Diane Gaston - Regency Reputation

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 betting 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.’