by Diane Gaston
She had a point. In gambling there was always the possibility of losing it all.
He wanted her to agree, though. He wanted to see her again. If he did not offer enough to entice her, she might never return.
He tapped on the table again. ‘Very well. I will stake you.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Say, for one hundred pounds. At the end of the night, you return my stake to me but keep your winnings. If you lose, you make an accounting to me of the loss.’ If she lost too often, he’d reassess this plan, but his gamble was that she would bring in more money than she would lose.
Her eyes showed interest. ‘Do I still receive the two pounds a night?’
He was not that big a fool. ‘One pound. Plus your winnings.’
She calculated again, her eyes on his. What did she look like under her mask? He imagined lifting it off her face, discovering the treasure underneath.
In the back of his mind he could hear Xavier’s voice, questioning his motives, accusing him of succumbing to the first pretty lightskirt who’d caught his eye in a long time.
She was not a lightskirt, but Rhys would wager she belonged on the fringes of society as did he. His money was still on her being an actress.
She opened her lovely mouth and, God help him, all he could think of was tasting her lips. She was about to agree—he could feel it.
* * *
Celia was so tempted. He’d handed her a way to gamble without losing her money. What could be better than that? What did it matter, then, if she succumbed to the excitement of the game? Losing would not imperil her.
It was as if he was handing her the future she so desired. To see Adele well settled. To retire to the country and live quietly within her means with no one directing her life but herself.
Rhysdale did not press her. He poured her another glass of wine and waited.
She accepted the glass gratefully and took a long sip, but even the wine did not loosen the knots of panic inside her.
He’d offered her this help as a friend. When had she last had a friend? For that matter, when had she last been able to trust a man? Even her beloved father broke promise after promise.
What if she refused Rhysdale’s offer? Her mind spun with what she would have to do to economise. She’d have to try to pay back most of the creditors. She’d have to give up her coachman, her carriage, her servants. She’d have little left for rooms to let and food to eat. Adele did not deserve such a life. Even her mother-in-law did not deserve such a life.
Rhysdale’s gaze was patient and, she fancied, sympathetic. ‘You are not required to decide this minute. Come to me tomorrow, in the afternoon.’ He glanced about the room. ‘We can discuss it without anyone around.’ His voice deepened. ‘If you refuse employment, my offer of a loan still stands.’
She felt tears prick her eyes. ‘You are kind, Rhysdale.’
A smile grew slowly across his face. ‘Do not say so too loudly or you will ruin my reputation.’
She almost laughed.
Some gentlemen entered the room and she came to her senses. ‘What time is it?’ She fished into her reticule to check her timepiece. ‘I must take my leave.’
He stood and offered his hand to assist her.
As they walked towards the door, they passed the older man she’d seen with Rhysdale when she’d arrived that night.
‘Charming supper room!’ the man remarked to his companion.
When he spied Rhysdale, his eyes hardened to ice. He walked past them without a word.
Even the air seemed chilled as he passed.
Celia inclined her head to Rhysdale. ‘Who is that gentleman?’
Rhysdale’s entire manner changed into something dark and bitter.
‘No one you need know,’ he answered.
It pained her to see him so disturbed. ‘Does he come here often?’
‘Never before.’ Rhysdale’s voice rumbled with suppressed emotion. ‘But I suspect he will come again.’
He led her out into the hallway and down the stairs to collect her cloak. As had become his custom, he escorted her into the street to wait for her coachman.
Clouds hid the stars and made the night even darker than usual. Celia’s own woes receded as she stood waiting with him for her carriage, an overwhelming desire to comfort him taking over.
She touched his arm. ‘Rhysdale, it will not do for the both of us to be glum.’
He covered her hand with his and his typically unreadable face momentarily turned pained and vulnerable. ‘Come this afternoon. Let us talk more about my offer.’ His grip on her hand tightened. ‘Do not leave me entirely.’
She blinked and her throat constricted. ‘Very well. I’ll come.’
He smiled and his gratitude was palpable. He leaned down, his eyes half closing.
Celia’s heart thundered in her chest as the night itself wrapped around them and his head dipped lower and lower. She wrestled with an impulse to push him away and a desire to feel his arms around her.
The clop-clop of a horse team sounded in her ears and he stepped away. Her carriage approached from the end of the street. When the coach pulled up to where they stood, he put the steps down and reached for her hand to help her into the couch.
When she placed her hand in his, she suddenly turned to face him, her words bursting from her mouth. ‘I will do it, Rhysdale. I will come work for you.’
His face broke out in pleasure. ‘Indeed?’
She smiled, as well. ‘Yes.’
For a moment he looked as if he would pull her into his arms and kiss her. Instead, he gently cupped her cheek. ‘We will talk more this afternoon.’
‘Until then,’ she whispered.
She climbed into the coach and he closed the door. As the carriage pulled away, her heart raced. Had she been afraid he would kiss her or had she yearned to feel his lips on hers?
Chapter Five
A gnarl of nerves amidst a flutter of excitement, Celia donned her hat and gloves. It was half-past twelve, barely afternoon, but she wished to be finished with her interview with Rhysdale before two, when no respectable woman dared walk near St James’s Street.
She supposed she was not truly a respectable woman. Not when she spent her nights gambling in a gaming hell. But that did not mean she wished to suffer the taunts and catcalls of dandies who loitered on corners for that very purpose.
Her mother-in-law descended the staircase. ‘And where are you going?’
Celia had hoped to slip out before her mother-in-law knew she was gone. ‘I have an errand. I shall be back shortly.’
‘Do you take Younie with you?’ the older woman snapped. ‘Because I have need of her.’
Celia kept her tone mild. ‘She is at your disposal. My errand is not far. I have no need of company.’
‘Hmmph!’ her mother-in-law sniffed. ‘I expect you will not tell me the nature of this errand of yours.’
‘That is correct.’ Celia smiled.
Lady Gale continued to talk as she descended the stairs. ‘Most likely it is to pay a bill or beg for more credit from shopkeepers who ought to be glad to have our business. Needless to say you are not off to meet a man. My son always said you were frigid as well as barren.’
The barb stung.
The cruelty of this woman was rivalled only by that of her son. Ironic that Lady Gale was blind to her son’s faults, but took great enjoyment in cataloguing Celia’s.
Primary among Celia’s shortcomings, of course, was her inability to conceive a child. Neither Gale nor his mother had forgiven her for not producing sons, but neither had they ever considered how crushing this was for Celia. A baby might have made her marriage bearable.
Knowing she could never have a child hurt more than her mother-in-law would ever know, but today her mother-in-law’s abuse merely made her angry.
After all she’d sacrificed for the woman’s comfort...
Celia faced her. ‘You speak only to wound me, ma’am. It is badly done of you.’
Her mother-in-law s
topped on the second stair. She flushed and avoided Celia’s eye.
Celia maintained her composure. ‘Recall, if you please, that your son left you in more precarious financial circumstances than he did me, but I have not abandoned you.’ Much as she would like to. ‘Nor have I abandoned Adele. I am doing the best I can for all of us.’
Lady Gale pursed her lips. ‘You keep us both under your thumb with your tight-fisted ways. You control us with the purse strings.’
Celia tied the ribbons on her hat. ‘Think the worst of me, if you wish, but at least have the good manners to refrain from speaking your thoughts aloud.’ She opened the door. ‘I should return in an hour or so.’
Younie had sewn a swirl of netting to the crown of Celia’s hat. When she stepped onto the pavement, Celia pulled the netting over her face so no one would recognise her if they happened to spy her entering the Masquerade Club.
The afternoon was grey and chilly and Celia walked briskly, needing to work off her anger at the woman.
Lady Gale had well known of her son’s debauchery, but still she preferred to blame all Gale’s ills on Celia. In truth, the man had countless vices, many more than mere gambling. He’d treated Celia like a brood mare and then thrust her out to pasture when she didn’t produce, all the while taunting her with his flagrant infidelities and profligate ways. As if that were not enough, he neglected his daughter.
And his mother.
Celia had known nothing of men when her aunt and uncle arranged her marriage to Gale. She’d still been reeling from her parents’ deaths and barely old enough for a come-out. Her aunt and uncle simply wished to rid themselves of her. She’d never felt comfortable with Gale, but thought she had no choice but to marry him. She never imagined how bad marriage to him would be.
The only thing he’d wanted from Celia was a son and when she could not comply, he disdained her for it. Over and over and over. Life was only tolerable for her when he went off to London or anywhere else. Celia cared nothing about what he did in those places as long as he was gone.
Little did she know he’d squandered his fortune, leaving only what he could not touch: Celia’s widow’s portion and Adele’s dowry.
She’d worn widow’s black after Gale died, but she had never mourned him. His death had set her free.
And she would free herself of his mother, as well, when Adele was settled. As long as her husband would be generous enough to take on the responsibility of the Dowager Lady Gale.
It was not until Celia turned off St James’s on to Park Place that she remembered her destination. She was indeed meeting a man. Would not Lady Gale suffer palpitations if she knew? She was meeting a man who offered her the best chance of escaping life with her mother-in-law. A man who had almost kissed her.
The gaming hell was only a few short streets away from her rooms. In daylight it looked like any other residence.
But it was an entirely different world.
As she reached for the knocker, her hand shook.
For the first time he would see her face. Was she ready for that?
She sounded the knocker and the door opened almost immediately. The burly man who attended the door at night stood in the doorway.
Celia made herself smile. ‘Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mr Rhysdale.’
The taciturn man nodded and stepped aside for her to enter. He lifted a finger. A signal for her to wait, she supposed. He trudged up the stairs.
Celia took a breath and glanced around to try to calm her nerves.
At night this hall looked somewhat exotic with its deep green walls and chairs and gilded tables. At night the light from a branch of candles made the gold gilt glitter and a scent of brandy and men filled the air. To her right was a drawing room, its door ajar. To anyone peeking in a window this house would appear as respectable as any Mayfair town house.
The doorman descended the dark mahogany stairs and nodded again. Celia assumed that meant he’d announced her to Mr Rhysdale. He then disappeared into the recesses of rooms behind the hall.
A moment later Rhysdale appeared on the stairs. ‘Madam?’
She turned towards him and lifted the netting from her face, suddenly fearful he would not approve of her true appearance.
He paused, ever so slightly, but his expression gave away nothing of his thoughts.
He descended to the hall. ‘Come. We will talk upstairs.’
Dismayed by his unreadable reaction, Celia followed him to the second floor where sounds of men hammering nails and sawing wood reached her ears.
‘Forgive the noise,’ he said. ‘I’m having this floor remodelled into rooms for my use.’ He lifted the latch of a door to her right. ‘We can talk in here.’
They entered a small drawing room. Its furnishings appeared fashionable, as well as comfortable. They were stylishly arranged.
He gestured for her to sit on a deep red sofa. He sat on an adjacent chair. ‘I’ve ordered tea.’
She might have been calling upon one of her mother-in-law’s society friends. Escorted into a pleasant drawing room. Served tea. The conventions might be identical, but this was no typical morning call.
In daylight Rhysdale was even more imposing. His dress and grooming were as impeccable as the most well-attired lord, even though he managed to wear the pieces as casually as if he’d just walked in from a morning ride. His eyes, dark as midnight in the game room, were a spellbinding mix of umber and amber when illuminated by the sun from the windows.
His gaze seemed to take in her total appearance, but his expression remained impassive. Did she disappoint? She was too tall to be fashionable. Her figure was unremarkable. Her neck was too long; her face too thin; her lips too full; her hair too plain a brown—she could almost hear her husband’s voice listing her faults.
But what did Rhysdale think?
And why was it she cared so much for his approval?
He blinked, then averted his compelling eyes. ‘I assume you have not changed your mind about my proposition?’ His smooth voice made her quiver inside.
She swallowed. ‘I would not have kept the appointment otherwise.’
A smile grew across his face. ‘Then, perhaps an introduction is in order?’
She was prepared for this, at least. He would be a fool to hire her without knowing her name.
And he was no fool.
She’d already decided to give him her true name. Her maiden name.
She extended her gloved hand. ‘I am Celia Allen, sir.’
It pleased her to be Celia Allen again. The surname was common enough and her father minor enough that no one would connect the name to Lord Gale’s widow.
He took her hand, but held it rather than shake it. ‘Miss Allen or Mrs Allen?’
She pulled her hand away. ‘Miss Allen.’
* * *
Rhys felt the loss of her hand as if something valuable had slipped through his fingers. With this first glimpse of her face, he wanted her more than ever.
She reminded him of a deer with her long regal neck and alert-but-wary eyes that were the colour of moss at twilight. She seemed wrong for the city. She was meant for the country, for brisk walks in fresh country air. The bloom in her cheeks, the hue of wild raspberry of her lips looked out of place in London.
But he was becoming distracted.
And much too poetic.
He could almost hear Xavier’s voice in his head, admonishing him to keep his focus on the gaming house. He would tell his friend later about employing her—not of almost kissing her—both had been too impulsive to meet the approval of his friend.
Not that Rhys cared if his zealously protective friend approved of his employing Miss Allen. Or of wanting her in his bed.
He fixed his gaze on her again. To call her Miss Allen seemed wrong to him. He had no wish to be so formal with her.
‘Will you object if I address you as Celia?’ he asked. ‘You may call me Rhys.’
She coloured.
Her discomfort made h
im wonder. A woman of the theatre would expect the presumption of intimacy of using given names.
She paused before answering. ‘If you wish it.’ She met his eyes. ‘Not in the gaming house, though.’
Clever of her. ‘Of course not. You are exactly right. No one must know you are in my employ. They will suspect us of manipulation.’
‘Manipulation?’ Her lovely brows knit in anxiety.
‘I hire you because your presence in the gaming house encourages patrons—men—to gamble. You are not expected to do anything different from what you were doing before.’
She nodded.
He leaned closer and put his hand on her wrist. ‘That is not my only reason for hiring you, however—’
A knock at the door interrupted. She slipped her hand away and Rhys straightened in his chair.
MacEvoy entered with the tea tray, managing to give her an un-servant-like look-over. Undoubtedly Rhys would hear Mac’s assessment of the lady later.
‘Shall I pour?’ She looked rattled. ‘How do you take your tea?’
‘No milk, no sugar.’ He’d accustomed himself to drinking tea that way from times when he could not afford milk and sugar. It pleased him that he did not need those inconsequential trappings of wealth.
He gestured to MacEvoy to leave.
MacEvoy closed the door behind him and Celia handed Rhys his cup of tea.
He lifted the cup and took a sip.
Perhaps it was for the best that Mac had interrupted him. His desire for her was making him move too quickly. When he got close, he sensed her alarm, another clue that his theory about her identity might be wrong.
He changed the subject. ‘I should explain something else about your employment here.’
She gave him her attention.
‘Some time ago, before I owned this gaming house, a woman came here in disguise to play cards. It is where I got the idea to set up the place as a masquerade.’ He waved that tangent away. ‘But no matter. About this woman. She created a stir. Men were taking wagers on who would be the first to unmask her.’ He paused. ‘And who would be first to seduce her. Men came and gambled merely for the chance to win the wager.’
