The Red Door was a gaming hellhole but even respectable members of society came here.
“The elder gentleman is Mr Russell. He enjoyed my favours two nights ago though he will not acknowledge me in public, naturally. He fears that information that would compromise his son and possibly destroy his political ambitions may be in the hands of Mr Adams. And he’s prepared to pay a great deal to ensure this does not happen.”
“But this is all…impossible to ascertain. I cannot do so, surely? Where would I even begin to look? And with him wide awake having…having had his way with me?” Charity blinked back tears. She had to be stronger than this. But she was not going to sacrifice herself for such dubious gains.
Nervously she glanced over her shoulder. “I’d make a mull of it. I’m not clever like you,” she added to Rosetta who had just returned to the conversation.
“Mr Adams would be far too suspicious of us,” said Rosetta. “However, you, who have never been seen at Madame Chambon’s or anywhere else for that matter, would make the perfect candidate.”
“He already has me in his sights.” Charity felt a surge of panic at the memory. “You heard Madame Chambon saying he was asking for me the night after Hugo lost to him. He wanted to exact an even greater revenge on Hugo.”
“But he has no idea what Hugo’s beloved looks like. I agree, if he did, he’d be suspicious of your motives. But you are an ingenue. Do you see the way the gentlemen are looking at you? They’re intrigued. They’ve never seen you grace the velvet sofas of Madame Chambon’s where they seek diversion. You’re young and full of grace and Mr Adams, from the way his gaze keeps darting in this direction, would be most amenable to a little show of interest from you.”
With a pat on her shoulder, Rosetta pushed Charity forward.
“I’ve had no practise in what I should do. I’ll ruin everything.” Charity knew she looked as panicked as she felt.
“It’s your obvious lack of experience that will win the day, Charity,” said Emily. “Madame Chambon believes it and you’re one of her favourites. She actually wants you to win your happily ever after with your beloved Hugo.” She pursed her lips and exchanged a wry look with Rosetta. “She said it would be a feather in her cap to promote a real wedding in view of Violet’s disappointment.”
“You’ve been discussing it with Madame Chambon?”
“And the other girls. We thought it would be best to bring you here without the benefit of the information we’ve just imparted to you.” Rosetta smiled comfortably.
“Hugo will help me,” Charity muttered under her voice and with a defiant look. “He knows I’m coming here tonight and he won’t let anything bad happen to me.”
Rosetta rolled her eyes. “We left a note at Madame’s to say you were elsewhere. Please don’t look so upset but he had the potential to ruin everything.”
Charity stared up at the two girls and then at the swarming, terrifying room before her. She caught an interested look or two from some of the male contingent and quickly looked away as heat burned her cheeks.
In a few days Hugo was sailing away. She knew that when he finally disappeared out of sight it might well be the last time she’d ever see him again. And for all his fevered attempts at securing her future, the money and promises he’d put in place would not last for long.
What choice did she have? She simply had to take her chances tonight.
“You might need this, Charity.” Rosetta dug in her reticule and handed what Charity at first thought to be a lace handkerchief before she felt something hard beneath.
“Put it straight into your pocket and only use it if occasion demands,” her friend said, lowering her voice and appearing to remove a piece of lint from her shoulder as she moved her head closer. “It’s a pair of dice, loaded to favour a four and a five. As I said, Emily and I will be handling the gambling, if called upon but, in a place like this, one never knows what might happen. Nor would anyone believe someone as sweet and innocent looking as you capable of underhand tactics.”
Charity stared about the room, mostly populated by men so that she and the few other finely dressed women stood out as the demimondaine.
In the dim light, they seemed to move in and out of focus; one moment dressed in dark suits, the next in wolf’s clothing.
Indeed, they were wolves who would converge on her when she was without a protector. The accusations of childlike innocence with which Emily and Rosetta charged her were true. Her guileless mother had taught her nothing of life. Not that Charity had spent much time with her mother since she’d worked for as long as she could remember to look after her mother’s imbecile older sister. That had, she supposed, been some small use for an illegitimate child who could not be acknowledged by the family. And, after that aunt had died — without ever having addressed Charity by name — Charity had found herself on a coach to London, to make her own way in the world following her mother’s funeral.
The only people who had ever been kind to her were Madame Chambon and the girls.
And Hugo.
She bowed her head for a second, then brought up her chin. “So tonight will be a test of my abilities. I have no idea what will be required of me and I’m certain I won’t succeed in ferreting out any useful information. But if I can help Hugo in any small way, and ensure that his own future is not blighted forever, I will.”
“Oh, look,” said Emily, pointing. “Mr Adams is coming this way.”
Chapter 5
The knowledge of how much he needed to achieve in such a short time hung heavily on Hugo’s shoulders as he turned his footsteps towards Soho.
At any other time, he would have stopped to wonder at the miracle wrought by a blanketing of pristine snow upon a poor neighbourhood, turning it into a wonderland of beauty and promise.
He might have felt uplifted by the carollers on the street corner praising the Lord their Saviour in pure, joyful voices.
But the familiar words of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen brought pain not comfort to Hugo’s ears as he bowed his head and trudged past them.
Fear not, then said the angel,
Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Savior,
Of virtue, power, and might;
Hugo was all too aware that he should have been able to comfort Charity with such sentiments, reassuring her that he would be her saviour, a man of virtue, power, and might.
Instead, he was going to have to explain to her that the best he’d managed was to find her a position as a photographer’s assistant. And then, suspicious of the man’s motives in wanting a young and pretty assistant, he’d turned down the job offer.
It seemed that every moment since his disastrous evening with Cyril he’d been on the back foot trying to salvage something from the wreckage of his life.
He’d tried so hard to find some respectable employment that would make it easier for Charity to be accepted as his wife upon his twenty-fifth birthday but it seemed word had got around. No family member or friend of any female relative had need of a companion let alone a governess. It was as if they all knew his little secret and had closed ranks against him.
Nearby, a ladder-man was pasting advertisements to a hoarding. Pausing to cross the road, Hugo looked up at the posters of electric corsets and others advertising miracle cures for chilblains and scrofula. The young woman with her hour-glass figure proclaiming the healthful effects of her combinations reminded him of Charity with her long, chestnut tresses and peaches and cream complexion and he was struck by the most intense desire to run all the way to the dreadful house where she lived and commit to memory the feel of her curves as he buried his face in her fragrant hair.
Not that he deserved this, though he liked to think she would draw some comfort from his assurances that he’d die rather than see her forced into prostitution to keep body and soul together.
He dug in his pocket and withdrew the painting he’d worked on since he’d sketched her so hastily as she lay sleeping just before he’d l
eft her. He wanted to study it in the natural light for he’d been somewhat feverish as he’d worked at his masterpiece in the semi-darkness.
He touched the tendrils of hair at her temples. If only he had his paintbrush with him now, he could render the soft curls a little more perfectly.
He unfolded the picture and held it up. It was, perhaps, one of his finest works, despite the fact that in real life her hair was more lustrous than he’d rendered it.
And her eyes were much more arresting than he’d managed, though he wasn’t displeased with the finished piece.
However, all pleasure evaporated at the reminder that he was giving her this because of their impending separation. He’d done numerous drawings of her this past week, wanting to commit her image to his memory but wanting, also, to ensure she’d be in no doubt as to how important she was to him.
A sudden gust of wind whipped the drawing out of his fingers and he tried to snatch it before it caught an eddying breeze that lifted it, fluttering airborne for a moment, before arriving level with the ladder man.
“I say!” Looking down from his precarious position, the ladder man snatched at Hugo’s work of art, turning to look at him with a grin. “Nice young lady like this ought to be admired by the world!” he declared cheerfully as he pasted the back with glue then slapped the drawing over the single gap on the busy hoarding.
“You can’t do that!” Hugo protested but the ladder man ignored him as he sloshed his glue-laden paintbrush over the front for good measure.
“Not going to see your young lady this evening, then?”
Hugo, about to protest further, turned to see Lord Belvedere on the other side of the road. The fellow looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world and Hugo tried to push aside his real thoughts as he nodded in greeting. Belvedere was off to foreign lands, adventuring by choice, leaving behind Charity’s friend, Violet. Life was easier if one had no scruples, he supposed, though he liked Belvedere, nonetheless.
“I’m going there now,” he said, crossing the road.
“You won’t find her at home.” Lord Belvedere had resumed walking but he said over his shoulder, “Got to dash. But anyway, I saw her just now at the Red Door.”
Hugo watched Belvedere disappear around a corner while he tried to assimilate what Charity would be doing in such a den of iniquity. Nothing safe, he feared, and wondered if her friends had persuaded her to go there with them.
His anxiety increased as he made his way to the notorious gambling den.
Cyril frequented places like this.
But not Charity. Why would she go there unless she’d got it into her head to take matters into her own hands? To try to beat Cyril at his own game?
Charity knew nothing of places like this. For all that she lived in a brothel, she was remarkably sheltered.
He hastened his stride.
Taking on Cyril meant Charity would be throwing herself into the path of a man without compassion or morals. He’d eat Charity for lunch and spit her out, if only to spite Hugo. Cyril was a bounder, a cheat, a reprobate. Ever since they’d been children they’d been at war. If Cyril wanted anything to do with Charity, it was only so he could use her as the ultimate revenge against Hugo.
He wiped the back of his hand across his sweating forehead as his breath hitched.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Hugo stopped, blinking at the elderly woman passing by on the pavement on her husband’s arm.
“Quite alright, thank you,” he said, nodding his thanks and resisting the urge to break into an unseemly run.
The Red Door. He knew where to find it though he’d never been there. He certainly had no desire to go there, now, but if Charity was inside and putting herself in danger, he had no choice.
The cobblestones were slippery as he turned into a narrow alley. The snow had turned to slush and there was nothing magical about this part of the neighbourhood.
Hugo forced himself to stop and take stock. He couldn’t burst inside without a plan. If Charity was at the gaming table, hoping to effect some miracle means of reversing the damage Hugo had wrought then the very least Hugo could do was find a means of safeguarding her from his evil cousin — using his brains rather than wild impulse.
Yes, Cyril was evil.
The Red Door was a gambling den and Cyril was a gambler. A gambler, swindler, and cheat.
And how did one defeat a cheat?
Beneath the overhang of a crooked double-storied dwelling in an insalubrious alleyway, he stopped to consider the question, startling as a mangy cat rubbed against his ankle.
Cheats were sly and secretive. They caught one by surprise, just as Cyril had done when he’d plied Hugo with drink and then challenged him, on his sweetheart’s honour, to a game of Hazard.
What did cheats resort to? They resorted to cheating, of course.
A terrible thought struck Hugo; one that he would never have entertained had he not been desperate.
A short diversion was all that was required for him to equip himself with the tools that he hoped might be at least of some help to getting his darling Charity out of the terrible situation he’d created.
Chapter 6
Charity ran her tongue over her top lip and fanned herself as she smiled at the gentleman facing her across the gaming table. Despite the snow outside, it was hot upstairs with the multitude of bodies pressed up against one another as they gambled, drank, and flirted with the few women about.
The smoke from the cheroots the gentlemen smoked made the back of her throat feel scratchy but, of course, she had to smile and pretend she was in her element. Ladies had to always pretend they were enjoying themselves.
Mr Cyril Adams, it appeared, was definitely out to enjoy a night on the town. He was dressed in the latest fashion, his coat well cut with contrasting collar, his waistcoat decorated with a watch chain and a diamond pin adorning his Ascot tie.
Yes, he might look the part but Charity wondered how well accepted he was by society in general when rumour described the ways he’d earned his pile of coin. Their grandfather had earned a fortune through honest trade, half of which Mr Cyril was to inherit, but in the meantime, he’d earned his own dubious fortune—which ebbed and flowed, she’d heard.
Mr Adams now leant over the table to give Charity a more assessing look. “What’s your name, lovely lady?”
Charity had been preparing herself but it was nevertheless a shock to find herself face to face with Hugo’s nemesis — and hers.
For here was Cyril Adams close up. Ever since her friends had whispered excitedly that this was the gentleman she was to impress, she’d been watching him covertly.
He certainly fancied himself as a ladies’ man, the way he’d tossed his head as he’d swaggered up to the baize-topped table that was littered with markers, coins, and banknotes.
“I’ve not seen you before. What’s your name, lovely lady and are you going to make me a lucky man this evening?” he asked.
Charity dropped her gaze and blushed easily. “My name’s Cathie,” she murmured. She was not about to step into any trap by revealing her true identity. “And I don’t think I’m your lucky charm because I’ve never gambled before.”
“Then you’ll be worth your weight in gold for beginner’s luck,” he said with too much bonhomie. He’d been drinking. She could smell the whisky on his breath as he came around to put his hand on her shoulder and rub his nose against her neck.
Charity tried not to recoil from the brush of his bristly moustache. The next few minutes could make all the difference to how she managed the outcome Emily and Rosetta had worked so hard to mastermind.
Charity must rise to the challenge. She’d never had a hand in changing her fate — it had always been thrust upon her. But coming here tonight was the first step towards changing what might otherwise be a soul-destroying destiny.
“Oh, sir, but you’ll be cross if beginner’s luck deserts me,” she said, playing upon her innocence.
“A roll
of the dice requires nothing in the way of expertise.” He seized her hand and pressed something into the palm which she opened, looking rather stupidly at the two white cubes.
“Give me nine and make me a happy man,” he said.
Charity glanced around her and realised a few more interested gentlemen had wandered up to the table. Young and middle-aged, there was speculation and definite admiration in the way they sized her up. Even Charity, self-effacing though she was, could see it. It terrified her.
“But the highest number is six,” she said, wishing her voice sounded stronger. She pressed her hand against her hip and felt the outline of the two dice in her pocket that Rosetta had given her. What use would they be to her?
A rumble of genial laughter echoed round the table before Mr Adams said, “Indeed it is, my pretty. But a four and a five make nine, as do a six and a three.” He raised her hand to the sky and gently traced the outline of her fist as he declared to the others in their orbit, “My pretty talisman will give me a nine, just see if she doesn’t.”
Charity now realised that Mr Adams did, in fact, have an opponent, a surly northerner it appeared when he grumbled that he’d waited long enough for play to resume.
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