Correction. Caldwell was dead. This was now Theodore’s study, if he would ever see his way back to England to take over the title and the estate. Take over all of the burdens that were swallowing her whole.
Her mother and father stared down at her. Faces she had no memory of, except for this painting. Pride was always the thing that tantalized her about the portrait. Pride in both of their faces. What they had been looking at when the artist had captured them—what would have created that unabashed pride? The question she asked every time she looked at the portrait. Had it been her three brothers? All of them had been alive when the portrait was done, according to Caldwell.
She could easily picture her brothers when they were young, dancing behind the artist, demanding attention. The three of them had always demanded attention. Theo would have been the rascal, dragging his brothers into misbehaving, claiming the whole time with laughter about how much joy they were spreading. Alfred, always thinking, would have been engineering a way for the mischievousness to abound. And Caldwell would have been directing the mayhem, if not antagonizing it into a higher level with a wicked smile.
Three blond heads bobbing madcap about. Once, as they had been their whole lives.
Her chest tightened.
Where the hell was Theodore?
Her husband was dead. Two of her brothers in the ground. The third missing.
No. Not missing. He just had not replied to her last letter two months ago, which had reiterated Caldwell’s death. Nor had Theo replied to the five letters before that reporting the very same thing.
She shook her head. Not missing.
But gone. And that meant she was the sole one to support the Alton estate with what little was left of her dowry—and her widow’s third from the Pipworth estate that barely bought enough bread for the three servants here at the Alton townhouse.
She had moved back to her family’s townhouse because of the twins—in truth, she had wanted to continue to live here to be near her nieces after Caldwell died nearly two years before. Five years old at the time of their father’s death, the twins had found themselves motherless, fatherless. But they still had Adalia.
Yet after she married Lord Pipworth, he had not allowed the girls to come with Adalia and live at the Pipworth townhouse. Nor would he allow Adalia to leave and move back into the Alton home.
So Adalia had wasted no time in packing her belongings and moving back into her family’s home the day her husband died, even though the Pipworth dower house was now hers to use. Her nieces needed her. And she needed them.
At least her husband’s death had allowed her to right one wrong.
Adalia let the rock slip from her fingers, thudding softly onto the desk. Damn the mine. They had spent far too much time and resources attempting to find a new vein to source, and now they had nothing.
She needed money. Needed it desperately. She needed to keep her family’s name, the legacy—her nieces’ chances for proper matches one day—intact until Theodore returned. She was the only one left to do it.
At the sound of the ore thumping onto the desk, Hazard, Caldwell’s wolfhound and fierce protector of the twins, sat up next to her and nudged her thigh with his nose. She scratched the wiry grey hairs behind his ears, calming his alarm.
Her gaze shifted to the glowing coals in the fireplace. The day had been warm, but now a definite chill had set into the air. Spring not yet quite free of the shackles of winter.
Even the coal for warmth would be hard to come by in a month’s time.
Damn that she had no skills to make money with.
Marriage was out. She had been an utter failure at that. No heir. A husband that barely regarded her presence. No. She would not subject herself to that again.
Adalia’s stare slipped to the sideboard next to the fireplace, her eyes riveted on the half-filled decanter of brandy. If she was to ever start imbibing the vile liquid, now would be the time. Her tongue curdling, she scraped it on the edge of her front teeth. The one time she had tried it with her brothers while in the throes of a particularly long night of playing whist had been enough.
Her look skittered along the sideboard to the ebony card box that held playing cards and counters. The brass inlaid cover was flipped open, displaying the two decks of worn playing cards and the brass gaming counters minted with the Alton crest. The twins must have been snooping into it, as it was usually closed, though everything appeared to be in place.
Walking to the sideboard, she stopped, flipping up the top card from the deck on the right. Queen of diamonds. The queen of diamonds always went on top. Always in charge. When she was younger, she always liked to imagine that the queen of diamonds represented her, because wasn’t that what her brothers had always done for her—put her on top?
Except the reality of being in charge in no way aligned with what she had fantasized. Being in charge was exhausting.
Her thumb slipped down along the corners of the cards. Soft, smooth, the edges of the cards were tattered from wear. She had long since memorized every bend and scratch on each card—an advantage she had never confessed to her brothers. Though she was pretty sure Alfred knew she had—just as she suspected he had memorized them all as well. And Alfred had always insisted on not replacing the decks, no matter how Caldwell and Theodore grumbled upon the worn cards.
Devil take it, they had probably all memorized the cards.
Exhaling the memories that had landed like a brick in her chest, she shook her head, even as she could not tear her eyes away from the symbol of the past. She needed to concentrate, plan—not wallow.
Money. She needed money.
She could learn to scrub floors. Take in sewing. But she also knew how very little that would add to the coffers. Not nearly enough to keep the Alton estate sound. To keep the creditors at bay. Or even to feed the girls.
No. She needed a healthy source of income. One that didn’t entail a husband. But how could she scheme it?
Her gaze locked on the worn brass counters in the card box. Truth told, she had no skills other than with the cards. She had always been able to turn her pin money into double in nights when the opportunity arose. That was what being raised by three brothers who loved to gamble got her.
The thought started small, a tiny, niggling idea that refused to shrink away, only growing bigger with each second that passed.
She was particularly canny with the cards.
She had a dower house at her disposal.
She did have a wide set of wealthy friends that loved to gamble.
What had her brothers always said? The house always wins.
Perhaps.
Her eyes captivated on the card box, her head tilted. Her brothers had raised her to possess one outstanding skill. To gamble.
And shouldn’t one always bet on their one outstanding skill?
She could open a gaming house. She wouldn’t be the first woman to do so.
But no.
She couldn’t. It would mean scandal.
But…but if it was successful, it would also keep her family’s estate solvent until Theodore returned home. And she would be as discreet as possible. It would save her family’s good name, and save the possibility for the twins to marry well—or well enough.
Those two things she had to preserve at all costs.
Scandal for her, she could accept that. As Lord Pipworth’s widow, it was primarily now his family’s name that she would taint. Their dower house. Any modicum of guilt she should feel on that matter had shriveled when her husband jumped into the Thames to save his drowning mistress.
Scandalize the Pipworth name. Save the Alton estate.
Yes. She could live with that.
{ Chapter 2 }
June, 1813
Toren Felshaw, fourteenth Duke of Dellon, took a long sip of port, studying the elegant ballroom from the slight cove offered by the back right corner of the room.
Could Theodore possibly have known his younger sister had this in her?
Alive with merriment in all nooks, the Pipworth dower house sparkled, with shouts of victory and robust clapping cutting into the air above the lively music of the string quartet. Everywhere Toren glanced, laughter flowed, along with the coins streaming from purses.
The Revelry’s Tempest. The most exciting gaming house to capture the ton’s fancy in years.
She had turned her dower house into a den of gaming. A successful den of gaming, by the looks of it. Wellington’s latest victories on the peninsula had apparently bolstered confidence and loosened purse strings.
The tall, white wainscoting along the walls of the ballroom and the attached drawing room reflected the candlelight of the chandeliers, keeping the rooms bright into the darkest part of the night. Five hazard tables scattered throughout the ballroom were full, a crush of people three deep around each of them. Twelve smaller card tables held various pleasures—baccarat, whist, and piquet. In the corner opposite him a crowd of men and women had gathered for caterpillar races. At the far end of the drawing room, bets were flying on blindfolded wives being able to identify their husbands by feeling foreheads.
No matter how one wanted to wager—the Revelry’s Tempest, apparently, served it up on a bright, shiny platter.
He shook his head slightly.
He hadn’t thought Lady Pipworth was capable of all this. The woman he had met at Lord Pipworth’s funeral had been diminutive. Utterly quiet. Drowning in hastily bought black mourning crepe.
That was, she had been diminutive until she had opened her mouth. He should have known in that moment not to underestimate Theodore’s little sister.
His height giving him an advantage, he looked over the tops of heads, scanning faces in the room until he spotted the proprietress. Or, at least the person he assumed was Lady Pipworth. She had been buried under so much black lace at the funeral he hadn’t seen her face fully.
Lady Pipworth stood beside the large fireplace in the ballroom, her face strained as she listened to the man at her left. She nodded to the man, her lips searching for a contrived smile. The same height as Lady Pipworth, the man was portly, bald, and talking at a speed that sent spittle to gather at the corner of his mouth.
Admonishing Lady Pipworth, perhaps?
She shook her head in sudden disagreement, interrupting him as she pointed to several tables around the room, and her eyes turned sharply to the man. Whatever he had just told her, she did not care for.
At least the woman was contrary with others as well—the same as she had been with Toren.
He stared at her in the glow of the ballroom’s candlelight. Her hair piled elegantly with one bandeau of black securing a single black ostrich feather to her head, the dark color of it set off the blond in her hair and highlighted the strands of red that mixed haphazardly through her upsweep. Unique coloring. And charming.
Her black silk gown, simple, but cut low across the swell of her breasts, floated outward as she spun toward the ballroom again, pointing at more tables as she spoke. It gave Toren a full view of her face.
Pretty, and he hadn’t expected her to be pretty. Beautiful, even. Her bone structure was delicate, with finely carved cheekbones. Full, heart-shaped lips, and wide green eyes—so light that he had to study her irises for a long moment to decipher the exact color—almost a green mixed with gold, or at least it looked like that with the distance between them.
Toren had expected her to look like Theodore. Why, he wasn’t sure. But that had always been how he had pictured her. A female version of Theodore.
One of her guards, dressed head to toe in imposing black, moved to her side, dwarfing her, and Toren noted the slight limp in his step. Peculiar. All of the guards he had seen that night had a limp in their steps. Not noticeable unless one was studying them, but there nonetheless.
For as much as she had managed to put this place together, she had made dismal choices in her guards. That could very well cost her.
Lady Pipworth looked up at the guard, giving him her full attention. With a quick glance over her shoulder to the man she had been speaking to, she dismissed him with a slight wave of her hand.
The portly fellow glared at the guard, a foot taller than him, and then slunk away along the edge of the room.
It wasn’t until he was well out of range that Lady Pipworth nodded to her guard. She smoothed the front of her gown and moved into the crowd, smile wide on her face as she greeted her patrons, laughing and clapping and squealing with the best of them.
A sigh settled into his chest.
Lady Pipworth was apparently made of sterner stuff than he had credited her for.
What madness had Theodore managed to thrust upon him?
~~~
“I do not know how you do it, Adalia.” Lady Desmond closed the front door of Adalia’s dower home turned gaming house.
Adalia turned from chatting with Logan, the head of her guards, and also an exceedingly tall, handsome, and fiercely strong man. The little old ladies—and the young ones as well—loved her guards, which was exactly why she had chosen them so carefully. Not only was it impossible not to feel safe with Logan’s crew hovering about, they were also pretty to look at. Which one of those facts was more important to the slew of ladies attending her events, Adalia had never been able to discern.
What none of the ladies realized was that Logan and all of his men had lost a foot or part of their legs in the war. Specially made boots hid the fact well, and for all intents, made their injuries moot. The only tell each of them possessed was a slight limp—and only if one watched closely. As long as they didn’t need to run, these men excelled at their jobs.
Adalia smiled at Cassandra, thankful her friend had ushered the last of the night’s guests into the first rays of the hazy morning. “Do what?”
Cassandra’s slippers stepped lightly across the foyer, not a touch of her inherent grace waning after the long night on her feet. She slipped her hand around Adalia’s shoulders as they walked up the stairs to the main drawing room. “How you are able to take the money so sweetly from the little old dowagers is remarkable.”
“The sweeter I am, the more hope it gives them for next time. And you know as well as I, that most of them are far cannier with the cards than they would have us believe.”
“True, but you are far tougher than I could be, as all I can do is imagine that will be us in forty years, delightful old dowagers with gambling our only solace in life.”
Adalia chuckled. “Except I have no margin to be that delightful old dowager if I allow the lot of them to fleece me today. I am more desperate than you, Cass. Your husband supplies you with a healthy income, whereas I fear I will need to protect my pennies until the end.”
Cassandra squeezed Adalia’s shoulders, her pretty mouth upending into a concerned frown. “Still no word from Theodore?”
“No. I am beginning to fear the worst. Even though I do not wish my mind to go there.”
“I think you are right to worry. Even with his wanderlust, it is far past time that he should have returned. Is it possible he has not received your letters about Caldwell’s death? That the title is now his?”
“Yes, but even without the letters, he should have come home by now. He said this trip would take six months at the most.”
“Have the solicitors started to look into the line of succession?”
“Not yet—or not that they have told me. But it has been two years since Caldwell died. I am sure they have begun the process, no matter my wishes.”
Weaving through the empty card and hazard tables scattered in the drawing room and the adjoining ballroom, Adalia stopped, turning to her friend. It had been another long night, and she didn’t have the energy to think on her missing brother. Not without breaking down into tears. Not that Cassandra would mind. Her friend had an unusual capacity for empathy and support. But Adalia didn’t want to burden her. Not tonight. “You should take your leave, Cass. It has been an exhausting night.”
“Yes, as should you. I am exhau
sted, and I don’t run the place as you do. Nor do I go home and then manage to care for twins.”
“Josalyn and Mary are my joy—you know I would do anything for them.” Adalia took the scolding with a slight shrug. “Still, you should go. I will finish with the ledgers as the maids clean.”
Cassandra’s eyebrows arched. “And then you will leave and rest for a spell?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be safe here alone? I am happy to wait. I did see Mr. Trether corner you earlier.”
“Cornered, yes, but I managed to escape his tentacles with relative ease.” Adalia flipped her fingers, dismissing her friend’s worry. “Logan has already sent one of his men with the evening’s proceeds to the bank. There is nothing in the house to steal at the moment, and Logan is downstairs. I am as safe as I ever will be.”
“Logan mentioned to me Mr. Trether had several of his men outside the house tonight.” Cassandra’s bottom lip slipped under her teeth.
“You spoke to Logan about him?”
“I did. Logan did not say much, as is his way, but that he mentioned Mr. Trether as a threat at all is troubling. You do have to admit it is worrisome, especially after your last several altercations with Mr. Trether and the bruise he left on your arm. Logan has been fuming about it since it happened. He went so far as to call Mr. Trether dangerous.” She shook her head. “I do not think Mr. Trether means to respect your decision to reject his proposal. He wants this house, Adalia. By any means necessary. You included.”
Adalia’s nose wrinkled. “That is a disgusting thought. He does not want me, Cass.”
“He does. Aside from the fact that you are desirable, you are what makes this place so successful. He knows it and wants all of that.”
The hairs on the back of Adalia’s neck spiked. Mr. Trether was a problem. Once he had bullied his way into viewing her ledgers, the man had started to salivate. Cassandra was right—he meant to take over the Revelry’s Tempest. And Adalia’s multiple refusals to him for a stake in the house—or, heaven forbid, marriage—had only made him more aggressive with his demands.
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