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.

‘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 gain no enjoyment from the task.

Rhys wanted her for himself.

AUTHOR NOTE

A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY is the first of two books in The Masquerade Club, a series in which identities are concealed and desires revealed. The Masquerade Club is a gaming hell (a gambling establishment) in Regency London, like those where in reality many a gentleman—and lady—lost vast fortunes playing cards or rolling dice.

My own history of card-playing is not so dramatic. As children, my sisters and I played at gambling with our own toy roulette wheel and a real set of poker chips. We learned to play five-card stud and twenty-one. Game-playing, especially if for real or imaginary stakes, could easily consume a whole day, and often took up a great part of our summers.

My father had no interest in cards, but my mother and aunt (the Aunt Loraine in my dedication) loved to play. Whenever we got together with their sister and our cousins we could hardly wait to get out the cards.

The card game we played was Shanghai, a complicated rummy game that we adapted to make even more challenging. We played for money. Fifteen cents was the stake, but extra nickels could also be won (or lost). These games were competitive and cut-throat and riotous fun. Even now when we see our cousins we break out the cards and play Shanghai.

The gambling hells of the Regency were, I dare say, not anything like playing Shanghai with my cousins, but I like to think we were not too dissimilar from Jane Austen and her characters, who spent many evenings playing such card games as Loo, Commerce, and Cassino.

I hope you enjoy The Masquerade Club, Celia—and Rhys, who has A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY.

Visit my website at http://dianegaston.com or send an e-mail to diane@dianegaston.com

About the Author

As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com

Previous novels by the same author:

 THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M

 THE WAGERING WIDOW

 A REPUTABLE RAKE

 INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY

 A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE

(in A Regency Christmas anthology)

 THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS

 SCANDALISING THE TON

 JUSTINE AND THE NOBLE VISCOUNT†

(in Regency Summer Scandals)

 GALLANT OFFICER, FORBIDDEN LADY*

 CHIVALROUS CAPTAIN, REBEL MISTRESS*

 VALIANT SOLDIER, BEAUTIFUL ENEMY*

 A NOT SO RESPECTABLE GENTLEMAN?†

 BORN TO SCANDAL

*Three Soldiers mini-series

†linked by character

And in Mills & Boon ® Historical Undone! eBooks:

 THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH

 THE LIBERATION OF MISS FINCH

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Reputation
for Notoriety
Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dedication

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.

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