A Reputation for Notoriety

by Diane Gaston

  Celia smiled. ‘And to what do you attribute this pleasure?’

  Adele wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I—I think I met someone I really like.’

  Celia turned back to the mirror. ‘Lord Neddington?’

  Adele’s reflection showed surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  Celia kept brushing her hair. ‘A lucky guess, I suppose.’

  ‘He is so wonderful!’ She flopped back onto the bed. ‘And so handsome.’ She sat up again. ‘Do you not think he is handsome?’

  ‘I do,’ Celia agreed. ‘Very handsome.’

  ‘And very gentlemanly,’ Adele continued. ‘It was he who helped me procure the wine for you and Grandmama at the musicale. And tonight he fixed me the nicest plate at supper and gave me the choice of sitting with my friends. He was so agreeable, do you not think?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Celia had watched Neddington carefully and had seen nothing to object to in his manner towards Adele. It was his activity after the society events that concerned her.

  Adele bounded off the bed and paced. ‘I do not know how I can sleep. Do you think he will call? I hope he will call. But I’m afraid Grandmama does not like him. Do you think she will send him away if he calls?’

  Celia rose and hugged the girl. ‘She would not be so impolite.’ Celia would see to it.

  Adele clung to her. ‘But she wants me to marry Cousin Luther and I do not even know him!’

  ‘Leave your grandmother to me. She will not interfere in your wishes.’ She loosened her hold on Adele and made the girl look into her eyes. ‘But know that neither your grandmother nor I would let you marry a man who was unsuitable.’

  ‘Lord Neddington is very suitable!’ Adele cried.

  Celia hugged her again. ‘Indeed he seems to be, but you must not put your hopes beyond tomorrow. Merely hope he calls and, if he does, see if you still like him so well.’

  ‘I will like him tomorrow and the next day and the next,’ Adele cried. ‘But will he like me?’

  Celia kissed her on the cheek. ‘Any man would be a fool not to fall heels over ears in love with you. But you should go to sleep now so you will not have dark shadows under your eyes tomorrow.’

  Adele’s hands went to her cheeks. ‘Oh, my goodness, yes! I must look my very best.’ She kissed Celia and hugged her tightly. ‘Goodnight, Celia. I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘Sweet dreams,’ Celia murmured as Adele rushed out of the room.

  Celia breathed a relieved sigh and looked towards her dressing room door. ‘It is safe to come out, Younie.’

  Her maid appeared in the doorway. ‘That was a near go, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Celia retrieved the mask from beneath her dressing table. ‘We’d best wait until we are certain she is sleeping.’

  * * *

  Celia arrived at the Masquerade Club later than she’d ever done before. Would Rhysdale—Rhys—be angry at her for being late?

  She rushed inside, undeterred by the doorman, who seemed to recognise her even with the new gown and mask.

  Rhys stood in the hall, as if waiting for her. Her breath caught. He wore an impeccably tailored but conservative black coat and trousers. With his dark hair and glowering expression he looked as dangerous as a highwayman.

  ‘You are late,’ he said.

  ‘I had difficulty getting away.’ She handed her shawl to the footman and tried not to sound defensive.

  Rhys walked her out of the hall and she prepared to hear him ring a peal over her head as soon as they were out of earshot.

  But he said nothing. When they stepped up to the cashier’s desk, Rhys withdrew. The cashier was the same man who had served the tea in Rhys’s drawing room and the only other person connected to the gaming house who had seen her face. He obviously knew precisely who she was, even masked, because he counted out the exact number of counters Rhys had promised her.

  As she turned to make her way to the game room, she caught Rhys still standing in the doorway. She forced herself to lift her chin and meet his gaze head-on.

  His eyes shone with admiration, much like Neddington’s had done when looking upon Adele. ‘The new gown is effective.’

  Celia felt an unfamiliar rush of feminine pleasure and immediately forced herself to sober. She would not melt at mere compliments.

  Her smile was stiff as she clutched her reticule, the counters safe inside. He stepped back for her to pass, but he followed her into the game room.

  The room was crowded and she recognised many gentlemen who a couple of hours before had been dancing in Lady Cowdlin’s ballroom.

  Xavier Campion approached her with his disarming smile. She sensed something unpleasant beneath it.

  ‘Madam.’ He bowed. ‘Do you fancy a game of whist?’

  She glanced at Rhys, who frowned.

  ‘I came to play,’ she answered, unsure if she should accept Xavier’s invitation or not.

  ‘I will partner you if you wish,’ he said.

  She glanced back to Rhys, but his back was to her and he was conversing with a group of gentlemen.

  ‘Yes, Mr Campion. Do you have some opponents in mind?’

  He smiled again as he took her arm. ‘It is Xavier, remember. Let us go in search of some worthy opponents.’ His grip was firmer than was necessary. He leaned towards her and murmured in a tone that seemed falsely convivial. ‘I understand you are in Rhys’s employ. How did you manage that, I wonder?’

  She did not miss a beat. ‘He made me the offer and I accepted. How else might it have been accomplished?’

  ‘He is my friend,’ Xavier said through gritted teeth. ‘I will not have him trifled with.’

  Celia lifted her chin. ‘Rhysdale seems capable of selecting his own employees. Ought I to tell him you think otherwise?’ His concern was ridiculous. ‘Or perhaps he has asked you to protect him from me?’

  Xavier’s eyes flashed. ‘He does not need to ask. I protect all my friends. Do you tell tales on all of yours?’

  ‘I do not.’ Celia paused. ‘But, then, you are not my friend, are you?’ She shrugged from his grip. ‘I have changed my mind, Mr Campion. I believe I will try my luck at hazard.’

  She left him and did not look back.

  It made her feel wonderfully strong. A man had tried to intimidate her and she’d held her own against him.

  The hazard table was crowded with mostly men. Celia faltered a bit, then remembered Rhys said she was equally as alluring as his mysterious masked woman who had played here before.

  She’d just stood up to a man; perhaps she could also be a little bit alluring.

  ‘Pardon me.’ She made herself smile in what she hoped was a flirtatious manner. ‘Might a lady play?’

  The gentlemen parted. One was the man who had so disturbed Rhys the previous night. Her skin turned to gooseflesh. He, too, had been at Lady Cowdlin’s ball.

  What did such a gentlemen say to his wife to explain going out again after a ball? Did the wife pace with worry as Celia’s mother had done?

  ‘You are welcome to play, my dear.’ The gentleman flicked his eyes quickly over her person. ‘Have you played before?’

  Disgust roiled through her. She remembered Rhys’s warning.

  She dropped any flirtatious affectations. ‘I am accustomed to card games like whist and piquet and vingt-et-un. I’ve not tried a game of dice before.’ But tonight she had money she could afford to lose.

  The croupier at the hazard table was a pretty young woman with curly red hair. ‘Do you play, miss?’

  The gentleman rose on his heels in self-importance. ‘I will assist the lady, if she so desires.’ He scooped up the dice. ‘I will stake you for this first round.’ He put a pound counter on the table and placed the dice in her hand. ‘Call a number between five and nine.’

  ‘Nine,’ she called, the date her father died.

  ‘Nine,’ he repeated.

  Around the table there was a flurry of side-betting accompanying her call.

  ‘They are bettin
g on your chances to win,’ he explained. ‘If you roll a nine, you will win. If you throw a two or a three, or an eleven or a twelve, you will lose. Now shake the dice in your hand and roll them on the table.’

  She shook the dice and threw them down. They landed in the middle of the green baize, one landing on three, the other, on five.’

  ‘Eight!’ the croupier called.

  ‘That is a called a chance,’ the gentleman explained. ‘You did not win, but neither did you lose.’ The croupier handed him the dice. ‘Roll again.’

  He dropped the dice into her palm.

  ‘I want a nine, correct?’ She shook the dice in her hand.

  ‘No, this time you want a two or a three to win. Or anything but the main—your nine—to continue to roll.’

  She dropped the dice onto the table, this time rolling one pip on one die and two on the other.

  ‘Three!’ called the croupier. ‘A winner.’

  Westleigh handed the winnings to her.

  A man next to her pushed the dice back to Celia. ‘Let the lady keep playing. She has the luck.’

  Celia continued to play and to win. The rules of winning and losing changed depending upon what number she chose as chance and she quickly calculated that choosing the numbers five or nine reduced the odds of winning. The crowd around the hazard table grew, most betting with her.

  Each time she won she jumped for joy and could not wait to throw the dice again. Her heart was beating fast and her breath as rapid as if she’d run all the way to Oxford Street. Even knowing this gentleman was having a grand time as her host did not dampen her excitement. The impact of his presence faded with each roll of the dice, each possibility that her pile of counters would increase.

  As the gentlemen betting with her gathered their winnings, she caught sight of Rhys. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his face a dark cloud.

  No wonder he was upset. Every time she—and those who bet with her—won, Rhysdale lost. It woke her from her reverie.

  When the dice were again handed to her, she held up her hands. ‘I am done, gentlemen.’ She made herself smile. ‘I wish to keep all these lovely counters.’ She’d won at least forty-five pounds.

  She gathered her counters and backed away from the table, shocked at herself. She’d lost all sense of time, all reason.

  Rationally she should continue to play until losing again and lead her followers to do the same.

  She blinked.

  Like a swarm of bees around a hive, the other players filled her space at the table and resumed the play.

  To her dismay the gentleman who had assisted her was not among them. Instead he remained at her side.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed. ‘I am Lord Westleigh.’

  She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Lord Westleigh.’

  Lord Westleigh was the man who’d accused her father of cheating at cards, who’d accepted her father’s challenge of a duel, who’d fired the pistol ball that pierced her father’s heart.

  Because he was an earl with friends and influence, he’d walked away from killing her father with impunity, broke her mother’s heart, destroyed her health and, in effect, killed her, as well.

  Celia tried to remain upright, even though her legs trembled. She tried to keep her face expressionless.

  Westleigh waited, as if expecting she would reveal her name.

  He finally smiled. ‘You will not tell me who you are?’

  She took a breath. ‘I have chosen to wear a mask. That means I do not wish to reveal myself.’

  He laughed. ‘I thought you might make me an exception.’

  Never for him.

  Undaunted by her obvious reserve, he glanced around the room. ‘Shall we find some partners for whist?’

  ‘No!’ she snapped.

  She scanned the crowd for Rhys, needing him. He’d said she should find him if this man bothered her. He was bothering her greatly. He was making her ill.

  She caught herself and moderated her tone of alarm. ‘I—I am looking for someone.’

  Rhys stood some distance away and he did not glance her way.

  She found another familiar face. Sir Reginald. ‘There he is. I must speak with him.’ She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for teaching me hazard.’

  Before he could protest, she started to cross the room to where Sir Reginald stood, but someone stepped in her way.

  Rhys.

  Tears of relief pricked her eyes.

  He touched her arm. ‘I saw you with Westleigh. Was he uncivil to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she blurted out. ‘No. Not really. He wanted me to play cards with him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I did not know that man was Westleigh. It—it surprised me.’

  His brows lowered. ‘What do you know of Westleigh?’

  ‘I cannot tell you here.’ Her knees weakened.

  He must have noticed because he offered her his arm. ‘Come with me.’

  He walked them to a back staircase, one used by the servants, perhaps. They climbed to the second floor. They passed dark rooms that smelled of sawed wood and linseed and entered the drawing room where he had received her earlier.

  He led her directly to the sofa. ‘Sit here.’

  She removed her mask and rubbed her eyes, trying to calm herself from the shock of learning she’d spent the greater part of her night in the company of her father’s killer.

  Rhys handed her a glass. ‘Have some brandy.’

  She took the glass gratefully and drank, the liquid warming her chest. She sipped more. And finished it.

  Rhys sat in an adjacent chair and poured her some more. He asked nothing. Just sat with her.

  She finally calmed enough to look up at him. ‘Thank you, Rhys.’ The brandy was helping. ‘I am afraid it was a shock to learn that gentleman was Westleigh.’

  He did not press her to tell him more.

  Since her mother’s death she had spoken to no one about Westleigh, but suddenly it seem too great a burden to carry alone. ‘You must wonder why I became so upset.’

  He shrugged. ‘With Westleigh, nothing would surprise me.’

  She stared into his eyes. ‘Would it surprise you to learn he killed my father?’

  His brows rose, but his gaze did not waver.

  She glanced away. ‘My father enjoyed gambling...too much. He sometimes played unwisely. He played cards with Lord Westleigh and apparently was winning when Westleigh accused him of cheating.’ She looked back to see his reaction to that information. Would he think her father a cheat? ‘My father would never cheat. He was outraged and challenged Westleigh to a duel.’ She blinked away tears. ‘The duel was fought and Westleigh killed my father.’ She choked on her words and quickly took another sip of brandy. ‘He walked away with impunity.’

  The sound of her mother’s voice telling her of her father’s death returned to her and the horror and grief struck her anew. Dear God, she was about to lose control of her emotions.

  He moved from the chair to the sofa and took her into his arms.

  Celia collapsed against his chest, heaving with sobs, and he held her and murmured to her. She could not even tell what he said, she just felt his voice, low and rumbling.

  It had been so long since she’d been held, so long since anyone had comforted her. The years of loneliness and loss overwhelmed her and his arms were so warm and strong.

  She had to pull herself together, though. She could not do this.

  * * *

  Rhys held her close, relishing the feel of her in his arms, but, even more, feeling her pain and wanting to do anything he could to ease it.

  Damned Westleigh! The man had killed her father? It was more than even Rhys would have suspected. Fighting a duel over a game of cards was foolish beyond belief. Killing a man over cards was a million times worse.

  ‘There, there,’ he murmured, realising he sounded like his mother. His own throat tightened with the memory of her loss. Another deed he could throw at Westleigh’s feet. His mother mig
ht have lived a long happy life if not for that cursed man.

  She pulled away, wiping her eyes with her fingers. ‘I am so sorry.’

  He handed her his handkerchief. ‘Do not say so.’

  ‘It is the surprise of seeing him.’ She blew her nose. ‘I wondered how it would be. I did not know I would turn into a watering pot.’

  He suspected that weeping was not something she often allowed of herself. ‘What would you like me to do about Westleigh?’

  She gaped at him in surprise. ‘Do about him?’

  ‘It cannot be comfortable for you that he comes here. I can prevent him, if you like.’ Rhys disliked seeing the man here anyway.

  She finished her second glass of brandy. ‘I do not know what to say. I do not know what to think. I do not want him to know who I am.’

  Rhys did not know who she was.

  Her face hardened. ‘I would like to make him pay in some way.’

  ‘Revenge?’ He well knew the need for revenge.

  ‘Yes!’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I suppose that is wrong of me.’

  A corner of his mouth turned up. ‘Quite natural, I would say. You are probably one of many who would like revenge on Lord Westleigh.’

  She peered into his eyes. ‘You detest him, as well.’

  He could explain to her that Westleigh was his father, but, at the moment, the idea that the blood of such a man flowed in his veins filled him with disgust. He did not wish to take the chance she would feel the same.

  They could each keep their secrets from the other, could they not?

  He held her gaze. ‘I detest him. It will give me pleasure to throw him out for you.’

  She stared for a moment, as if thinking, then shook her head. ‘It would not do to ban an earl from your gaming house, would it? Especially one who likes to gamble. I would never ask this of you.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he responded. ‘It would be my pleasure to do so, if it will ease your mind.’

  She reached over and touched his hand. ‘It is enough to know I have an ally.’ She withdrew her hand almost as quickly and turned away. When she turned back, she smiled the ghost of a smile. ‘Perhaps there is some restitution I can force on him. Engage him in a card game and win all his money...’

  As if he had any sum of money to lose, Rhys thought.