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!