“Of the matchmaking sort. Haven’t you heard? I’m quite the expert when it comes to games.” She turned and looked at Mrs. Warsham whose cheeks colored, leaving Charlotte wondering what secret the two shared.
“Now ladies,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “shall we discuss my fee before you depart?”
Chapter Four
Hugh held hisbreath as he watched the dice bounce and then roll across the table, praying for a number that would break the cursed, unlucky streak that had haunted him all evening. Three hours spent playing Hazard and several hundred pounds lost. Could this night get any worse?
“Chance!” Beau Brunswick roared, slapping Hugh on the back. “Throw again! Throw again,” he chanted.
Chance. All that meant was that he got another chance to roll the dice. He hadn’t won nor had he lost—yet. It was a gambler’s dream, this game of second chances, but Hugh was beginning to dislike it. Perhaps he’d try his luck at the Faro tables next.
A collective rumble ensued from the table as Hugh leaned forward to retrieve the dice. He clutched them in his fist and resisted the urge to kiss his hand before rolling again, aware of the other players’ eyes on him as they waited to see if his luck was indeed about to change.
The dice bounced to a stop.
“Seven!” Charles Horace roared. “You lose!” He and the other players who’d bet against him applauded and gathered their winnings.
Hugh ran a hand through his hair. He’d thrown his main on a chance, yet again. He’d had enough of this game.
“Fancy a turn at the whist tables instead?” Brunswick asked.
“Better not. I think Fortune has abandoned me tonight.” Hugh picked up his glass of brandy, sat back in his chair, and observed the gaming room.
Something odd was afoot at the Lyon’s Den this evening, Hugh thought as yet another veiled figure caught his eye. He was used to seeing the proprietor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, walking about with a veil covering her face—indeed he’d never seen her without a veil—but tonight it seemed that all the women had concealed their faces under veils. Was it some sort of celebration or game? Games were common at the Lyon’s Den, and they were usually constructed to part a man from either his money or his freedom. Despite the risk, he liked the thrill of it. His two years at the Inns of Court had been so stifling that he craved excitement, and this place provided plenty.
“Well, if not cards or dice,” Brunswick said, “perhaps Lady Fortune will favor us in the game of love.”
“What do you mean?” Hugh asked.
“Can’t you see what’s happening here? It’s one of the Black Widow’s games. The word is that if one of these veiled ladies favors you with a rose, it’s to be taken as an invitation.”
“An invitation for what, exactly?” Hugh eyed his friend.
“An invitation to get to know her better.” Brunswick grinned so widely it looked as though his face would split.
“You can’t be serious?” Hugh lowered his voice. “This isn’t a bawdy house.”
“You’re right about that; then again, bawdy behavior has been known to occur upstairs.” He used his finger to gesture at what lay above. “Now, I’m not saying that receiving a rose is an invitation to bed the lady who favors you with it—I mean that probably shouldn’t be assumed—but one can always hope.”
Hugh scoffed, half perturbed and half intrigued by what his friend was saying. “This place is most unusual, even for a gambling hell.”
“That’s why Mrs. Dove-Lyon enjoys such a lucrative establishment. We can’t stay away, despite the danger.”
Hugh nodded in agreement.
“One can never be too careful,” Brunswick continued. “There’s always the possibility of becoming entrapped and forced to marry—Mrs. Dove-Lyon is clever that way. Still, who can resist the intrigue and excitement of the Lyon’s Den games?”
“Who indeed?” Hugh said as he caught a glimpse of a slim-figured yet shapely woman wearing a purple dress, standing at the entrance of the gaming room; she appeared to be looking his way.
“Now is theperfect time,” Hermia said. “Young Warsham has finished his game of Hazard and appears to be contemplating what to do next. All you need do is walk up to him and place the rose on the table before him.”
Charlotte rolled the stripped stem of the red rose between her gloved fingers and nodded, but her lips had gone dry and she couldn’t will her legs to move. She longed to stay in the shadows of the dimly lit ballroom, with its dark-papered walls and strategically placed candelabras, which shielded the dancing couples from prying eyes. The ballroom stood in sharp contrast to the adjoining gaming room, which was brightly lit—no doubt to discourage gamblers from cheating—and she’d have no place to hide except behind her veil, which matched her fuchsia dress, cut with a square neck, short, puffed sleeves, and an empire waist accessorized with a dark-lilac sash and gloves. The silkmaterial of the gown had a shimmer to it and clung quite close to her body, revealing her slender shape. Thankfully, the veil was double netted to ensure no one could see her face. If it weren’t for that comfort, she would likely not have the courage to go forward for fear of everyone seeing her flaming hot cheeks, or more especially, revealing her identity.
“Don’t be afraid,” Hermia said. “Our clientele is used to games. They enjoy them. That is why they choose to come here. After all, there are plenty of gaming dens in town, but none as popular as this one. So, you can rest assured that your actions will not be frowned upon or judged as unusual. This is a safe place. No one comes here and gossips about what happens within these walls. They know better.”
Charlotte nodded again and took several deep breaths to steady her nerves. She eyed the other women circling the room, deciding where to place their roses. “What if one of these women gives Warsham a rose before I reach him?” she whispered.
“They won’t. Mrs. Dove-Lyon has given them strict instructions to stay away from Hugh Warsham. He is yours.”
