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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 the gaming here appeals to you? You played whist. Would you also be interested in the hazard table? Faro?’

      She shook her head. ‘I do not trust so much in luck.’

      Too often in her life luck had totally abandoned her.

      His eyes bore into her again. ‘You prefer to rely on skill?’

      Her gaze faltered. ‘One must have some control over one’s fate.’

      ‘I quite agree.’ To her surprise he smiled and his handsome face turned into something wondrous.

      She found it momentarily hard to breathe.

      His smile turned wry. ‘Although you might say opening a gaming hell cedes too much of one’s fate to luck.’

      She forced her voice to work. ‘Chance favours you at the hazard and faro tables, which is why I do not play them. Nor rouge et noir.’

      She finished her wine, aware that he continued to stare at her. She fingered her reticule, heavy with counters. ‘May—may I ask the time, please?’

      He pulled his watch out again. ‘Three-twenty.’

      She stood. ‘I must go. My carriage arrives at three-thirty and I need time to cash out.’

      He also rose and walked with her to the ground floor where the cashier sat in a room behind the hall. She felt a thrill watching the coins she’d won stack up in front of her. After scooping them into a leather pouch and placing it in her reticule, she collected her shawl from the dour-faced servant attending the hall.

      And Rhysdale remained with her.

      He walked her to the door and opened it. ‘I trust you will return to us?’

      She suddenly was very eager to return. So eager a part of her wanted to re-enter the game room and deal another hand of whist.

      She curbed her excitement. ‘Perhaps.’ Curtsying, she said, ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Rhysdale. And for the refreshment.’

      ‘You are very welcome.’ His voice turned low and seemed to resonate inside her.

      She crossed the threshold, relieved to take her leave of him, but he walked out into the dark night with her.

      The rush lamp at the door must have revealed her surprise.

      ‘I will see you into your carriage,’ he explained.

      Her coachman drove up immediately and she was grateful her carriage no longer had a crest on its side.

      Rhysdale opened the coach door and pulled down the steps. He held out his hand to assist her. His touch was firm and set her nerves trembling anew.

      He closed the door and leaned into the window. ‘Goodnight, madam. It has been my pleasure to assist you.’

      His pleasure? She took a breath.

      ‘Goodnight,’ she managed.

      The coach pulled away, and she swivelled around to look out the back window.

      He stood in the road, illuminated by the rush light.

      Still watching her.

      Rhys did not leave the road until her carriage disappeared into the darkness.

      Who the devil was she?

      He did not need to be captivated by a woman. A woman could become an inconvenient distraction and he needed to keep his wits about him. The gaming house must be his priority.

      Rhys had known too many women who made their living by acting pleasing at first, then cutting the man’s purse and dashing away. He expected that sort of woman to show up at the gaming hell—women who played at gambling, but who really merely wished to attach themselves to the evening’s big winners.

      This woman was not a cutpurse, however. Neither did she come to the gaming hell on a lark.

      She came to win money.

      He’d watched her play, had seen the concentration in her posture, the calculation in her selection of cards. She was here for the card play.

      She was a kindred spirit, a gambler like himself.

      Would she return? She must. He wanted her in every way a man wanted a woman.

      He walked back into the house, nodding to Cummings as he passed him. When he reached the door to the game room, Xavier appeared, leaning against the wall in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.

      ‘What was that all about?’ his friend asked.

      Rhys did not know how much he wished to say about the woman, even to Xavier. ‘She intrigues me.’ He gave his friend a warning look. ‘If she returns, do not aspire to make her one of your conquests.’

      Xavier, who attracted female company so easily he never needed to make a conquest, replied, ‘I comprehend.’

      They walked into the game room together.

      ‘Do you know who she is?’ Xavier asked.

      Rhys grinned. ‘Not yet.’

Chapter Three

      Celia sat at the desk in her library in the rooms she’d taken for the Season, rooms she now had more hope she could afford. Her winnings were stacked in piles on the desk, one half set aside to stake her next venture to the Masquerade Club.

      What would she have done had she not discovered the new gaming house? Her widow’s portion had been stretched to the breaking point and the bills continued to pour in.

      Now she could transfer some of the bills from one stack to another—ones to pay now, ones to pay later.

      She rolled some of the coins in her hand, almost giddy at their cool texture and the clink of them rubbing against each other.

      She stacked them again and leaned back, appalled at herself. To be giddy at winning was to travel a perilous path. She must never succumb to the mania that was gambling. Not like her father—and, by association, her mother. They both died of it.

      If she played with her head and not her emotions, she should be able to resist. She planned to visit the place often enough to learn who the high-stakes players were. Think of the money she could win in games with such gamblers!

      Stop! she warned herself. No emotions. Playing cards must merely be what she did to earn money, like any tradesman or skilled

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