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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.