A Reputation for Notoriety

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.