Diane Gaston - Regency Reputation

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.’