Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  Please don’t say anything that will implicate we’re together, Charity begged him with her eyes before she turned a weak smile upon Cyril. Surely Hugo would not be so stupid?

  “How could I be cross with an angel?” Mr Adams asked to the sound of corroborating murmurs. It was as if the gentlemen surrounding them were united in their paternalism. “Now! I want another nine!”

  Charity glanced at the faces ranged about her. There was the northerner, glowering, down on his luck, apparently, hoping for the dice to turn against his cocky opponent. Beside him, the third player — the pale sandy-haired gentleman who’d drawn her into his orbit earlier — looked warily at Charity. Communicating with her?

  She looked down at the table, at her shaking free hand, then up again at the speculation on the faces of the other gentlemen. Everyone here knew Cyril was a cheat. It was whispered by more than just those who had fallen foul of him.

  Rosetta had indicated that someone was about to call him out on it.

  Please, let it not be Hugo.

  Now she was required to throw the dice that Cyril had pressed into her hand.

  A nine!

  Cyril crowed his triumph amidst soft murmurings as the two cubes rolled gently across the table top.

  Of course, she’d thrown a nine. He’d supplied the dice.

  Cyril had one more throw. Charity could barely attend to what was happening yet she must. Her mind was a muddle. Just as the dice in her pocket were. Unwittingly, Hugo had mixed the dice — though how could she remove them from her pocket in front of such a crowd? It never would have worked.

  “I call on Lady Luck to throw me another nine.”

  Cyril stood with his chest puffed out, no doubt in anticipation that the game was his. Beside him, the sandy-haired gentleman exchanged a quick look with Rosetta and opened his mouth to speak.

  To demand a change of dice, Charity assumed. The dice that Rosetta had slipped into Charity’s pocket.

  A voice from the crowd cut in. “I challenge you to throw with dice not supplied by you, Mr Adams!”

  Hugo!

  There was a shocked silence. A few more gentlemen joined those at the table, flanking the northerner and the pale gentleman who was playing Cyril and who, Charity saw, sent a distinctly panicked look at Rosetta now standing at Charity’s left shoulder.

  “Are you calling me a cheat?”

  Charity gasped and raised her head to see Cyril’s eyes narrowed with anger.

  “My own cousin? Who owes me such a grand sum?” His nostrils flared. “Why, of course, you’d say it, wouldn’t you?” He made a noise of disgust, turning to the rest of the company as if expecting them to refute such a claim.

  No one did.

  “Have the girl pick her own dice,” came a voice from somewhere and she twisted her head and saw it was the sandy-haired gentleman. He sent her an encouraging nod. He’d no doubt assumed the dice Rosetta had supplied were still in her pocket.

  But then someone from the crowd was handing her two cubes and voices were calling across the table, “Throw it, young lady! Throw it! See if he gets his nine.”

  What choice did she have?

  So, she tossed and the dice rolled over the green baize table top with agonising slowness. A five…

  Luck would not favour a four. It couldn’t. Only the Devil’s own luck.

  But with a cry of triumph that’s what it appeared Cyril had for a collective gasp rang out as the second die raised a triumphant four to the sky.

  For a split-second, Cyril seemed as disbelieving as the rest of them, before he crowed with laughter. “By God, if you won’t rue the day you slandered me, Hugo!” he said before deferring to the northerner adding, “Unless you’d like to cut your losses or, default to mine own beloved cousin. Come Hugo, I dare you to reverse my colleague’s losing streak. Take on his losses and turn them around to victory, I dare you. Everything on this throw, eh?”

  Charity was so focussed on the exchange that she hardly realised the fact that Rosetta was insinuating into her palm the dice she’d retrieved from Charity’s pocket. The dice she’d put there ready for the moment when her partner in crime, called his number. Who knew what number he’d call but Rosetta believed the dice she’d retrieved would answer.

  But unbelievably Hugo was stepping forward. It was the moment he’d engineered. The moment he’d intended Charity to work with him.

  “Accepted,” said Hugo with a surprising degree of confidence after the briefest conferring with the man whom Cyril was beating soundly. “I call eight.”

  Charity tried to shake her head. Tried to warn him with her eyes. She had no idea what the dice would roll. But Hugo must have seen her thrust her hand into her skirt pocket; he must have thought confidently that she had the means to restore his fortunes. Their fortunes.

  But the dice Emily had put there had been joined by Hugo’s. She had no way of knowing which were which and now Hugo was confidently calling an eight. An eight to counteract his cheating cousin because he’d been pushed to the brink and cheating — yes, cheating! — was the only way he thought he could redress matters.

  She could barely bring herself to watch. Hugo was about to compound the worst mistake of his life and Charity could only stand by and stare, helplessly.

  “And now my lady luck will roll for you, cousin.” With a shrug, Cyril draped his arm about Charity just as a pair of dice were pushed into her hands. The dice from her pocket? From the table?

  It seemed Hugo hadn’t moved but his gaze was fixed on the cubes in Charity’s palm. Now she was about a play and if she threw anything other than an eight, she’d effectively wipe away another fortune that rightfully belonged to Hugo. No, not a fortune. He’d be plunging him into debt from which it would take years to extricate himself.

  “Five and four certainly does not make eight!” Cyril crowed. “I declare myself the winner. Hugo, are you ready to settle up?” He dropped a careless kiss upon Charity’s cheek. It was like an oily rag to a flame.

  With a cry of rage, Hugo threw himself across the table scattering people, coins, and banknotes in his wake before he was restrained by a couple of burly fellows who’d appeared seemingly from the woodwork.

  Chapter 7

  Cyril had summoned them. Charity had seen the muted command from the corner of her eye though her horrified focus had been on Hugo. He’d wanted to salvage their terrible situation. He’d wanted mostly to do it for Charity. And yet together they had made everything so much worse.

  Now what could Charity do? She was frozen to the spot, Cyril’s hand caressing the inside of her arm while Hugo was being dragged backwards like an animal, his protests that Cyril had cheated drowned out by Cyril’s triumphant response that he’d had no part in the rolling of the dice and why didn’t he take it up with Lady Luck.

  And just as Hugo was borne out of the double doors, Charity was swung round in Cyril’s arms, his delight at his success over his cousin prompting him to kiss her soundly on the mouth before he pushed a drink into her hand and bade her celebrate his success.

  She choked on the fizzing liquid, her eyes watering, and her nose twitching which evinced a roar of delight from Cyril.

  “Why, aren’t you too darling for words? You really are a novice.”

  He didn’t remove his hateful grasp as he seemed to regard her with new interest. Then, taking her hand, he led her towards the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” Charity squeaked.

  “I’m going to reward you,” he said loudly, grinning at the gentlemen about him. “You’ve done well for me and I don’t want to let you go just yet.”

  “I haven’t rewarded you. It was luck. Pure chance!” Charity cried. “I…I don’t want to leave my friends and go with you.”

  “Of course, you do,” he said, his tone genial as if her protests meant nothing. Which of course they didn’t. “Here. Give them a wave. They’re Madame Chambon’s girls, aren’t they? I recognise one of them. Yes, wave to them and they can proudly report
back to Madame that you’re in safe hands. In the hands of a very rich man who is very satisfied with what you have done for him tonight.” Cyril jerked his head in recognition of Rosetta and Emily who were smiling at him as if they were only too pleased for Charity.

  What could she do? She stumbled down the stairs and out into the fresh air, the wind cooling her tear-stained cheeks as she tried to gather her wits. Where was Hugo? Was he all right?

  Now, she was on Cyril’s arm, confused, helpless. Rosetta and Emily claimed she should go with him to discover what she could, but it was fanciful to think anything good could come of it.

  Charity knew she should break free and run. Why had she not when Cyril had assisted her into her cloak in the lobby? The white street, through the doors, had beckoned and for one moment she’d entertained the thought.

  But then the carriage had drawn up at the bottom of the stairs.

  And there was Cyril, running lightly down the steps to open the door; waiting for her just as the strange gentleman had stood waiting for her mother more than twelve years ago.

  Waiting with a smile in his eyes and the promise of a different future.

  Until Charity’s mother had tugged at Charity’s hand, turning on a sob, forcing Charity back up the stairs and into the grand country house where she worked and where she’d taken her daughter, secretly, for the day.

  Leaving the gentleman whom Charity had seen kiss her mother in the shadows, just minutes before.

  She remembered how strongly she’d wanted that ‘different future’ the gentleman had promised them after he’d pressed a coin into her palm.

  And she remembered, too, how he’d shouted after them: “It’s your choice! If you don’t come with me now, I will never acknowledge that I have a daughter!”

  Well, Charity wanted a different future, now, though she wasn’t sure this one would answer.

  With sudden resolve she gripped Cyril’s arm and stepped towards the vehicle. “Where are we going?” she asked him, her breath frosting in the cold air, glad that her voice sounded stronger than she thought it might. Maybe she could do this. Maybe she could be of some help to Hugo.

  She rubbed her hands together to keep them warm.

  Of course it was nonsense to think she could find a book of blackmail but perhaps she could find some way to appeal to Cyril if they were in private. Right now, it seemed her only chance.

  “Somewhere we can be comfortable.”

  “To your townhouse?”

  He looked down at her as he helped her into the vehicle. “You are a fetching little thing, aren’t you? What did you say your name was?”

  Charity hesitated a moment as she tried to remember the moniker agreed upon by Rosetta and Emily.

  “Cathie.”

  “Well, Cathie, we could go to a nice rooming house, I rather thought.”

  She nodded. “Probably best,” she agreed. “There are great risks in taking a girl like me to your townhouse. What would the servants say?” She forced herself to look impish.

  “It’s of no consequence what my servants think,” he said with a touch of vinegar. “I’m master of my domain.”

  Charity said nothing more, afraid that it might fuel a desire on Cyril’s part to prove himself master of her — which he no doubt was going to try to do, anyway.

  When they stopped in front of a row of elegant townhouses, she raised her eyebrows as she craned her head to look at her surroundings. “What a lovely place,” she asked. “Who does it belong to?”

  “It’s mine,” said Cyril. “And I’m taking you through the front door, Cathie, my love.” He rapped loudly. “Brown, my butler, will admit us. See if he betrays his true feelings when he takes our coats. If he does, I’ll get a new one.”

  “A new coat?” Charity asked without thinking and he roared with laughter. “A new butler. Ah, Brown, I’m sure the fire has been built up in my room so it’s cosy and welcoming.” He turned to Charity as he led her along the corridor. “In here. Good, I see the staff are frightened enough to stay up until the small hours. Now, make yourself comfortable.”

  Charity stared at the large four-poster bed at which he was pointing.

  “Come on, now. Hop up. You know I can afford you — or rather, I can afford Madame’s exorbitant charges thanks to your help this evening.” He chuckled as he brandished a wad of notes from an inner pocket.

  “On the…bed?” Her voice shook and she took a step back towards the door. She couldn’t do this, after all. No, she wouldn’t. What had she been thinking?

  An image of Hugo’s stricken face swept away her fears for her own wellbeing. How could she do this to him?

  How could she not do this for him?

  Yet, how ill-equipped was she to carry out any useful investigative work when she had no idea what she was looking for. How could she appeal to Cyril’s better nature when he had none?

  She was not about to sacrifice herself for any of Rosetta or Emily’s friends. What might Cyril do if he caught her snooping? Even if she asked some pertinent questions it would only take one wrong step to arouse his suspicions and matters would be even worse for Hugo — not to mention herself.

  “My dear girl, are you really so naïve? Is this truly your first time?”

  Charity pressed her lips together and gave the slightest of nods. Would he be kinder if that’s what he thought? But, perhaps for once in her life, she could be other than passive. The time had come, she decided, when she really must seize the next opportunity, after all, and run for her life. Her virtue.

  He held out his hand as if he were coaxing a small animal closer.

  Charity certainly felt as vulnerable as a small animal. In the sights of this hunter, she had nowhere to run.

  Only, she could run. There was an opportunity. The door was not locked and she could reach it faster than Cyril could.

  “Come, Cathie, I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

  Charity drew in a shuddering breath as she clutched her hand to her chest.

  “Come, my dear. Don’t be afraid.” His smug, smiling face came closer.

  He touched her lips with his forefinger and it took every effort for Charity not to bite it off.

  Instead, she reared back, spun on her heel and took off into the corridor, stopping a fateful second to take stock of her bearings.

  Of course, he was too quick for her and when he pushed her back into the room and closed the door behind them, then locked it, Charity expected the worst. He had unfettered access to her now. And he was cruel. He’d make her pay. She’d heard of his type. Heard about him.

  She’d been a fool to run. Now he’d push her against the wall and kiss her like she’d watched her mother being kissed. Could she pretend to enjoy it, as her mother had pretended? At first, Charity had thought she was willing until her mother had broken apart at Charity’s shout, weeping that the gentleman ruined her life.

  Though, nevertheless, her mother had still nearly gone with him.

  How confusing it had been. How confusing those memories still were.

  “Good lord, I believe those tears are real.”

  She didn’t expect it when Cyril dropped his hands from her shoulders, the snarl softening, his tawny eyes registering confusion rather than flashing danger. No, she’d expected to be given no quarter and was sure this was just an act.

  “Of course they’re real. I’m not that good an actress,” she mumbled, crossing her hands over her chest and drawing herself up, rigidly. She sank against the curtains at the window. She was his prisoner now. He believed he was entitled to her and she had no recourse. “Do what you must to me,” she said, woodenly. “I won’t scream and rouse the servants.”

  He looked surprised as he stood in front of her, his expression one of curiosity. “Well, I’ve never bedded a virgin before and I can’t decide whether to make you scream out of respect for my prowess or because you can’t bear for me to leave you once I’m done.”

  “Just do it and get it over and done with,” Charity gro
und out, finishing on a sob. What would her beloved think if he could see her now? Would she tell him? No, his pride would be too damaged. He couldn’t help her so why torment him more than he was already?

  He took her hand and led her to the sofa in front of the fire. “A glass of champagne does wonders to bolster the spirits though I personally prefer brandy,” he said, pulling on the bell-rope and issuing orders to Brown to fetch a bottle from the cellars. “Now, tell me why you’re so afraid.”

  “Because…you’re putting on an act.” Charity didn’t mind telling it to his face as she held her hand against her chest. “As soon as you think you’ve calmed me so I won’t scream, you’ll have your way with me.”

  “And you don’t want that? Really?” He pressed a flute of champagne into her hand as he led her closer to the fire, helping her into a comfortable chair. He seemed calmer now. Less flushed and, she hoped, less drunk. Or would she fare better if he was more drunk? There was always the chance he might pass out, then.

  Nervously she plucked at her skirts. “Of course I don’t. I don’t know you.”

  “I might point out that this is your job. Your chosen way to earn a living. However, we’re getting to know each other now. So, Cathie, what brought you to the Red Door tonight?”

  She opened her mouth in shock. Would it be folly to mention Hugo?

  “My friends from Madame Chambon’s brought me.”

  “They’re teaching you the tricks of the trade, are they? Nice girls?”

  Charity nodded as he moved behind her. “They’ll be worried about me.”

  “But you’re in safe hands. They know where you are.” To emphasise his point, he gently contoured her shoulders then stroked her neck. Charity closed her eyes as he reached her face. Submit. Submit. That’s what she had to do.

  “How nice to have someone who cares even a fig for you.” He sighed. “I don’t.”