by Laurel McKee
Where Lily, only an adopted St. Claire, contented herself with her brown hair, a sensible nature that kept her wilder siblings from too much trouble, and their reflected glory. Someone had to be a practical Athena to their Dionysian revels, to keep track of the accounts and organize their businesses. She liked keeping to the shadows, especially after her one disastrous moment in the theatrical sun three years ago.
She was done with the spotlight. Now she had a new task—to help her brother Dominic with his latest venture: a fashionable, luxurious gambling club right in the heart of Mayfair. It seemed a good plan. Aristocrats often had deep pockets and longed for decadent but discreet ways to empty them. The St. Claires were good at helping them with that task.
It seemed like a good place for Lily to start over too. Her husband had been dead for a year now. It was time to move on, to forget the past.
“Thanks to you, Dominic, I have plenty of imagination,” she said as he helped her alight from the carriage. She looped her gloved hand through his arm and went with him up the gleaming steps. Despite her caution, she felt a bright spark of excitement deep inside. She had a good feeling about this place.
“It’s a very pretty house in a fine neighborhood,” she went on. “But how will anyone even know to come here and gamble their money away? It’s not the most obvious.”
“That’s the very point! If we want to attract dukes and earls, we have to be discreet and very exclusive. They won’t want the queen to know what they’re up to.” Dominic drew a shining brass key from inside his fine, blue wool coat. “We will have a small brass sign here on the door along with a demon’s head knocker. ‘The Devil’s Fancy—Members Only.’ And, of course, there will be a very strict and respectable butler to man the door.”
“I’m glad you’ve thought of everything, even a dramatic name,” Lily said, stepping inside. She blinked at the sudden, dark shadows after the bright day. “And where will these members, these dukes and earls, come from?”
“Nothing easier, Lily, as you well know. You’re the one with the brain for accounting, after all. Our investors will drop hints among their friends. The word will spread through the ballrooms and the gentlemen’s clubs. Everyone will want to join.”
Lily untied her bonnet and swept it off to get a better look at the surroundings. She had to admit it was impressive. The foyer, with white and gold walls and elaborate wedding-cake plasterwork, soared upward to a domed ceiling painted with a fresco of a classical gods’ feast against a bright, blue sky. A winding staircase with a fine wrought-iron balustrade led to the public rooms above, while just beyond she glimpsed a small room that could be the office of that stern butler.
She could picture liveried footmen greeting their guests with glasses of champagne, could hear the rustle of lacy crinoline skirts, laughter, and chatter floating along those stairs. The whir of a roulette wheel, the clink of coins.
“You have investors, then?” she said. “Rich ones?”
“You always do get right to the point, don’t you, Lily?”
Certainly she did. The stink of the streets, where she spent her childhood picking pockets and scrounging to survive until the St. Claires rescued her, was never far enough away. Even here in elegant Mayfair.
“Investors?” she said again.
“Of course, with Brendan’s help.” Their brother Brendan was magical with people—they could never say no to him. Odd, since he always seemed the strong, silent type, the sort of man no one could fathom. So different from Dominic. “Just a few so far, but very desirable ones. Viscount Brownville. Sir Archibald Overton. Lady Smythe. Even a duke’s nephew, perhaps. Brendan was a bit secretive about that one.”
“All those? How did Brendan reel them in?”
“They know a good investment when they see one.” Dominic propped his booted foot on the lowest marble step, his handsome, smiling face suddenly darkening. “Maybe with one duke, we could lure Carston to invest here as well. Take a chunk of his ill-gotten gains.”
The Duke of Carston. The Huntington family. It always came back to them. That high-in-the-instep ducal family always darkened every St. Claire moment of triumph. They hung over everything due to the old legend of the way they once ruined the St. Claires.
Lily gently laid her hand on Dominic’s arm. She wasn’t about to let Carston, or anyone, ruin this, her new beginning. “Show me the upstairs rooms.”
He nodded and led her up the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the luxurious, empty space. Off the landing were three beautiful salons, shimmering with more white and gold. There were vast, elaborately carved marble fireplaces and tall windows draped in pale yellow brocade and velvet trimmed in heavy tassels and fringe.
“This can be the main gaming salon,” Dominic said eagerly, his dark mood seemingly forgotten. “And over there a ballroom and a dining room.”
Lily laughed. “Dining and dancing too?”
“Of course! A French chef, a fine orchestra���”
“It’s a good thing we have rich investors, then.”
“And we’ll soon have more. Our investment will be returned many times over, Lily. You’ll see.” Dominic strode through the empty rooms, throwing back the draperies to let in the daylight. “I will order all the gaming supplies, but you must be in charge of hiring the staff and buying the furnishings. The most fashionable of everything.”
Even as she calculated exactly how much “the most fashionable of everything” would cost, Lily couldn’t deny that her brother’s excitement was infectious. It would certainly be a splendid establishment. And with dukes and viscounts as their customers, leading the way for London’s elite to come trooping to their doors, their fortune would be made.
Lily eased back one of the draperies to peer down at the street below. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass pane, a ghostly reflection of her pale face against the satin bow that tied her jacket collar. She sighed at the sight.
Despite her fine, blue velvet jacket and plaid silk skirt, she was surely nothing out of the ordinary. A pigeon among the golden St. Claire peacocks, with brown hair and eyes, of middling height, and too thin for fashion.
“It’s a good thing you can afford fine clothes,” she murmured wryly. And that she had a stylish mother to help her choose them. Katherine St. Claire was known as one of the most fashionable women in London, and she loved advising her daughters. It helped Lily pretend, for a while at least, that she belonged here.
Lily unlatched the window and threw it open so she wouldn’t have to look at herself any longer. The cool, fresh breeze of clean air, untainted by the smoke and muck of poorer neighborhoods, carried away the stale stuffiness of the salon. The prospect outside was as pretty as the one inside, with a green, shady park across the tidy street. Well-dressed people strolled there, ladies in crinolines and feathered bonnets on the arms of men in frock coats and gleaming silk hats, children with their hoops and wagons ushered by starchy black-clad nannies. Their laughter and bright clothes were like beacons in the gray day.
How pretty it all was, how fine and hopeful. How different from where she grew up on the streets of Whitechapel…
Suddenly a high, open carriage turned the corner and came flying down the street, scattering all the fine, placid people. It was painted bright yellow with green wheels and was pulled by a matched pair of bay horses. If the walkers were like beacons, this was like the entire sun. Lily leaned farther out the window to get a better view.
The carriage held only one passenger, the man who wielded the reins. He wore a brown velvet coat and brown wool trousers, a beautiful pearl-gray waistcoat, and a finely tied cravat—well cut and fashionable like his carriage but not too elaborate. He wore no hat, and she had a glimpse of his face and his glossy, dark brown hair as he passed.
“Oh, good heavens,” she gasped. It was him—the man she met after her disastrous stage debut. It had been almost three years, but she had not forgotten a single detail of his face. She had thought never to see him ag
ain, sure he would appear to her only in her dreams.
Yet here he was, driving right past her. And he was even more handsome than she remembered, his face all elegant, sculpted angles, bronzed skin, and slashing dark brows. Surely his cheekbones alone could cut glass—or a woman’s heart.
He looked up as he passed, laughing as if in deep sensual pleasure at his speed. His blue eyes, blue as the sea and sky, seemed to pierce through her even at such a distance. He raised one gloved hand to wave at her, his grin widening, and she drew back from the window as she tried to resist the urge to dive to the floor.
Her cheeks felt suddenly warm, and she pressed her palms against them. A sparkling excitement seemed to flutter deep inside her, and she wanted to giggle like some silly schoolgirl.
She had never been a schoolgirl of any sort, and she wasn’t going to start now. Not even over the handsome god of her former dreams. Surely the disillusionment of her marriage had killed off any such foolishness?
“What do you see out there, Lily?” Dominic asked. He pushed past her to peer outside.
“Nothing at all,” Lily said, cursing the silly breathlessness of her voice. “Just a pleasant morning.”
Suddenly Dominic pounded his fist on the windowsill. His shoulders stiffened. “Damn it all! What is he doing here?”
“Who?” Lily leaned past him, wondering which blameless pedestrian had earned her brother’s anger.
“Him, of course.” Dominic gestured toward the yellow carriage, clattering away out of sight. “Don’t you know him?”
A chill swept over Lily, driving away the last of her warm blush. Of course, it would be him Dominic hated. “No. Should I?”
“It’s Lord Aidan Huntington,” Dominic said, with what sounded suspiciously like a growl. “Son of the Duke of Carston.”
“No! That can’t be possible.” Lily leaned out the window again, but he was gone from sight. She still saw him in her mind, though, that roguish smile, the glossy gleam of his hair. That sensual mouth she remembered kissing all too well.
How could her dream man be a Huntington, a member of that despised family? She felt numb and so cold, caught up in a dream turned nightmare.
“He’s the duke’s second son, and a greater rake you’ll never find in London. He’s nothing but trouble.” Dominic pulled Lily back into the room and slammed the window shut. The glass rattled ominously.
“That’s rich coming from you, Dominic,” she said. “I thought you were the greatest rake in London. Just because he’s a Huntington—”
Dominic caught her arm and gave her a little shake. “Just being a Huntington makes him trouble! They are all liars and cheats who care for nothing but their own lofty titles. They utterly ruined us once before—they would do it again without so much as a blink.”
Lily had heard all this for years, ever since she became a St. Claire, and she surely hated anyone her family hated. The St. Claires did have good cause to despise the Huntingtons. But she also remembered the kindness in Aidan Huntington’s eyes on that long-ago night, the sweet desire that rose up in her at his kiss. Could he truly be as black-souled as the rest of his family?
Of course he could. All men had the seeds of cruelty deep inside; she had learned that hard lesson over and over in her life. Even ones who hid behind a handsome face.
Maybe especially those.
Lily turned away from Dominic to rearrange the draperies. Now that her dream man was all too real, now that he had a name—and a hated name at that—she had to let him go. Harden her heart entirely even to his memory.
“We have far too much to do to involve ourselves in quarrels,” Lily said, forcing herself to laugh. “Now, tell me more about these fashionable furnishings I must look for…”
Chapter Two
“I’m glad to see you haven’t completely forgotten your duty to your family, Aidan,” the Duke of Carston growled. He waved his walking stick menacingly at the hapless footmen who tried to help him maneuver his wheeled chair into the drawing room. “Your mother was sure you could never pull yourself away from your disreputable pursuits to visit us. We’ve been in town for a fortnight now.”
“Perhaps if you’d let me know of your arrival, I might have ceased my disreputable pursuits and spared you an hour earlier,” Aidan said lightly. He leaned lazily against the marble mantel, arms crossed over his chest as he watched his father being lifted onto a brocade settee. The servants fluttered about like a mad flock of crows bearing tea and blankets. The duke shooed them all away with his stick.
Aidan couldn’t help but grin at the sight. The old rascal. Even riddled with gout, he terrorized everyone. No wonder Aidan and his brother stayed away whenever they could. The damnably hot months Aidan spent in the West Indies were bearable because it was very, very far away.
“If you were doing your duty and going about in good society, you would have known we were here,” the duke said. “Your mother’s friends say you refuse all their invitations.”
“Because their balls and musicales and such are decidedly dull, Father, as you well know after years of enduring them. I have work to do.”
“Work!” The duke gave a loud snort. “What sort of work d’you mean? Losing money at cards? Racing your blasted carriage? Chasing loose women?”
Aidan laughed. Yes, he did all of that on occasion—but he wasn’t about to tell his father about his real work. As much as the duke disliked dissipation, he would hate Aidan’s true passion even more. “A gentleman never tells, Father.”
“Gentleman? Humph!” The duke sat back on his settee and waved at the chair across from him. “Sit down already. You’re making my neck hurt staring up at you.”
Aidan sat down, propping one booted foot on the low end table despite his father’s fierce frown. His mother had recently redecorated in the new “Scottish” style, with tartan taffeta draperies at the windows, plaid-edged carpets, and gewgaws on every surface. Aidan had to be careful not to knock over any vases or statuettes.
“You’re right enough that those parties are dull as tombs,” the duke said. “But your mother wants you to go and meet her friends’ daughters. She’s been pining for grandchildren since you returned from the West Indies.”
Aidan laughed. Was that what this official visit was all about? Settling down, begetting little Huntingtons? He wasn’t ready for that yet, not by a mile. He was not yet thirty. And all those daughters, who paraded before him every time he dared show his face in a ballroom, were a lot of brainless gigglers trussed up in pink ruffles.
For an instant, another image flashed in his mind, of a different lady altogether. The woman who stood at the window of the house that was to let as he drove past. He had caught only a glimpse of her, a pale, heart-shaped face and shining brown hair. She was so still and serene-looking—until her white cheeks turned pink at his bold wave.
There was something so oddly familiar about her. He felt like he should know her, remember her, but the memory was just frustratingly out of reach. He only knew he had to find her again and discover who she was.
“Are you listening to me, Aidan?” his father barked.
Aidan glanced up to see his father sneakily pouring a tot of brandy into his tea. “Mother will be furious if she catches you with that. Didn’t the doctor say no brandy?”
“We aren’t talking about me, you impudent boy! We are talking about you, and your refusal to do your duty.”
“You’ll have to leave all that heir business to David. He’s your firstborn, the future duke and all that. I don’t care to marry yet.”
“Your brother is worse than you are. He won’t even leave the country, preferring instead to pretend to be a stable hand on his estate rather than behave properly. I have the two most ungrateful children in existence.”
“Yes, yes,” Aidan said impatiently. He had heard of his inadequacies and those of his elder brother for years. It was very boring now—especially when he needed to hunt down a certain lady. “We are wretched indeed.”
�
�Well, I daresay you will change your mind soon enough when you meet the right girl. Just as I did when I met your mother. But that isn’t the only reason I wanted to see you.”
“Is it not? How astonishing. What else have I done wrong this week?”
The duke ignored him. “It’s your mother’s silly nephew William again. He’s made a new investment and thinks I should look into it as well.”
“Oh? What is it this time?” Aidan asked casually, swinging his booted feet. Bill was constantly getting into speculative schemes and trying to involve his family in them too. Aidan steered clear—they failed more often than not. “Canals? Ships on the India trade?”
“A gambling club. Something very much in your line, I should think.”
Now that was a surprise. “A what, Father? Has Bill turned gamester on top of everything else?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He’s terrible at numbers, like everyone in your mother’s family. He says this is strictly an investment.”
“It sounds risky even for him. And especially for you.”
“Not as risky as all that. It’s to be an elegant, members-only sort of place, right around the corner from this street. All these brainless aristocrats will flock there and are sure to lose their money at such foolish things as faro.”
“Right around the corner, eh?” Aidan said, his interest piqued. Perhaps it was the house with the dark-haired lady in the window? “And who is to be the proprietor of this elegant place?”
“A Mr. Dominic St. Claire. Surely you know of him, as you’re always hanging about the theaters.”
Aidan’s interest rose. “I do know of the St. Claires. William St. Claire owns the Majestic Theater, and I heard Dominic St. Claire was a great Hamlet there only last month.” Was the woman a St. Claire, then?
It was his lucky day.
“So what then, Father?” Aidan said, concealing his interest. It would never do to arouse the duke’s suspicions. “You want me to put my money into this club as well?”
“Certainly not! You can’t afford to lose so much as a shilling. I just want you to inspect the place for me when it opens, see if it looks to be a good investment.” The duke tried on a cajoling smile, always a bad sign. “I can’t get out much with this damned chair, and I want to be sure of my money. It wouldn’t hurt for you to meet some of the club’s members either.”