Sneak Peek

SNEAK PEEK

Here’s a little sneak peek of Ada and Toren’s story in Of Valor & Vice …

Chapter 1

London, England | March, 1813

The marriage, on all accounts, had been a disaster.

The web of black lace on her veil tickled the tip of her nose, and Lady Pipworth stared at the black box being lowered into the ground, determined not to sneeze. The ropes under the coffin creaked under the strain, several of the frayed cords snapping. Her right cheek lifted in a half cringe.

Her husband always had been generous in the belly.

She had come to the burial against the advisement of her late husband’s cousin. Sitting in the confines of the drawing room, sobbing—as was usual and proper in this situation—was for a wife that would actually miss her husband.

Adalia would not.

Nor did she wish it to appear so. She would see her husband into the ground. Pay him that respect. And then attempt to wash the last two years from her mind.

Dirt thumped onto the black wood. One thud. Two. Three. Four. Until the dirt fell quietly into the hole, piling in covert silence upon itself.

The dirt began heaping above the gravesite and the small crowd around her started to shift, dispersing. Six more shovels dumped, and the black mound was complete. Adalia was the last to turn from the gravesite.

Due respect, whether he deserved it or not.

She walked slowly down the serpentine path of the graveyard, lifting her gloved fingertip to scratch her nose. As long as she kept the crowd in front of her, she could avoid the distant relatives of her late husband that had appeared at his death. They would have questions for her, and she had no answers.

She could already tell by the pursed lips, the looks of curiosity during the funeral, that they had discovered how thoroughly her husband had driven the Pipworth estate into the ground—never a creditor he could not charm, or a bauble for his mistress he could not resist. His second cousin, the new Marquess of Pipworth, had inherited a mess along with the title. But that was the extent of Adalia’s knowledge on the matter.

She looked up to the trees dotting the hillside between the rows of neat granite headstones, slowing her gait as she avoided the pointed, backward glances of the relatives. They were rabid for a target to unleash their anger upon, and she preferred to escape the day without being torn apart.

The sudden steps next to her made her jump. A quick glance up at the tall man appearing at her right told her he was not a relative of her late husband. Or at least not one she had been introduced to.

“Forgive my presumption of speaking to you before introductions, Lady Pipworth, but this appears to be the one moment in time at which I will have easy, private access to you.”

Adalia continued walking, her steps speeding up slightly as she looked up at his face, not quite believing the gall of the stranger. Fearing her cocked, scathing eyebrows were hidden too well behind her black veil to make an impression, she laced her words with as much haughtiness as she could muster. “Sir, you go beyond all measure with your uncouth presumptiveness.”

“I am aware, Lady Pipworth. I would prefer this to not be my only access to you. But it is.”

She stiffened. “Who, sir, do you think you are to approach me at this time?”

“Careful, Lady Pipworth.” His look stayed forward, casual, as though they were old friends out for a stroll and a chat on a crisp spring day. “Your late husband’s family is ardently studying you at the moment. Best to pretend we are acquaintances so they do not question our association.”

Adalia glanced forward, scanning the group milling about the line of carriages. Unabashed glares were still focused her way. “My husband’s family is the least of my concerns, sir. Now I ask you again, who are you?”

He nodded, clearing his throat. His height gave length to his stride, which he was clearly not accustomed to reining in. Especially to the snail’s pace she had committed to. “Forgive me, Lady Pipworth. I should have started with my name and purpose. Your brother, Theodore, was my good friend. I am the Duke of?—”

“You know Theodore?” Her feet stopped, her look whipping to him. “Have you heard word from him?”

“I do know him, but I have heard little word from him since he left for the Caribbean. Much as I imagine is the same for you.”

His tone, incredibly arrogant, made her bristle. “You know nothing of my correspondence with my brother.”

“That is true. But if, as I suspect, you have not heard from him in the past months, I am here to fulfill a vow made to him.”

Adalia exhaled a slight sigh, the sudden hope for Theo’s return that had flared in her chest extinguished before it could catch fire. She needed Theo back on English soil. Her two oldest brothers dead and buried, he was her last remaining brother, and she needed him. Desperately. “What was the vow?”

“To offer my assistance to you, should you need it. You have just lost your husband, so this appears as though it is the appropriate time to come forth and extend my help.”

For an excruciatingly long, dumfounded moment, she stared at him through the black threads of her veil, her mouth slightly askew.

A blackbird squawked, landing on the weathered point of an obelisk gravestone behind his head. It spurred her from her stunned state.

“This is the appropriate time, sir?” Her arm flew up, pointing to the gravesite at the top of the hill as her voice went slightly shrill. “Did you not notice I was just walking away from my husband’s grave—his very fresh grave? And you think to approach me here? You think this appropriate ?”

His look flickered up the hill and back to her face. “I—well?—”

“Well nothing, sir. I do not care who you are, or what my brother asked of you. This is my husband’s funeral. And why would my brother ever ask a vow such as that of you? I do not even know you, sir. I have never heard of you. So please take your assistance and move out of my sight.”

“Adalia, come, you must ride in my carriage.” The soft voice of Adalia’s friend, Lady Vandestile, wrapped her protectively—calm against her storm. Violet moved to her side, her hand on Adalia’s elbow, prompting her forward down the path.

It snapped Adalia out of the sprouts of a rant before it became an actual tirade, and she looked to her friend. “Yes, Violet. Let us take our leave.”

She gave one curt nod to the man that had accosted her and then turned, starting down the path with Violet.

Her hand still on Adalia’s elbow, Violet leaned in as they walked, her voice hushed. “I did not recognize that man. Who was that?”

Adalia shrugged. “He told me, I think, but I did not hear him.”

“Why not? Your veil is not that thick.” The edge of Violet’s lip curled in a mischievous smile. Of course Violet could not keep a solemn facade, even at a funeral—particularly when she knew how Adalia truly regarded her late husband.

“He mentioned Theodore, and then I heard not another word he said.”

“Theodore?” Violet pointed backward over her shoulder with her forefinger. “That man has heard from him?”

“No. That man was of no use. No use at all.” Her fingers clasped over Violet’s hand on her elbow. “I did not expect a vulture to descend so quickly upon me.”

Violet snorted a stifled chuckle. “Exactly—wait at least a day, please.” She squeezed Adalia’s elbow, steering her off the path and toward the Vandestile carriage. “You, my dear friend, have enough madness in your life dealing with Pipworth’s family. They are a sorry lot. I do not envy you the task at hand.”

Adalia’s eyes went to the family members slowly entering the carriages. “Once they are convinced I know nothing, have no pots of coins stashed away, I will be useless to them. Just another drain on the estate to contend with.”

“Lady Pipworth.”

The sudden voice in her ears spiked hackles onto the back of her neck, and Adalia turned to see a small, wiry man approaching her. He tugged his ill-fitting black tailcoat against his chest, attempting to right it as he approached her.

There would be no avoiding him this time.

“Lady Pipworth, please, a moment of your time.” Hired by her eldest brother long ago, the current solicitor of the Alton estate scurried in front of her and Violet, effectively blocking her path. She stopped.

“Can this not wait, Mr. Chesire? As you can see, I have other matters to attend to this day.”

The man didn’t budge. “I fear not, my lady. As you have refused to see me the last three times I have come for an audience with you, this is the moment I must seize.”

Adalia knew she should be more generous with the man. She knew he had kept the Alton estate afloat for as long as he could. Valiantly so, even. But she didn’t want to hear the news. She didn’t want to hear what she had been avoiding for the past month.

His lips tight, Mr. Chesire glanced pointedly at Violet.

Violet looked to Adalia, her pretty blue eyes questioning. Violet knew all about meddling solicitors. “You will be fine? I can stay.”

“You can excuse us, Violet.”

“Cass and I will wait for you in my carriage.” With a nod and a searing glance at Mr. Chesire, Violet stepped away.

Adalia looked to Mr. Chesire.

He wasted not a second. “I will come to the point, my lady, lest you escape me again. The coffers have been spent near to dry. There is not a thing left to leverage for more funds.”

She stared at him through her dark veil, the lace sending a web of black strokes across his weathered face. The familiar feeling of her chest curling inward upon itself, growing thick, slowed her breath. After her husband’s death, she’d had a reprieve from the constant fatigue caused by her heavy heart, but now it was back. She had only been granted two days of respite. “You are positive? There must be something we have not looked at.”

“There is not, my lady. We have already let most of the staff go at Glenhaven House. Only three servants remain here in the London townhouse. And we do not have the funds to continue the tutor for the twins.”

“No, we will not disrupt my nieces’ education, Mr. Chesire. That is unacceptable. Whatever it takes, their education is the most important thing—that tutor is brilliant and it was very hard to convince him to take on the twins. That is the first place any income must go to.”

“But, my lady, they are only girls and the creditors have been most insistent?—”

Adalia took a quick step forward, lifting onto her toes to gain enough height to bear down upon him. “Do not ever—ever—speak those words again, Mr. Chesire.”

“My words, my lady?”

“They are not ‘just girls,’ Mr. Chesire. They are my nieces. They are my brother’s legacy, and they are intelligent and witty and proud little girls, and they will remain so. They come above everything. Do you hear me? Do not ever dare to dismiss them again—not in front of me, and most certainly not without my knowledge.”

He wavered for a breath and then shuffled a step backward, his head bowed. “Of course, my lady. I apologize.” He hazarded a glance up at her. “But the money?—”

“I will get you the funds, Mr. Chesire. The girls will continue with their tutor and you will keep up all appearances until Theodore returns to assume the title.” She glanced to her left to see the Pipworth carriages moving away from the cemetery. Her look went back to Mr. Chesire, pinning him. “And you will keep this private between the two of us, Mr. Chesire. If I hear so much as a whisper of slander on the Alton name, I will come down upon you with a vengeance unknown to man.”

His face visibly paled. “Of course, my lady.” He backed away from her, because of the threat, or because he suddenly believed he was dealing with a madwoman, she wasn’t sure. “I await word from you on the funds, my lady.”

She waved her black-gloved hand in his direction, dismissing him. He turned and hustled past Violet’s carriage, hurrying down the street. She stared at his back until he disappeared around the far corner, attempting to calm the boil in her body that tried to steal all her breath.

What mad world had she stumbled into where random men thought approaching her at her husband’s funeral was appropriate?

She shook her head and stepped into Violet’s carriage.

Madness of addled men she could deal with. She’d done so for the past two years.

The madness of creating coin out of thin air—now that was to be an actual challenge.

Gripping the weathered chunk of galena in her right hand, her left palm mindlessly tapped the top edge of the rock—the very first ore pulled from the lead mine that had produced the wealth her family’s estate had enjoyed for eleven generations. Adalia stared at the portrait of her parents on the wall adjacent to the door as she sat upon the edge of the desk in Caldwell’s study.

Correction. Caldwell was dead. This was now Theodore’s study, if he would ever see his way back to England to take over the title and the estate. Take over all of the burdens that were swallowing her whole.

Her mother and father stared down at her. Faces she had no memory of, except for this painting. Pride was always the thing that tantalized her about the portrait. Pride in both of their faces. What they had been looking at when the artist had captured them—what would have created that unabashed pride? The question she asked every time she looked at the portrait. Had it been her three brothers? All of them had been alive when the portrait was done, according to Caldwell.

She could easily picture her brothers when they were young, dancing behind the artist, demanding attention. The three of them had always demanded attention. Theo would have been the rascal, dragging his brothers into misbehaving, claiming the whole time with laughter about how much joy they were spreading. Alfred, always thinking, would have been engineering a way for the mischievousness to abound. And Caldwell would have been directing the mayhem, if not antagonizing it into a higher level with a wicked smile.

Three blond heads bobbing madcap about. Once, as they had been their whole lives.

Her chest tightened.

Where the hell was Theodore?

Her husband was dead. Two of her brothers in the ground. The third missing.

No. Not missing . He just had not replied to her last letter two months ago, which had reiterated Caldwell’s death. Nor had Theo replied to the five letters before that reporting the very same thing.

She shook her head. Not missing.

But gone. And that meant she was the sole one to support the Alton estate with what little was left of her dowry—and her widow’s third from the Pipworth estate that barely bought enough bread for the three servants here at the Alton townhouse.

She had moved back to her family’s townhouse because of the twins—in truth, she had wanted to continue to live here to be near her nieces after Caldwell died nearly two years before. Five years old at the time of their father’s death, the twins had found themselves motherless, fatherless. But they still had Adalia.

Yet after she married Lord Pipworth, he had not allowed the girls to come with Adalia and live at the Pipworth townhouse. Nor would he allow Adalia to leave and move back into the Alton home.

So Adalia had wasted no time in packing her belongings and moving back into her family’s home the day her husband died, even though the Pipworth dower house was now hers to use. Her nieces needed her. And she needed them.

At least her husband’s death had allowed her to right one wrong.

Adalia let the rock slip from her fingers, thudding softly onto the desk. Damn the mine. They had spent far too much time and resources attempting to find a new vein to source, and now they had nothing.

She needed money. Needed it desperately. She needed to keep her family’s name, the legacy—her nieces’ chances for proper matches one day—intact until Theodore returned. She was the only one left to do it.

At the sound of the ore thumping onto the desk, Hazard, Caldwell’s wolfhound and fierce protector of the twins, sat up next to her and nudged her thigh with his nose. She scratched the wiry grey hairs behind his ears, calming his alarm.

Her gaze shifted to the glowing coals in the fireplace. The day had been warm, but now a definite chill had set into the air. Spring not yet quite free of the shackles of winter.

Even the coal for warmth would be hard to come by in a month’s time.

Damn that she had no skills to make money with.

Marriage was out. She had been an utter failure at that. No heir. A husband that barely regarded her presence. No. She would not subject herself to that again.

Adalia’s stare slipped to the sideboard next to the fireplace, her eyes riveted on the half-filled decanter of brandy. If she was to ever start imbibing the vile liquid, now would be the time. Her tongue curdling, she scraped it on the edge of her front teeth. The one time she had tried it with her brothers while in the throes of a particularly long night of playing whist had been enough.

Her look skittered along the sideboard to the ebony card box that held playing cards and counters. The brass inlaid cover was flipped open, displaying the two decks of worn playing cards and the brass gaming counters minted with the Alton crest. The twins must have been snooping into it, as it was usually closed, though everything appeared to be in place.

Walking to the sideboard, she stopped, flipping up the top card from the deck on the right. Queen of diamonds. The queen of diamonds always went on top. Always in charge. When she was younger, she always liked to imagine that the queen of diamonds represented her, because wasn’t that what her brothers had always done for her—put her on top?

Except the reality of being in charge in no way aligned with what she had fantasized. Being in charge was exhausting.

Her thumb slipped down along the corners of the cards. Soft, smooth, the edges of the cards were tattered from wear. She had long since memorized every bend and scratch on each card—an advantage she had never confessed to her brothers. Though she was pretty sure Alfred knew she had—just as she suspected he had memorized them all as well. And Alfred had always insisted on not replacing the decks, no matter how Caldwell and Theodore grumbled upon the worn cards.

Devil take it, they had probably all memorized the cards.

Exhaling the memories that had landed like a brick in her chest, she shook her head, even as she could not tear her eyes away from the symbol of the past. She needed to concentrate, plan—not wallow.

Money. She needed money.

She could learn to scrub floors. Take in sewing. But she also knew how very little that would add to the coffers. Not nearly enough to keep the Alton estate sound. To keep the creditors at bay. Or even to feed the girls.

No. She needed a healthy source of income. One that didn’t entail a husband. But how could she scheme it?

Her gaze locked on the worn brass counters in the card box. Truth told, she had no skills other than with the cards. She had always been able to turn her pin money into double in nights when the opportunity arose. That was what being raised by three brothers who loved to gamble got her.

The thought started small, a tiny, niggling idea that refused to shrink away, only growing bigger with each second that passed.

She was particularly canny with the cards.

She had a dower house at her disposal.

She did have a wide set of wealthy friends that loved to gamble.

What had her brothers always said? The house always wins.

Perhaps.

Her eyes captivated on the card box, her head tilted. Her brothers had raised her to possess one outstanding skill. To gamble.

And shouldn’t one always bet on their one outstanding skill?

She could open a gaming house. She wouldn’t be the first woman to do so.

But no.

She couldn’t. It would mean scandal.

But…but if it was successful, it would also keep her family’s estate solvent until Theodore returned home. And she would be as discreet as possible. It would save her family’s good name, and save the possibility for the twins to marry well—or well enough.

Those two things she had to preserve at all costs.

Scandal for her, she could accept that. As Lord Pipworth’s widow, it was primarily now his family’s name that she would taint. Their dower house. Any modicum of guilt she should feel on that matter had shriveled when her husband jumped into the Thames to save his drowning mistress.

Scandalize the Pipworth name. Save the Alton estate.

Yes. She could live with that.

Chapter 2

Toren Felshaw, fourteenth Duke of Dellon, took a long sip of port, studying the elegant ballroom from the slight cove offered by the back right corner of the room.

Could Theodore possibly have known his younger sister had this in her?

Alive with merriment in all nooks, the Pipworth dower house sparkled, with shouts of victory and robust clapping cutting into the air above the lively music of the string quartet. Everywhere Toren glanced, laughter flowed, along with the coins streaming from purses.

The Revelry’s Tempest . The most exciting gaming house to capture the ton’s fancy in years.

She had turned her dower house into a den of gaming. A successful den of gaming, by the looks of it. Wellington’s latest victories on the peninsula had apparently bolstered confidence and loosened purse strings.

The tall, white wainscoting along the walls of the ballroom and the attached drawing room reflected the candlelight of the chandeliers, keeping the rooms bright into the darkest part of the night. Five hazard tables scattered throughout the ballroom were full, a crush of people three deep around each of them. Twelve smaller card tables held various pleasures—baccarat, whist, and piquet. In the corner opposite him a crowd of men and women had gathered for caterpillar races. At the far end of the drawing room, bets were flying on blindfolded wives being able to identify their husbands by feeling foreheads.

No matter how one wanted to wager—the Revelry’s Tempest, apparently, served it up on a bright, shiny platter.

He shook his head slightly.

He hadn’t thought Lady Pipworth was capable of all this. The woman he had met at Lord Pipworth’s funeral had been diminutive. Utterly quiet. Drowning in hastily bought black mourning crepe.

That was, she had been diminutive until she had opened her mouth. He should have known in that moment not to underestimate Theodore’s little sister.

His height giving him an advantage, he looked over the tops of heads, scanning faces in the room until he spotted the proprietress. Or, at least the person he assumed was Lady Pipworth. She had been buried under so much black lace at the funeral he hadn’t seen her face fully.

Lady Pipworth stood beside the large fireplace in the ballroom, her face strained as she listened to the man at her left. She nodded to the man, her lips searching for a contrived smile. The same height as Lady Pipworth, the man was portly, bald, and talking at a speed that sent spittle to gather at the corner of his mouth.

Admonishing Lady Pipworth, perhaps?

She shook her head in sudden disagreement, interrupting him as she pointed to several tables around the room, and her eyes turned sharply to the man. Whatever he had just told her, she did not care for.

At least the woman was contrary with others as well—the same as she had been with Toren.

He stared at her in the glow of the ballroom’s candlelight. Her hair piled elegantly with one bandeau of black securing a single black ostrich feather to her head, the dark color of it set off the blond in her hair and highlighted the strands of red that mixed haphazardly through her upsweep. Unique coloring. And charming.

Her black silk gown, simple, but cut low across the swell of her breasts, floated outward as she spun toward the ballroom again, pointing at more tables as she spoke. It gave Toren a full view of her face.

Pretty, and he hadn’t expected her to be pretty. Beautiful, even. Her bone structure was delicate, with finely carved cheekbones. Full, heart-shaped lips, and wide green eyes—so light that he had to study her irises for a long moment to decipher the exact color—almost a green mixed with gold, or at least it looked like that with the distance between them.

Toren had expected her to look like Theodore. Why, he wasn’t sure. But that had always been how he had pictured her. A female version of Theodore.

One of her guards, dressed head to toe in imposing black, moved to her side, dwarfing her, and Toren noted the slight limp in his step. Peculiar. All of the guards he had seen that night had a limp in their steps. Not noticeable unless one was studying them, but there nonetheless.

For as much as she had managed to put this place together, she had made dismal choices in her guards. That could very well cost her.

Lady Pipworth looked up at the guard, giving him her full attention. With a quick glance over her shoulder to the man she had been speaking to, she dismissed him with a slight wave of her hand.

The portly fellow glared at the guard, a foot taller than him, and then slunk away along the edge of the room.

It wasn’t until he was well out of range that Lady Pipworth nodded to her guard. She smoothed the front of her gown and moved into the crowd, smile wide on her face as she greeted her patrons, laughing and clapping and squealing with the best of them.

A sigh settled into his chest.

Lady Pipworth was apparently made of sterner stuff than he had credited her for.

What madness had Theodore managed to thrust upon him?

“I do not know how you do it, Adalia.” Lady Desmond closed the front door of Adalia’s dower home turned gaming house.

Adalia turned from chatting with Logan, the head of her guards, and also an exceedingly tall, handsome, and fiercely strong man. The little old ladies—and the young ones as well—loved her guards, which was exactly why she had chosen them so carefully. Not only was it impossible not to feel safe with Logan’s crew hovering about, they were also pretty to look at. Which one of those facts was more important to the slew of ladies attending her events, Adalia had never been able to discern.

What none of the ladies realized was that Logan and all of his men had lost a foot or part of their legs in the war. Specially made boots hid the fact well, and for all intents, made their injuries moot. The only tell each of them possessed was a slight limp—and only if one watched closely. As long as they didn’t need to run, these men excelled at their jobs.

Adalia smiled at Cassandra, thankful her friend had ushered the last of the night’s guests into the first rays of the hazy morning. “Do what?”

Cassandra’s slippers stepped lightly across the foyer, not a touch of her inherent grace waning after the long night on her feet. She slipped her hand around Adalia’s shoulders as they walked up the stairs to the main drawing room. “How you are able to take the money so sweetly from the little old dowagers is remarkable.”

“The sweeter I am, the more hope it gives them for next time. And you know as well as I, that most of them are far cannier with the cards than they would have us believe.”

“True, but you are far tougher than I could be, as all I can do is imagine that will be us in forty years, delightful old dowagers with gambling our only solace in life.”

Adalia chuckled. “Except I have no margin to be that delightful old dowager if I allow the lot of them to fleece me today. I am more desperate than you, Cass. Your husband supplies you with a healthy income, whereas I fear I will need to protect my pennies until the end.”

Cassandra squeezed Adalia’s shoulders, her pretty mouth upending into a concerned frown. “Still no word from Theodore?”

“No. I am beginning to fear the worst. Even though I do not wish my mind to go there.”

“I think you are right to worry. Even with his wanderlust, it is far past time that he should have returned. Is it possible he has not received your letters about Caldwell’s death? That the title is now his?”

“Yes, but even without the letters, he should have come home by now. He said this trip would take six months at the most.”

“Have the solicitors started to look into the line of succession?”

“Not yet—or not that they have told me. But it has been two years since Caldwell died. I am sure they have begun the process, no matter my wishes.”

Weaving through the empty card and hazard tables scattered in the drawing room and the adjoining ballroom, Adalia stopped, turning to her friend. It had been another long night, and she didn’t have the energy to think on her missing brother. Not without breaking down into tears. Not that Cassandra would mind. Her friend had an unusual capacity for empathy and support. But Adalia didn’t want to burden her. Not tonight. “You should take your leave, Cass. It has been an exhausting night.”

“Yes, as should you. I am exhausted, and I don’t run the place as you do. Nor do I go home and then manage to care for twins.”

“Josalyn and Mary are my joy—you know I would do anything for them.” Adalia took the scolding with a slight shrug. “Still, you should go. I will finish with the ledgers as the maids clean.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows arched. “And then you will leave and rest for a spell?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be safe here alone? I am happy to wait. I did see Mr. Trether corner you earlier.”

“Cornered, yes, but I managed to escape his tentacles with relative ease.” Adalia flipped her fingers, dismissing her friend’s worry. “Logan has already sent one of his men with the evening’s proceeds to the bank. There is nothing in the house to steal at the moment, and Logan is downstairs. I am as safe as I ever will be.”

“Logan mentioned to me Mr. Trether had several of his men outside the house tonight.” Cassandra’s bottom lip slipped under her teeth.

“You spoke to Logan about him?”

“I did. Logan did not say much, as is his way, but that he mentioned Mr. Trether as a threat at all is troubling. You do have to admit it is worrisome, especially after your last several altercations with Mr. Trether and the bruise he left on your arm. Logan has been fuming about it since it happened. He went so far as to call Mr. Trether dangerous.” She shook her head. “I do not think Mr. Trether means to respect your decision to reject his proposal. He wants this house, Adalia. By any means necessary. You included.”

Adalia’s nose wrinkled. “That is a disgusting thought. He does not want me, Cass.”

“He does. Aside from the fact that you are desirable, you are what makes this place so successful. He knows it and wants all of that.”

The hairs on the back of Adalia’s neck spiked. Mr. Trether was a problem. Once he had bullied his way into viewing her ledgers, the man had started to salivate. Cassandra was right—he meant to take over the Revelry’s Tempest. And Adalia’s multiple refusals to him for a stake in the house—or, heaven forbid, marriage—had only made him more aggressive with his demands.

Adalia shrugged, shaking off the trepidation. Mr. Trether would not cow her. She couldn’t afford to let him do so. “Mr. Trether cannot do anything but accept my refusal—not if he would like to stay in the good graces of society. That alone will keep him above reproach as he cannot afford to lose his connections to the wealth and desperation he has tapped into amongst the ton through me.”

Cassandra offered a sideways nod, half agreeing and half resisting Adalia’s logic. “I do hope you are correct. Regardless, he and his men have been gone for hours, so I suppose that is not a worry to dwell upon at the moment.” She gave Adalia a quick hug. “As long as Logan is here I will escape then. Aside from Mr. Trether, this has been an inordinate amount of fun, as always.”

“Thank you, as always.” Adalia gave her friend a wide smile. “Without you and Violet, I could never do this.”

“Hush. You know we are always here for you.”

“I do, and I do not know how I managed so finely in having friends such as you.”

A kiss on the cheek and Cassandra disappeared into the drawing room and down the front stairs.

With a sigh, Adalia moved through the ballroom as the two maids continued to clean the mess the night’s attendees had managed to make. Members of the ton were not the most careful partakers of wine and treats. And if a glass or ten smashed to the floor during the night—no matter to them.

Past the hazard tables at the rear of the ballroom, Adalia veered to the door in the right back corner. It led to a small room, the one she used as an office—and a place to escape—during the gaming nights.

The white paneled door blended in with the tall wainscoting and Adalia opened it, stepping into the room before she realized a man sat behind her desk, leaning back in her chair, his left leg propped up wide atop his right knee.

She jumped with a squeak, not recognizing the man and ready to slam the door closed and bolt.

“Lady Pipworth, please, wait.” The man sat straight, his foot thumping to the floor as he stood.

She stopped, the voice vaguely familiar, and stared at the man’s face.

It took several seconds for the face to register.

Theodore’s friend. The one from the funeral. What was his name? She never had bothered to recall.

She glanced over her shoulder at the maids who hadn’t even noted her slight screech. They were close by, and Logan was only a scream away. She was still safe—mostly.

Warily, she stepped fully into the room, but left the door ajar behind her. “Mister…sir, I must ask what you are daring to do in my office, sitting behind my desk.”

His head instantly cocked to the side, his look searing into her. “You do not recall who I am, do you?”

She waved her hand in front of her. “Of course I do. You are Theodore’s acquaintance. The one that so rudely approached me at my husband’s funeral. Just because you knew my brother does not give you free rein to stroll into my home and hide in corners, sir.”

“I thought the Revelry’s Tempest gaming nights were open to all members of polite society.”

“Yes. Polite society. That you are not, sir.”

“You know this because…?”

“Because of the funeral—because of this.” Her hand swung manically in the air. “Because this is my office and you have no right to be in here.”

His harsh look shifted to perplexed as he watched her hand flit about. “Because I waited until you were not busy to talk to you?”

“You snuck in here and waited until you could pop out of a dark corner and scare me half to Hades.”

“I assure you, Lady Pipworth, I did not skulk into a corner to surprise you. I thought it generous of my time to wait until your guests of the evening had departed to speak with you. I ended up in here merely because I grew tired of the abundant foolery afoot.”

He was judging her guests? Judging her affair? The hairs on the back of her neck spiked. “Sir, my brother’s friend or not, you go too far with your presumption that I welcome a chat with the likes of you. Especially when you think to walk into my home and judge my guests—judge the entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” The side of his mouth twitched. “That is what you call these games of chance? Do you realize how many fortunes were lost here tonight?”

She stepped forward, slamming her hands onto the desk, leaning forward. “No one asked you to be here, sir. I do attempt to keep the supercilious, pious ogres out of my home, and it appears as though I failed on that account this night.”

There was not the slightest reaction to her insult. Not a raised eyebrow. Not a frown. Not a curdled forehead on the man’s face. Without her brothers around, she was out of practice with her barbs.

His look staid, he stepped around from behind the desk, stopping next to her. She hadn’t realized he was this tall. The world had been askew at the funeral with the black veil in front of her eyes, and in the back shadow of her office he had not appeared the good head and a half taller than her that he was. And broad in the shoulders. His height did not come at the expense of a wiry frame. Solid. Most likely strong.

For the first time since stepping into her office, a spike of fear cut into her gut.

Just as she was about to open her mouth to yell for Logan, the man leaned past her and clicked the door to the office closed. Without the light from the ballroom, his face fell into the dark shadows, only the dim light from two sconces illuminating the small room.

“You still do not know who I am, do you, Lady Pipworth?”

Her eyes flickered to the doorknob as she assured herself Logan would still be able to hear her if she screamed. She set her spine straight, as tall as she could manage without rising onto her toes, and met his look with a glare. “No. I do not recall.”

“I thought not. I am the Duke of Dellon”

“The Duke of Dellon?” Her eyes grew wide. “The One-Faced Duke?”

She blurted out the nickname so quickly she didn’t consider the boorishness of speaking it out loud in front of the man. She had only ever heard of the Duke of Dellon in passing, as he spent little time at society’s functions. If she recalled correctly, he earned the name because he didn’t show emotion. One face. That was all he offered the world.

And she couldn’t for the life of her recall Theodore mentioning the duke was his friend.

His face remained composed, offering only a mere blink at her rude words. Adalia decided the nickname was fitting.

“Yes.” His countenance remained unmoved, but his stare managed to shift its intent, searing into her, expecting.

Her jaw shifted to the side, unnerved by his stare. He didn’t need to move his face. Even in the shadows his eyes were enough. “And you think I would like to retract calling you an ogre now because I know who you are?”

“Yes.”

Adalia gave herself a shake, ire seeping back into her chest. The man had entered her office. Sat down behind her desk. And now he wanted her to apologize? She smiled sweetly up at him. “I do not wish to retract a single word, as every one of them was honest, and I will not lose integrity merely because you think to stare at me. But do tell me what you are here for, your grace, and be done with it.”

He sighed, his hand motioning to the chair behind her. “Would you like to sit?”

“This will be quicker if we stand. What did you want to speak with me about?”

His head cocked slightly to the left, again puzzled, as he looked at her. “I am here to again offer my assistance in your time of need.”

“Time of need?” Her fingers tapped along the edge of the desk. “My, you are a presumptive one, your grace. How have you come about the belief that I require assistance— again ?”

His hand lifted, pointing toward the ballroom through the door. “The Revelry’s Tempest, my lady? Opening a gaming hall in your ballroom? This is not becoming of a lady in your station, and you need to cease your operation."

“A lady in my station? My grace, you know nothing of my situation.”

“Enlighten me.”

Her arms crossed in front of her. “I am a widow attempting to keep the Alton estate solvent until Theodore returns from the Caribbean—and foremost within that goal is the necessity to keep food in the bellies of my nieces.”

“Your oldest brother’s children? There are two?”

“Yes. Twin girls.”

“Then you must realize you do harm to the name of the very title you are attempting to protect by turning your home into a gaming house.”

“This is the Pipworth dower house—the scandal attaches to my late husband’s name. Not to my brother’s title.”

“You believe that?” His eyebrows drew together. “And you do all of this to protect the Alton estate?”

Adalia glared at him. Why was the man so perplexed by this? Her knuckles rapped onto the wood of the desk. “It is called loyalty, your grace. Apparently you do not understand that. And yes, I will do whatever I have within my power to protect my family’s legacy. And the one thing in my power that will generate funds is this house and these gaming nights. So no, I will not be ceasing my evenings of gaming here.”

“But I am willing to offer you my assistance.”

It was Adalia’s turn to be perplexed. “Why? You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Why do you want to help me?”

“As I said months ago, your brother, Theodore, asked me to watch over you.”

“Yes, you did say that at my husband’s funeral. But I did not believe you then, your grace, and I do not believe you now.”

“And yet he did.” He nodded, his face reverting to the solemn, unmoving look. “Before he left for Caribbean waters, Theodore asked me to watch over you. I agreed.”

“No.” Her head shook. “Theo would not have done that. And why would you agree to such a thing? And why would he have even asked such a thing of you—Caldwell was alive and I was betrothed when he left. I needed no such thing as another man to watch over me.”

The duke shrugged. “I agree. But regardless, Theodore asked, and I agreed. I made the vow believing I would never have to act upon it. I wondered at his state of mind, but if you remember, he was grieving over the death of your brother, Alfred, and he needed that assurance for you before he left. I believe Theodore did not trust your late husband, my lady.”

“True. Theo never cared for Lord Pipworth.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “But why did I know nothing of you until the day of my husband’s funeral? Where were you when Caldwell died?”

“You married quite quickly after your eldest brother died—the news of his death reached me well after you were married. I would not intervene upon a marriage. Your husband was alive. He was the one responsible for you. But as no one has acted in that capacity in the ensuing months since his funeral, I believe I must be the one to implore you to stop the nonsense of this gaming house.”

“But why now? I have been operating the Revelry’s Tempest events for three months now.”

He exhaled, his look finally diverging from her face to look at the white wall paneling over her shoulder. “Frankly, I did not expect you to make a success of it.”

She guffawed, a smile cracking her face. “You thought I would fail?”

He met her eyes. Something flickered in his dark brown eyes—actual emotion. He did not care that she laughed at him.

But only that stray glimmer in his eyes gave evidence to his thoughts as his voice stayed even. “I did believe you would fail. You did not. I looked through your books. So instead I am here to insist you stop this nonsense.”

“You rifled through my ledgers?” Her eyes whipped to the leather volumes on her desk. Incredulous, she could do nothing but let loose an angry chuckle. This man overstepped so many bounds and was so far removed from her reality—and what he could do to control it—it became all the more laughable. “You would insist?”

“I do.”

“You realize, your grace, that you have no bearing over my time and actions whatsoever?”

“I still must insist.” He gave a curt nod for emphasis, and his stare shifted again. Searing her. “You will stop hosting these…little gaming evenings…forthwith, Lady Pipworth.”

She jumped a step forward, her neck craning so she could meet his piercing stare with her own. “You tyrannical, overbearing fiend. You cannot just accost me in my office and demand that I bend to your wishes. I don’t even know you. I don’t even know if you and Theo were ever truly friends.”

She poked her right forefinger at him, almost touching the cut of his impeccably tailored black tailcoat. “For that matter, Theo never once mentioned you to me. What game do you think to play with me, your grace? Do you own a gaming hell that has had its business dented by my little affairs? Is that what you are about? You think to do me under by using my brother against me? Steal from my coffers? Take over my business?”

His eyes dropped to her flung-out forefinger for a long second before he met the fire in her gaze. “The number of conclusions you have just jumped to in thirty seconds is astounding, Lady Pipworth.”

“I can concoct more, if it will rid me of your presence.”

“Your imagination does impress, my lady.”

Her hand went to her forehead, rubbing it. “Your grace, I have been a breath away from calling for my guard since I entered this room. It has been a long night, and I still have much more to do. My restraint is now gone.”

“Then I will leave you to your accounting.” He nodded to the ledgers on her desk. “Good day, Lady Pipworth.”

Without another word, he stepped out of her office.

Good riddance.

***

Ada and Toren’s story available now in Of Valor & Vice …or splurge and buy the whole Revelry’s Tempest series at once!