Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances

by Beverley Oakley

  Hugo forced himself to stop and take stock. He couldn’t burst inside without a plan. If Charity was at the gaming table, hoping to effect some miracle means of reversing the damage Hugo had wrought then the very least Hugo could do was find a means of safeguarding her from his evil cousin — using his brains rather than wild impulse.

  Yes, Cyril was evil.

  The Red Door was a gambling den and Cyril was a gambler. A gambler, swindler, and cheat.

  And how did one defeat a cheat?

  Beneath the overhang of a crooked double-storied dwelling in an insalubrious alleyway, he stopped to consider the question, startling as a mangy cat rubbed against his ankle.

  Cheats were sly and secretive. They caught one by surprise, just as Cyril had done when he’d plied Hugo with drink and then challenged him, on his sweetheart’s honour, to a game of Hazard.

  What did cheats resort to? They resorted to cheating, of course.

  A terrible thought struck Hugo; one that he would never have entertained had he not been desperate.

  A short diversion was all that was required for him to equip himself with the tools that he hoped might be at least of some help to getting his darling Charity out of the terrible situation he’d created.

  Chapter 6

  Charity ran her tongue over her top lip and fanned herself as she smiled at the gentleman facing her across the gaming table. Despite the snow outside, it was hot upstairs with the multitude of bodies pressed up against one another as they gambled, drank, and flirted with the few women about.

  The smoke from the cheroots the gentlemen smoked made the back of her throat feel scratchy but, of course, she had to smile and pretend she was in her element. Ladies had to always pretend they were enjoying themselves.

  Mr Cyril Adams, it appeared, was definitely out to enjoy a night on the town. He was dressed in the latest fashion, his coat well cut with contrasting collar, his waistcoat decorated with a watch chain and a diamond pin adorning his Ascot tie.

  Yes, he might look the part but Charity wondered how well accepted he was by society in general when rumour described the ways he’d earned his pile of coin. Their grandfather had earned a fortune through honest trade, half of which Mr Cyril was to inherit, but in the meantime, he’d earned his own dubious fortune—which ebbed and flowed, she’d heard.

  Mr Adams now leant over the table to give Charity a more assessing look. “What’s your name, lovely lady?”

  Charity had been preparing herself but it was nevertheless a shock to find herself face to face with Hugo’s nemesis — and hers.

  For here was Cyril Adams close up. Ever since her friends had whispered excitedly that this was the gentleman she was to impress, she’d been watching him covertly.

  He certainly fancied himself as a ladies’ man, the way he’d tossed his head as he’d swaggered up to the baize-topped table that was littered with markers, coins, and banknotes.

  “I’ve not seen you before. What’s your name, lovely lady and are you going to make me a lucky man this evening?” he asked.

  Charity dropped her gaze and blushed easily. “My name’s Cathie,” she murmured. She was not about to step into any trap by revealing her true identity. “And I don’t think I’m your lucky charm because I’ve never gambled before.”

  “Then you’ll be worth your weight in gold for beginner’s luck,” he said with too much bonhomie. He’d been drinking. She could smell the whisky on his breath as he came around to put his hand on her shoulder and rub his nose against her neck.

  Charity tried not to recoil from the brush of his bristly moustache. The next few minutes could make all the difference to how she managed the outcome Emily and Rosetta had worked so hard to mastermind.

  Charity must rise to the challenge. She’d never had a hand in changing her fate — it had always been thrust upon her. But coming here tonight was the first step towards changing what might otherwise be a soul-destroying destiny.

  “Oh, sir, but you’ll be cross if beginner’s luck deserts me,” she said, playing upon her innocence.

  “A roll of the dice requires nothing in the way of expertise.” He seized her hand and pressed something into the palm which she opened, looking rather stupidly at the two white cubes.

  “Give me nine and make me a happy man,” he said.

  Charity glanced around her and realised a few more interested gentlemen had wandered up to the table. Young and middle-aged, there was speculation and definite admiration in the way they sized her up. Even Charity, self-effacing though she was, could see it. It terrified her.

  “But the highest number is six,” she said, wishing her voice sounded stronger. She pressed her hand against her hip and felt the outline of the two dice in her pocket that Rosetta had given her. What use would they be to her?

  A rumble of genial laughter echoed round the table before Mr Adams said, “Indeed it is, my pretty. But a four and a five make nine, as do a six and a three.” He raised her hand to the sky and gently traced the outline of her fist as he declared to the others in their orbit, “My pretty talisman will give me a nine, just see if she doesn’t.”

  Charity now realised that Mr Adams did, in fact, have an opponent, a surly northerner it appeared when he grumbled that he’d waited long enough for play to resume.

  “Please, do the honours on my behalf, Miss Cathie.”

  Charity glanced about her, raised her hand and obediently threw the dice. For what could she do?

  A small silence preceded the scattering of the cubes which rolled across the green baize table top. The first landed cleanly upon a five while the second dice rolled slowly towards the edge. The whispering of a couple of gentlemen to her left stirred the curls at her temples and sent a shiver through her.

  When a cry of surprise rang out, Charity had only just steeled herself for the jubilation of the man for whom she’d evidently won a good deal at the expense of the northerner.

  She began to turn away, more than ready to be swallowed up by the crowd. Mr Adams’ die had been loaded, surely?

  But then Emily was pushing her back to the table, whispering in her ear, “That one was luck, truly it was, Charity, for his opponent supplied the dice.”

  And then Mr Adams was swinging her into the crook of his arm as he cried, “Gentlemen, my lucky charm! Did I not say she’d win for me?”

  But Charity was not going to allow herself to become a plaything with no object other than lining Mr Adams’ pockets when Rosetta had a clearer plan in place for later that evening.

  Firmly she pushed herself free of his grasp before another opponent had stepped up to the table ready to take on Hugh’s gambling cousin who was, it seemed, more ready for another game of Hazard than following Charity through the throng.

  Charity disappeared back into the crowd, her skin still crawling from Mr Adams’ touch. She’d utilised every bit of willpower to hide her revulsion for the man who’d actively sought to destroy her beloved Hugo; a man who, furthermore, wanted to rub salt in the wound by pursuing Charity. Only the fact that he did not know her identity had given her the strength to keep her strong. That, and the fact that Charity knew she had to push herself to do, and be, more than she ever had before. She had to help Hugo as much as she could. Not just to save what they had, as a couple, but to prevent him from leaving on a dangerous journey to a land he had no wish to visit, doing work that was anathema to him. Hugo was a poet and an artist, not an adventurer.

  He was not in a position to reverse his ill-fortune but maybe, just maybe, Charity could.

  “The Devil’s own luck,” Rosetta congratulated her when she was safely in the company of her friends and sipping champagne partly concealed by a tasselled velvet curtain beside a tall sash window that looked onto the street.

  “Yes, but I don’t know how it’s going to do me much good,” said Charity, dolefully.

  “That’s because you haven’t the slippery instinct for getting ahead that we have, my dear.” Emily’s eyes danced as she raised her gla
ss to her lips and drank deeply. “We are going to win big at Mr Adams’ expense. The fact that you really did throw what he wanted gives us an enormous advantage.”

  “How? We have no money to gamble with?”

  Emily raised one eyebrow and bit her lip as if withholding a great secret. “I’ve entered into an arrangement with a special friend who knows exactly what we’re about. Someone who has his own concerns regarding Mr Adams. A score to settle, if you will.”

  Charity’s mood plummeted even further. “And I am to be the means by which he will settle his score? No, I can’t.”

  She might have rolled the dice and achieved a successful outcome but she was terrified at the thought of what else she might be required to do.

  Emily and Rosetta shared a meaningful glance before Emily said, “My friend, who’s here tonight, just spoke to me. He saw the interest our not-very-esteemed Mr Cyril Adams has in you. He thinks you may be able to address his concerns when you go back to his townhouse tonight.”

  “I can’t!” Charity gripped her champagne flute against her chest so hurriedly that the front of her gown suffered from the spillage, causing Emily to lean forward and whisper, as she dabbed at the damp spot, “We’ve discussed this, Charity, and I’ve also heard it said just now — by no less an authority than Mr Adams’ last valet who was summarily dismissed just last week and who has vengeance in his heart to equal yours — that Mr Adams curates a detailed account book of the various misdemeanours occasioned by various society personages. A blackmail diary if you will. My friend is very anxious to know if he features in that book.”

  “How can I possibly get access to that book if Mr Adams is…with me the whole time?” Charity straightened with sudden determination. “I can’t do it! I won’t do it! I won’t go back to his house and prostitute myself to…to this man. No! I can’t do this to Hugo!”

  Emily patted Charity on the shoulder. “It would be the noblest sacrifice for Hugo,” she said gently. “Of course, you’d do everything you could to avoid sleeping with him but if that’s what you had to do to — ”

  “No! Never! I’d rather starve in a gutter. Don’t you see? It wouldn’t be noble at all!” Charity stared at her two friends. “It would be the greatest disloyalty to Hugo if I slept with the very man who sought to destroy him.”

  “Well, you’d try not to, obviously, but Hugo would think you the bravest, noblest person in the whole world that you’d take such risks on his behalf,” Rosetta said energetically. “Oh, my Lord!” Her tone changed as a look of shock crossed her features.

  “What is it?” Charity and Emily cried in unison, craning their heads to see what had discomposed her.

  “It’s Hugo. I just saw him in the light of the streetlamp below, about to enter the club. He’s on his way now.” Rosetta glanced about the crowded room, her face ashen even in this light. “He could ruin everything.”

  Charity took a step away. “I must leave now,” she said, wanting desperately to throw herself into Hugo’s arms at the same time as wishing desperately she was as far away as possible from the dangerous, detestable Cyril Adams.

  “No, no, I’ll waylay him and explain why you’re here,” Emily said hurriedly, grabbing her wrist to stop her as she communicated something quickly with Rosetta. “He’ll know it’s in nobody’s interests for you to be revealed as his mistress.”

  Charity wished her friends wouldn’t use such language. She didn’t see herself as Hugo’s mistress and nor did he. It was so much more than that. And if not for Cyril Adams…

  Her fear hardened to anger and grew. She turned back from the door to look at her beloved’s cousin. Son of Satan, that’s what he was. Like Hugo, he was descended from the same enterprising steel merchant but he was as different from Hugo as it was possible to be.

  Cyril was cut from the same cloth, it seemed, as both his father and his uncle who wanted their cake and to eat it. They wanted to be richer than anyone else, they didn’t mind what they did to achieve this — and yet they wanted to be accepted by society.

  Well, it wasn’t so easy. Charity knew that very well.

  Casting a last look at the gaming table where Cyril’s floppy dark hair obscured his sneer of concentration, Charity drew back into the crowd. No matter how much she desperately wanted to see Hugo, she must keep away from him. Charity needed to be a much finer actress than she was if she were to hide her dangerously transparent feelings for him from the world.

  From Mr Cyril Adams.

  “Hurry, Charity! This way!” Rosetta steered her through a knot of guests congregated by the supper table but a tall, sandy-haired gentleman reached out his hand to grip her by the wrist and draw her within the circle of his discussion, saying, “My dear little friend, meet my associate, Mr Daniel Roberts — ”

  And in that moment, the double doors from the lobby were thrown open and Hugo stood upon the threshold, staring in their direction as if he had a sixth sense telling him exactly where to look for the woman he sought.

  Charity couldn’t move without making a scene for she was trapped between Rosetta and an elderly gentleman who looked about to speak to her in a very warm fashion as she turned in the hopes of side-stepping Hugo’s piercing glance.

  But he’d sighted her and was advancing with speed and determination.

  “Excuse me, but I must — ” She ended on a whisper, turning only enough to extricate herself from the immediate group before Hugo was pressing against her, albeit briefly as he contoured her waist before plunging his hand into her pocket and whispering, “Someone will call an eight and you must produce these. At least, you must try, my love.” And then, as he stepped back, saying a touch more loudly for the benefit of the two gentlemen who’d flicked their glances in his direction, “Excuse me, madam, I trust I didn’t step on your foot,” before he’d disappeared into the crowd.

  “Miss Cathie!”

  Still caught up in the horror of what Hugo had unwittingly done, Charity turned at the familiar tone. Rough yet cultured, demanding yet steeped in cloying civility, she looked up to see Mr Cyril Adams beckoning to her from across the room.

  “Where’s my Lady Luck, eh? Ah, there she is! Come this way, please. To the table, yes!”

  A pathway was immediately made for her. Charity turned back in panic to Rosetta and Emily who halted their conversation with their admiring male contingent and nodded encouragingly at her before Rosetta slipped into her wake. “Don’t worry, Charity. I’m here. The dice are in your pocket. You — or someone else — will find a way to use them.”

  Charity opened her mouth to explain the disaster but her friend gave her a gentle push towards Cyril, saying, “You’ll play it just right. Don’t you worry.”

  Don’t worry? How could she not when they were all doomed? What had Hugo done?

  Rosetta and Emily blithely imagined everything was set up for success. Hugo had such hopes, too, as she took her place, once again beside the most hated man in the room.

  But everything was ruined and Charity was a jelly of fear. Now what would happen? How could she possibly save Hugo from the terrible fate that awaited him in India? He was about to sink himself even further.

  Mr Adams tipped her chin and pinched her cheek as if she were a plaything, smiling at her in such a fashion that suggested she should be grateful for his attention.

  She swallowed and tried to respond as she knew she ought. How could one as inexperienced as she summon up bravado she didn’t have for the ‘right’ kind of smile? The new girls at Madame Chambon’s were all instructed in the ‘right’ way to do all manner of things for the gentleman but because of Charity’s special status, she’d been spared from anything more than verbal information.

  “Please don’t ask me to throw, sir,” she pleaded. “It’s not beginner’s luck anymore. I’ll throw badly…not what you want…and then you’ll be cross.”

  “Cross?” His voice sounded too loud. Too indulgent, as if he were decades older and she just a child. Indeed, he stroked her cheek as i
f she were one and as his hand lingered to stroke the corner of her mouth, Charity caught a flash of hurt and anger as Hugo stepped into view.

  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.