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‘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.’
