Regency Reputation. Diane Gaston
doorway, for the hundredth time. But it was not she who appeared.
He stiffened. ‘Well, well,’ he said to himself, looking around to see if Xavier noticed, but his friend was deep in play.
Earl Westleigh sauntered in with one of his cronies.
Rhys had spied the earl from time to time in the two years he’d been back from the war. He and the earl had sometimes gambled at the same establishments. At those times, though, Rhys doubted the earl noticed him. Even if he had, how would he recognise Rhys now from the scrawny fourteen-year-old he’d been when he’d begged the earl for help?
Rhys watched the earl survey the room in his self-important way. He leaned over to say something to his friend and both men laughed.
Rhys flexed his fingers into a fist, feeling as though the men were laughing at his youthful self, near-helpless and so desperately alone. He was not alone here. Not helpless. This was his place. Under his control. His to build into a success beyond any of the earl’s expectations.
He straightened his spine.
‘Where is the owner of this establishment?’ Lord Westleigh asked in a booming voice. ‘I should like to see him.’
Rhys turned to one of the croupiers and asked the man about the play at his faro table. It was the sort of surveillance he might do, but this time, of course, his motive was to avoid responding to the earl’s beck and call.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone point him out to Lord Westleigh. He also saw Xavier looking up from his play, his gaze going from the earl to Rhys. Xavier appeared ready to vault out of his chair, daggers drawn.
Rhys did not need his friend’s aid. He could handle the earl. He knew he was the better man.
He deliberately busied himself with checking the faro deck, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose when Westleigh came near.
‘Rhysdale!’ The earl made his name sound like an order.
Rhys did not respond right away, but finished replacing the faro deck in its apparatus.
Slowly he raised his eyes to the earl. ‘Lord Westleigh,’ he said in a flat voice.
‘I’ve come to see what people are talking about. A gaming hell and a masquerade.’ He made a somewhat disparaging laugh.
‘What do you wish to play?’ Rhys asked, treating him like any other gentleman—but with a bit more coldness.
‘I fancy some faro,’ the earl’s companion said. ‘Haven’t tried my hand at faro in an age.’
It was a game going out of fashion, but still making enough here to satisfy Rhys.
‘I do not know you, sir.’ Rhys extended his hand to the man. ‘I am Mr Rhysdale and, as the earl so loudly announced, I am the owner.’
The man clasped his hand. ‘Sir Godfrey’s the name.’
Rhys made room for Sir Godfrey at the faro table. ‘I hope you enjoy yourself, sir.’
He turned to Lord Westleigh. ‘And you, sir, what is your fancy?’
Lord Westleigh’s attention had turned to the doorway where the masked woman for whom Rhys had been waiting all night entered.
‘I’d fancy that,’ the earl said under his breath.
Rhys’s fingers curled into a fist again.
He stepped in front of the earl, blocking his view of the woman. ‘This is an establishment for gambling and nothing more. Do you comprehend?’ His voice was low and firm. ‘The ladies who play here will be left in peace. Am I speaking clearly enough?’
Lord Westleigh pursed his lips. ‘Meant no harm.’
Rhys narrowed his eyes.
Westleigh glanced away. ‘My sons tell me this establishment is making money. Is that true?’
‘It is true.’ Rhys guessed the earl wanted his share. Not a damned chance until he met his part of the bargain.
‘But you have not paid my sons a farthing.’ Westleigh had the gall to look affronted.
Rhys levelled his gaze at the man. ‘It is you who have held up payment, sir. I await you.’
‘Yes. Well.’ Westleigh looked everywhere but at Rhys. ‘It is complicated.’
Rhys laughed dryly. ‘And distasteful to you, I might imagine.’ He shook his head. ‘Matters not to me whether you do this or not. This place is making me rich.’ He walked away.
Rhys had begged once from his father, but never again. Let his father beg from him this time.
As soon as she walked in the room, Celia’s gaze went directly to Rhysdale. He stood with an older man, a gentleman, to judge by the fit and fabric of his coat. This man had not visited the gaming house before, at least not when she’d been here, and she had not seen him at the few society functions she attended with Adele and Lady Gale.
Whoever this man was, Rhysdale did not seem pleased at his presence. That piqued her curiosity even more.
She detested herself for looking for Rhysdale as soon as she walked through the door, for wondering about who he was with and how he felt about it.
As the days had gone on, she’d come to enjoy his attentions.
It felt almost like having a friend.
She turned away and made her way through the room, returning greetings from players to whom she was now a familiar figure. She no longer needed Rhysdale to find her a game of whist; plenty of men and some ladies were glad to play.
She passed by Xavier Campion. That man’s eyes usually followed her, not with the interest of other gentlemen. She swore he watched her with suspicion. Tonight, however, Xavier watched Rhysdale and his brow was furrowed.
Who was that man?
Rhysdale turned away from the gentleman and walked away, his expression one of distaste and suppressed rage.
She lowered her gaze and set about finding a whist partner.
Not too long after, she was seated at a table and arranging a hand of cards into suits. Still, she was acutely aware of whenever Rhysdale passed near.
She no longer feared he was trying to catch her cheating. She liked his attention. It seemed as if the air crackled with energy when he was near, like it might before a summer storm. She liked him.
Even though he made his living from gambling.
To her distress, the cards did not favour her this night. Even when she had partnered with Xavier, she lost hand after hand. Counting in her head, she knew it was not a trifling amount. She kept playing, thinking the next hand would turn her luck around. When that did not happen, she counted on the hand after that.
As the night advanced, her pile of counters grew lower and lower. She’d lost over half the money she staked. Still, the urge was strong to keep playing, to bet more, to keep going so she could change it all back to the way it had been before.
But still she lost.
Celia stared at her counters and came to her senses. Stop! she told herself. Before you return home with nothing.
She stood up abruptly. ‘I am done.’
Before the others at her table could protest, she hurried away and made her way to the cashier. She wanted the counters changed back to coin so she would not be tempted to return to the games.
It was only two in the morning, too early to wait outside for her coachman. Instead, after cashing in her counters, she walked to the supper room, not hungry, but greatly desiring a glass of wine or two to quiet her nerves.
Several of the tables were occupied, but her gaze went instantly to the table where she’d sat before with Rhysdale.
He