A Reputation for Notoriety. Diane Gaston

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СКАЧАТЬ had no intention of being so easily dismissed by this mysterious masked woman. He had other duties to occupy him at the moment, but, before she left, he intended to speak with her again.

      Celia Gale breathed a sigh of relief to finally be seated at a card table, staring at diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades.

      Entering the game room had been like crossing through the gates of hell. It had taken all her courage to do something so potentially damaging to her reputation. A lady, even a baron’s widow, did not go gambling alone in the dead of night.

      Even worse, it meant entering a world where other, even greater, risks existed—the lure of cards and dice, the heady thrill of winning, the certainty that losing could be reversed with one more hand, one more roll of the dice.

      Cards and gambling once took away everything she held dear. The road to ruin was only one bad hand of cards away.

      But what choice did she have? How else was she to procure the money she needed?

      She’d heard of this gaming hell at a recent musicale she’d attended and immediately thought it was a godsend. Two men had spoken of it within her earshot.

      ‘Thing is, the ladies can attend. It is called the Masquerade Club and anyone may come in disguise,’ one had said.

      ‘They do not have to reveal themselves?’ the other asked.

       ‘Not at all. Any lady may gamble without fear of ruining her reputation.’

      She could gamble for high stakes and no one would know! At last a way to earn the funds she so desperately needed.

      ‘Your deal, my dear,’ Sir Reginald said, bringing her back to the present.

      She’d spied Sir Reginald at a few of the entertainments she’d attended, but they had never been introduced. There was little reason to suppose he would recognise her. The other two gentlemen, also unmasked, were unknown to her before this night.

      She dealt the deck slowly and with deliberation.

      ‘Nicely dealt.’ The man on her left smiled condescendingly.

      She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

      Her father taught that gambling was part skill at cards and part skill with people. Let these gentlemen condescend. It was to her advantage if they underestimated her. They might become careless in their choice of cards to lay down.

      When the serving girl came around offering spirits, the gentlemen accepted, but Celia nursed one glass of port. She needed all her wits about her.

      She purposely played as if this were her first time at a green baize table, and, by so doing, the counters grew into a pretty little pile at her right elbow. These gentlemen were betting quite modestly and, she suspected, were sometimes letting her win.

      She indulged their mistaken impression. Soon enough this room would know her skill and then the competition—and the risk—would intensify.

      She glanced up. The establishment’s proprietor, Mr Rhysdale, was watching her. Too often when she looked up he was watching her. It set her nerves on edge.

      Her blood had raced with fear when he’d approached her after she’d entered the room. She’d thought she’d done something wrong, transgressed some secret code of behaviour that was known only to those who frequented gaming hells.

      He was a magnificent man, tall and muscled and intense. His eyes assessed everything, but his expression remained inscrutable. What was he thinking as he meandered through the tables, when he turned his gaze towards her?

      He raised a glass to her and she quickly looked away.

      What earthly reason made him watch her so closely? There were other masked ladies playing cards in the room.

      She took the last three tricks of the hand, winning the game.

      ‘That is it for me,’ one of the gentlemen said.

      ‘And for me,’ his partner added.

      Sir Reginald straightened. ‘Would you like to try your luck at rouge et noir, my dear?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

      She wanted to play more cards. Games of skill, not merely of chance. She was at a loss as to how to manage it. Certainly she would not seek out Mr Rhysdale to find her a new partner.

      All three gentlemen bowed and excused themselves, leaving her alone. Celia rose. She busied herself with slipping her counters in her reticule. The night had been profitable. Not overwhelmingly so, but it was a good start.

      ‘Was luck with you, madam?’

      She startled and turned, knowing who she would find. ‘Luck?’ She smiled. ‘Yes, luck was with me, Mr Rhysdale.’

      ‘Do you cash in, then?’ He stood so close it seemed he stole the air she needed to breathe.

      She clutched her reticule, but tilted her head so as to look in his face. ‘Frankly, sir, I would like to continue to play. Dare I presume on you to arrange another game for me?’

      ‘My pleasure, madam.’ His voice turned low.

      Within a few minutes he had rounded up two gentlemen and a lady needing a fourth and Celia played several more games. The gentleman who became her partner was more skilled than Sir Reginald and her counters multiplied.

      When the players left the table, Mr Rhysdale appeared again. ‘More partners?’

      Her heart fluttered. Why was that? ‘I am done for the night.’

      He took her arm and leaned close. ‘Then share some refreshment with me.’

      She did not know what to say. ‘What time is it?’

      He reached into a pocket and pulled out a fine gold watch. ‘A quarter to three.’

      Her carriage came at three-thirty.

      She glanced around the room. There was not enough time to join another whist game, or even find someone willing to play piquet. ‘Very well.’ She was certain her tone sounded resigned. ‘Some refreshment would be welcome.’

      He escorted her out of the game room to the door of the supper room behind. His hand remained firmly on her elbow. Her heart raced. Was he about to tell her why he watched her so intently as she played?

      If he discovered she was a card sharp, her plans could be ruined. If he presumed she was cheating, it would be even worse. Was not her father’s fate proof of that?

      She wished Mr Rhysdale would simply leave her alone.

      When they crossed the threshold of the supper room, Celia gasped.

      The room was lovely! It was decorated in the earlier style of Robert Adam. The pale-green ceiling with its white plasterwork mirrored the pattern and colour of the carpet and walls. The white furniture was adorned with delicate gilt. Servants attending the buffet or carrying trays were dressed in livery СКАЧАТЬ