“Sounds like a right bastard,” Rafe remarked.
“He is worse than that.” Rees’s voice dropped. “He represents everything wrong with our class. The entitlement, the casual cruelty, the way some men treat ladies’ reputations like playthings to be destroyed for sport. He thinks his title and wealth give him the right to do as he pleases, consequences be damned.”
“And now another young lady’s reputation lies in ruins,” Alistair said quietly.
“So it seems.” Rees downed his brandy in one burning gulp. The thought of Sterling’s smug face made him want to put his fist through something. Preferably Sterling himself.
“You need a distraction,” Rafe announced suddenly, recognizing the signs of Rees’s temper building. “Something to take your mind off Sterling and his villainy.”
“What did you have in mind?” Rees asked, though he doubted anything could cool his fury.
“Have you heard of the Lyon’s Den?”
Alistair perked up. “That establishment near Piccadilly?”
“The very same.” Rafe’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Most extraordinary games you have ever seen. Nothing like your usual fare. No simple hazard or faro. They say Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself designs each wager to be unique.”
Despite himself, Rees felt his interest pique. “Sounds like a recipe for losing one’s fortune.”
“Or making one,” Rafe countered. “Besides, when has risk ever deterred you? You are the one who bet a thousand pounds that you could race your curricle to Brighton in under four hours.”
“And won by quarter of an hour,” Rees reminded him with a smile. “Though my horses nearly did not forgive me for that.”
“Then you will love the Lyon’s Den.” Rafe stood, straightening his waistcoat. “Shall we? The night is young, and brooding over Sterling will not improve your mood or your hand.”
Rees looked down at his wrapped palm, the bloodstain spreading slowly across the linen. Rafe was right. Sitting here stewing would accomplish nothing. And perhaps an evening of unusual entertainment was exactly what he needed to numb his mind.
Yet, a sense of foreboding pricked at him. Rees took a slow sip of his drink as he considered his answer.Pemberton’s laugh carried across the room as if taunting him. Rees sighed, setting his glass aside. “The Lyon’s Den it is.”He rose, confidence reasserting itself. “Lead the way, gentlemen. Let us see what manner of sport the establishment offers.”
As they collected their coats and hats, moving toward the club’s entrance, Rees felt his mood lifting slightly. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, but the prospect of distraction was enough to push it aside for now.
He pulled on his glove despitethe cut to his hand, then paused to adjust it. His hand stung like the devil.
“Coming, Harcourt?” Alistair called from the doorway.
“Right behind you,” Rees said, offering a smile that radiated charm and anticipation. Whatever games the Lyon’s Den offered, he welcomed for he sorely needed a distraction.
Chapter 3
The blue door of the Lyon’s Den swung open, and Rees blinked against the sudden brilliance of crystal and gilt that overwhelmed his liquor-adjusted vision. He swayed slightly, catching Alistair’s shoulder for balance. Alistair laughed at something the doorman said, the sound echoing off marble columns that stretched toward a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs in a risqué interpretation of classical mythology.
“Good God,” Alistair said, steadying Rees while gaping at their surroundings. “This makes White’s look like a country tavern.”
The main hall sprawled before them, lit by three enormous chandeliers that cast rainbows across every surface. The thick carpets muffled their footsteps, creating an odd sensation of floating. Around them, London’s wealthy and dissolute clustered at tables unlike anything Rees had seen in conventional gaming houses.
At the nearest table, a group of men leaned forward intently, watching a row of candles burn. Each candle varied in size and color, from tall and thin to short and fat. Money changed hands rapidly as one after another flame flickered out, the winners celebrating while losers called for more wine.
“They are betting on which one burns fastest,” Rafe observed, his eyes bright with interest. “That fellow just won fifty pounds because his candle had an air pocket in the wax.”
A waiter appeared at Rees’s elbow, offering a tray of crystal glasses filled with something sparkling gold in the light. Rees took one, his injured hand smarting at the sudden movement. The first sip revealed champagne so fine it made him forget the name of whatever swill they had served at the club last week. The bubbles danced on his tongue, enhancing the pleasant haze around his thoughts.
“The food,” Alistair groaned, having discovered a sideboard laden with delicacies. “You must try this. I think it is some sort of salt-packed caviar, but I have never tasted anything like it.”
Rees accepted the morsel on a small golden spoon, the salt and richness exploding across his palate. His stomach, already warm with wine, welcomed this new addition enthusiastically. He took another glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Look there,” Rafe nudged him, pointing to another table where patrons sampled small glasses of various colored liquids. “They are wagering on who can identify the most spirits blindfolded. That fellow just named something from Japan. Sake, they are calling it.”
The room spun with activity and excess, a feast for senses heightened by alcohol. Rees found himself grinning, caught up in the infectious energy of the place.
