by Eva Devon
Rarely in his life did Andrew have cause to eat his words.
But a mere sennight later, as their carriage joined the blocks-long queue to deposit them at the most scandalous gaming hell in all of London, he decided that words one had to take back actually left a taste in one’s mouth.
Something like brackish wine.
“Remember,” he said, drawing Claire’s attention from the window. She’d been peeking through the curtain for the past five minutes, trying to catch sight of the storied establishment. If she was hoping to see some gaudy exterior, she would be disappointed. The Devil’s Den, just off King Street, St. James, catered to wealthy society and looked more like an aristocrat’s home than a club.
Claire practically bounced on the edge of the velvet seat, her nervous anticipation palpable in the carriage. Christ, if she acted like a green lad inside the hell, they were sunk.
She turned to him, and in the wash of light from the carriage lamp, he could see the excitement she worked hard to mask behind a ne’er-do-well facade. She rolled her eyes at him and affected a bored look that did her brother proud. That was better.
“Yes, yes,” she droned. “Stick to games of chance over games of skill. Hazard, roulette, and rouge et noir.”
“Precisely. And if you must get drawn into a hand of cards, go for—”
“Faro.” She parroted back the words he’d drilled into her for the past twenty-four hours. “Because it moves fast, the rules are easy to grasp, and the chances are better that I won’t get fleeced or look a fool.”
He nodded, and Claire returned to her window.
He was the fool here tonight, taking Claire to the gaming hell after swearing he wouldn’t. It was wrong, on so many levels. If Clarence were alive, he’d certainly shoot Andrew on the spot for exposing his sister to the debauchery and vice she was certain to see tonight.
But he’d been left with little choice. After a week of trying, he’d gotten nothing through his military channels, and several trips to the Devil’s Den on his own had likewise turned up empty. He was no closer to finding out who had killed Clarence and Marston or why.
It had been unnaturally quiet at Abchurch, as well. All of the code breakers were on edge. It reminded him of the stillness on the battlefield just before a bloody fight. His gut told him something significant was soon to happen, but they were at a loss as to what.
Clarence’s possible contact at the gaming hell was the only viable lead they had left, and it seemed Claire had been right. She had to be the one to follow it.
So he’d relented.
But that didn’t mean that the myriad things that could go wrong tonight weren’t churning through his mind and turning his stomach sour.
How was a gently bred lady going to be able to brazen through as a man in the Devil’s Den and come out unscathed? Much less with the information they needed?
He looked Claire over with a critical eye. Given that most men frequented the gaming hell in the wee hours after circulating through the ballrooms of London, “Clarence” was attired in full evening dress, as if “he’d” been out all night.
Beneath her greatcoat, Claire wore a coat of blue superfine with covered buttons, a single-breasted off-white marcella waistcoat, and cream-colored kerseymere breeches over white stockings. A pair of simple black dress slippers adorned her feet, as was the fashion. She seemed to be padded in all the right places, with no hint of her femininity on display.
To the casual observer, she’d do.
Except…
“Who in the world tied your cravat?”
She turned back to him, her brow furrowing into a slightly offended expression as she glanced at his neck. “Who tied yours?”
It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Can’t you ever just answer a straightforward question?”
She shrugged, but her lips turned up just slightly.
He shook his head with mock exasperation, then crooked one finger at her, indicating for her to lean toward him. She raised her brows, but the smile still played about her lips and she obeyed. When she was close enough, he started unraveling the lopsided knot around her neck. “Seriously, Claire. Who massacred this poor scrap of linen?”
She huffed. “Is it truly fair to say ‘massacred’?”
He winged an eyebrow at her question-rather-than-answer. “I’d say ‘massacre’ was a nice way of putting it.” He continued to loosen the folds of fabric.
She sighed. “I did, of course. Bothersome things. I’m all thumbs with them. I can’t have a man help me dress, and my maid knows less about tying cravats than I do.”
He’d love to help her dress. And undress.
That unbidden thought stilled his hands mid-tug.
Being in such close proximity to Claire this past week had been a most exquisite torture. They broke their fast together each morning, shared a hackney to and from Abchurch each day, dined together in the evenings, and worked side by side in the library sifting through foreign correspondence and secret codes at night. Apart from her unconventional attire, their time together had such an air of domesticity that Andrew’s heart ached for what might have been.
Sure, the first three or so days she hadn’t really spoken to him, still furious at his curtailment of her nightly walks and for refusing her excursion to the gaming hell. But she’d thawed, and they’d fallen into an easy—if shallow—camaraderie.
They didn’t speak of the past, as too many painful memories were buried there. They didn’t speak of the future, as if they both knew that there could never be one between them. But they found things to discuss and eventually to laugh over and tease each other about, as they once had.
And at night, as she prowled through the house unable to sleep—probably in some flimsy night rail that would drive him wild—it took everything in Andrew to stay in his own room and leave her be.
Taking a steadying breath, he resumed working on the cravat. “Hold still,” he murmured as he slipped the wide strip of fabric from her neck, careful not to pull the starched material too quickly. He had no wish to chafe her soft skin.
As the cravat peeled away, so too did Claire’s disguise. No man could possess such a graceful long neck or such a delicate collarbone, nor flush such a lovely pink beneath his gaze. He swallowed against the overwhelming urge to put his lips to her neck, to trace the faint ridges of her throat with his mouth and press his tongue against the pulse beating in the hollow there.
And just like that, he was hard as stone. Just a glimpse of her hidden femininity and Andrew wanted to remove all of her trappings and rediscover the woman within.
His fingers shook as he stretched the cravat between his arms, and then brought the midline to Claire’s throat and centered it on her neck.
“This is a simple Waterfall knot you should be able to learn easily,” he said, willing his voice to normalcy. “Take the right side and wrap it around your neck, like so.”
As he demonstrated, his knuckles barely grazed the warm skin of her nape, yet she shivered. Her involuntary reaction to his touch shot a thrill through him and stole his breath.
Andrew cleared his throat. Christ, who knew tying a cravat could be so damned erotic? He’d never be able to look his valet in the eye again.
“Now, do the same with the other side.” He pulled the cloth around her neck, draping it over her collarbone but being careful not to touch her, much as he longed to. “Cross the fabric over itself and wrap it again and again in layers until it covers your whole neck.”
He did this for Claire, his arms going around her, then coming back to the front, again and again. His movements brought their faces close with every revolution, their cheeks almost touching with each pass.
Every time he leaned close he could feel the heat from her skin and smell the hint of ginger, mint, and lemon that made up the cologne water she used. By the time there was only enough of the cravat left to tie, Andrew’s breathing was ragged.
Claire’s was, too. Her chest rose and fell rapidly and her bl
ue, blue eyes were slightly glazed as she watched him.
Damn, but he wanted to kiss her. He leaned in, just slightly, before he caught himself and pulled back. Claire wasn’t meant for the likes of him. He couldn’t forget that.
Claire was all alone in the world now. She needed a husband who would take care of her, not one who was off to war again once this mission was done.
“Next,” he said, his voice rough as he took up the loose ends of the fabric, “cross the ends into an X, pull the end of the top layer through here,” which he did, “and tighten it into a knot.”
He tried to sound matter-of-fact about it all, but truth was, he was unbearably close to ripping apart his handiwork and fastening his mouth to her neck, her chin, her lips—anywhere he could reach.
“Th-then what?” Claire asked. Oh, hell…her voice had gone all breathy.
“All that’s left,” he said, and damned if it didn’t feel like he’d run up a hill before uttering each of those little words, “is to spread the top layer over the bottom to hide your knot.” His eyes dropped to her breasts—which, though they were currently pressed flat, he could remember were both tender and firm and had once fit his hands perfectly—and he swallowed again, hard. “And tuck it into your waistcoat,” he finished in a whisper.
That part he shouldn’t do for her. Wouldn’t. Because if he touched her again, he couldn’t be responsible for what would happen next.
Claire seemed to understand his hesitation. She brought her hands to the neckcloth—were her fingers trembling, too?—and did as he bid. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as her deft fingers flattened the linen over her chest, dipping beneath the waistcoat and tucking the folds of the cravat into where he knew her breasts to be. When she’d finished, she smoothed her palms slowly over her chest to her abdomen, and his eyes followed.
He imagined what it would be like to watch her touch herself in pleasure, and nearly groaned aloud.
That was it. A man could only take so much. He reached for her—
“Thank you, Andrew,” she said, pulling back from him and settling back against the squabs. Her hands moved back up and she straightened the newly tied cravat. “You’ll make someone a good valet someday,” she said quite cheerfully.
Valet? Andrew blinked, struggling out of his lustful fog.
Claire flashed him a cheeky grin as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Oh good. We’re here.”
The door was opened by one of the club’s liveried footmen, and Claire hopped out without a backward glance.
Andrew sat there for a second, gathering his wits. And adjusting his falls. It wouldn’t do for him to step out of the carriage behind his “male” friend, sporting a half-masted pego.
When he emerged, Claire had almost reached the entrance with eager strides.
Damn it. She was already going against what they’d agreed to. She was to stay by his side the entire time they were here.
Andrew hurried to catch up to Claire, who had just slipped into the Devil’s Den alone.
He went in after her, hoping to hell he didn’t end up regretting this.
Chapter 7
“Ah, Sir Clarence.”
Before Claire even had a chance to get her bearings, she was met by a man of middling years, garbed in the evening black of a servant. A man Clarence would know and likely greet by name. Indeed, the man looked at her expectantly.
Her heart pounded in her throat, a rapid tattoo against her newly tied cravat—almost as hard as it had when Andrew had nearly kissed her moments ago.
Any excitement she’d had about getting a glimpse inside this forbidden male realm died. Who was she kidding, thinking to pass herself off as her brother in a place where he was known? What if she made a mistake and gave the whole game away?
Claire’s chest tightened and breath became difficult to take in. She should leave, just walk out before—
And then Andrew was there beside her. He didn’t say a word, and certainly didn’t touch her, but she felt him just the same. Immediately, the knot inside her loosened and she was able to breathe again.
The servant before her was not liveried like the footman who’d escorted her to the door. He was older and more polished. This must be the majordomo of the club, she decided. Andrew had given her his name when they’d discussed the battle plan for the evening.
She nodded to the man. “Good to see you again, Paulson.”
“And you, sir,” the majordomo replied, and Claire nearly went weak with relief. Pleasantries were exchanged, hers and Andrew’s coats taken, and snifters of a sharp amber liquid placed in their hands before they were left to meander toward the large set of double doors at the end of the long chamber.
“You handled that well,” Andrew murmured as they made their way into the room.
“Thank you.”
She could do this. She could. Still, she felt a little wobbly. And Lord, her throat was dry. Perhaps a little liquid courage was in order. She eyed the snifter. Clarence had always seemed to like the stuff. She brought the cut glass to her lips and took a healthy swallow.
Dear God, the burn!
Claire’s eyes immediately started watering as she did her best not to cough up the fiery liquid now scorching its way down her gullet.
Andrew, damn his hide, had the temerity to chuckle at her distress.
She was going to give him what-for…when she could properly breathe again, that is.
But then the burn softened into a glowing warmth in her middle that seemed to be spreading through her limbs, and that warmth felt…nice. Calming. Precisely what she needed. She brought the crystal to her lips once again for another, more cautious, sip.
“Go easy, Claire,” Andrew said, no longer laughing. “You need your wits about you.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, the word vibrating against the rim of the glass.
Now that she’d cleared the first hurdle of gaining entrance into the club—and bolstered by her newfound beverage of choice—Claire took a moment to assess her surroundings.
“You know, for a place named the Devil’s Den, it certainly seems rather heavenly, don’t you think?”
Far from the dim and dubious decor she’d expected, walls of silk damask in the palest cream rose to meet intricate plaster moulding. Claire lifted her gaze to the arched ceiling, painted to depict fluffy clouds in a blue summer sky and—
She blinked. “There are even bloody cherubs frolicking up there. Golden harps and all.”
If Andrew was taken aback by her swearing, he didn’t show it. The word felt a bit foreign coming out of her mouth, but it was expected from a man in a place like this, wasn’t it? And if she wanted to pass as a man, she’d need to act like one.
“I suppose they find the juxtaposition amusing,” he commented.
“Hmph.” Claire took another sip as she eyed the row of intricate crystal chandeliers lining the center of the room. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, a bit disappointed that the infamous gaming hell was not living up to her expectations of a den of iniquity at all, “I’d think I was walking into any number of Mayfair mansions.”
“Indeed,” Andrew agreed, nodding to the two footmen who stood poised at the closed doors before them.
The servants turned in unison and pulled on the handles.
A blast of raucous male laughter burst through the opening.
Claire started, but she thought she hid it well.
Another quiet chuckle from Andrew told her differently.
She frowned at him, then walked through the doors.
And entered a world unlike any she’d ever been in before…and yet somehow strangely familiar.
Juxtaposition. That’s how Andrew had described the decor in the entryway, and that theme certainly continued into the main part of the hell. The rooms themselves were still rather elegant, though there was a bit more gilt and flourish.
It resembled an aristocratic ballroom more than anything, she realized.
The place was a crush, much like a go
od ball. Refreshment tables lined the walls on one side of the room but from the delectable smells wafting their way, Claire figured she’d find more than dry cakes and tepid lemonade there. The din of the crowd was as loud as any rout, but more masculine in flavor. And certainly more jolly. Shouts, guffaws, and ribald repartee flew freely around the room and Claire caught more than a few words that made the tips of her ears burn.
It was shocking, thrilling, and bewildering all at once.
“Don’t stand there gawping,” Andrew whispered in her ear.
Claire coughed to cover her blunder, and got moving.
As they’d discussed before coming tonight, she and Andrew casually skirted the room, giving Claire a chance to orient herself without having to directly engage with anyone who’d known Clarence. While she got the lay of the land, Andrew’s job was to quietly observe whether or not she was being observed.
There were groups of men gathered around long green tables, hollering and whooping as one or the other of them tossed dice. Hazard, then.
Another table held a spinning wheel which men and their companions crowded around, their eyes fixed on the rotation as if their very fortunes hung on the whim of one tiny bouncing sphere.
There were smaller tables where Claire saw men at faro, vingt-et-un, rouge-et-noir and even common ballroom fare such as loo, whist, and piquet.
And there were several doors leading to private rooms in which Claire could only imagine what went on.
“I see several of Clarence’s friends,” she commented, her voice pitched low so only Andrew could hear.
She also saw the women hanging on to many of said friends’ arms. Clinging, more like, in a fashion she’d never seen the like of. Laughing with an exuberance no debutante would dare. Touching, and being touched, in ways that would scandalize innocents and fussy matrons alike.
Claire averted her eyes before her cheeks pinked. But she couldn’t stop her imagination from wondering what it would be like to be that free with herself.
“As do I,” Andrew replied, his lips close as he bent his head toward her to keep their conversation private.
