Diane Gaston - Regency Reputation

It was his position as the proprietor of the Masquerade Club that posed the most peril to her, though. She did not want the attention of the proprietor. She wanted only to play cards and win as much money as she could.

He pulled out a chair and she lowered herself into it, smoothing her skirt. Her chair faced the curtained window, but she wanted to face the room, so she could see what he was doing behind her back.

When he walked to the buffet, she changed seats.

Even as he made his selections at the buffet, he looked completely in charge. There was no hesitation on his part to pick this or that tidbit. His choices were swiftly accomplished. When a servant came near, Rhysdale signalled the man and spoke briefly to him. A moment later, the servant brought two wine glasses and a bottle to the table. He poured wine in both glasses.

Celia sipped hers gratefully. The night’s play had given her a thirst and the mellowing effect of the wine was a balm to her nerves.

When Rhysdale turned from the buffet, he paused slightly, noticing, she supposed, that she had moved from the seat in which he had placed her.

He walked towards the table and her nerves fired anew.

Setting a plate in front of her, he lowered himself into the chair directly across from her. She would be unable to avoid those dark eyes while they conversed.

‘I hope my selections are to your liking.’ His voice rumbled.

She glanced at her plate. ‘Indeed.’

He’d provided some slices of cold ham and an assortment of cheeses, fruits and confections, all items she enjoyed, but she would have given her approval no matter what he had selected.

She pushed the food around with her fork.

‘I am curious.’ His tone was casual. ‘Why did you come to the Masquerade Club tonight?’

She glanced up, her heart pounding. ‘Why do you ask?’

The corner of his mouth twitched, ever so slightly. ‘I am eager to make this place a success. I want to know what entices a woman to attend.’ He paused. ‘And what would entice you to return.’

Her brows rose. Was this all he wanted from her? She could not believe it.

She chose her words carefully. ‘I heard that a woman might play cards here without revealing her identity.’

He nodded. ‘I had hoped anonymity would be an appeal.’ He took a sip of his wine. ‘And where did you hear this of the place?’

Now it was she who must avoid the truth. To answer truthfully would reveal that she moved in society’s finest circles and that she could not do.

What could she say that would avoid tipping her hand? ‘At the theatre.’

Yes. That ought to suffice. Anyone might attend the theatre.

He stared at her for a moment too long for comfort.

Finally he tasted the food on his plate. ‘And what do you think of my establishment now you have seen it?’

She relaxed a little. Perhaps he was being honest with her. It made sense that a proprietor would want to know if his place appealed or not.

‘It meets my needs very well.’

He glanced up. ‘And your needs are?’

She swallowed a piece of cheese. ‘A place to play cards where a woman might feel secure.’

‘Secure.’ He held her gaze.

She struggled to explain. ‘To feel safe from … the stories one hears about gaming establishments.’

He pinned her with his gaze again. ‘You have felt safe here?’

‘I have,’ she admitted.

What she witnessed from behind her mask was not the worst of what she’d heard of gaming hells, where drinking and debauchery might share the night with charges of cheating and, worst of all, challenges to duels. It almost seemed as civilised as a Mayfair drawing room, except for the wild excitement in the eyes of those on a winning streak and the blanch of despair on the faces of losing players. Those highs and lows were part of gambling. Something she must guard against at all costs.

As well as guarding against this special notice from the proprietor. His watchful dark eyes made her tremble inside.

He turned again to his plate. ‘And what about the gaming here appeals to you? You played whist. Would you also be interested in the hazard table? Faro?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not trust so much in luck.’

Too often in her life luck had totally abandoned her.

His eyes bore into her again. ‘You prefer to rely on skill?’

Her gaze faltered. ‘One must have some control over one’s fate.’

‘I quite agree.’ To her surprise he smiled and his handsome face turned into something wondrous.

She found it momentarily hard to breathe.

His smile turned wry. ‘Although you might say opening a gaming hell cedes too much of one’s fate to luck.’

She forced her voice to work. ‘Chance favours you at the hazard and faro tables, which is why I do not play them. Nor rouge et noir .’

She finished her wine, aware that he continued to stare at her. She fingered her reticule, heavy with counters. ‘May—may I ask the time, please?’

He pulled his watch out again. ‘Three-twenty.’

She stood. ‘I must go. My carriage arrives at three-thirty and I need time to cash out.’

He also rose and walked with her to the ground floor where the cashier sat in a room behind the hall. She felt a thrill watching the coins she’d won stack up in front of her. After scooping them into a leather pouch and placing it in her reticule, she collected her shawl from the dour-faced servant attending the hall.

And Rhysdale remained with her.

He walked her to the door and opened it. ‘I trust you will return to us?’

She suddenly was very eager to return. So eager a part of her wanted to re-enter the game room and deal another hand of whist.

She curbed her excitement. ‘Perhaps.’ Curtsying, she said, ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Rhysdale. And for the refreshment.’

‘You are very welcome.’ His voice turned low and seemed to resonate inside her.

She crossed the threshold, relieved to take her leave of him, but he walked out into the dark night with her.

The rush lamp at the door must have revealed her surprise.

‘I will see you into your carriage,’ he explained.

Her coachman drove up immediately and she was grateful her carriage no longer had a crest on its side.

Rhysdale opened the coach door and pulled down the steps. He held out his hand to assist her. His touch was firm and set her nerves trembling anew.

He closed the door and leaned into the window. ‘Goodnight, madam. It has been my pleasure to assist you.’

His pleasure? She took a breath.

‘Goodnight,’ she managed.

The coach pulled away, and she swivelled around to look out the back window.

He stood in the road, illuminated by the rush light.

Still watching her.

Rhys did not leave the road until her carriage disappeared into the darkness.

Who the devil was she?

He did not need to be captivated by a woman. A woman could become an inconvenient distraction and he needed to keep his wits about him. The gaming house must be his priority.

Rhys had known too many women who made their living by acting pleasing at first, then cutting the man’s purse and dashing away. He expected that sort of woman to show up at the gaming hell—women who played at gambling, but who really merely wished to attach themselves to the evening’s big winners.

This woman was not a cutpurse, however. Neither did she come to the gaming hell on a lark.

She came to win money.

He’d watched her play, had seen the concentration in her posture, the calculation in her selection of cards. She was here for the card play.

She was a kindred spirit, a gambler like himself.

Would she return? She must. He wanted her in every way a man wanted a woman.