A Reputation for Notoriety

by Diane Gaston

  Ned’s reasonable tone was grating on Rhys’s nerves. On Hugh’s, too, Rhys guessed.

  Ned continued. ‘Our reasoning is thus—if our father can lose a fortune in gaming hells, we should be able to recover a fortune by running one.’ He opened his palms. ‘Only we cannot be seen to be running one, even if we knew how. Which we do not. It would throw too much suspicion on our situation, you see, and that would cause our creditors to become impatient.’ He smiled at Rhys. ‘But you could do it. You have the expertise and...and there would not be any negative consequences for you.’

  Except risking arrest, Rhys thought.

  Although he could charge for membership. Call it a club, then it would be legal—

  Rhys stopped himself. He was not going to run a gaming hell for the Westleighs.

  ‘We need you,’ Hugh insisted.

  Were they mad? They’d scorned him his whole life. Now they expected him to help them?

  Rhys drained the contents of his glass and looked from one to the other. ‘You need me, but I do not need you.’

  Hugh half rose from his chair. ‘Our father supported you and your mother. You owe him. He sent you to school. Think of what would have happened if he had not!’

  Rhys glared at him, only a year younger than his own thirty years. ‘Think of what my mother’s life might have been like if the earl had not seduced her.’

  She might have married. She might have found respectability and happiness instead of bearing the burden of a child out of wedlock.

  She might have lived.

  Rhys turned away and pushed down the grief for his mother. It never entirely left him.

  Ned persisted. ‘Rhys, I do not blame you for despising our father or us, but our welfare is not the main issue. Countless people, some known to you, depend upon our family for their livelihood. The servants. The tenant farmers. The stable workers. The village and all its people in some fashion depend upon the Westleigh estate to be profitable. Too soon we will not be able to meet the expenses of planting. Like a house of cards, everything is in danger of collapsing and it is the people of Westleigh who will suffer the most dire of consequences.’

  Rhys curled his fingers into fists. ‘Do not place upon my shoulders the damage done by the earl. It has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You are our last resort,’ Hugh implored. ‘We’ve tried leasing the estate, but in these hard times, no one is forthcoming.’

  Farming was going through difficult times, that was true. The war left much financial hardship in its wake. There was plenty of unrest and protest around the country about the Corn Laws keeping grain prices high, but, without the laws, more farms would fold.

  All the more reason the earl should have exercised prudence instead of profligacy.

  ‘Leave me out of it.’

  ‘We cannot leave you out of it!’ Hugh jumped to his feet and paced the room. ‘We need you. Do you not hear me? You must do this for us!’

  ‘Hugh, you are not helping.’ Ned also rose.

  Rhys stood and faced them both. ‘Words our father once spoke to me, I will repeat to you. I am under no obligation to do anything for you.’ He turned away and walked over to the decanter of brandy, pouring himself another glass. ‘Our conversation is at an end.’

  There was no sound of them moving towards the door. Rhys turned and faced them once again. ‘You need to leave me, gentlemen. Go now, or, believe me, I am quite capable of tossing you both out.’

  Hugh took a step towards him. ‘I should like to see you try!’

  Ned pulled him away. ‘We are leaving. We are leaving. But I do beg you to reconsider. This could bring you a fortune. We have enough to finance the start of it. All we need is—’

  Rhys lowered his voice. ‘Go.’

  Ned dragged his brother to the door. They gathered their hats and gloves and left the rooms.

  Rhys stared at the door long after their footsteps faded in the hallway.

  MacEvoy appeared. ‘Do you need anything, sir?’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘Nothing, MacEvoy. You do not need to attend me.’

  MacEvoy left again and Rhys downed his brandy. He poured himself another glass, breathing as heavy as if he’d run a league.

  He almost wished Hugh had swung at him. He’d have relished planting a fist in the man’s face, a face too disturbingly similar to his own.

  A knock sounded at the door and Rhys strode over and swung it open. ‘I told you to be gone!’

  ‘Whoa!’ Xavier raised his hands. ‘They are gone.’

  Rhys stepped aside. ‘What were you doing? Lurking in the hallway?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Xavier entered the room. ‘I could not wait a moment longer to hear what they wanted.’

  Rhys poured another glass of brandy and handed it to his friend. ‘Have a seat. You will not believe this, I assure you...’

  * * *

  Sending away the Westleighs ought to have been the end of it. Rhys ought to have concentrated on his cards that night rather than observe the workings of the gaming hell on St James’s Street. He ought to have slept well without his thoughts racing.

  Over the next few days, though, he visited as many gambling establishments as he could, still playing cards, but taking in everything from the arrangements of the tables, the quality of the meals, the apparent profitability of the various games.

  ‘Why this tour of gaming hells?’ Xavier asked him as they walked to yet another establishment off of St James’s. ‘A different one each night? That is not your habit, Rhys. You usually stick to one place long enough for the high-stakes players to ask you to play.’

  Rhys lifted his shoulders. ‘No special reason. Call it a whim.’

  His friend looked doubtful.

  Rhys did not wish to admit to himself that he was considering his half-brothers’ offer, although all the people who had been kind to his mother in the village kept rising to his memory. He could almost envision their suffering eyes if Westleigh Hall was left in ruins. He could almost feel their hunger.

  If he pushed the faces away, thoughts of how much money he could make came to the fore. The Westleighs would be taking the risk, not Rhys. For Rhys it was almost a safe bet.

  If only it had been anyone but the Westleighs.

  Rhys sounded the knocker on the door of an innocuous-appearing town house. A huge bear of a man in colourful livery opened the door. Rhys had not been to this house in perhaps a year, but it appeared unchanged.

  ‘How do you do, Cummings?’ he said to the liveried servant. ‘I have been gone too long from here.’

  ‘G’d evening, Mr Rhysdale,’ Cummings responded in his deep monotone. He nodded to Xavier. ‘Mr Campion.’

  Cummings might act the doorman, but he’d be better described as the gatekeeper, allowing only certain people in, chucking out any patron who became rowdy or combative.

  Cummings took their hats and gloves. ‘Nothing has changed here. Except some of the girls. They come and go. The game room is up the stairs. Same as always.’

  Rhys was not interested in the girls, who often sold their favours on the side.

  He glanced around the hall. Nothing appeared changed.

  Three years ago he’d been a frequent patron of this place. He, like so many gentlemen at that time, had been intrigued by a masked woman who came to play cards and often did quite well. She’d been a mystery and that intensified her appeal. Soon the men were wagering on which of them would bed her first, all properly written down in the betting book. Rhys had not been interested in seducing a woman just to win a bet.

  He shook his head. He had not thought of that masked woman in years. Who had won her? he wondered.

  He turned back to Cummings. ‘And Madame Bisou. Is she here tonight?’ Madame Bisou owned this establishment.

  ‘Aye. She should be in the game room.’ Cummings turned away to store their hats.

  Rhys and Xavier climbed the stairs and entered the game room, all a-bustle with activity as the time approached midnight. The haz
ard table was in the centre of the room, encircled by eager players. The familiar sound of dice shaken in a cup and shouts of ‘Seven!’ reached Rhys’s ears, followed by the roll of the dice on the green baize and more shouting. Now and again a patron might win big, but the odds always favoured the bank, as they did in faro and rouge et noir. The two faro tables stood against one wall, nearly obscured by players; the other side held the games of rouge et noir. Rhys avoided all these games, where winning was almost completely dependent on luck. He confined himself to games of skill.

  ‘I thought you came to play cards.’ Xavier nudged him.

  ‘I have,’ he responded. ‘But I have not been here in a year. I am taking stock of the room.’

  At that moment, a buxom woman with flaming red hair hurried towards them. ‘Monsieur Rhysdale. Monsieur Campion. How good it is to see you. It has been trop longtemps, no?’

  Rhys smiled both at the pleasure of seeing her again and at her atrocious French accent. ‘Madame Bisou!’ He leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek and whispered in her ear, ‘How are you, Penny?’

  ‘Très bien, cher,’ she responded, but her smile looked stressed. She turned to greet Xavier before Rhys could ask more.

  In those difficult London days of his youth Madame Bisou had been Penny Jones, a decade older than he and just as determined to free herself from the shackles of poverty. They’d both used what God had provided them: Rhys, his skill at cards—Penny, her body. But she did not spend all the money she earned on gin like so many of the other girls. She’d saved and invested and finally bought this place. She’d been running it for almost ten years.

  ‘Why has it been so long since you have been here?’ She took Rhys’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘I am asking myself that same question.’ Rhys smiled at her, genuinely glad to see an old friend.

  Her tone changed to one of business. ‘What is your pleasure today, gentlemen? Do you wish a woman? Or a game of chance?’

  Xavier answered her. ‘A game of whist, if we can manage it.’

  Rhys would have preferred merely to watch the room for a little while, but Penny found them two willing high-stakes partners.

  When the play was over, Rhys and Xavier collected their winnings, more modest than most nights, but Rhys had to admit to being distracted. They moved on to the supper room. One of the girls began a flirtation with Xavier. Rhys spied Penny sitting in a far corner.

  He walked over to her. ‘It is not like you to sit alone, Penny. Is something amiss? Might I help?’

  She sighed wearily and appeared, for the moment, much older than her forty years. ‘I have lost the heart for this, Rhys. I wish I could just walk away from it all....’

  Rhys’s heart beat faster. ‘Are you thinking of selling the business?’

  ‘How can it be done? I cannot advertise.’ Her gaming hell was illegal. ‘I am too weary to even think how to accomplish it.’

  This was unlike her. Penny always found a way to do precisely as she wished.

  Rhys’s nostrils filled with the scent of opportunity.

  Fate was shoving him in the direction he must go. He was the solution to Penny’s problems. He could save his old village. He could enrich his coffers.

  All he must do was sell his soul to the devil.

  His father.

  * * *

  The next day Rhys presented himself at the Westleigh town house. He’d not told Xavier his intention. He’d not wanted to be talked out of it.

  It was well before the fashionable hour for making calls. Probably well before Ned and Hugh rose. It was half-past nine, a time working men and women were well into their day while the wealthy still slept. But Rhys needed to do this first thing or risk the chance of changing his mind.

  The footman who answered the door led him to a drawing room off the hall. Unfortunately, the room was dominated by a huge portrait of the earl. Painted with arms crossed, the image of Earl Westleigh stared down, his expression stern and, Rhys fancied, disapproving.

  Let his image disapprove. Rhys knew his own worth. He was determined the world should know it soon enough.

  Still the earl’s presence in this house set his nerves on edge. Would he join Ned and Hugh for this interview? Rhys half hoped so. He would relish standing in a superior position to this man who once held power over his life.

  But it was far more likely the earl would do anything possible to avoid his bastard son.

  Rhys’s brothers, to their credit, did not keep him waiting long. He heard their hurried footsteps and their hushed voices before they entered the room.

  Ned walked towards him as if he would offer his hand to shake, but he halted and gestured to a chair instead. ‘Shall we sit?’

  Hugh held back and looked solemn.

  Rhys calmly looked from one to the other. ‘I believe I’ll stand.’

  His response had the desired effect. Both men shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Are we to assume your presence here to mean you have reconsidered our offer?’ Ned asked.

  Rhys inwardly grimaced. Ned called it an offer? ‘I came to further the discussion of whether I am willing to rescue you and our father from penury.’

  ‘Why?’ Hugh demanded in a hot voice. ‘What changed your mind?’

  Rhys levelled a gaze at him. ‘Call it an attack of family loyalty, if you like. I did not say I’ve changed my mind.’

  Ned placed a stilling hand on Hugh’s arm, but spoke to Rhys. ‘What do you wish to discuss?’

  Rhys shrugged. ‘Well, for one, it takes a great deal of money to start a gaming establishment. Will I be expected to invest my own money? Because I would not stake my fortune against something so risky.’

  ‘How is it risky?’ Hugh cried. ‘The house always has the advantage. You know that.’

  ‘The house can be broken,’ Rhys countered. ‘It is all chance.’ Rhys succeeded at cards by reducing chance.

  ‘But it is not likely, is it?’ Hugh shot back.

  Ned’s eyes flashed a warning to Hugh, before he turned to Rhys again. ‘The monetary investment will be ours.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It is now or never for us, Rhys. We’ve scraped the last of our fortune to bank this enterprise. All we want from you—all we need from you—is to run it.’

  They must truly be desperate to devise a plan like this, especially as it involved him. Desperate or mad.

  ‘A gaming house will not make much money right away unless it can quickly build a reputation. It must distinguish itself from other places. Give gamblers a reason to attend.’ Rhys paused. ‘You want to attract the high-stakes gamblers who have money to throw away.’

  ‘It must be an honest house,’ Hugh snapped. ‘No rigged dice. No marked cards.’

  Rhys gave him a scathing look. ‘Are you attempting to insult me, Hugh? If you do not think me an honest man, why ask me to run it?’

  Hugh averted his gaze.

  ‘No cheating of any kind,’ Rhys reiterated. ‘And no prostitution. I will tolerate neither.’ He’d keep the girls at Madame Bisou’s employed, but he’d have nothing to do with them selling their bodies.

  ‘We are certainly in agreement with all you say,’ Ned responded.

  Rhys went on. ‘Within the parameters of honesty, I must be given free rein in how the house is run.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ned agreed.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Hugh glared. ‘What precisely do you mean by free rein?’

  ‘I mean I decide how to run it,’ Rhys responded. ‘There will be no countering of what I choose to do.’

  ‘What do you choose to do?’ Hugh shot back.

  Rhys kept his tone even. ‘I will make this house the one every wealthy aristocrat or merchant wants to attend. I want to attract not only wealthy men, but ladies, as well.’

  ‘Ladies!’ Hugh looked appalled.

  ‘We all know ladies like to gamble as well as gentlemen, but ladies risk censure for it, so I propose we run the house like a masquerade. Anyone may come in costume or masked. That way th
ey can play without risk to their reputation.’ This had worked for the masked woman who’d come to Madame Bisou’s and caused such a stir those years ago. No one had ever learned who she was.

  Rhys had thought this all through. It had been spinning in his mind ever since Ned and Hugh first proposed he run a gambling house. He would call it the Masquerade Club. Members could join for a nominal fee. They could dress in masquerade as long as they purchased their counters with the coin in their pockets. If they sought credit or were forced to sign a promissory note, they must reveal their identity.

  He continued explaining to Ned and Hugh. ‘This is my plan thus far. It is not up to negotiation. If I come up with a better idea, I will implement it and I will not confer with you beforehand.’

  ‘See here—’ Hugh began.

  Ned waved a hand. ‘Leave it, Hugh. As long as it is honest and profitable, what do we care how the place is run?’ He turned to Rhys. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I want half the profit.’

  ‘Half?’ Hugh shouted.

  Rhys faced him again. ‘You risk money, but it is my reputation that will be at risk. We can charge a nominal subscription and call it a gaming club, but there is still the risk that it will be declared illegal. I must be compensated for that risk.’ Besides, he intended to give Penny a portion of his profits, as part of the sale, and Xavier, too, if he was willing to help.

  ‘I think your terms are agreeable,’ Ned responded. ‘Shall we discuss how much money you need to get started?’

  Rhys nodded, but tapped a finger against his lips. ‘I do have a question.’

  Ned looked up suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Does the earl know you wish me to do this?’

  The brothers exchanged glances.

  ‘He knows,’ Ned answered.

  And was not happy about it, Rhys guessed. Something Rhys counted upon. Besides earning a profit, Rhys wanted the gaming house to provide him another pay-off. He wanted to rub the earl’s nose in the fact that it was his bastard son who pulled him from the brink of ruin. Rhys wanted revenge against the man who sired him and never, ever, acknowledged that fact, who had instead turned him away without a penny, not caring if he lived or died.