounds. The huge sum filled her with guilt. Winning at hazard would cost Rhys directly. It was a poor way to repay his generosity.

Celia wanted to see Rhys before she left. After cashing out, she glanced in the supper room, but he was not there. She asked the hall servant where Rhys was.

‘Drawing room,’ the man told her.

Celia climbed the stairs. As she neared the doorway to the drawing room, she heard Rhys’s voice and held back.

‘Your concern is unfounded, Xavier,’ Rhys said. ‘And insulting, as well.’

‘Insulting?’ His friend’s voice rose.

‘I am well able to make my own decisions about business and about women.’ Rhys spoke with heat. ‘I do not caution you against dallying with any of the several women who vie for your attention, you know.’

‘There would be no need.’ Xavier’s tone was just as angry. ‘I know how to handle women.’

‘And I do not?’ Rhys countered.

‘Come now.’ Xavier turned placating. ‘This infatuation with the masked woman is something else. You do not know who she is. Or what she wants.’

‘She wants what I want. Money,’ Rhys answered. ‘And she has given me her name. That is enough for me.’

‘Rhys—’ Xavier began.

‘Enough,’ Rhysdale broke in. ‘I need you as a friend, not a nursemaid. Do not press me further on this matter.’

Celia stepped away from the doorway as Xavier strode out of the room. Seeing her, he hesitated only briefly, long enough to look half-apologetic, half-provoked. He continued on his way down the stairs.

She knocked on the door.

Chapter Seven

‘May I speak to you, Rhys?’

Rhys turned in surprise at the sound of her voice. ‘Celia! Come in. Close the door.’

She looked wounded, as well she might. He’d been about to pour himself some brandy. Now he needed it even more.

He lifted the decanter. ‘Would you like a glass?’

She nodded.

‘How much of that did you hear?’ he asked as he poured.

She took the glass from his hand. ‘Enough to know that Mr Campion does not like that you hired me.’

He’d been afraid of that.

‘It is none of his affair,’ he assured her. ‘He thinks he is acting out of friendship.’

‘If my employment causes you a problem—’ she began.

‘You cause me no problem.’ He reached over and gently removed her mask. ‘That is better.’ He brushed a lock of hair off her face and gestured to the sofa. ‘Please sit, Celia.’

By God, she looked lovely this night. The white of her gown was embroidered with a cascade of flowers created from shimmering silver thread. In the game room amongst the sea of black-coated men, she’d glowed like moonlight.

She lowered herself onto the sofa where she’d sat before. Where he’d held her before.

‘I did not mean to overhear,’ she said. ‘I only came upstairs to thank you again. And to let you know that I managed being in Westleigh’s company without too much distress.’

‘I was watching.’ He sat in the nearby chair. ‘I also noticed that you won.’

‘I did.’ She shook her head. ‘He is a terrible player.’

Their conversation was stilted and devoid of the intimacy they had so recently shared in this room. That she’d overheard Xavier did not help.

‘Terrible?’ That knowledge pleased him. Rhys was a master of cards. He took a sip of brandy. ‘A competent card player would have no need to cheat against him, then.’

Her face shone with pleasure. ‘You have guessed my thoughts.’

She looked even more lovely.

He took another sip. ‘How much did you win?’

‘From Westleigh and his partner? About twenty-five pounds.’

His brows rose. ‘So much?’

She waved a hand. ‘They were reckless in their betting, as well. I decided to play him as much as I can. Take as much of his money as I can.’ Her voice cracked. ‘For my father.’

He understood her need for revenge, but it puzzled him. How did Westleigh have that much to lose? He was supposed to be on a tight leash regarding his spending.

She lowered her gaze. ‘I must confess that I won much more than the twenty-five pounds from Westleigh. I won even more from hazard.’

He’d noticed. ‘You had a winning streak. How much did you win finally?’

She looked apologetic. ‘Fifty pounds.’ She quickly added. ‘I know it was not well done of me. It is a great deal of money out of your pocket.’ She opened her reticule. ‘I wanted to see you so I could pay it back. I only regret I cannot repay all that the patrons betting with me must have won.’

He pushed the reticule away. ‘I’ll not take your winnings. And do not concern yourself about the gentlemen betting with you. Those who stayed at the hazard table will have lost it all again. Or will another night.’ He gazed at her. ‘Not everyone is so wise as to stop when ahead.’

‘I was not wise….’ She made a nervous gesture with her hand. ‘To own the truth, I was terrified. The excitement made me lose all sense.’

‘Not all sense, or you would have played until your reticule was empty.’ He finished his brandy. ‘That excitement is all part of the game. I have been a gambler too long not to have felt that same exhilaration.’

‘It makes a person foolish,’ she rasped. ‘I cannot afford to be foolish. It will hurt me, but tonight my foolishness hurt you.’

‘Gambling is always a risk, but remember that this was a risk I agreed to take. This night you won and I lost. Tomorrow it may be different. We will keep an eye on it.’ He reached over again and touched her cheek. ‘Do not fear. I will not let you be harmed by it.’

Her eyes grew wider and her fair skin glowed like an angel’s.

Xavier was right when accusing him of wanting to make her a conquest. He wanted her as intensely as a man could desire a woman. But Rhys also genuinely liked her. He felt a kinship with her.

It was rare for him to feel kinship with anyone. He’d long ago accepted that he was alone in the world. He even expected to lose Xavier’s friendship eventually, when the man finally found a woman he wished to marry. Xavier’s allegiance would shift, as it should, to a wife and family of his own making.

Or perhaps his friendship with Xavier was ending over Celia.

Rhys dared not hope for anything more than temporary with Celia. No doubt her secrets would eventually separate them.

As his secrets might from her.

But for the moment he relished her company. When had a woman ever made him feel such sympathy as he felt towards her? He wished he could make Westleigh pay for killing her father, for bringing her such pain.

He wanted to enfold her in his arms and take all her pain away.

He looked into her eyes. ‘I like you, Celia Allen.’

Her eyes darted around the room. He’d frightened her.

She smiled nervously at him. ‘You have been … like a friend. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for paying me to gamble. For enduring my fit of tears over Westleigh.’

He held up a hand.

She twisted the laces of her reticule. ‘I should go. My coachman will be here soon.’

He stood and offered her his hand. She hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet, but did not stop there. He pulled her into an embrace.

He could not tell if she was alarmed or pleased.

‘I suspect we are two of a kind, Celia,’ he said. ‘I am glad you are in my employ. I am glad I will see you night after night.’

Her eyes grew huge and her voice trembled. ‘You are holding me. Are—are you going to kiss me?’

‘Is it what you wish?’ He could feel the rise and fall of her breast against his chest.

It fired his senses, but he waited. She must want this, too.

She rose, no more than an inch, but it was all the invitation he needed.

He lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips were warm, soft and tasting of brandy and he wanted more, much more. She melted into him and her lips pressed upon his, as if she, too, could not get enough. He lost himself in the pleasure of her, his hands eager to explore her, undress her, pleasure her—

She broke away. ‘This is not wise, Rhys,’ she cried.

His body was still humming with need, but he forced himself to give her the space she needed.

‘You are sounding like Xavier.’ He smiled. ‘It probably was not wise to hire you in the afternoon and kiss you in the night, but I do not feel like being wise with you, Celia. I want more from you.’

Her eyes grew big. ‘More from me?’

Did she not understand?

He would be clear. ‘I want you in my bed.’

She stepped away. ‘I—I do not know.’

He honoured her distance. ‘It is your choice, Celia. No matter what you decide, our employment agreement still stands.’

Her expression turned puzzled. ‘My choice,’ she said to herself.

The clock on his mantel chimed four bells, causing them both to jump.

She rubbed her forehead. ‘I must go. I am already late. My driver will be concerned.’

He reached out and took her hand. ‘Tomorrow, give your driver a later time.’

She looked like a frightened deer.

He did not wish her to bolt. ‘Do not distress yourself,’ he spoke in a soothing voice. ‘You know what I want, but do not let that keep you from coming back and gambling. You need not answer me now. I am a patient man.’

She stared at him, but finally said, ‘I will think about it.’

It was not the answer he had hoped for, but he contented himself that it was not a definite no.

‘Do not think.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Feel.’

She made a sound deep in her throat, before turning away from him and hurrying towards the door.

‘Celia,’ he called to her.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.

‘You forgot your mask.’ He picked up the piece of white silk and crossed the room to her. ‘Stay still. I will put it on you,’ he said.

Her breath accelerated as he affixed the mask to her face and tied the ribbons that held it in place.

‘There you go,’ he murmured.

She stepped away, but turned and gave him a long glance.

He opened the door. ‘I will walk you to your coach.’

As they left the room he kept his distance, but walked at her side down the stairs to the hall where Cummings quickly retrieved her shawl. She put it on herself carelessly, but as soon as they were out the door, he wrapped her in it to protect her from the misty night’s chill. Almost immediately the sound of her coach reached their ears even before it became visible.

She stepped forwards so her coachman could see her. He stopped the horses and Rhys lowered the steps. He squeezed her hand as he helped her into the coach.

He watched her face in the window as the coach started off, disappearing into the mist as if only a dream.

The next day Rhys sounded the knocker at the Westleigh town house. It was time to confront Westleigh. He’d had enough of the man, especially after what he’d learned from Celia.

He was ready to drop the whole bargain with the Westleighs, but Celia wished her revenge and Rhys would not deny her it. He would, however, push along his own dealings with the Westleighs and be done with them.

A footman opened the door.

‘Mr Rhysdale to see Lord Westleigh.’ Rhys handed the footman his card.

The footman stepped aside and gestured for him to enter the hall. ‘Wait here a moment.’

The last time Rhys called at this house, he’d been escorted into the drawing room. Why not now?

Likely Westleigh had left instructions to treat him like a tradesman.

The footman disappeared towards the back of the house.

Rhys gazed at the marble-tiled floors and swirling staircase. Such grandeur in contrast to the set of rooms in which he and his mother had lived. Or how he had lived after her death.

Gazing at it all, Rhys realised this was not what he wanted in life. Yes, he wanted comfort, but comfort would be enough. More than anything, he wanted to build something. A business. A factory. Something useful. He wanted not to be like his father, who had wasted his life and squandered his fortune.

He did not give a fig about being acknowledged as Westleigh’s bastard son. In fact, he’d just as soon not be known to have the connection. He’d go through with it, though, only because it was his revenge against Westleigh. He would make the man do what he would detest the most, what he ought to have done when Rhys was born—to declare openly that Rhys was his son.

This bargain with the Westleighs had become like a game of cards. Westleigh behaved as if he held all the trumps, but he was bluffing. It was time to up the ante and win the hand.

It was a gamble. Everything in life was a gamble. Westleigh could choose poverty over admitting Rhys was his son, but how likely was that? Rhys knew a good bet when he saw one.

A servant who could only have been the butler entered the hall. He lifted his nose at Rhys. ‘Do you have an appointment with his lordship?’

Rhys glared at the man and used the voice he’d once used to command men in his regiment. ‘I do not need an appointment. Announce me to Lord Westleigh.’

The butler shrank back and quickly ascended the stairs. Rhys’s eyes followed him. Westleigh would show himself promptly or Rhys would go in search of him.

A huge allegorical painting hung in the hall. Rhys turned to examine it. The painting depicted Minerva, representing wisdom, pushing Mars, the god of war, away from the goddess of peace. He chuckled to himself. Would Minerva prevail with Westleigh? Or would he and Westleigh engage in battle?

A woman’s voice said, ‘Ned! I thought you had gone.’

He turned to see a finely dressed woman descending the stairs.

She looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were my son.’

He recognised her from the times he’d glimpsed her in his old village, an older but still beautiful Lady Westleigh.

He bowed. ‘Allow me to present myself, my lady. I am Mr Rhysdale, here to speak with your husband.’

Her eyes flickered at the mention of his name. Did she know of him? Did she remember that poor woman who’d once been in her service so many years ago?

‘Mr Rhysdale.’ Her voice tightened. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why you call upon my husband.’

‘I have no objection to doing so, ma’am, although perhaps Lord Westleigh ought to be present.’ He inclined his head. ‘As a courtesy.’

She swept across the hall. ‘Come into the drawing room. I will ring for tea.’

It was the same room where he had spoken to Ned and Hugh. She pulled a bell cord and the butler appeared.

‘Some tea, Mason,’ Lady Westleigh ordered. ‘Do sit, Mr Rhysdale.’

He waited for her to lower herself into a chair and chose one a distance from her that she might consider comfortable.

She could not look at him.

Rhys took pity on her. She was merely one more person who had been ill-used by Lord Westleigh. ‘I surmise you know who I am, my lady.’

She glanced at him and gathered some pluck. ‘Why would you show your face here, after all this time?’

He spoke gently. ‘Your sons involved me …’ he paused, trying to think how to say it ‘… in a business matter.’

Her mouth opened in surprise. ‘Ned and Hugh?’

‘Yes.’

Lord Westleigh thundered in. ‘See here, Rhysdale. You were told to wait in the hall.’ He came to a sudden halt. ‘Honoria!’

‘Charles.’ Her lips thinned.

Rhys rose. ‘Lady Westleigh happened upon me and was gracious enough to invite me into the drawing room.’

‘Yes, well.’ Westleigh wiped his brow. ‘Thank you, Honoria. You may leave. This does not concern you.’

She remained in her seat. ‘Mr Rhysdale has no objection to my presence.’

Westleigh tossed him a scathing look. ‘It is a matter of business, Honoria. You would find it tedious.’

She smiled at him. ‘Oh, since it also involves Ned and Hugh, as I understand, I doubt I should find it tedious. You know that nothing about my sons is trivial to me.’

‘Did you think you could conceal the whole from Lady Westleigh?’ Rhys asked him. ‘I do not see how, unless you decided to go back on your word. Which is why I am here. To determine once and for all if you intend to keep to the bargain your sons made on your behalf.’

The butler brought in the tea tray, halting the conversation at that point. He placed the tray on the table in front of Lady Westleigh. ‘Thank you, Mason,’ she said.

The butler bowed and turned to leave, but she called him back. ‘Mason? If Hugh is about, tell him to join us, please.’

The man bowed again. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

When he left the room and closed the door behind him, Lord Westleigh spoke again. ‘We do not need Hugh here.’

‘I would not talk behind his back,’ his wife countered. ‘I would invite Ned, as well, but he went out a little while ago.’

Rhys realised his revenge upon his father was certainly going to hurt his wife, which suddenly gave Rhys no pleasure. Still, it was better than the complete financial ruin of the family.

‘Shall we wait for Hugh?’ Rhys asked the lady.

‘I would prefer it,’ she said. ‘Do sit, Mr Rhysdale. How do you take your tea?’

‘No cream. No sugar.’

Ned was surprised at the modest accommodations Miss Gale had on Half Moon Street. He’d expected something grander—not that it mattered to him. She just looked as if she belonged in luxury, protected from any discomfort or stress.

Not that he could provide her such a setting at the moment. He really had no business courting her, except that he could not bear it if her heart went to another.

He sounded the knocker and was admitted by the butler who announced him.

He entered the drawing room where Miss Gale sat with her stepmother and grandmother.

Also present was Luther Parminter, the new Baron Gale.

He bowed to the ladies.

The grandmother frowned in an unwelcoming manner, but Lady Gale extended her hand. ‘How nice of you to call, Neddington.’

He glanced to where Miss Gale was seated with the baron. ‘Am I interrupting a family visit? Do forgive me.’

‘Nonsense,’ the young Lady Gale said. ‘You are welcome here. Join us.’ She gestured to a chair near Miss Gale. ‘Shall I pour you some tea?’

‘I’ll not trouble you.’ He bowed to Miss Gale.

She sat in a pool of sunlight from the window, her hair shining like spun gold. Her skin was flawless and her eyes sparkling and clear as a cloudless sky.

She robbed him of speech.

He glanced from her to Luther, whom he’d known in school. ‘Gale.’

‘Neddington,’ Luther said without expression.

Ned was distressed to see him here. Was he courting Miss Gale? Most people liked to keep their wealth and property in the family. Lady Cowdlin said Miss Gale’s dowry was a generous one. Was that why Luther was here?

Still, if she had a large dowry, why did she live in such economy?

‘I hope you are well today, sir,’ she murmured to him.

‘Very well, miss,’ he responded.

‘Hmmph,’ the Dowager Lady Gale broke in. ‘Our cousin Luther was telling us about Gale House and its people. And the news from the village. We have always made it a point to concern ourselves with the needs of the people, you know.’

Ned turned to Gale. ‘I hope you found the people at Gale House in a good situation.’

‘Of course,’ Luther snapped.

The man was as happy to see Ned here as Ned was to see him. It depressed Ned that he might have a rival. Ned had so little to offer, how could he compete?

His family’s partnership with Rhysdale must reap its hoped-for benefits. It all depended upon his father.

Ned could hardly abide the presence of his father these days; he was so angry with the man. His father was being stubborn about Rhysdale and could ruin everything. They’d be worse off than before.

Then there would be no use in pursuing Miss Gale at all.

They chatted about the ball the night before. At one point Luther pulled out his timepiece and examined it.

A few minutes later, Luther stood. ‘I must take my leave.’ He bowed to Miss Gale, her stepmother and grandmother. ‘Ladies, it has been a pleasure.’ He tossed an unhappy glare at Ned.

After he left, Miss Gale asked Ned about the weather.

It gave him courage. ‘I wonder if you would like to take a turn in the park this afternoon, Miss Gale. I would consider it an honour to drive you in my curricle.’ He turned to her stepmother. ‘With your permission, ma’am.’

Lady Gale smiled. ‘If Adele wishes.’

‘Oh, I do!’ she cried. ‘I mean, I would like that very much, my lord.’

Miss Gale’s grandmother frowned.

He rose. ‘Then I shall return at four.’ A good three hours. How would he be able to pass that much time knowing he would have her company all to himself?

And with everyone else crowding Hyde Park during the fashionable hour.

Ned took his leave, his heart soaring.

‘What is this?’ Hugh entered the Westleigh town house drawing room. ‘Rhysdale, what are you doing here?’

Rhys was accustomed to Hugh’s brashness. He had always been so.

Rhys straightened and glanced at each of them. ‘I will not prevaricate. I came to get what is due me. I fulfilled my part of our bargain and—’ he turned to Lord Westleigh ‘—you, sir, have not fulfilled yours. I am done being trifled with.’

‘See here, Rhysdale—’ Lord Westleigh snapped.

‘What bargain?’ Lady Westleigh asked.

Rhys gestured to Westleigh and Hugh to explain.

Hugh glared at his father. ‘You explain it to her, Father.’

Lord Westleigh, still standing, wrung his hands.

‘Well.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Your sons made the plan. Just because finances have become a little strained these days—’

‘A little strained!’ Hugh broke in. ‘It is more serious than that.’ He turned to his mother. ‘We are a hair’s breadth from complete ruin. We owe everybody and Father has not kept up with payments to the bank, for money he borrowed to cover his gambling debts.’

Her gaze flew to her husband, who did not deny this. ‘What has this to do with Mr Rhysdale?’

Hugh answered her. ‘Ned and I went to him with a proposition.’ He explained the scheme to run a gaming house. ‘But Father will not do what he gave his word he would do.’

‘What is that?’ Lady Westleigh asked.

Her husband made a sound of disgust.

Rhys spoke up. ‘My lady, I fear what I’ve asked may cause you some distress. For that, I am sorry.’ He riveted his gaze on his father and spoke only to him. ‘I once came to you with one request—to support me after my mother died until I had a means of supporting myself. You refused. Now I have no need of your money, so I ask more.’ He turned back to Lady Westleigh. ‘Your husband must acknowledge me publicly as his natural son. It must seem to society that I am welcomed into the family. I do not ask for a true welcome,’ he assured her. ‘This is more a matter of recompense. But I insist upon a plan for this to be done and done soon. If it is not accomplished in a reasonable length of time, I will not release any of the money from the gaming hell to your sons.’

Hugh swung around to his mother. ‘We need the money, Mother. We need it now. Matters are desperate.’ His eyes shot daggers at his father. ‘If you had behaved with any decency, with any thought to our mother and sister, you would have done the right thing in the first place and you certainly would not have gambled and caroused until money for their food and clothing would be in jeopardy!’

Lady Westleigh’s eyes grew huge. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

‘It is desperate, Mother. Desperate.’ Hugh dropped into a chair.

The lady closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples as she took in all this information. Finally she spoke. ‘We shall give a ball and introduce you, Mr Rhysdale. I’ll arrange the date with you, but it might take a few weeks. The social calendar is full. You will, I presume, wish to have good attendance.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I will give you my word that it will happen. Will that be enough to release some of the money?’

Rhys stood. ‘Your word will be enough, my lady. I will release the money to Ned today. Have him call upon me this afternoon.’ He turned to Lord Westleigh. ‘If you prevent this ball in any way, no further profits will be forthcoming.’

‘I have no other choice, do I?’ Westleigh said.

‘As my mother had no choice when you forced her into your bed. As I had no choice but to survive on my own when I was fourteen.’ He bowed to Lady Westleigh. ‘I will act in a manner that will not embarrass you, my lady. It will suffice that the truth become known.’

She nodded.

‘Hugh.’ He nodded to his half-brother. ‘I’ll bid you all good day.’

As he left the house and walked out to the street, he lacked the feeling of triumph that he’d expected. Instead he thought of Lady Westleigh. Her pained expression. Her evident distress.

He’d succeeded in putting his father in a helpless position, but in so doing he’d hurt someone even more helpless. Lady Westleigh.

Another casualty of his father’s selfish behaviour.

But it was done.

Rhys would make arrangements with his bank and get the money to Ned this day.

Sun peeked through the buildings and Rhys was reminded of his youth in the village. It had not all been unhappy. He remembered running over hills, fishing in the river, climbing the highest tree he could find to look down on a world where he ordinarily felt quite small. The seeds of his ambition were sowed in that childhood—to succeed. To build something lasting.

The world was changing. The gaming hell belonged to a past where a few had so much money they could throw it away on dice and cards. The future belonged to men with brains and courage, no matter who parented them. Rhys had brains and courage and, with the help of the gaming hell, he’d soon have enough capital to build anything he liked.

His thoughts turned to Celia Allen as the sun warmed the air and lit the buildings in a golden light. Which world did she belong to? He no longer knew. He only knew that in the gaming hell, they were one of a kind.

Would she share his bed this night?

Would she approve of his actions this day?

Not that he would ever tell her, but, somehow his visit to the Westleighs, the family to which he would never truly belong, had left him feeling abandoned.

He wanted the comfort of her arms, her kiss.

He looked up to cross the street and saw Ned approaching from the other side. He stopped and waited. He might as well inform Ned about the afternoon’s events.

Ned walked right past him, not pointedly cutting him, as was typical of him, but apparently utterly oblivious.

Rhys called after him, ‘Ned!’

Ned stopped then and shook his head as if in a daze. He finally turned around. ‘Oh, Rhys. I did not see you there.’

He must be dazed. He called him Rhys, not Rhysdale.

He peered at Ned. ‘Are you unwell?’

Ned laughed. ‘Not at all. Merely thinking.’

The man looked like a sapskull. ‘What is so engrossing?’

Ned grinned. ‘Nothing.’

Oh. A woman.

A man only acted in such a manner when he was a besotted fool. ‘May I pull your head from the clouds?’

Ned sobered. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve come from your father.’ Their father, he meant. ‘I have forced the issue with him and I am satisfied that my introduction to society will happen soon. I am prepared to transfer the money back to you. Your original investment and some modest profits.’

Ned brightened. ‘My father came through? I feared he would not.’ He grasped Rhys’s arm. ‘This means … This means … We may retrench. We may actually pull out of this!’

Rhys recoiled from this unexpected camaraderie. ‘Do not be so hasty. It is not all song and celebration. I am afraid this matter has caused your mother some distress. For that, I am regretful.’

‘My mother?’ Ned’s demeanour blackened. ‘Did Father tell her?’

‘I did,’ Rhys said. ‘Although not by design. She encountered me in the hall.’

Ned lowered his head, his euphoria gone.

Rhys felt badly for him. ‘Think, Ned. She would have to know of this.’

‘I realise that,’ Ned responded. ‘I just hate what this does to her.’

Rhys actually felt sympathetic to Ned. ‘If it is any consolation, she knew who I was as soon as I told her my name.’

Ned nodded. ‘That does not surprise me. I am certain, though, that she did not know the state of our finances.’

‘Yes, I do think that shocked her,’ Rhys admitted. ‘I admired her. She handled the whole situation with exceptional grace.’

Ned glanced up at him. ‘She is an exceptional woman.’

Rhys clapped Ned on the soldier, surprising himself that their conversation was devoid of hostility. ‘Come with me to Coutts Bank. I’ll transfer the money to you right now.’

‘Excellent!’ Ned’s mood improved. ‘But I must be done by four o’clock.’

‘We’ll be done,’ Rhys assured him.

Celia excused herself after two of her mother-in-law’s friends came to call. Adele had already begged to be excused so that she might ready herself for her ride in Hyde Park.

It was endearing to see Adele so excited and happy. This past year of mourning had been so difficult. First the shock of their financial situation, then what amounted to an eviction from the only home Adele had ever known.

And now Luther thought he could court Adele?

Not if Celia could help it.

Although Celia was unsure about Neddington, as well.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Adele was engaged only for a ride in Hyde Park, not marriage.

Celia retreated to her bedchamber.

Her lady’s maid emerged from her dressing room. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’ She lifted a gown she carried in her arms. ‘I came in for this. Needs some mending.’

‘Thank you, Younie.’ Celia smiled. ‘I am surprised to see you here, though. I thought Adele would be running you in circles to get ready for Hyde Park.’

‘Oh, I am to go to her in one half hour,’ Younie said. ‘After she has rested so the dark circles under her eyes disappear.’

‘What dark circles?’ Adele looked as fresh-faced as ever.

Younie chuckled. ‘The ones in her imagination, I expect. It is best to go along with these notions, though. You cannot convince a girl that age of anything.’

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