picked up the letter he had set aside earlier to peruse its contents once again with an apparent air of calm. ‘It would appear that my reputation has preceded me, gentlemen.’ His voice had become steely.
Dominic frowned. ‘Explain, Gabriel.’
That sculptured mouth tightened. ‘The letter I received from my lawyer this morning states that all three of the Copeland sisters—yes, even the fat and ugly one, Nate …’ he gave a mocking little bow in Osbourne’s direction ‘… have rejected any idea of marriage to the disreputable Lord Gabriel Faulkner.’
Dominic had known Gabriel long enough to realise that his calm attitude was a sham, and that the cold glitter in those midnight-blue eyes and the harsh set of his jaw were a clearer indication of his friend’s current mood. Beneath that veneer of casual uninterest he was coldly, dangerously angry.
A fact born out by his next statement. ‘In the circumstances, gentlemen, I have decided that I will shortly be following the two of you to England.’
‘The ladies of Venice will all fall into a decline at your going,’ Osbourne predicted drily.
‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel allowed dispassionately, ‘but I have decided that it is time the new Earl of Westbourne took his place in London society.’
‘Capital!’ Osbourne felt no hesitation in voicing his approval of the plan.
Dominic was equally enthusiastic at the thought of having Gabriel back in London with them. ‘Westbourne House in London has not been lived in for years, and must resemble a mausoleum, so perhaps you would care to stay with me at Blackstone House when you return, Gabriel? I would welcome your opinion, too, on the changes I instructed be made at Nick’s during my absence.’ He referred to the gambling club he had won a month ago in a game of cards with the previous owner, Nicholas Brown.
‘I should have a care in any further dealings you might have with Brown, Dom.’ Gabriel frowned.
An unnecessary warning as it happened; Dominic was well aware that Nicholas Brown, far from being a gentleman, was the bastard son of a peer and a prostitute, and that his connections in the seedy underworld of England’s capital were numerous. ‘Duly noted, Gabe.’
The other man nodded. ‘In that case, I thank you for your invitation to stay at Blackstone House, but it is not my intention to remain in town. Instead, I will make my way immediately to Shoreley Park.’
An occurrence, Dominic felt sure, that did not bode well for the three Copeland sisters …
Three days later—Nick’s gambling club, London, England
Caro moved lightly across the stage on slippered feet before arranging herself carefully upon the red-velvet chaise, checking that the gold-and-jewelled mask covering her face from brow to lips was securely in place, and arranging the long ebony curls of the theatrical wig so that they cascaded over the fullness of her breasts and down the length of her spine, before attending to the draping of her gold-coloured gown so that she was completely covered from her throat to her toes.
She could hear the buzz of excitement behind the drawn curtains at the front of the small raised stage, and knew that the male patrons of the gambling club were anticipating the moment when those curtains would be pulled back and her performance began.
Caro’s heart began to pound, the blood thrumming hotly in her veins as the introductory music began to play, and the room behind the drawn curtains fell into an expectant silence.
Dominic hesitated at the entrance of Nick’s, one of London’s most fashionable gambling clubs, and one of his favourite haunts even before he had taken possession of it a month ago.
Newly arrived back from Venice that afternoon, he had decided to visit the club at the earliest opportunity, and as he handed his hat and cloak over to the waiting attendant, he could not help but notice that the burly young man who usually guarded the doorway against undesirables was not in his usual place. He also realised that the gambling rooms beyond the red-velvet curtains were unnaturally silent.
What on earth was going on?
Suddenly that silence was bewitchingly broken by the sultry, sensual sound of a woman singing. Except that Dominic had given strict instructions before his departure for Venice that in future there were to be no women working—in any capacity—in the club he now owned.
He was frowning heavily as he strolled into the main salon, seeing at once the reason for the doorman’s desertion when he spotted Ben Jackson standing transfixed just inside a room crowded with equally mesmerised patrons, all of them apparently hearing only one thing. Seeing only one thing.
A woman, the obvious source of that sensually seductive voice, lay upon a red-velvet chaise on the stage, a tiny little thing with an abundance of ebony hair that cascaded in loose curls over her shoulders and down the length of her slender back. Most of her face was covered by a jewelled mask much like the ones worn in Venice during carnival, but her bared lips were full and sensuous, her throat a pearly white. She wore a gown of shimmering gold, the voluptuousness of her curves hinted at rather than blatantly displayed, and the more seductive because of it.
Even masked, she was without a doubt the most sensually seductive creature Dominic had ever beheld!
The fact that every other man in the room thought the same thing was evident from the avarice in their gazes and the flush to their cheeks, several visibly licking their lips as they stared at her. A fact that caused Dominic’s scowl to deepen as his own gaze returned to that vision of seduction upon the stage.
Caro tried not to reveal her irritation with the man who stood at the back of the salon glowering at her, either by her expression or in her voice, as she brought her first performance of the evening to an end by slowly standing up to move gracefully to the edge of the stage as she sang the last huskily appealing notes.
It did not prevent her from being completely aware of that pale and disapproving gaze or of the man that gaze belonged to.
He was so extremely tall that even standing at the back of the salon he towered several inches over the other men in the room, his black superfine tailored to widely muscled shoulders, his white linen impeccable and edged with Brussels lace at his throat and wrist. His fashionably styled hair was the colour of a raven’s wing, so black it almost seemed to have a blue sheen. His eyes, those piercingly critical eyes, were the pale colour of a grey silky mist, and appeared almost silver in their intensity. He had a strong, aristocratic face: high cheekbones, a straight slash of a nose, firm sculptured lips, and a square and arrogantly determined jaw. It was a hard and uncompromising face, made more so by the scar that ran down its left side, from just beneath his eye to that stubbornly set jaw.
His pale grey eyes were currently staring at Caro with an intensity of dislike that she had never encountered before in all of her twenty years. So unnerved was she by his obvious disdain that she barely managed to maintain her smile as she took her bows to the thunderous round of applause. Applause she knew from experience would last for several minutes after she had returned to her dressing-room at the back of the club.
It was impossible not to take one last glance in the scowling man’s direction before she disappeared from the stage, slightly alarmed as she saw that he was now in earnest conversation with the manager of the club, Drew Butler.
‘What is the meaning of this, Drew?’ Dominic asked icily under cover of the applause for the beauty still taking her bows upon the stage.
The grey-haired man looked unperturbed; as the manager of Nick’s for the past twenty years, the cynicism in his tired blue eyes stated that he had already seen and done most things in his fifty years, and was no longer disturbed by any of them, least of all by the disapproving tone of the man who had