To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12)

by Emma V. Leech

Max let out a huff of laughter and turned back to Phoebe. Choose me, he willed her silently as she moved towards him, vibrant and smiling, her eyes more blue than grey this time, a summer sky bright with the promise of endless days and passionate, warm nights. Longing swelled his chest, his heart aching with wanting her, with wanting to be worthy of her. He would not fail this time, for if he did, he did not deserve such a prize.

  “Good evening, Max,” Phoebe said, her gaze moving over him, studying the black and white of his evening attire. She returned her scrutiny to his face, her blue eyes darker now and he felt a surge of heat, of pride, as he realised she wanted him too. Badly. “You look terribly handsome.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I believe it is I who is supposed to bring compliments, my lady, but you have chased the words, and any ability to wield them, clean away. You astonish me, as always, Phoebe.”

  She returned a mischievous look, her eyes glimmering now. “Well, I shall take that as a compliment, though I suspect it could go either way.”

  Max grinned and took her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing her gloved fingers. “No, only one way. I am besotted, beguiled, yours to command. Only name your desire and I shall obey.”

  For just a moment something hot and dark flickered in her expression, and his entire body grew taut. Then she gave a regretful sigh.

  “This night has a purpose and I wish to achieve it, but….” She blushed a little but held his gaze, lowering her voice. “I shall not forget you said that, Max.”

  “Phoebe, darling,” Mrs Abercrombie said as she and the viscount drew closer. “You look ravishing. My word, that gown is quite….”

  “Scandalous,” Phoebe said, with a delighted grin. “Yes, I know. My poor father would have conniptions if he saw it.”

  “Somehow I cannot imagine Montagu having conniptions,” Kline said, shaking his head. “I could believe his jaw might grow tight and his eyes get that icy look of displeasure that freezes one to the marrow.”

  Phoebe laughed.

  “Oh, but that is a conniption for Papa,” she said gravely.

  Max smiled and let out an uneven breath as he considered just how the marquess would greet them if he returned his daughter ruined and still unwilling to marry him. One problem at a time, he counselled himself. After all, if Phoebe refused him, he wasn’t entirely sure he cared what happened to him next. Lucian could do his worst, and it would be nothing compared to the regret of having lost Phoebe through his own idiocy.

  They escorted the ladies out to the waiting carriage, and Phoebe bade Max wait a moment before he helped her in. She moved towards the horses to where Jack waited at their heads.

  Jack scowled as he glimpsed the scarlet gown beneath her cloak, but Phoebe just laughed, drawing the old villain to one side. The two spoke in low, hushed tones that Max could not decipher and so he turned away, lest the desire to eavesdrop became too fierce. A light touch on his arm drew his attention, and Phoebe smiled up at him.

  “Ready when you are, Max.”

  ***

  From the outside, the façade of Rouge et Noir was entirely forgettable, a building like so many others on the street, rising to six storeys and with every window shuttered against the night… and against prying eyes. There was no theatre in its presentation, no opulent entrance, only a small sign—one side black, the other red—that swung gently as the breeze buffeted it back and forth on well-oiled hinges. It bore no writing, no instruction, and the black door before them bore no number.

  Max knocked and it opened at once to reveal two large men, the kind one would not wish to meet unexpectedly on an unlit street.

  “Monsieur Lemoine said we might be welcome here.” Max handed his card to one of the men, who gave it a cursory glance, nodded, and stepped back.

  They were in.

  At first, Phoebe was disappointed, having expected greater things than the dim corridor they moved through.

  “The red door,” one of the men said in heavily accented English, nodding at one of two doors, one black, one red.

  Phoebe glanced at the black door, intrigued, but the burly fellow just grinned and shook his head, wagging a finger at her.

  “Red door,” he insisted.

  Phoebe resisted the urge to laugh and stick out her tongue, and gave a regal nod of her head, sweeping on to the red door which Max held open for her.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he murmured, his eyes alight with amusement as Phoebe realised he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

  “That’s why they have nine lives,” she countered, raising her chin though she could not resist the smile that tugged at her lips. “Oh!”

  All thought of what lay behind the black door vanished at the scene laid out before her. The wealthy, the famous, and the scandalous of Paris must all be here, the women in lavish silks and satins, jewels glittering beneath the light of five massive chandeliers. Men in their harsh black and white attire smoked and flirted with companions—not all of them respectable—and the concentration in some quarters of the room, as people gathered around card tables and roulette wheels, was tense and absolute. The room was enormous, far larger than anything she had considered possible from outside, and she realised the brothers must own far more than the one house that appeared to belong to Rouge et Noir from the outside.

  Now she could see the houses had been altered to make one vast building. Serving staff moved through the crowds seamlessly, dressed all in black except for the scarlet red of their waistcoats. The walls were adorned with frescoes—lush, erotic scenes on a red background—and the windows covered with heavy swathes of red velvet. Gold-framed mirrors glinted, reflecting light and the scene before them, adding to the sense of space and grandeur. Here was the theatre that had been absent on the outside, the scene set as a playground for the rich and the reckless.

  Phoebe felt Max’s arm stiffen beneath her hand, and looked up to see a man approach them. He was tall and dark, hair glinting blue-black like a raven’s wing as he moved beneath the glare of the chandeliers. Whoever he was, people stopped to watch him pass, the women’s gazes admiring his broad shoulders and lithe form, the men stepping out of his way as he brought with him an air of menace that came as a surprise when he stepped closer, for he was a young man, certainly no older than Phoebe, and dreadfully handsome. Eyes as black as a sloe berry regarded her solemnly for a moment before he bowed to them.

  “My Lord and Lady Ellisborough, you and your guests are most welcome at Rouge et Noir this evening. I am Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau, proprietor of this humble house.” There was a glimmer of something dark and amused in his eyes as he spoke, the arrogant devil, for he knew well enough there was nothing the least bit humble about Rouge et Noir. “I ’ope you will have someone inform me if there is anything you need,” he proceeded smoothly, “but for now, I believe you might be interested in one of the private games.” He gestured to a shadowed archway, cloaked with a heavy black velvet curtain, and then held out a bag of gaming chips. “I understand you to be a man of integrity and honour, my lord.”

  Max nodded his thanks and accepted the bag. “All and any debts shall be paid in full, you have my word, and now I believe we will take a look behind that curtain. Thank you, Monsieur Demarteau.”

  “My pleasure, my lord, lady. I hope you have a… successful evening.”

  Phoebe watched the man walk away before lifting her gaze to Max again.

  “He knows,” she said, a little shocked.

  “I suspect that a man who runs a business such as this makes it his business to know everything,” Max said, his tone dry.

  The viscount laughed softly and nodded. “I made a few discreet enquiries about the brothers who own Rouge et Noir, but there was no one willing to breathe a word about them. Not so much as a murmur. I think that speaks volumes.”

  “Well, then, shall we go and see what Richard is about?” Nina asked, turning her attention from Charlie to Phoebe.

  She spoke lightly, but there was a thread of
tension in the words that revealed her true feelings. The viscount frowned down at her and covered the hand that rested lightly on his arm.

  “There is no need for you to involve yourself in this. No need to provoke the baron’s anger. He need not know you led us here, nor that you had a part to play in it.”

  Nina shook her head. “I have always been honest with Richard. I despise falsehoods, trickery… though I would not blame you for disbelieving that, having posed as your wife these past days. Nonetheless, I prefer to face him. There was no great love affair between us, but there was affection, on my part, at least. I do not like to believe my faith in him was so ill-placed, but I shall face him and look into his eyes. I believe I shall know if he thought to cheat on me and leave.”

  Kline regarded her with such obvious admiration that Nina laughed, that good, hearty sound that Phoebe had liked so well.

  “I may be a whore, Lord Kline, but I flatter myself I am an honest one.”

  Kline’s face darkened and he took her hand, raising it to his lips. “I see only a lady, and one that has faced adversity and survived. Come, let us face this young dandy and see what manner of man he truly is.”

  Phoebe read a startled look on Nina’s face, followed by a flush of pink that she suspected surprised the lady even more. Nina did not strike her as a woman who blushed easily, if at all, but she followed Kline as he led them towards the curtained alcove. The viscount held the curtain back and Nina stepped through, followed by Phoebe and Max, with Kline lowering the curtain behind him as he joined them.

  There were four good-sized round tables set up in the large room, lit only by oil lamps, one suspended above each table. Three of the tables were occupied, the players so intent on their game that not one looked up. The tension here was palpable, the stakes high. On the far side of the room, Phoebe saw Alvanly. His face was relaxed, his posture likewise, but she saw the fist that rested on his thigh beneath the tabletop was clenched. As they moved towards him, his opponent laid out his cards, and Alvanly let out a long, slow breath and then smiled. He leaned in and swept the pile of gaming counters in the centre of the table towards him.

  “Tant pis,” he said to the man before him, who got up with a muttered curse and stalked from the room.

  The baron chuckled, the sound dying in his throat as he saw who was watching him. He stood then and smiled broadly, though the expression did not meet his eyes.

  “Why, good evening, my lords! Miss Barrington, oh, and the lovely Nina. Have a care, Kline, she’s expensive. Can you afford her?”

  Phoebe saw Lord Kline stiffen at the insult, but Nina just laughed, and Phoebe’s heart ached for her, knowing she had surmised the truth just as they all had: Alvanly would have cheated her.

  “Darling Richard, how like you to say such a thing, when it is you who have cost me money. It’s you who are expensive goods, for I cannot afford to keep you, nor do I find any lingering desire to make the effort.”

  She moved towards the table and held out the voluminous skirts of her lavish gown, sweeping the counters he had just won into the lush fabric as he glared daggers at her. “I believe this will pay the debt, give or take a few pounds,” she said, holding the baron’s furious gaze for a long moment before turning to Phoebe. “My debt, at least. I believe you have another to settle yet.”

  She smiled as Lord Kline moved to her and offered his arm once more.

  “Shall we go and change those into something more useful, Mrs Abercrombie?”

  “Yes, please. I have a debt to pay of my own,” she said, her gaze softening as Kline looked upon her and did not look away. Her breath caught, and she gave a surprised little laugh before turning to Phoebe. “Happy hunting, dear,” she said, before allowing Kline to guide her away.

  “Well, Miss Barrington, Lord Ellisborough, what can I do for you?”

  “A game,” Phoebe said brightly before Max could speak. She ignored the way Alvanly kept referring to her unmarried status. He was only trying to ruffle her, and it would take a good deal more than that to do so. She took the purse of counters Max held from his hand and dropped it on the table with a muffled clatter. “I shall play you.”

  Phoebe felt rather than saw Max react to her words, felt his desire to warn her, to tell her not to play such a man. She turned to look at him. Max held her gaze for a moment, and then smiled, pulling out the chair for her to sit down.

  Alvanly laughed and held out his hands to display the empty table before him. “But what with? They have denied me credit here and I have nothing left to wager.”

  Phoebe tsked at him like she was scolding a small boy. “Now, now, my lord. Do not be obtuse, not when we know you are still in possession of that valuable painting, and Max will lend you… shall we say fifty pounds on my behalf? I shall pay you back of course, Max”

  Max stared at her and she could see his desire to speak, to ask what she was playing at, but he said nothing and nodded his agreement.

  Greed flickered in Alvanly’s eyes, and Phoebe knew she had him. Her ability to pick locks aside, he had no reason to believe her anything less than a nice young lady who thought she had a fair hand with the cards because she won against her friends and family. She smiled at him, allowing him his illusion. Alvanly chuckled and looked up at Max, his gaze considering.

  “You’ll allow this?” he asked. “It’s foolishness.”

  Max returned an icy glare that her father would have been proud of. “You did the lady a great wrong, Alvanly. If she chooses to exact revenge in this manner, that is her affair, her choice. I will only see to it that you do not renege on any deal she strikes.”

  “Oh, I won’t renege,” he said, so smug that Phoebe’s hand itched with the desire to smack him about the head. “But who will ensure the lady pays up when I relieve her of her fortune?”

  Phoebe returned a disgusted glare. “Any bills will be paid in full. I am hardly penniless, and some of us have a shred of honour to our names.”

  Alvanly’s gaze darkened, all evidence of the charming young man he purported to be dissolving like smoke and leaving all who saw in no doubt as to how thin the veneer had been. Max had been right to warn her about this man, to feel concern for her interest in him. She looked up at Max now, standing beside her, solid as an English oak, protecting her but allowing her this, her choice, her decision.

  “Max.”

  He looked to her at once, his dark eyes searching hers.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  For a moment he frowned, not understanding, and then his breath caught. There was such joy in his eyes, she knew she had chosen right. He would never crush her, never bully or impose his will upon her, and when he was wrong he would apologise, and make amends. Wryly, she was forced to acknowledge that she was the one most likely to spend her time apologising, but she would learn too, learn how to be the wife he deserved.

  “If you still want—” she added in a rush, realising too late her hubris in believing he might still wish to marry her.

  Before she could finish the sentence, he had bent and stolen a swift kiss.

  “More than you can possibly know,” he whispered, for her ears only.

  “If you two love birds have quite finished…?” Alvanly drawled.

  “No,” Max replied coolly, looking at the baron with deep distaste. “But I can wait. Phoebe has a matter of honour to settle.”

  Alvanly snorted and shuffled the cards, but Phoebe wagged a finger at him.

  “Oh, no,” she said, smiling and gesturing to one of the serving staff who stood unmoving in the shadows, awaiting orders. “A new deck, s’il vous plaît.”

  The baron smirked and poured himself a glass of wine from the half empty bottle at his elbow. “And what are we playing, Phoebe, dear? Whist?”

  “No, Ecarté,” she said simply, and smiled.

  Chapter 18

  My dear Gabriel,

  I have made the most interesting friends since I have been in France and have also the great delight of informing you,
we have a new customer in the person of Lord Ellisborough, who wishes to both invest and to restock his own cellars.

  I admit I never dreamed that life in your employ would lead me into such extraordinary circumstances. You have given me a new lease of life along with the chance to redeem myself and my fortunes.

  I am ever in your debt. Especially now as I believe perhaps my luck has changed. Life can sometimes take such a surprising turn…

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Gabriel Knight from The Right Hon’ble Viscount Charles Kline.

  11th April 1827. Rouge et Noir, 7th Arrondissement, Paris.

  Phoebe allowed Alvanly to win the first three hands, playing recklessly and apparently with little regard to her cards. In truth, the baron had the devil’s own luck tonight and she knew she’d only have won two of the three if she had played to the best of her ability. This was another kind of game altogether, though, luring the baron onto the path she wished him to take, and she wasn’t about to play fair.

  Alvanly would play wagering a painting he knew well to be worthless. He had used her, stolen from Mrs Manning, and would have cheated Nina out of her money too. Phoebe felt no compunction about using the skills Jack had taught her as a girl to even the score. The only problem was, Max did not know of her skill with the cards, or just how well she could cheat. She wondered briefly if he would be disgusted by her having done so, but pushed that thought aside. It was time to trust in Max, to believe that he would know she had done it for the best, as he was trusting her to carry through her mad scheme, even though he did not understand what she was doing.

  She made a great show of concentrating on the next hand, and grinned with delight at Max when she won. He smiled down at her, though concern lingered in his gaze and she wished she could tell him what she was about. She had considered it, but there had been so little time, and in truth, it suited her for him to appear on edge, for it added verisimilitude to the picture of innocence she wished to present to Lord Alvanly. That edgy anxiety rolled off poor Max in waves as Phoebe lost the next three hands, and her debt to Alvanly racked up to two hundred pounds.