but neither did you lose.’ The croupier handed him the dice. ‘Roll again.’
He dropped the dice into her palm.
‘I want a nine, correct?’ She shook the dice in her hand.
‘No, this time you want a two or a three to win. Or anything but the main—your nine—to continue to roll.’
She dropped the dice onto the table, this time rolling one pip on one die and two on the other.
‘Three!’ called the croupier. ‘A winner.’
Westleigh handed the winnings to her.
A man next to her pushed the dice back to Celia. ‘Let the lady keep playing. She has the luck.’
Celia continued to play and to win. The rules of winning and losing changed depending upon what number she chose as chance and she quickly calculated that choosing the numbers five or nine reduced the odds of winning. The crowd around the hazard table grew, most betting with her.
Each time she won she jumped for joy and could not wait to throw the dice again. Her heart was beating fast and her breath as rapid as if she’d run all the way to Oxford Street. Even knowing this gentleman was having a grand time as her host did not dampen her excitement. The impact of his presence faded with each roll of the dice, each possibility that her pile of counters would increase.
As the gentlemen betting with her gathered their winnings, she caught sight of Rhys. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his face a dark cloud.
No wonder he was upset. Every time she—and those who bet with her—won, Rhysdale lost. It woke her from her reverie.
When the dice were again handed to her, she held up her hands. ‘I am done, gentlemen.’ She made herself smile. ‘I wish to keep all these lovely counters.’ She’d won at least forty-five pounds.
She gathered her counters and backed away from the table, shocked at herself. She’d lost all sense of time, all reason.
Rationally she should continue to play until losing again and lead her followers to do the same.
She blinked.
Like a swarm of bees around a hive, the other players filled her space at the table and resumed the play.
To her dismay the gentleman who had assisted her was not among them. Instead he remained at her side.
‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed. ‘I am Lord Westleigh.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Lord Westleigh.’
Lord Westleigh was the man who’d accused her father of cheating at cards, who’d accepted her father’s challenge of a duel, who’d fired the pistol ball that pierced her father’s heart.
Because he was an earl with friends and influence, he’d walked away from killing her father with impunity, broke her mother’s heart, destroyed her health and, in effect, killed her, as well.
Celia tried to remain upright, even though her legs trembled. She tried to keep her face expressionless.
Westleigh waited, as if expecting she would reveal her name.
He finally smiled. ‘You will not tell me who you are?’
She took a breath. ‘I have chosen to wear a mask. That means I do not wish to reveal myself.’
He laughed. ‘I thought you might make me an exception.’
Never for him.
Undaunted by her obvious reserve, he glanced around the room. ‘Shall we find some partners for whist?’
‘No!’ she snapped.
She scanned the crowd for Rhys, needing him. He’d said she should find him if this man bothered her. He was bothering her greatly. He was making her ill.
She caught herself and moderated her tone of alarm. ‘I—I am looking for someone.’
Rhys stood some distance away and he did not glance her way.
She found another familiar face. Sir Reginald. ‘There he is. I must speak with him.’ She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for teaching me hazard.’
Before he could protest, she started to cross the room to where Sir Reginald stood, but someone stepped in her way.
Rhys.
Tears of relief pricked her eyes.
He touched her arm. ‘I saw you with Westleigh. Was he uncivil to you?’
‘Yes,’ she blurted out. ‘No. Not really. He wanted me to play cards with him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I did not know that man was Westleigh. It—it surprised me.’
His brows lowered. ‘What do you know of Westleigh?’
‘I cannot tell you here.’ Her knees weakened.
He must have noticed because he offered her his arm. ‘Come with me.’
He walked them to a back staircase, one used by the servants, perhaps. They climbed to the second floor. They passed dark rooms that smelled of sawed wood and linseed and entered the drawing room where he had received her earlier.
He led her directly to the sofa. ‘Sit here.’
She removed her mask and rubbed her eyes, trying to calm herself from the shock of learning she’d spent the greater part of her night in the company of her father’s killer.
Rhys handed her a glass. ‘Have some brandy.’
She took the glass gratefully and drank, the liquid warming her chest. She sipped more. And finished it.
Rhys sat in an adjacent chair and poured her some more. He asked nothing. Just sat with her.
She finally calmed enough to look up at him. ‘Thank you, Rhys.’ The brandy was helping. ‘I am afraid it was a shock to learn that gentleman was Westleigh.’
He did not press her to tell him more.
Since her mother’s death she had spoken to no one about Westleigh, but suddenly it seem too great a burden to carry alone. ‘You must wonder why I became so upset.’
He shrugged. ‘With Westleigh, nothing would surprise me.’
She stared into his eyes. ‘Would it surprise you to learn he killed my father?’
His brows rose, but his gaze did not waver.
She glanced away. ‘My father enjoyed gambling … too much. He sometimes played unwisely. He played cards with Lord Westleigh and apparently was winning when Westleigh accused him of cheating.’ She looked back to see his reaction to that information. Would he think her father a cheat? ‘My father would never cheat. He was outraged and challenged Westleigh to a duel.’ She blinked away tears. ‘The duel was fought and Westleigh killed my father.’ She choked on her words and quickly took another sip of brandy. ‘He walked away with impunity.’
The sound of her mother’s voice telling her of her father’s death returned to her and the horror and grief struck her anew. Dear God, she was about to lose control of her emotions.
He moved from the chair to the sofa and took her into his arms.
Celia collapsed against his chest, heaving with sobs, and he held her and murmured to her. She could not even tell what he said, she just felt his voice, low and rumbling.
It had been so long since she’d been held, so long since anyone had comforted her. The years of loneliness and loss overwhelmed her and his arms were so warm and strong.
She had to pull herself together, though. She could not do this.
Rhys held her close, relishing the feel of her in his arms, but, even more, feeling her pain and wanting to do anything he could to ease it.
Damned Westleigh! The man had killed