Regency Reputation. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the earl know you wish me to do this?’
The brothers exchanged glances.
‘He knows,’ Ned answered.
And was not happy about it, Rhys guessed. Something Rhys counted upon. Besides earning a profit, Rhys wanted the gaming house to provide him another pay-off. He wanted to rub the earl’s nose in the fact that it was his bastard son who pulled him from the brink of ruin. Rhys wanted revenge against the man who sired him and never, ever, acknowledged that fact, who had instead turned him away without a penny, not caring if he lived or died.
He tapped on the back of a chair with his fingertips. ‘Very well, my brothers—’ he spoke sarcastically ‘—I agree to run your gaming house.’
The two men who so resembled him visibly relaxed.
‘On one more condition,’ Rhys added.
Hugh rolled his eyes. Ned looked nervous.
‘Our father—’ Rhys spoke this word with even greater sarcasm ‘—Earl Westleigh, that is—must publicly acknowledge me as his son. It must seem as if I am accepted into the family as one of you, an equal member. I must be included in family functions and social occasions. I must be treated as one of the family.’ What better revenge than this?
Ned and Hugh gaped back at him with horrified expressions. Apparently the idea of accepting him as a brother was as anathema to them as it would be to the earl.
‘That is my condition,’ Rhys reiterated.
Ned glanced away and silence stretched between them.
Finally he raised his eyes to Rhys. ‘Welcome to the family, brother.’
Rhys accomplished the sale and reopening of the gaming hell within three weeks of calling upon his half-brothers. He changed the décor and the menu and retrained all the workers. Madame Bisou’s became the Masquerade Club and news of its opening travelled swiftly by word of mouth.
The first days had been stressful, but each night the numbers of patrons had grown, as had the profit, which made the Westleighs less fraught with worry. Rhys could count on one of them—Hugh mostly—to come in the guise of an ordinary patron. Rhys knew they were keeping tabs on what he had created.
He’d been watching for one of them when he spied the beautiful masked woman who had just told him she wished to play whist.
Rhys had experienced his share of affairs with women. He and Xavier had enjoyed some raucous nights in Paris with willing elegantes, but rarely, if ever, had he been so intrigued as with this woman.
Her posture was both proud and wary, and she had come to the gaming house alone, in itself a courageous act for a woman. What’s more, her lips were moist and pink and her voice like music to his ears.
‘How might a lady find a willing partner?’ she asked.
What man could refuse her?
For the first time since opening the gaming house, Rhys regretted that he could not play cards. He would have relished being her partner and showing her his skill.
As it was, he must find her another man—to partner her in whist.
He bowed. ‘Give me a moment to fulfil your desire.’ A serving girl walked by with a tray of port. He took one glass and handed it to her. ‘Refresh yourself in the meantime and take a look at all the house has to offer.’
He quickly scanned the room and spied Sir Reginald, a harmless man who frequented gaming hells and flirted with the ladies, but rarely followed through. His card playing was competent, if not inspired. Sir Reginald would be forgiving if she turned out to be a poor player, but would not disappoint if she was skilled.
Rhys could not imagine her not being skilled at whatever she tried. He wanted her to enjoy herself. He wanted her to like the Masquerade well enough to return.
He brought the unmasked Sir Reginald to her. ‘Madam, may I present Sir Reginald.’
Sir Reginald bowed gallantly. ‘It will be my privilege to partner you.’
She smiled at Sir Reginald, her pink lips parting to reveal pretty white teeth. Handing Rhys her empty glass as if he were a servant, she accepted Sir Reginald’s arm and walked with him to a card table with two other men. After speaking with the men, the lady and Sir Reginald sat. One of the other men dealt the cards.
Rhys had no intention of being so easily dismissed by this mysterious masked woman. He had other duties to occupy him at the moment, but, before she left, he intended to speak with her again.
Celia Gale breathed a sigh of relief to finally be seated at a card table, staring at diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades.
Entering the game room had been like crossing through the gates of hell. It had taken all her courage to do something so potentially damaging to her reputation. A lady, even a baron’s widow, did not go gambling alone in the dead of night.
Even worse, it meant entering a world where other, even greater, risks existed—the lure of cards and dice, the heady thrill of winning, the certainty that losing could be reversed with one more hand, one more roll of the dice.
Cards and gambling once took away everything she held dear. The road to ruin was only one bad hand of cards away.
But what choice did she have? How else was she to procure the money she needed?
She’d heard of this gaming hell at a recent musicale she’d attended and immediately thought it was a godsend. Two men had spoken of it within her earshot.
‘Thing is, the ladies can attend. It is called the Masquerade Club and anyone may come in disguise,’ one had said.
‘They do not have to reveal themselves?’ the other asked.
‘Not at all. Any lady may gamble without fear of ruining her reputation.’
She could gamble for high stakes and no one would know! At last a way to earn the funds she so desperately needed.
‘Your deal, my dear,’ Sir Reginald said, bringing her back to the present.
She’d spied Sir Reginald at a few of the entertainments she’d attended, but they had never been introduced. There was little reason to suppose he would recognise her. The other two gentlemen, also unmasked, were unknown to her before this night.
She dealt the deck slowly and with deliberation.
‘Nicely dealt.’ The man on her left smiled condescendingly.
She inclined her head in acknowledgement.
Her father taught that gambling was part skill at cards and part skill with people. Let these gentlemen condescend. It was to her advantage if they underestimated her. They might become careless in their choice of cards to lay down.
When the serving girl came around offering spirits, the gentlemen accepted, but Celia nursed one glass of port. She needed all her wits about her.
She purposely played as if this were her first time at a green baize table, and, by so doing, the counters grew into a pretty little pile at her right elbow. These gentlemen were betting quite modestly and, she suspected, were sometimes letting her win.
She indulged their mistaken impression. Soon enough this room would know her skill and then the competition—and the risk—would intensify.
She glanced up. The establishment’s proprietor, Mr Rhysdale, was watching her. Too often when she looked up he was watching her. It set her nerves on edge.
Her blood had raced with fear when he’d approached her after she’d entered the room. She’d thought she’d done something wrong, transgressed some secret