Chapter 1
As had become a nightly ritual, Lady Fortune was brimming with London’s wealthiest and finest females in search of diversion. Perfumed and powdered, masked and bang up to the mark in exquisite gowns, and each of them ready to wager their pin money or their husband’s fortunes on the next turn of a card.
It was a beautiful sight to behold.
Demon Winter circled one of the faro tables at his sister Gen’s exclusive ladies’ gaming hell, on his way to the private room where a patron had requested to meet him. He was well accustomed to the lingering stares and longing looks the club members sent his way. But this—a demand to meet with him alone—was new. In truth, the lady in question—number one hundred four, by club records—had asked for the owner of Lady Fortune.
But as the bride to the Marquess of Sundenbury and a future duchess, Gen was keeping her identity as the owner of Lady Fortune a closely guarded secret. Which meant Demon would be meeting withnumber one hundred fourinstead of Gen. It was a nuisance he had not needed on a night that was already laden with problems.
The Madeira shipment was late.
Their resident scamp Davy had been caught filching a fan fromnumber two-and-twenty.
Gen’s new pup had shat in the kitchens, much to the outrage of their chef.
Demon sighed, then forced a smile in the direction of a brunette lovely who was attempting to catch his eye. At first, becoming the face of Gen’s gaming hell had seemed a rum lark. Leave his position at The Devil’s Spawn, a men’s gaming hell, for an establishment overrun with ladies? Hardly a sacrifice.
However, there were nights like this one when Lady Fortune lost its bleeding luster.
Another few steps brought him to the door which led to Lady Fortune’s private rooms, where its patrons could clandestinely engage in games with higher stakes. Or take dinner or tea. Whichever they preferred.
He reached the first private room, knocking before entering.
“Come,” called an unfamiliar voice from within.
Number one hundred fourwas unknown to him. A relatively new patron.
Demon opened the portal, then crossed the threshold, closing it discreetly behind. Her back was to him, giving him a unique vantage point. In the low, intimate light of the room, her copper hair shone from its confinement in an elegant chignon. Her neck was creamy and elegant, enhanced by a golden necklace. Her shoulders were bare, making his gaze catch on one of his favorite places on a woman’s body—that secret space where her neck and her shoulder met.
She turned, and his breath caught. For a moment, his annoyance fled. Even obscured though much of her countenance was by a gold mask, she was beautiful.
“Sir.”
“My lady.” He bowed.
Demon Winter may have been born in the rookeries, but he knew what was expected from him by the quality.
She curtseyed, and it was then that he noticed the tremble—albeit slight—in her gloved hands. “Thank you for agreeing to an audience with me.”
He nodded, wanting herto get the bloody hell on with it. “Of course, my lady. It’s my duty to make certain the members of Lady Fortune are well pleased.”
Pink stole across her cheeks.
Fancy that, a lady who flushed. Interest flared despite himself. He had not intended those words the way she had interpreted them, but somehow, it no longer seemed to matter.
“So I have been told,” she said, her blue gaze dropping to the floor, as if she were afraid to hold his stare for too long.
He found himself drawing nearer to her without realizing what he was about. She smelled bloody good, like something rare, floral, and exotic. He wondered where she applied the scent. Behind her ears? The hollow of her throat? Her inner wrist?
The possibilities were as endless as they were delicious.
Oh, what the hell was he thinking? He needed to rid himself ofnumber one hundred fourso he could make Davy clean up dog shit.
Demon stopped short of her. He knew his boundaries. “How can I help you, my lady? Say the word, and it shall be yours.”
She wetted her lips with her tongue, then inhaled sharply. “I am in need of your assistance.”
His assistance? The petticoats at Lady Fortune were an interesting blend of dedicated sinners and bored women in search of entertainment. They had made all manner of requests thus far—hothouse pineapple, gin to supplement the Madeira, lewd publications, and the list went on. Never, however, had anyone asked him for assistance until now.
