Chapter Four

Hugh held his breath as he watched the dice bounce and then roll across the table, praying for a number that would break the cursed, unlucky streak that had haunted him all evening. Three hours spent playing Hazard and several hundred pounds lost. Could this night get any worse?

"Chance!" Beau Brunswick roared, slapping Hugh on the back. "Throw again! Throw again," he chanted.

Chance. All that meant was that he got another chance to roll the dice. He hadn't won nor had he lost—yet. It was a gambler's dream, this game of second chances, but Hugh was beginning to dislike it. Perhaps he'd try his luck at the Faro tables next.

A collective rumble ensued from the table as Hugh leaned forward to retrieve the dice. He clutched them in his fist and resisted the urge to kiss his hand before rolling again, aware of the other players' eyes on him as they waited to see if his luck was indeed about to change.

The dice bounced to a stop.

"Seven!" Charles Horace roared. "You lose!" He and the other players who'd bet against him applauded and gathered their winnings.

Hugh ran a hand through his hair. He'd thrown his main on a chance, yet again. He'd had enough of this game.

"Fancy a turn at the whist tables instead?" Brunswick asked.

"Better not. I think Fortune has abandoned me tonight." Hugh picked up his glass of brandy, sat back in his chair, and observed the gaming room.

Something odd was afoot at the Lyon's Den this evening, Hugh thought as yet another veiled figure caught his eye. He was used to seeing the proprietor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, walking about with a veil covering her face—indeed he'd never seen her without a veil—but tonight it seemed that all the women had concealed their faces under veils. Was it some sort of celebration or game? Games were common at the Lyon's Den, and they were usually constructed to part a man from either his money or his freedom. Despite the risk, he liked the thrill of it. His two years at the Inns of Court had been so stifling that he craved excitement, and this place provided plenty.

"Well, if not cards or dice," Brunswick said, "perhaps Lady Fortune will favor us in the game of love."

"What do you mean?" Hugh asked.

"Can't you see what's happening here? It's one of the Black Widow's games. The word is that if one of these veiled ladies favors you with a rose, it's to be taken as an invitation."

"An invitation for what, exactly?" Hugh eyed his friend.

"An invitation to get to know her better." Brunswick grinned so widely it looked as though his face would split.

"You can't be serious?" Hugh lowered his voice. "This isn't a bawdy house."

"You're right about that; then again, bawdy behavior has been known to occur upstairs." He used his finger to gesture at what lay above. "Now, I'm not saying that receiving a rose is an invitation to bed the lady who favors you with it—I mean that probably shouldn't be assumed—but one can always hope."

Hugh scoffed, half perturbed and half intrigued by what his friend was saying. "This place is most unusual, even for a gambling hell."

"That's why Mrs. Dove-Lyon enjoys such a lucrative establishment. We can't stay away, despite the danger."

Hugh nodded in agreement.

"One can never be too careful," Brunswick continued. "There's always the possibility of becoming entrapped and forced to marry—Mrs. Dove-Lyon is clever that way. Still, who can resist the intrigue and excitement of the Lyon's Den games?"

"Who indeed?" Hugh said as he caught a glimpse of a slim-figured yet shapely woman wearing a purple dress, standing at the entrance of the gaming room; she appeared to be looking his way.

"Now is theperfect time," Hermia said. "Young Warsham has finished his game of Hazard and appears to be contemplating what to do next. All you need do is walk up to him and place the rose on the table before him."

Charlotte rolled the stripped stem of the red rose between her gloved fingers and nodded, but her lips had gone dry and she couldn't will her legs to move. She longed to stay in the shadows of the dimly lit ballroom, with its dark-papered walls and strategically placed candelabras, which shielded the dancing couples from prying eyes. The ballroom stood in sharp contrast to the adjoining gaming room, which was brightly lit—no doubt to discourage gamblers from cheating—and she'd have no place to hide except behind her veil, which matched her fuchsia dress, cut with a square neck, short, puffed sleeves, and an empire waist accessorized with a dark-lilac sash and gloves. The silk material of the gown had a shimmer to it and clung quite close to her body, revealing her slender shape. Thankfully, the veil was double netted to ensure no one could see her face. If it weren't for that comfort, she would likely not have the courage to go forward for fear of everyone seeing her flaming hot cheeks, or more especially, revealing her identity.

"Don't be afraid," Hermia said. "Our clientele is used to games. They enjoy them. That is why they choose to come here. After all, there are plenty of gaming dens in town, but none as popular as this one. So, you can rest assured that your actions will not be frowned upon or judged as unusual. This is a safe place. No one comes here and gossips about what happens within these walls. They know better."

Charlotte nodded again and took several deep breaths to steady her nerves. She eyed the other women circling the room, deciding where to place their roses. "What if one of these women gives Warsham a rose before I reach him?" she whispered.

"They won't. Mrs. Dove-Lyon has given them strict instructions to stay away from Hugh Warsham. He is yours."

"Then the game is rigged?" Charlotte said, oddly pleased by the sense of control Hermia's declaration instilled in her.

"Of course, it is. Now go." Hermia gave Charlotte a tiny shove with her gloved hand.

Charlotte stepped forward and began to walk in the direction of the handsome young man she and Hermia had been observing for the past fifteen minutes. Although several veiled women moved about the room clutching roses, Charlotte felt as though she'd been pushed onto a stage by some cruel prankster and now stood in front of an audience that eagerly awaited a stellar performance. She swallowed her fear and fought the urge to turn and seek courage from Hermia. It turned out that she didn't need to because Hermia's words echoed in her mind. Confidence! Emboldened, she straightened her shoulders and continued moving toward her handsome target. And despite the fear that writhed in the pit of her stomach, each step that brought her closer to him sent her nerves dancing with excitement, giving her a delicious sensation of feeling truly alive. She could not quite believe what she was about to do—and with her mother's permission, no less. This was far more exciting than sitting around like a dressed-up doll, waiting for the next man on one's dance card. Tonight, she was in control.

She stopped in front of Hugh Warsham, and upon seeing his face up close almost lost all her courage. His features were remarkably flawless, as though Michelangelo's David had been transformed from a marble statue to a flesh-and-blood Englishman. She swallowed as he looked up at her, his hazel eyes a beautiful mixture of green and brown, a perfect complement to the lush chocolate waves that crowned his head. Grateful that she did not have to speak, she forced herself to set the rose in front of him.

His full lips creased into a smile. Charlotte's heart faltered.

Then the moment ended. His companion, a ruddy-cheeked, overly joyful young man, slapped Mr. Warsham on the back and bellowed, "Looks like the lady wants to spend some time alone with you, lucky dog! Unless this lovely rose is meant for me?" He looked hopefully at the rose on the table and then up at Charlotte, who thought she might sink right through the floor. But she needn't have been embarrassed because no one else seemed to have heard the bellowing fool's comment and the surrounding ruckus continued without interruption. Mr. Warsham, on the other hand, evidently felt as uncomfortable by his friend's uncouth behavior as Charlotte because his cheeks colored slightly, and he stood up in a great hurry as though he wanted to distance himself from his companion.

"It would be my honor, Miss—" He hesitated.

Charlotte's mind went blank. The rules of the game dictated that the women were not to give out their names or lift their veils—at least not until well into the night. So, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had told her to invent a name. In the Lyon's Den, the rules are different, she'd said. You can pick any name you choose; the more inventive the better. Something from Greek mythology, so the gentleman in question will know it is not your real name.

Charlotte had thought of a name to use, but now it was lost to her. She simply could not remember anything, so she blurted out the first female Greek goddess who came to mind. "Circe."

Mr. Warsham raised his eyebrows. "Circe? I hope you don't intend to turn me into a swine by the night's end." He frowned at her.

"That depends on whether or not you give me cause," Charlotte said, mentally wincing. How could she have chosen that particular name?

"Right," he said. "Well, then, I must assume the evening will go one of two ways—either you will turn me into a swine, or you will bewitch me with your charms and hold me captive for years to come."

Heat spread across Charlotte's cheeks and once again she was grateful for the concealment of her veil. "I'm sorry," Charlotte said. "It's part of the game. We aren't supposed to reveal our true names just yet."

Why was Circe the first name that had entered her mind? Why hadn't she thought of Artemis, the protector of virgins? Or Hera, the goddess of marriage? Why the name of Odysseus's notorious seductress?

Concealing her face and identity seemed to be bringing out a side of her she never knew existed.

Intriguing,Hugh thought.But I mustn't put my head in the lion's mouth. He knew these games were set to entrap wealthy men into marriage, and there was no doubt in his mind that word of his pending inheritance had reached Mrs. Dove-Lyon's ears. The young lady on his arm, along with the other veiled women who were partaking in the game, had probably paid a hefty sum to the widow for her services. He glanced around the room and saw that Lord Bishop, a recent widower who was worth a fortune, also escorted a veiled lady on his arm.

Be wise.He warned himself. One dance—two at the most—and then I will make my escape. A small inconvenience, and maybe even an enjoyable experience—one never knows—either way, I will commit to one dance only.

But Hugh was surprised how quickly his thoughts changed once he'd slipped his arm around his companion's slim waist, taken her gloved hand in his, and began their waltz. She was a practiced dancer and that made him wonder if she was a rejected debutante who'd tried and failed to secure a husband season after season. No, that didn't make sense. She was no wallflower with an empty dance card. This woman knew her way around the ballroom floor. Perhaps, then, she was the daughter of a peer who'd squandered his fortune, and so she'd been forced to pay the Black Widow of Whitehall to secure her a husband. Or worse, perhaps, she'd been caught alone with a gentleman and had been compromised.

"Do you enjoy dancing?" he asked, to garner some insight.

"That depends," she said.

"On what?"

"On with whom I'm dancing. Quite often, I have found it an interminable chore."

"We can stop if you wish," he said, somewhat taken aback by her forthright answer.

"No, I'm quite liking it at the moment."

Hugh smiled. He liked her spirit. She didn't seem desperate to please like so many women seeking husbands, nor did she appear to want to trap him in place. In fact, she appeared to be doing just the opposite.

Moreover, there was something intriguing about her. It was the veil that teased him, he decided as they twirled around the floor. He found himself longing to know the face that went with the petite body his arm encircled and with the elegant white throat that smelled like rose water. He wondered about her hair, its scent, its color, its texture. Was it dark like a good brandy, or a sun-kissed gold? And her lips. He imagined them to be soft and plump beneath the purple veil.

All around them, men danced with veiled women, and Hugh wondered if they too were consumed by the same thoughts he was. Yes, he was certain of it. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was indeed a genius.

"Shall we go again?" Hugh asked as the waltz ended. Rather than wanting to make his escape as planned, he found that he was quite desperate to hold on—half-afraid she might snatch her rose, disappear into the night, and offer her flower to some other man. Then he would never discover her secrets.

But his fears were unfounded. The lady nodded her consent and one dance turned into another, and then a third. Hugh became lost in the essence of his partner as they moved in unison. He could not remember a time when he'd enjoyed dancing as much.

"I'm afraid I'm going to get dizzy if we carry on," she said after their third waltz.

"How about a glass of champagne, then?" Hugh asked.

"I'd like that," she said.

They retreated to the outer rim of the ballroom floor where he stopped a servant carrying a silver tray, and retrieved two sparkling glasses of champagne.

"Thank you," she said, nodding first to the servant and then to Hugh before slipping the fluted glass under her veil to sip the liquid.

Hugh took a satisfying mouthful of his drink, tasting the quality of the grape in his glass. Mrs. Dove-Lyon only served the best to her clients.

"So, what are the rules of this game?" he asked after his thirst was quenched. "If you are forbidden from revealing your name, how are we supposed to get to know one another better?"

"Is a name so important?" she asked, taking another sip of champagne.

"Of course not. After all, what's in a name?" He smiled and retrieved the rose from his breast pocket. "That which we call ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"

She jerked the glass out from under her veil and coughed as though she'd just choked on her drink.

"Are you quite all right?" he asked, quickly stuffing the rose back into his breast pocket.

She nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry. I swallowed too fast, I think." She turned momentarily away, presumably to wipe her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said when she'd turned to face him again. "I think this was a mistake. I should go."

"What?" His stomach sank at the prospect. "I don't understand. Did I say something to offend you?"

"No, of course not. It's just that I—" She stepped away from him.

"I do wish you would stay," he said. "The game has only just begun, and if you go now, I shall be left wondering what I did to chase you away."

"I—no I—" She appeared to be flustered, and Hugh could not make sense of this sudden change in her demeanor.

Suddenly, a veiled figure clad in black appeared at his side. It was the proprietor, the Black Widow of Whitehall.

"Mr. Warsham," she said. "I see you've taken a break from the tables. How are you enjoying our games tonight?" She turned and looked poignantly at his veiled companion before turning back to him.

Hugh bowed. "Very much," he said.

"How could you not when in the company of such a charming companion?" she said, giving the young lady's arm a firm pat before sashaying away, and leaving them both staring after her.

The bizarre encounter unnerved Hugh but seemed to calm his companion, whose posture relaxed as she sipped a little more of her champagne. Hugh narrowed his eyes. He felt as though he were an insect caught in a deceptively pleasant web. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd fallen into one of the widow's traps. Yet, he had no desire to escape—not just yet.

Charlotte's panic subsided,but she eyed Hugh cautiously. Why had he quoted that specific line from Romeo and Juliet? Could it have been a coincidence, or had he known all along that she was a Rose? She'd been unnerved and ready to end the charade, but the sudden appearance of Mrs. Dove-Lyon—how had she known to appear at that exact moment?—reminded Charlotte of her purpose. The intent was for her to befriend Hugh Warsham to help both her family and his family, not to injure or deceive the young man. This game was not about deceit. Hermia had said that masking games were a favorite amongst Mrs. Dove-Lyon's clientele and were played multiple times at the Lyon's Den.

Concealing one's identity, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had explained, allowed the man only a hazy glimpse of a woman's features, which could be highly intriguing, and it prompted him to spend more time focusing on the woman, herself, talking to her and asking her questions that would ultimately bring them closer. It would allow Hugh to get to know her without the prejudice of her name or her beauty. It was, simply, the only way they could become friends.

Charlotte liked the idea of diverting a gentleman's attention away from her face. After receiving multiple marriage proposals and being dubbed the "Rose of Mayfair," she appreciated the concept of getting to know a gentleman without the distraction of her beauty. Yet, it hardly seemed fair in this case because Hugh Warsham was himself exceedingly handsome—no, handsome was not the right word. He was beautiful. More than once, she'd found herself distracted by the burst of gold around the pupils of his eyes. It was like the sun itself lived inside him and was shining outwards. No doubt, he was used to being besieged by women and might have also appreciated a disguise of some sort.

Nonetheless, she was not one for secrets and would not keep this game up for long before she revealed her name to him. But there was no sense in doing so now and risking him snubbing her before they got to know each other a little better. If their mamas could remain friends despite their husbands' idiotic feud, then it should not be so hard for her and Hugh to become fast friends as well, and put an end to the strife for good.

"Please stay." Hugh flashed her a winning smile. "I'm only just getting to know you. It hardly seems fair for you to abandon the game now."

"Very well," Charlotte said. "We'll continue the game through questions and answers. You may begin by asking the first question and then I ask the next one, and so forth."

His eyes twinkled, indicating that he liked the idea. "Very well." He paused before saying, "Are you here to secure a husband?"

Charlotte was momentarily taken aback by his forthright question, but she was pleased to be able to answer it honestly. While Mrs. Warsham and Mrs. Dove-Lyon were hoping to make a marriage match between her and Hugh, her only intent was to befriend him and see how things unraveled.

"No," she said simply.

"Really? Isn't that the reason women come to this establishment?"

"I believe it's my turn to ask a question," Charlotte said. "You may save that question for your turn."

Hugh smiled. "Fair enough."

"Now, I'll ask you the same question you asked me. Why do you frequent this establishment? Is it your love for card playing? Or are you seeking a wife?"

"I come here because I enjoy the dice and card playing and the camaraderie of friends. It's a welcome relief after having spent the past two years locked at Gray's Inn, studying the law. I haven't had much time for fun and games."

"Are you a barrister?"

"I believe it's my turn," he said.

"Oh yes. Your question about why women come here needs answering. And my answer is I don't know, but I imagine some come to enjoy themselves and others come to find a husband."

Hugh frowned. "Why do I feel as though I've been outwitted?"

Charlotte grinned beneath her veil. "Perhaps you have," she said, feeling quite pleased with herself. "Now, answer my question. Are you a barrister?"

"I was studying to be one, but I gave it up."

"Was it awfully dull? I imagine it would be."

"Horrible," he said with a smile, not caring that she'd asked a question out of turn. "I hardly saw the light of day."

She nodded her understanding. "I think you made the right choice. No one should spend their days cramped in an office, pouring over documents all day. It's far better to earn one's bread outdoors, tilling the land or managing an estate." She paused. "Come to think of it, I wouldn't so much mind an office in a publication house. If I were required to read fiction all day."

"You sound like you've put a lot of thought into this," he said.

"A little, but it's only daydreaming. As you know, a woman doesn't have many options. She's expected to marry and dedicate her life to her family."

"You sound as though you dislike the idea of marriage."

"I should like it for the right reasons. But more often than not, marriage is mercenary, and a woman is bartered by her family like a prized cow. And while I'm fortunate that that is not my situation, I do pity the scores of women who must suffer under such a system."

"Well, I couldn't agree with you more," Hugh said. "I cannot think of a better reason to marry than for love. And may I say, the thought of someone as enchanting as yourself being bartered away to the highest bidder makes me quite furious. I'm delighted to hear that you are free to choose your future."

Charlotte's reservations melted. She wanted nothing more than to rip off her veil and have an honest conversation with the man standing before her.

"The truth is Mr. Warsham, I came here tonight because—"

"May I borrow this lovely young lady from you, Mr. Warsham?" Hermia appeared at Charlotte's side, cutting off her words.

"Must you?" Hugh asked, sounding genuinely disappointed.

"I'm afraid so," Hermia replied, "she is wanted elsewhere. But it might interest you to know that the games will continue tomorrow evening."

"Tomorrow?" Hugh's voice rose in apparent objection. "Why tomorrow when the night is still so young?"

Charlotte's thoughts echoed Hugh's words. She did not want to leave. She'd danced with many suitors during her first two seasons and had been bored to tears most of the time. Dancing with Hugh had been different. He hadn't tried to fill the silence with inane chatter. He'd simply moved with her, enjoying the music, the movement, and each other. No, she absolutely did not want to leave, but she dared not defy Hermia.

"I take it you've enjoyed yourself this evening and will return tomorrow for the continuation of this game, then, Mr. Warsham," Hermia said firmly.

Hugh turned to face Charlotte. "I have indeed enjoyed myself and will most definitely return."

A small thrill shot through Charlotte, throwing her disappointment into chaos. "Good evening, Mr. Warsham," she said. "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," he said, the regret in his voice palpable.

As Hermia led her away, Charlotte glanced over her shoulder to see Hugh pluck the rose from his pocket, press it to his nose, and smile to himself.