Sophie tucked the blankets under her chin as they debated the question. That simple comment, calling her not only clever but by her given name, caused an unexpected warmth inside her. She was all alone in the world now, with Mama and Papa dead, her grandfather an ogre, and her mother’s family a continent away. She vaguely knew she had an uncle or two, and perhaps even cousins somewhere, but none of them were coming to her aid.
She might not have any family worth knowing, but true and honest friends would be a good start. And she had a powerful feeling that she, Eliza, and Georgiana were destined to be great friends.
Chapter 1
1819
London
The Vega Club occupied a curious position in London. Tucked away on a dead-end street not far from St. James Square, it sat precisely midway between the wealth and elegance of Mayfair and the brutal squalor of the Whitechapel rookeries. It made no bones about catering to both extremes; it was said that anyone—duke or dockworker, lady or lady of the street—could apply to become a member. There were only two requirements of those fortunate enough to secure the stamped silver token of membership.
Pay your debts. Hold your tongue.
It was rumored that members were required to take an oath pledging not to reveal anything that happened within Vega’s walls. Rumored, because no one could, or would, confirm it. When confronted directly, members would claim not to know anything about it before quickly walking away. But since even the most determined scandalmongers were frustrated in their attempts to learn many details about the gaming club, the pledge of secrecy became part of Vega’s legend, whether or not it was true. And that encouraged the spread of all manner of stories about what did go on.
Jack Lindeville, Duke of Ware, knew all about Vega’s. It was the bane of his life even though he himself never went there. His younger brother, Philip, frequented the place, along with his crowd of friends. They invited him to accompany them from time to time, but Jack always declined. He knew why he was welcome at their tables, and it wasn’t for his charm and wit. Young men on fixed incomes, even generous fixed incomes, were always in search of someone wealthy to play against, and as Philip often reminded him, Ware was one of the richest dukedoms in England.
Jack interpreted that to mean that he looked like a prime mark for Philip’s friends with empty pockets. Unfortunately for them, he wasn’t fool enough to go. One bit of bad luck, and a man’s life could be ruined.
His lip curled at that thought as his carriage turned up St. Martin’s Lane on its way to the Vega Club. Bad luck, Philip claimed, had been the cause of his most recent downfall: the two of clubs, when all he needed to win was any card higher than a three. Philip was sure he had calculated the odds correctly and the dealer had made a mistake, although he dared not say so and risk his membership. But the result was that he had signed a note for almost two thousand pounds, which he could not pay.
Philip was penitent. He apologized for asking such a favor. He promised it would never happen again, even though it had happened several times before. But he also told their mother, who swept into Jack’s study in a storm of indignation and insisted he settle the debt to prevent Philip being humiliated or impoverished.
At first Jack would have none of it. Philip brought it on himself, and if he was man enough to sign a note that size, he was man enough to work out how to honor it. But his mother argued, and then cajoled, and then she began weeping and bitterly accusing him of callous indifference to his family duty. At that, Jack relented. When the duchess made up her mind, there was no reasoning with her.
The carriage rocked to a halt. The footman opened the door and Jack stepped down. He’d pay this debt for Philip, but not without repercussions. His brother had an independent income—thanks to his mother—but he also drew an allowance from the Ware estates, which Jack controlled. For seven years he’d safeguarded those estates, and he’d be damned if his hard work would be siphoned off by Philip’s bad luck at the card tables.
Thin-lipped, he strode into the club. A burly fellow in impeccable evening clothing appeared before he’d taken two steps. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Dashwood,” Jack replied, naming the club’s owner. He drew out one of his cards and offered it.
“Is he expecting you?”
Jack smiled humorlessly. “I daresay he won’t be surprised by my arrival.” Philip was not shy about trading on the Ware name. If Mr. Dashwood were half as canny as his reputation suggested, he’d probably been anticipating Jack’s visit from the moment Philip scrawled his signature on that marker.
The manager gave him an appraising glance. “Perhaps not. Would you care to wait in the dining room?”
God no. He might see someone he knew and be caught in conversation. Jack wanted this over and done with as soon as possible, preferably with no one aware that it had happened. “I’ll wait here,” he replied in a tone that made it clear he did not expect to wait long.
The manager bowed his head. “Perhaps you’d rather play a hand or two in the meanwhile?”
Over the man’s shoulder Jack could see into the main salon of Vega’s. It wasn’t tawdry or garish, as he had somewhat expected, but refined; it looked like a normal gentleman’s club . . . except for the women. Not house wenches clinging to men’s sides, but society ladies. Jack’s brows went up a fraction as he glimpsed Lady Rotherwood, playing whist.
“Vega’s doesn’t exclude the ladies,” remarked the manager, following his gaze. “It’s a bit of a surprise to some gentlemen, but they soon see the benefit.”
Jack’s mouth firmed. Empty-headed ladies could lose a fortune just as easily as reckless young men. “No doubt.” He wondered if Philip had ever lost so dramatically to a woman and then decided it hardly mattered. Money lost was money lost.
Still, it piqued his curiosity. Ladies, gambling with men. How novel. The manager left to inform Mr. Dashwood, and Jack took a step forward to survey the club through the protective screen of a tall stand of palms.
He recognized Angus Whitley and Fergus Fraser, some of Philip’s mates. They sat at a table with another man, and a woman in a vivid crimson gown who had her back to him. Her dark hair was swept up in a twist, exposing her pale skin. She wore a thin black ribbon around her neck, tied in a neat little bow at her nape, and the loose end curled enticingly, tempting a man to tug it loose.
Jack’s eyes lingered on her. What sort of woman wanted to be a member of a gaming club? Every decent woman would shy away from the mere thought of it. Lady Rotherwood, for all that she was a viscountess, was known to be a bit fast. What were the requirements for membership, he wondered; did they differ for men and women? Not that Vega’s could be very stringent, as Philip had had no difficulty gaining entry. Philip, with only his illustrious name and considerable charm and abominable luck at cards to recommend him.
Whitley made an exclamation, tossing down his cards. Fraser laughed, preening in victory. He reached for the pile of money in the center of the table, but the woman stopped him by laying her fingers on his wrist. Jack had no idea what she said, but from the way Fraser’s face went blank with shock, he supposed it wasn’t good news. The other man laid down his cards and began to laugh, a hearty bellow that turned heads. Clearly the woman had trounced them all.
And rather than being dismayed at being the focus of attention, she responded to it. She said something that made Whitley give a shout of laughter, and fellows at the next table chuckled. Jack couldn’t see her face but he could tell she was pleased, just from the angle of her head, tipped ever so slightly to one side as she collected her winnings and Whitley shuffled the cards for another round.
No wonder Philip liked the place. Jack wondered if his brother knew the lady in crimson.
“Your Grace,” said a voice behind him. Jack turned, glad to shake off that thought. The manager was back. “Mr. Dashwood will see you.”
He led the way through a door set discreetly beside the palms, down a short corridor to another door. He knocked once, then swept it open and bowed as Jack went in.
“Nicholas Dashwood, at your service, Your Grace.” Dashwood bowed. He was a tall rangy fellow, his face all lean hard lines and angles. “I apologize for the delay. I didn’t expect you.”
“I’ve come about my brother’s debt.”
One corner of Dashwood’s mouth lifted at Jack’s cool tone. “He said you might.”
Jack repressed a spike of fury that Philip had presumed that strongly enough to tell Dashwood. He should have known, though; Philip was shameless in getting out of anything unpleasant.
The club owner walked around his desk and picked up a paper lying on its surface. “Two thousand one hundred and twenty pounds.”
Jack took a controlled breath to control his temper yet again. Philip had lied about that, too, claiming it was less than two thousand. “May I see?”
Dashwood handed it over with a faint smile. He must deal with this all the time. It took only a cursory examination to determine that it was Philip’s handwriting, promising the large sum to Sir Lester Bagwell. “Is it customary for you to guarantee debts for your members?” Jack handed back the note.
“I guarantee nothing.” Dashwood leaned against his desk. “Members are free to exchange notes or funds directly. On occasion they prefer to have me hold them—not as guarantor but as a favor. I am an intermediary, if you will. We have only a few rules at Vega’s, the most important of which is to pay your debts.”
Meaning Sir Lester feared Philip wouldn’t pay what he owed, and wanted Dashwood to enforce the rule of the club. Grimly Jack wrote a draft on his bank for the sum, mentally excoriating his brother. Without a word he offered it to Dashwood, who handed him Philip’s note in exchange.
“A pleasure, Your Grace.” Dashwood went to the door. “If you’re ever in search of a table to play, I hope you’ll return to Vega’s.”
Not bloody likely, thought Jack.
Dashwood escorted him back to the front of the house. On impulse he looked toward the main salon again, through the palm fronds. His brother had solemnly promised to give up the tables for a month in penance, to retrench on his spending and learn some moderation in his habits. Philip would not be here. But the lady in crimson . . . He had the strangest desire to see her face. Just to know what sort of woman joined a gaming hell.
To his shock, he did spy his brother’s dark head at the center of the room, in a small crowd of people gathered around a table. Jack stopped short. Already Philip was back at it, placing wagers he couldn’t afford, no doubt telling anyone who asked that his brother would pay his losses tonight, tomorrow, on into eternity. As he watched, a cheer broke out, and Philip threw up his hands and laughed.
Jack knew that mannerism. Philip was losing. He always lost with a laugh, a quip, a grandiose gesture. It was only later, when he had to contemplate the consequences of his loss, that he became contrite. Having just settled a very large gambling loss, Jack felt fully in the right dragging his brother out of the club before he could incur another one—which, Jack realized with fury, he was quite likely to do. Philip was playing hazard, a game of almost pure chance. He turned on his heel and brushed by Dashwood as he strode into the room.
“If I must lose,” Philip declared gallantly as he drew nearer, “at least I’m losing to the most beautiful woman in London.” The crowd around him laughed in boisterous appreciation.
Idiot, Jack seethed, barging through the crowd. You don’t have to lose, you just have to stop playing. Dashwood would cancel his membership if Jack refused to pay this debt. In fact, Jack would have no qualms getting his brother’s gaming privileges revoked across London. He had accepted that his life was to be given in service to the Ware estates, but damned if he’d beggar himself settling Philip’s debts.
He reached the front of the crowd, unfortunately opposite his brother. Oblivious to his glowering presence, Philip gave an extravagant bow and held out the dice to a woman—the same woman in crimson who’d been playing cards earlier with Philip’s feckless friends.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, her words colored with laughter. “It’s always a pleasure winning from you.” She turned to face the table and raised the dice to brush her lips over them. “Five,” she called, naming her mark and managing to make it sound seductive, before she made her cast. The crowd gave a boisterous huzzah, but Jack’s gaze was locked on her.
Not beautiful in the classic sense, but mesmerizing. Her face was a perfect oval, her eyes the color of sherry. A silver locket hung on the black ribbon around her neck, and when she leaned forward to collect the dice again, Jack got a glimpse of her bosom, threatening to spill over the crimson fabric. She straightened and gave Philip a flirtatious glance as she made her second cast. Jack managed to tear his eyes off her in time to see the focused interest in his brother’s face.
Two thoughts careened through his mind. First, that she was a siren of old, as brazen as brass and as wily as a serpent. Philip was so busy staring at her bosom he didn’t even notice how badly he was losing.
And second, Jack wanted her.
Chapter 2
The Vega Club was very nearly Sophie Campbell’s second home.
In fanciful moments she imagined Vega’s had once been the home of a gentleman, perhaps even an earl or a marquess. It wore its dark wood paneling like a comfortable suit of clothing, inured to the elegance of its crystal chandeliers and plush carpets. Other gaming hells had a closed-up feel, as if sunlight were some sort of plague to be avoided, but not Vega’s. Draperies were only closed at night, and there were windows built high into the walls to allow fresh air on warm evenings. Smoking was confined to a room at the back, and the dining room rivaled the one at Mivart’s Hotel, presumably so the female members were more at ease.
That was the most important feature of Vega’s: women were allowed. Not merely as guests of a man, but as full members in their own right. It was not easy to gain membership, but Sophie had recognized early on that it was the ideal place for her purposes. The Vega Club attracted all sorts of men, and they were all willing to lose to a woman. That was vital to her, for that was how she earned her living.
From the moment she arrived at Mrs. Upton’s Academy, Sophie had known that she would be entirely on her own when she was grown. The morning of her eighteenth birthday, Mrs. Upton had summoned her to gently break the news that Lord Makepeace would no longer pay her tuition. Since the viscount’s letter had arrived the morning of her birthday, Sophie could only imagine how long the bitter old man had been looking forward to sending it. The headmistress offered her a position teaching mathematics, but Sophie declined. At Mrs. Upton’s, her chances of making a good life were small; in the great world, who knew? She’d always been one to play the odds.
It certainly hadn’t been easy. Without funds, she’d taken employment as companion to a widowed viscountess. Anna, Lady Fox, had been a revelation. She was unconventional and bold, generous and witty, and she planted the seeds of an idea in Sophie’s mind. Every woman needs a fortune of her own, she often said—making Sophie smile in wry agreement, wishing it were that easy. But Lady Fox meant what she said. When she died, she left Sophie three hundred pounds. A good beginning, she wrote in her will; a rare stroke of fortune, to Sophie’s mind, and not one to waste. With that three hundred pounds, plus her own small savings, she invented a dead husband, changed her name, and went to London at the age of twenty-one to put her Grand Plan into effect.
It was a simple plan, really. Once she had secured her independence, she would be mistress of her own fate and able to chart her own course. If independence—which meant money—weren’t the key to happiness, it was at least a very great factor in it, and accordingly Sophie set about gaining it with her one profitable skill: gambling.
At times she felt a pang of remorse for livin
g off others’ losses. She remembered well Mrs. Upton’s lectures against gaming, and she knew that the headmistress had been correct about it being dangerous and ruinous. Even though she had developed iron-clad rules to prevent herself losing too much, there was always the matter of her reputation . . . such as it was.
Her friends worried about that, too. Ever since that first day at Mrs. Upton’s over a decade ago, she, Georgiana, and Eliza had been inseparable. During the years when Sophie was with Lady Fox and her friends were still at school, their letters had flown back and forth weekly. Now that they were all in London—Eliza at her father’s home in Greenwich and Georgiana with her chaperone the Countess of Sidlow—they made sure to have tea every fortnight, usually at Sophie’s snug little house in Alfred Street.
“Surely you could invest some money, as well?” Eliza often asked. “It must be safer.”
“Never,” was Sophie’s firm answer. “Playing the ‘Change is the riskiest gambling there is.”
“Papa does quite well, and he’s offered many times to advise you,” Eliza reminded her. Which was no solace at all to Sophie; Mr. Cross could afford to lose a thousand pounds on a bad stock, while she could not.
Georgiana thought she should make a different sort of investment. “What you really ought to do is make one of the gentlemen at Vega’s fall in love with you. Sterling says Sir Thomas Mayfield would be a brilliant match for you.” Viscount Sterling was Georgiana’s intended husband, and her most frequently cited authority on everything.
That made Sophie laugh. “Thomas Mayfield! A baronet? You must be mad.”
“Mad!” Georgiana widened her expressive green eyes. She turned to Eliza. “Am I mad to suggest she set her cap for a tall, handsome gentleman? The sort of gentleman who could make most ladies in London swoon with just one devilish smile?”
My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1) Page 2