smiled. ‘Yes, luck was with me, Mr Rhysdale.’
‘Do you cash in, then?’ He stood so close it seemed he stole the air she needed to breathe.
She clutched her reticule, but tilted her head so as to look in his face. ‘Frankly, sir, I would like to continue to play. Dare I presume on you to arrange another game for me?’
‘My pleasure, madam.’ His voice turned low.
Within a few minutes he had rounded up two gentlemen and a lady needing a fourth and Celia played several more games. The gentleman who became her partner was more skilled than Sir Reginald and her counters multiplied.
When the players left the table, Mr Rhysdale appeared again. ‘More partners?’
Her heart fluttered. Why was that? ‘I am done for the night.’
He took her arm and leaned close. ‘Then share some refreshment with me.’
She did not know what to say. ‘What time is it?’
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a fine gold watch. ‘A quarter to three.’
Her carriage came at three-thirty.
She glanced around the room. There was not enough time to join another whist game, or even find someone willing to play piquet. ‘Very well.’ She was certain her tone sounded resigned. ‘Some refreshment would be welcome.’
He escorted her out of the game room to the door of the supper room behind. His hand remained firmly on her elbow. Her heart raced. Was he about to tell her why he watched her so intently as she played?
If he discovered she was a card sharp, her plans could be ruined. If he presumed she was cheating, it would be even worse. Was not her father’s fate proof of that?
She wished Mr Rhysdale would simply leave her alone.
When they crossed the threshold of the supper room, Celia gasped.
The room was lovely! It was decorated in the earlier style of Robert Adam. The pale-green ceiling with its white plasterwork mirrored the pattern and colour of the carpet and walls. The white furniture was adorned with delicate gilt. Servants attending the buffet or carrying trays were dressed in livery that belonged to that earlier time, bright brocades and white wigs.
Rather than appear old-fashioned, the room seemed a fantasy of the elegance of bygone days. With all its lightness, Celia felt conspicuous in her dark red gown and black mask. There were four or five tables occupied, some with men entertaining ladies, some with men in deep conversation. Several of them glanced up as she and Rhysdale passed by.
‘Are you hungry?’ Rhysdale asked as he led her to a table away from the other diners. ‘We can select from the buffet or, if you prefer, order a meal.’
Her nerves still jangled alarmingly. ‘The buffet will do nicely.’
‘And some wine?’ His dark brows rose with his question.
She nodded. ‘Thank you.’
At least he displayed some expression. She otherwise could not read his face at all, even though it was the sort of face that set a woman’s heart aflutter. His eyes were dark and unfathomable and his nose, strong. But his lips—oh, his lips! The top lip formed a perfect bow. The bottom was full and resolute, like the firm set of his jaw. In this early pre-dawn hour, the dark shadow of his beard tinged his face, lending him the appearance of a dangerous rogue.
It was his position as the proprietor of the Masquerade Club that posed the most peril to her, though. She did not want the attention of the proprietor. She wanted only to play cards and win as much money as she could.
He pulled out a chair and she lowered herself into it, smoothing her skirt. Her chair faced the curtained window, but she wanted to face the room, so she could see what he was doing behind her back.
When he walked to the buffet, she changed seats.
Even as he made his selections at the buffet, he looked completely in charge. There was no hesitation on his part to pick this or that tidbit. His choices were swiftly accomplished. When a servant came near, Rhysdale signalled the man and spoke briefly to him. A moment later, the servant brought two wine glasses and a bottle to the table. He poured wine in both glasses.
Celia sipped hers gratefully. The night’s play had given her a thirst and the mellowing effect of the wine was a balm to her nerves.
When Rhysdale turned from the buffet, he paused slightly, noticing, she supposed, that she had moved from the seat in which he had placed her.
He walked towards the table and her nerves fired anew.
Setting a plate in front of her, he lowered himself into the chair directly across from her. She would be unable to avoid those dark eyes while they conversed.
‘I hope my selections are to your liking.’ His voice rumbled.
She glanced at her plate. ‘Indeed.’
He’d provided some slices of cold ham and an assortment of cheeses, fruits and confections, all items she enjoyed, but she would have given her approval no matter what he had selected.
She pushed the food around with her fork.
‘I am curious.’ His tone was casual. ‘Why did you come to the Masquerade Club tonight?’
She glanced up, her heart pounding. ‘Why do you ask?’
The corner of his mouth twitched, ever so slightly. ‘I am eager to make this place a success. I want to know what entices a woman to attend.’ He paused. ‘And what would entice you to return.’
Her brows rose. Was this all he wanted from her? She could not believe it.
She chose her words carefully. ‘I heard that a woman might play cards here without revealing her identity.’
He nodded. ‘I had hoped anonymity would be an appeal.’ He took a sip of his wine. ‘And where did you hear this of the place?’
Now it was she who must avoid the truth. To answer truthfully would reveal that she moved in society’s finest circles and that she could not do.
What could she say that would avoid tipping her hand? ‘At the theatre.’
Yes. That ought to suffice. Anyone might attend the theatre.
He stared at her for a moment too long for comfort.
Finally he tasted the food on his plate. ‘And what do you think of my establishment now you have seen it?’
She relaxed a little. Perhaps he was being honest with her. It made sense that a proprietor would want to know if his place appealed or not.
‘It meets my needs very well.’
He glanced up. ‘And your needs are?’
She swallowed a piece of cheese. ‘A place to play cards where a woman might feel secure.’
‘Secure.’ He held her gaze.
She struggled to explain. ‘To feel safe from … the stories one hears about gaming establishments.’
He pinned her with his gaze again. ‘You have felt safe here?’
‘I have,’ she admitted.
What she witnessed from behind her mask was not the worst of what she’d heard of gaming hells, where drinking and debauchery might share the night with charges of cheating and, worst of all, challenges to duels. It almost seemed as civilised as a Mayfair drawing room, except for the wild excitement in the eyes of those on a winning streak and the blanch of despair on the faces of losing players. Those highs and lows were part of gambling. Something she must guard against at all costs.
As well as guarding against this special notice from the proprietor. His watchful dark eyes made her tremble inside.
He turned again to his plate. ‘And what about