Diane Gaston
In fond memory of my Aunt Loraine, who taught me to enjoy life, no matter what.
London—June 1819
Rhys noticed the woman as soon as she appeared in the game room doorway. Taller than fashionable, she held her head high as she perused the room. Her face was half covered by a black mask reminiscent of those he’d seen in Venice, crowned with feathers and painted with gilt filigree. A large garnet was set between the eyes. Visible still were her full lips, tinted and enticing.
In her deep red gown, matching the reds, greens and golds of the game room, she might have been an item he’d personally selected. He watched as she moved gracefully through the room, stepping carefully as if uncertain the space worthy of her. Did she intend to play hazard? Or one of the other games? He was keen that this woman should admire what he’d done to the gaming hell and enjoy herself.
He wanted her to return.
Rhys intensely wished for this gaming house to be a success. He would settle for nothing less than it becoming London’s most desirable place to gamble, a place both gentlemen and ladies would be eager to attend. Not for the profit it would earn, but to show he could be the best at whatever he tackled.
The challenge exhilarated him, in a way he’d not experienced since the stimulation of battle. Only this time there was no carnage in its wake.
This time there was a beautiful woman here to enjoy herself and it was his job to see that she did.
She paused in the middle of the room and he quickly made his way to her.
‘Good evening, madam.’ He bowed. ‘I am Mr Rhysdale, the proprietor of this establishment. It will be my pleasure to assist you. What game do you wish to play?’
She lifted her eyes to him. Through the black mask he saw they were an intriguing green. Her hair, a walnut-brown laced with gold, was loosely piled on her head.
Who was she?
‘Mr Rhysdale.’ She nodded and her voice was surprisingly soft and reticent. ‘I would like to play whist, but I do not have a partner.’
How he would relish partnering her himself, but he did not play in his own gaming house. He would have to find a gentleman willing to be her partner, but he’d find no enjoyment in the task. His friend Xavier would play cards with her if Rhys asked, but women much too easily succumbed to Xavier’s handsome features. No, Rhys would not pass her on to Xavier.
Rhys wanted her for himself.
London—May 1819, one month earlier
Rhys and his friend Xavier sat at a table in the dining room of Stephen’s Hotel. They had just been served their food when Rhys glanced towards the doorway.
Two men stood there, scanning the dining room.
Rhys knew them. Had known them since childhood. Viscount Neddington, né William Westleigh, and his brother Hugh, the legitimate sons of Earl Westleigh.
His brothers.
Rhys turned back to his food.
Xavier put down his fork with a clatter. ‘What the devil?’ He inclined his head towards the doorway. ‘Look who is here.’
Rhys glanced up. ‘They are looking for someone.’
Stephen’s Hotel catered to military men, or former military men like Rhys and Xavier. Not the usual stamping ground of the Westleighs.
Rhys waited for the inevitable moment one of the Westleighs would notice him and slip his gaze away as if Rhys had never existed. Over the years when their paths had crossed, Neddington and Hugh always tried to act as if he’d never existed. Certainly that was their wish.
Ned, the elder, taller brother, turned his head in Rhys’s direction. Their eyes locked, but this time Ned did not look away. This time he nudged his brother and the two walked straight for Rhys’s table.
‘They are headed here,’ Rhys told Xavier.
His friend blew out a breath. ‘I’ll be damned …’
Rhys continued to hold Ned’s gaze. Rhys always stood his ground with the Westleighs.
They stopped at the table.
‘Rhys.’ Ned inclined his head in an effort, Rhys supposed, to appear cordial.
‘Gentlemen.’ Rhys would be damned if he’d greet them by name and pretend an intimacy that had never existed. He gestured towards Xavier. ‘My friend, Mr Campion.’
‘We are acquainted.’ Ned bowed in acknowledgement.
‘We are indeed.’ Xavier’s tone was sarcastic.
Rhys cut another piece of meat. ‘Are you merely paying your respects, or do you seek me out?’
‘We seek you out,’ Hugh replied, his voice taut and anxious.
Xavier glanced from one man to the other, obviously curious as to the purpose of this unusual visit.
Rhys made his expression neutral. Years of card-playing taught him to conceal his thoughts and emotions. He certainly had no intention of revealing anything to a Westleigh. He lifted a piece of beef into his mouth.
‘Forgive us for interrupting your dinner.’ Ned’s tone was conciliatory, if somewhat stiff. ‘We need a word with you.’
They needed a word with him? Now this was unique.
Rhys deliberately kept his attention to his plate, but he gestured to the empty chairs at the table. ‘Have a seat.’
Hugh, shorter and always more hot-headed, emitted an indignant sound.
‘We would prefer to speak in private.’ Ned seemed anxious to avoid offending Rhys in any way.
Xavier straightened. If his friend were carrying a sword, Rhys suspected he’d have drawn it.
Rhys gazed at the two men, seeing only the boys they once were. The bitter memory of their first encounter, when Rhys was nine, flashed through his mind. He’d confronted them with what he’d just learned—that they shared a father.
That moment, like countless others from their childhoods, had resulted in flying fists and bloody noses.
Rhys stared into eyes identical to his. Dark brown, framed by thick eyebrows. Like his, Ned’s and Hugh’s hair was close-cut and near-black. Rhys might be taller and thicker-muscled, but if he stood side by side with these two men, who could ever deny they were brothers?
He exchanged a glance with Xavier, whose lips thinned in suspicion.
Rhys shrugged. ‘Wait for me in the parlour off the hall. I’ll come to you as soon as I’ve finished eating.’
Ned bowed curtly and Hugh glowered, but both turned and walked away.
Xavier watched their retreat. ‘I do not trust them. Do you wish me to come with you?’
Rhys shook his head. ‘There never was a time I could not take on both Westleighs.’
‘Just the same, I dislike the sound of this,’ Xavier countered. ‘They are up to something.’
Rhys took another bite of his food. ‘Oh, they are up to something. On that we agree. But