‘Watch them now,’ Drew said softly.
Dominic did watch, his brows rising as the champagne began to flow copiously and the patrons placed ridiculously high bets at the tables, the level of conversation rising exponentially as the attributes of the young woman were loudly discussed, along with more bets being placed as to the chances of any of them being privileged enough to see behind the jewelled mask.
‘You see.’ Drew gave an unconcerned shrug as he turned back to Dominic. ‘She’s really good for business.’
Dominic shook his head impatiently. ‘Did I not make it clear when I was here last month that this is to be a gambling club only in future, and not a damned brothel?’
‘You did.’ Again Drew remained completely unruffled. ‘And as per your instructions the bedchambers upstairs have remained locked and unavailable to all.’
A gentleman, an earl no less, owning a London gambling club of Nick’s reputation was hardly acceptable to society. But it had been a matter of honour to Dominic, when Nicholas Brown had challenged him to a game of cards the previous month for ownership of Midnight Moon, the prize stallion kept at Dominic’s stud at his estate in Kent. In return, Dominic had demanded that Nicholas put up Nick’s as his own side of the wager and obviously Dominic had won.
Owning a gambling club was one thing, but the half-a-dozen bedchambers on the first floor, until recently available to any man who had wished for some privacy with … whomever, were totally unacceptable; Dominic drew the line at being considered a pimp! As such, he had ordered a ban on women—all women—inside the club, and the bedrooms upstairs to be immediately closed off. With the exception of the mysterious young woman, who had so recently held the club’s patrons enthralled—and not just with her singing!—those instructions appeared to have been carried out.
Dominic’s mouth compressed. ‘I believe my instructions were to dispense with the services of all the … ladies working here?’
‘Caro ain’t—is not, a whore.’ Drew visibly bristled, his shoulders stiffening defensively.
Dominic frowned darkly. ‘Then what, pray, is she?’
‘Exactly as you saw,’ Drew said. ‘Twice a night she simply lays on the chaise and sings. And the punters drink and gamble more than ever once she leaves the stage.’
‘Does she bring a maid or companion with her?’ The older man looked amused. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ Dominic’s eyes had narrowed to icy slits. ‘I think she is a disaster in the making.’ He scowled. ‘Which gentleman has the privilege of escorting her home at the end of the evening?’
‘I does.’ The doorman, Ben Jackson, announced proudly as he passed them on his way back to his vigil at the entrance to the club, his round face looking no less cherubic for all that his nose had obviously been broken more than once. His ham-sized fists did not come amiss in a brawl, either.
Dominic raised sceptical brows. ‘You do?’
Ben beamed contentedly, showing several broken teeth for his trouble. ‘Miss Caro insists on it.’
Oh, she did, did she?
Ben Jackson could make grown men quake in their boots just by looking at them, and Drew Butler was a cynic through and through, and yet Miss Caro appeared to have them both eating out of her delicate little hand!
‘Perhaps we should continue this discussion in your office, Drew?’ Dominic turned away, expecting rather than waiting to see if the older man followed him, his impatience barely held in check. Nevertheless, he still managed to greet and smile at several acquaintances as he moved purposefully towards the back of the smoke-filled club to where Drew’s office was situated.
He barely noticed the opulence of that office as Drew followed him into the room before closing the door behind him and effectively shutting out the noise from the gaming rooms. Although Dominic did spot a decanter of what he knew to be a first-class brandy, and he swiftly poured himself a glass and took an appreciative sip before offering to pour one for the manager, too.
The older man shook his head. ‘I never drink during working hours.’
Dominic made himself comfortable as he leant back against the front of the huge mahogany desk. ‘Well, who is she, Drew? And where is she from?’
The manager shrugged. ‘Do you want my take on her or what she told me when she came to the back door asking for work?’
Dominic’s gaze narrowed. ‘Both.’ He took another sip of his brandy, giving every appearance of studying the toe of one highly polished boot as the other man began to relate the young woman’s tale of woe.
Caro Morton claimed to be an orphan who had lived with a maiden aunt in the country until three weeks ago, the death of the elderly lady leaving her homeless. Consequently she had arrived in London two weeks earlier with very little money and no maid or companion, but with a determination to make her own way in the world. Her intention, apparently, had been to offer herself as companion or governess in a respectable household, but her lack of references had made that impossible, and so she had instead been driven to begin knocking on the back door of the theatres and clubs.
Dominic looked up sharply at this part of the story. ‘How many had she visited before arriving here?’
‘Half a dozen or so.’ Drew grimaced. ‘I understand she did receive several offers of … alternative employment along the way.’
Dominic gave a humourless smile as he easily guessed the nature of those offers. ‘You did not feel tempted to do the same when she came knocking on the door here?’ He had no doubt that Miss Caro Morton was a young woman most men, no matter what their age, would like to bed.
The older man shot him a frowning glance as he moved to sit behind the desk. ‘My lord, I happen to have been happily married for the past twenty years, with a daughter not much younger than she is.’
‘My apologies.’ Dominic gave a slight bow. ‘Very well.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘That would appear to be Miss Morton’s version of her arrival in London; now tell me who or what you think she is.’
Drew looked thoughtful. ‘There may have been a maiden aunt, but somehow I doubt it. My guess is she’s in London because she’s running away from something or someone. A brutish father, maybe. Or perhaps even a cruel husband. Either way she’s far too refined to be your usual actress or whore.’
Dominic eyed him speculatively. ‘Define refined?’
‘Ladylike,’ the older man supplied tersely.
Dominic looked intrigued; a woman of quality attempting to conceal her identity would certainly explain the wearing of that jewelled mask. ‘And you do not think that actresses and whores are capable of giving the impression of being ladylike?’
‘I know they are,’ Drew answered. ‘I just don’t happen to think Caro Morton is one of them.’ His expression became closed. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you were to talk to her and decide for yourself?’
That the manager felt a fatherly protectiveness towards the ‘refined’ Miss Caro Morton was obvious. That the doorman, Ben Jackson, felt that same protectiveness was also apparent. If she really were a runaway wife or daughter, then Dominic felt no such softness of emotions. ‘I fully intend doing so,’ he assured the other man drily as he straightened. ‘I merely wished to hear your views first.’
Drew looked concerned. ‘Are you intending to dismiss her?’
Dominic gave the thought some consideration before answering. There was no doubting Drew Butler’s claim that Caro Morton’s nightly performances were a draw to the club, but even so she might just be more trouble than she was worth if she really were a runaway wife or daughter. ‘That will depend upon Miss Morton.’
‘In what way?’
He raised arrogant brows. ‘I