The wood creaked under her footsteps; however, the increasing din on the gaming hell floor drowned out all hint of sound. She reached the bottom landing and wiped her hands on her dress once more. One of the guards quickly turned. Blast and damn. The day had apparently come where she, once a skilled pickpocket, couldn’t escape the notice of a handful of guards. Her mouth soured. How bloody frustrating to have had more freedom of movement as a child of five than a woman nearly two decades older.
Oswyn frowned. “Miss Banbury?”
“Hello, Oswyn.” All of the women employed at the Hell and Sin had perfected a distracting, whispery smile. By the pained twist of her lips, Helena’s attempt was really more a grimace than anything. The tall, muscled guard scratched at his bald pate.
Her tongue grew thick in her mouth. He’s going to have me sent abovestairs. And once again she’d be shut away while the world carried on around her. Say something. Say anything . . . “Ryker wished me to evaluate the inventory of spirits for the remainder of the week,” she said quickly. Which wasn’t altogether untrue. After all, she had been instructed to calculate the numbers. Those calculations, however, had in no way merited a night visit to the floors. Not by Ryker’s estimation, anyway. In Helena’s, well, she required more judicious movement in the club . . . and beyond.
With a nod, Oswyn stepped aside.
She hesitated. How many times as a young girl had she sat at the top of those very stairs, trying to make order of the discourse and laughter from those powerful peers below? Surely it could not have been this easy to gain entry? Oswyn looked questioningly at her, and that sprung her into movement.
Helena hastily stepped past the guard, and entered the hall. A cloud of cheroot smoke hung heavy in the expansive room, stinging her eyes. She blinked several times and continued to take in the club during the height of activity. The crystal chandeliers cast a bright glow upon the floors that lent an almost artificial sense of day to the nighttime scene. Hastily skimming her gaze over the crowded floors, she did a search for Ryker. With no hint of her fierce brother, she started along the perimeter, taking care to avoid gazes and notices . . . an easy feat given the well-placed pillars constructed about the hall. Heart pounding, Helena borrowed shelter from one Scamozzi column and surveyed the guests.
Alcohol flowed freely, with the tinkling of crystal touching crystal as bottles were poured. The women of the Hell and Sin Club moved between tables, providing additional spirits to the revered patrons. Helena did a quick inventory, silently counting. One, two, three . . . “At the very least, fifteen cases of whiskey,” she muttered to herself. And that was still being conservative in numbers because of her frugal brother.
She studied the gentlemen freely tossing cherished coins upon the card tables, and gave her head a sad shake. Granted, their freedom with their purses provided her and every other employee within this hall a livelihood. Yet, even with that, distaste filled her at the wastefulness of it all. Was life so boring and empty for these men, that this was all the joy there was? Recalling the task at hand, Helena gave her head another shake and did an inventory of the tables within eyeshot. Silently counting the bottles and glasses, she shook her head in exasperation. Her brother might fault her for the erroneous supply count, but the foxed lords deep in their cups consumed spirits the way a man stranded in a desert, who’d stumbled upon water, might.
How am I supposed to know that, unless I observe the proclivities of our guests . . . ?
In a bid to view additional tables, she took a step and then stopped. Her gaze collided with a pair of sapphire blue eyes. Time stood still in a charged moment, with the nightly revelries carrying on around her in a whir of muffled noise. In a world in which she was invisible to all, the burning intensity of the stranger’s stare stripped away her anonymity, and there was something so gloriously heady in being—seen. Her heart skittered a beat. Mayhap this is why Ryker keeps me shut away. Not with worry of the harm Diggory might do her, but rather to keep her from experiencing this irrational pull that robbed a woman of logic.
And then she registered the blankness within the fathomless depths. A profound sadness, and pain so deep, it stretched across the room and held her frozen.
In ways that moved beyond the beauty of his chiseled features and aquiline nose, the stranger’s barely concealed anguish made him stand out amidst the gaiety of the other patrons. He was a solitary figure, one who belonged even less than she did in this room. The golden-haired lord grabbed a bottle of brandy, and swiftly poured himself a drink. Then their eyes met once more. This time, there was no sadness but rather a piercing intensity that made her pulse race through her veins.
She swallowed hard. No gentleman had a right to be so gloriously golden and masculinely perfect. Even with the distance between them, there was an aura of commanding strength to his broad shoulders and square, noble jaw. The faintest cleft lent a—
A dandy in burnt orange satin breeches stepped in between them, and jerked her back to the moment.
Cheeks ablaze, Helena gave her head a hard shake, and continued on. After all, her visit to the floor had nothing to do with a too-handsome-for-anyone’s-good lord, and everything to do with the responsibilities she saw to in the Hell and Sin. For all the worries her brothers had for her well-being and safety, Helena had grown up in the streets. She might speak like a lady and read with an ease that would have impressed an Oxford scholar, but she could protect herself better than most men.
From across the club, a faint buzz went up, and she followed the attention. Ryker cut a path through the club. His face set in a hard, unyielding mask, he strode past gaming table after gaming table. One horrifying moment stretched on to eternity as she waited for him to notice her. Only when he stopped to speak to Calum without even glancing in her direction did she breathe again. Thank goodness.
It was one thing to embrace your freedom and a sense of control, but it was an altogether different matter to openly defy that man. Brother or not, Ryker Black would never tolerate broken rules—not in his club, and most definitely not by his sister.
Chapter 3
Rule 3
Never overindulge in spirits.
If Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield, was manipulated, maneuvered, or deceived by one more Duke of Somerset, he was going to lose his bloody everlasting mind. As it was, he opted for the welcoming distraction of drink.
Particularly as it prevented him from thinking on all the stares directed his way . . . and all because of the lie perpetuated by his conniving father.
His lips twisted in a cynical smile. It was his lot to be manipulated . . . and by those he trusted most. Older matrons, marriage-minded misses, of late, eyed him with an increased interest aspired to that coveted ducal prize. With the papers reporting on the impending demise of the duke, well, the most relevant news in the whole of England happened to be: Robert’s marital state.
Robert took another swallow of his drink. Or mayhap he already had lost his bloody mind. It was also why, at this moment, with a bottle of brandy before him, in a club that was decidedly not polite or respectable, Robert intended to get bloody soused.
After his third glass, he’d ceased to feel the burn or sting of the fiery spirits.
Then he was already well on his way to the everlasting goal.
“My regards for your father, Westfield.”
Oh, bloody hell. This? The polite, murmured greeting pulled his focus away from his noble task of getting foxed to the gentleman who stood at his table. Lord Hubert, was it? He furrowed his brow. Or Lord Halpert? After four snifters of fine French brandy, it was really hard to sort through the man’s identity. Lord Something-or-Another stared expectantly back.
Lifting his glass in appreciation, Robert murmured the expected, appropriate words of thanks one would give a person sharing regret about the impending demise of your father. After all, there were social expectations that went with being a future duke . . . and that included acknowledging polite company when you’d much ra
ther send them to the Devil, and be on your own business.
Grateful of the other man’s departure, Robert downed his drink and reached for the bottle.
One would correctly argue that there was nothing acceptable about a duke getting drunk in one of the most disreputable, notorious gaming hells in St Giles.
Then, certain liberties were permitted to dukes. Even more liberties permitted to marquesses whose fathers were close to meeting their maker. His lips pulled in disgust. Not abandoning his father’s side during the summer, Robert would have struck a deal with Satan to prolong his father’s life. But then, perhaps he had. For all his devotion, for having pledged to marry and do right by the Somerset line, he’d been repaid with this.
Through all the treachery of Lucy Whitman and his grandfather, he’d now add his father to the list of those who’d betrayed him. For even as those two men had sought to protect Robert, they’d done so in a way that was so wholly manipulative, it could never be truly forgiven.
Granted, in his youth, he’d been too blinded by the illusion of love to listen to his grandfather’s reasoning. However, he was no longer that same callow lad. Had his father possessed the decency to speak with him on the solvency of the estates, he’d have listened. Instead, his sire had developed an underhanded scheme better reserved for the late duke.
At three and thirty, Robert well knew the responsibilities expected of him. He’d just failed to realize the extent of those responsibilities—until today. Then, that isn’t truly your father’s fault. He fisted his glass so hard, the blood drained from his knuckles as on this day, of all days, that betrayal stung all the deeper.
Lightening his grip, Robert swirled the contents of his glass in a circle. For the past twelve years, he had lived for his own pleasures, a rather carefree, roguish existence. How very different his life would have been had it continued along a different trajectory, with Robert wedded that long-ago night. He’d even now be married, and most likely a father. He’d not be riddled with matchmakers and scheming misses.
Lifting his gaze from his drink, Robert skimmed it over the mindless revelry being celebrated throughout the gaming hell. He was no father. He was no husband. And by his father’s admission today, Robert, with his sudden shift in financial circumstances, was not unlike every other bored gentleman losing a fortune at his respective faro table.
And there was something so very humbling in that truth. Tightening his mouth, he refocused his energies on his drink. Tomorrow he could focus on the expectations the world placed on him. Now, he’d spend the night fanning the long-buried resentment and regrets for what had almost been and what would never be because of the title he’d been born to.
A young woman, with thick blonde hair and an invitation in her eyes, sidled up to him. “Would you like company, my lord?” she purred on a throaty whisper that promised carnal delights.
He eyed the lush beauty. On any other night, if he weren’t maudlin and more eager to lose himself in the mindless amusements of the club and the fine French brandy, he would have followed the nameless beauty abovestairs. She grazed her fingers over his sleeve, and leaned close.
Not this night. This night, he’d come for but one purpose. He waved his hand. At his clear dismissal, her plump, red lips formed a small moue of displeasure, and then she moved on to some other patron.
Raucous laughter and the clink of coins hitting felt gaming tables resonated through the halls of the club, that revelry mocking Robert with the carefree levity of those around him. He raised the tumbler to his lips once more and froze. The slightest movement at the edge of the gaming hell floor snagged his attention on a woman on the fringe of the entertainment. Perhaps it was the splash of her mint-green dress amidst the mostly black coats, that color pale and pure against the garish canary-yellow and burnt-orange waistcoats of the dandies circulating the club.
Robert swirled the contents of his glass and studied the woman as she skirted the tables, weaving between wagering gentlemen and fierce-looking bouncers. But for the vicious scar down the right side of her face, there was nothing immediately remarkable about her. Her hair drawn tight at her nape accentuated too-sharp features. Her gown hung on a too-slender, narrow-hipped frame. Nay, she hardly possessed any kind of beauty that beckoned. Rather, it was her sly steps that gave him pause. The woman didn’t walk, nor sprint, nor stride. But rather . . . tiptoed about the room. Occasionally she paused, and cast furtive glances about.
She came to a stop beside a pillar and scanned the room. Her full, bow-shaped lips moved, as though she were talking to herself.
And in that moment, all previous melancholy lifted, replaced with a sudden intrigue. Did she seek to lift a man of his coin? Or search for a bed-partner?
He cursed as a tall figure stepped directly in his line of vision, obliterating the hint of the mysterious woman. Robert leaned around, searching for a glimpse of the fey creature—
“You look like hell.”
Well, that wasn’t the standard polite greeting he’d gritted his teeth through for nearly a month now. Through dry eyes, he snapped his gaze up at the interloper, and blinked several times. Richard Jonas stood before him. Which really wouldn’t be shocking for most gentlemen . . . except this one. Recently married, and exceedingly happy, the horse breeder didn’t leave the country . . . and he decidedly did not come to scandalous clubs. “Jonas,” he greeted. Having suffered a broken heart when the woman he’d loved wed his brother, Jonas had ultimately found a deserved happiness. Though never one to visit London, he was even scarcer now since his joyous nuptials.
“I’m in London for business,” he explained. “Discussing the sale of a mare for Lord Drake’s young daughter.” Jonas gestured to the vacant seat. “May I?”
Robert tipped his chin toward the chair. He’d suffered through a parade of gentlemen asking after his father, making it a point to not invite any of them to sit. This was a friend he’d never turn away. And with all he’d learned today, Robert was welcoming of the company.
“Your sister paid a visit to Gemma a short while ago.”
Robert frowned. That was hardly news. The two young women, who’d somehow found themselves wallflowers, had also found themselves as thick as thieves in the Dials. “Did she?”
“Your sister is worried,” Jonas said, knocking Robert into apprehensive silence.
Had Bea gathered their family was in dun territory? “Worried?” he repeated, flatly.
Jonas glanced pointedly about the room. “About the clubs you are visiting.”
Relief rippled through him. “Hardly anything to worry after,” he assured. That was the least of the Denningtons’ trials. In a bid to turn the discussion to topics that did not involve him accounting for his presence here, Robert asked, “How is the lovely Mrs. Jonas?”
His friend drew out the opposite chair and slid into its folds.
“She is well.” In a whirlwind romance, Jonas had met, wooed, and won the uniquely interesting Gemma Reed. Which only recalled the bloody summer party and his father’s machinations. He took another long swallow.
“It is the day, isn’t it?” At the abrupt shift in discourse, Robert stiffened, remaining silent as his friend spoke. “You were never the same after Miss Whitman’s betrayal.” No, he wasn’t.
Before he’d met his wife, Jonas had loved another, a woman who’d instead given her heart to Jonas’s younger brother. As such, he knew better than most the pain of a broken heart. What he did not realize, could never realize, was that Robert didn’t remember Lucy Whitman with any real affection. Rather, her memory served to remind him of all the mistakes he’d made. Of the folly in loving. Nor did Jonas know the details of just whom Robert had discovered his former love with. The other man gave his head a wry shake.
“It does eventually lessen,” his friend murmured, cutting into his thoughts.
Robert blinked several times. Knowing Robert as he did, and what this day harkened back to, Jonas would surely expect him to be mourning his past.
&n
bsp; “You think you’ll never find love because, well, frankly you’re certain your heart isn’t capable of withstanding that kind of pain again.” Jonas gave him a look. “What you’ll come to learn is that there is another deserving of you, who will bring you happiness Lucy Whitman never could have.”
“I assure you, my visiting my clubs has nothing to do with Lucy Whitman.” And certainly not any broken heart. “It is my father,” he clarified.
His friend alternated his gaze between the nearly empty bottle and Robert’s face. “I am sorry. Of course. The papers have made . . . mention,” Jonas settled for. “Of your father’s deteriorating condition.”
Robert mustered a wry grin. “He’s not dying.” Though if anything had given him the push to wed, his sire’s impending death had been it.
Jonas cocked his head. “He’s . . . ?”
“Not dying,” Robert supplied. “He lied.” Downing the remainder of his drink, he then set his glass aside. “He did a rather convincing job of it, too.”
Confusion filled the other man’s eyes. “Why would he do something such as that?”
Robert stole a glance around the nearby tables. What his father had shared today was the manner of gossip that would feed the fodders well into the next century. This man before him now was more brother than friend. He dragged his chair closer, and settled his elbows on the table. “My grandfather made risky business ventures, which my father has been unsuccessful in resolving these past years.”
Jonas scratched at his brow. “What—?”
“Our pockets are nearly to let,” he said in hushed tones; and speaking those words aloud for the first time lent an even greater sense of realness that sent panic spiraling.
The other man sank back in his chair. “My God.”
With a wave of his hand, Robert said, “This is the reason my father wished to marry me off. Not because of his impending death.” A rusty chuckle slipped out. “How singularly odd to be both relieved and infuriated at the same time.” The shamefulness in his father’s deception was particularly sharpened when presented with this man, whose own father had died not even two years earlier.
The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1) Page 4